Bald heads to right of them, Bald heads to left of them, Bald heads in front of them Shouted and thundered; Cynosures of every eye, Boldly they kicked and high, Regardless of life and limb, Into the very sky Kicked the one hundred, Flashed all their fleshings bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Crazing the bald heads there, In orchestra chair, while All the house wondered. On light, fantastic toe, Pirouette and _pas de Seaux_, Premier and coryphée Reeled from the vertigo, Shattered and sundered, And then they danced back, But not--not the one hundred. Bald heads to right of them, Bald heads to left of them, Bald heads in front of them Shouted and thundered; Bravoed the _dilettante_, While each old Bonfanti, With split raiment and scanty, Danced back from the jaws of death, Back from the--(see Dante), All that was left of them, Left of one hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the high kicks they made! All the house wondered. Fling up your big bouquet, Bald-headed Y. M. C. A.! Honour the light ballet, Noble one hundred! From _The Carbonate Chronicle_, Leadville, Colorado, January 27, 1883. * * * * * TRAGIC EPISODE IN AN OMNIBUS. (Charged to the Poet Laureate.) _Night Scene--Last City 'bus, chock full of people. Enter--Very stout old gentleman._ (Related by an eye witness.) I. Half a yard, half a yard, Half a yard onward, All through that narrow way, Gasping and out of breath, yet never ponder'd! "Right, Bill," the 'bus cad said, "'Bout time we were in bed." All through that narrow way Still he strode onward. II. Though light began to fade, Was there a man dismayed? Not tho' each row well knew _Some one_ had blunder'd; Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs to sit tight and try To look stouter, broad, and high, As _he_ came onward. III. Sneerers to right of him, Frowners to left of him, Scowlers in front of him, Curses a hundred. Words that no man could spell, Boldly strove he and well, All through that narrow way, Tumbling about pell-mell, Still on he wander'd. IV. To threats he gave no care, Worrying the poor man there, As standing he eyed them, while The 'bus rolled and thundered. Wrap't in his dark, brown cloak, Right through that line he broke, 'Twas then that boot and shoe Thought it a feeble joke-- Corns nearly sundered! For he turned back again, Seeing he'd blunder'd. V.