What, madam, run for School Director? You? And want my vote and influence? Well, well, That beats me! Gad! where _are_ we drifting to? In all my life I never have heard tell Of such sublime presumption, and I smell A nigger in the fence! Excuse me, madam; We statesmen sometimes speak like the old Adam. But now you mention it--well, well, who knows? We might, that's certain, give the sex a show. I have a cousin--teacher. I suppose If I stand in and you 're elected--no? You'll make no bargains? That's a pretty go! But understand that school administration Belongs to Politics, not Education. We'll pass the teacher deal; but it were wise To understand each other at the start. You know my business--books and school supplies; You'd hardly, if elected, have the heart Some small advantage to deny me--part Of all my profits to be yours. What? Stealing? Please don't express yourself with so much feeling. You pain me, truly. Now one question more. Suppose a fair young man should ask a place As teacher--would you (pardon) shut the door Of the Department in his handsome face Until--I know not how to put the case-- Would you extort a kiss to pay your favor? Good Lord! you laugh? I thought the matter graver. Well, well, we can't do business, I suspect: A woman has no head for useful tricks. My profitable offers you reject And will not promise anything to fix The opposition. That's not politics. Good morning. Stay--I'm chaffing you, conceitedly. Madam, I mean to vote for you--repeatedly. TO AN ASPIRANT. What! you a Senator--you, Mike de Young? Still reeking of the gutter whence you sprung? Sir, if all Senators were such as you, Their hands so crimson and so slender, too,-- (Shaped to the pocket for commercial work, For literary, fitted to the dirk)-- So black their hearts, so lily-white their livers, The toga's touch would give a man the shivers. A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives, And the "Mescalero," gifted with a hundred thousand lives, Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame-- The assassinating wassail that has given him his name; Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seen To hold his harvest festival upon his village-green, While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spread With a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head; Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun, And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run, Lived a colony of settlers--old Missouri was the State Where they formerly resided at a prehistoric date. Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing scheme Was as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream.