Who asks an ape to throw a coco-nut Should take it not amiss if it be thrown On his own head, as echo answers song. There was a man named Jesse, who was called The greatest liar in Connecticut. For there are giants among the Brobdingnags. It was a burning day, and William Hoop Sat in the shade, when Jess came riding by. When wolves run past your door-step, let them run. But William cried, “Stop for a moment, Jess, And tell us a big lie.” Jesse liked it not. Ne’er ask a hangman how to tie a noose. But hastily and sadly he replied, “This is no time for lying now; oh, woe!” A wanton widow may wear darkest weeds. “Your Uncle Sol died very suddenly An hour ago, and you would have me lie!” Who weaveth nets is often caught in them. “And I am riding for the coroner, And for a coffin. William, learn from this _Never while living ask a man to lie_.” Then William ran in and told his wife, And he and she and all the family Burst into tears. The thistle soon bears thorns. And in his waggon, leaving everything, They posted off and on, four miles away. The eagle hastens at the eaglet’s cry. And when arrived they found the family In the large kitchen, but in ne’er a grief. It pains a man at times to miss his pain. There Uncle Sol was buried—to the eyes, In a great water-melon, lush and red. Life’s sweetest things are water after all: Which rises in a mist, and comes again As rainy tears. And William almost wept For rage, because he had no cause to cry. But after this he never did entreat Another man to tell a lie to him. Burnt child seeks not a second time the fire. THE LEGEND OF SAINT ANTHONY The seek-no-further face of loveliness, The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness, Rich as a bonanza just unbound: Catherine Van Peyster, of Fifth Avenue. She lived a year in Europe—but for aye In all the hearts of all who met her there; And then her pa allowed her boundless cash, Which she laid out in glorious works of art. Such as the dream-like dresses made by Worth, And heavenly hats by Virot, and all things Refined, æsthetic, swell, and classical; Yea, even a picture—she bought everything. ’Tis true it was a picture of herself, And when she ordered it she simply said, “I know that I am very beautiful, My mirror tells me that—distinctively; “But I am also very clever too, For I am of a clever family, Papa and sisters all are awful smart; Now you must make it somehow sparkle out “In what you paint. And as for me I guess I’ll show you how to fix it—wait a bit. Ain’t there a saint they call Saint Catherine? One of my beaux, I think, once called me that.” “_Si, Illustrissima_,” the artist said, “Dere is a Santa Catarina, who Is beautiful most of the oder sants, Vitch giusto suit so lovely mad as you!