“And she do always hold opon a vheel.” “I see!” cried Miss Van Peyster—“just the thing, The wheel of fortune—and the loveliest saint; That’s me exactly. What a perfect fit!” And so ’twas painted, and the painted pair, Saint Catherine and Miss Catherine, went across Unto New York; and many people came To call and worship—or to make believe. And with the rest came Mr. Anthony, A blooming broker, and a mighty man, Who did not think small brewings of himself, Albeit his studies had been very small, And very few i’ the heap. His face and form Were greasiness and grossness well combined, With sneeriness and nearness in the eyes; He seemed a kind of coarsest Capuchin. And much he did admire the quaint conceit Of being taken as a holy saint, And said, “I’d like to try that thing myself. How could a feller fix it——Catherine?” “Easy enough,” replied the beautiful: “You’ve only got to send your photograph Out to my man in Florence, and to say, ‘_Vous peignez moi comme le Saint Anthony_.’ “I’ll write it for you if you have a card, And he will fix it for you _comme il faut_.” That very hour the heavy shaver wrote, And sent the order for his portraiture. And in due time ’twas done—and further on ’Twas in the Custom House—and thence ’twas sent To the Spring Exhibition in New York, There was no time to send it to “the House.” And Anthony himself beheld it not Till it had hung a week upon “the walls,” And all the newspapers had served it up, And all the world had merry made withal. Yea, he _was_ in it—clad in dirty rags, A vile abomination. In his hand A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press Said ’twas a rope of onions, meant to feed The monstrous hog which filled the canvas up, So vast in its proportions that it seemed As Anthony were waiting on the hog, And not the hog upon Saint Anthony. In it and in for it. Just as the Saint Of Padua is painted, with his pig, Only a little more so. And thus ends The tale of the great hog and Anthony. A RUSSIAN LYRIC AIR—“_Denkst du daran mein tapfre Lagienka._” “SALTOKOFF SKUPCHIROFSKY,” said the ruler Of Russia to his captain of the guard, “I will retire; the night is growing cooler Have all the troops been posted in the yard?” “They have, my liege, and in the tower o’er you The watchman, with an opera-glass, afar Looks out to see that no one comes to bore you: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!” “What have you done with him who came this morning, And wanted me to buy a lightning-rod?” “He sleeps beneath the Neva, as a warning To others like him, not as yet in quod.” “The girl who bored us for a contribution To send her blessed clergyman afar?” “She’s strangled by the Seventh Resolution: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”