An elephant white in sorry plight, Hungry and dirty and sad bedight, Straggled one day on the nutting ground; "Lo," chattered the chipmunks, "our chance is found! Behold the beast's color; were he as we, Green and sleek and nut-full were he! But the beast is big, and the beast is white, And his skin full of emptiness serves him right! Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee! Let us 'sit on him, sit on him,' chipmunks three." Chapter II. Three chipmunks green right gay were seen To leap on the beast his brows between; They munched at his ears and chiffered his chin, And sat and sat and sat on him! Not a single available spot of hide Where a well-sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride, But was chipped and chipped and chip-chip-munked, Till aught but an elephant must have flunked. "Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee! What a ride we're having, we chipmunks three!" Chapter III. Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-f-f-f-f-f!!! Chapter IV. "What was it blew? Ah whew, ah whew!" Three green chipmunks have all turned blue! The elephant smiles a peaceful smile, And lifts off a tree-trunk sans haste or guile. "Seize him, seize him! He's stealing our tree! We're undone, undone," shriek the chipmunks three. The elephant calmly upraised his trunk, And said, "Did I hear a green chipmunk?" * * * * * "Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah choo!" "Chippy, you're blue!" "So're you!" "So're you!" =Philadelphia=, December, 1895. GERMINAL (The last word of Angiolillo.) Germinal!--The Field of Mars is plowing, And hard the steel that cuts, and hot the breath Of the great Oxen, straining flanks and bowing Beneath his goad, who guides the share of Death. Germinal!--The Dragon's teeth are sowing, And stern and white the sower flings the seed He shall not gather, though full swift the growing; Straight down Death's furrow treads, and does not heed. Germinal!--The Helmet Heads are springing Far up the Field of Mars in gleaming files; With wild war notes the bursting earth is ringing. * * * * * Within his grave the sower sleeps, and smiles. =London=, October, 1897. "LIGHT UPON WALDHEIM" (The figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago martyrs in Waldheim Cemetery is a warrior woman, dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony, and with her right drawing a dagger from her bosom.) Light upon Waldheim! And the earth is gray; A bitter wind is driving from the north; The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say: "What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!" Is this thy word, O Mother, with stern eyes, Crowning thy dead with stone-caressing touch? May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies, Slain in our name, for that he loved us much?