“Yes,” he continued, “I am regular poor, Poor as a busted Indian, and of course It follows in the logic of our life That I must give you up. I cannot ask One in the golden glory of events To come and share a fate which runs upon A thousand annual dollars. Ne’er a case. While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.” She looked at him with an incarnadine, Rich, passionate, scarlet-sanguine crimson flush Surging into her cheeks. If it had been A _full_, ’tis probable that Vivian Would have gone under; but a _flush_ Could never scare him or his similar, While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine. “Oh, Vivian!” she gurgled, like a dove, “Oh, do you think I will let up on you? And do you deem I would go back upon The note I signed, and run to protest?—no— Not while the snowy paper of my truth Is quiréd by the young-eyed cherubim, And in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.” Three months or ninety days went by, and then Upon a golden Californian December afternoon, with azure skies Like those of summer as they are produced In less expensive countries, men beheld A diamondaine wedding at the house Of Ethelberta’s sire. As Vivian And his fair bride sat in the car—ri—age Which bore them to the station, ever on She gazed upon him like a Lamia With a strange look, which one might call, in fact, A weirdly precious smile. He gazed at her. “And so you would not leave me, love?” he cooed, “Even when you thought me poor?” And she replied, “Never, my precious one. I learned lang syne That when a sucker once drops off the hook It never bites again. And well you know That you were on the point of dropping off, And so your pa and I put up the job So as to land you, dear—as faith we did— A little quicker. Oh, men, men, men, men! If ye thus round, girls _will_ get square with you, While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.” THE STORY OF MR. SCROPER, ARCHITECT Yes, I’ll tell you how it happened—that, too, with all due respect To the memory of Scroper, late departed architect— How it came that he departed so abruptly in the train; Why it was he’s been so late, too, in returnin’ back again. Now some folks are born to greatness, some achieve it, as you’ve read; And some justly stand and take it as it dollops on their head; But in this sublime Republic, where it’s help and help again, We all generally make it in cahoot with other men. Scroper was a fine young fellow, of a monstrous enterprise; Likewise really ambitious, for he was so bound to rise, And he left no stone unturned—nor a log—he rolled ’em all, Till at last he got the contract for our new great City Hall.