How does it happen, tell me, That I who was most erudite of lawyers, Who knew Blackstone and Coke Almost by heart, who made the greatest speech The court-house ever heard, and wrote A brief that won the praise of Justice Breese How does it happen, tell me, That I lie here unmarked, forgotten, While Chase Henry, the town drunkard, Has a marble block, topped by an urn Wherein Nature, in a mood ironical, Has sown a flowering weed? Kinsey Keene Your attention, Thomas Rhodes, president of the bank; Coolbaugh Whedon, editor of the Argus; Rev. Peet, pastor of the leading church; A. D. Blood, several times Mayor of Spoon River; And finally all of you, members of the Social Purity Club— Your attention to Cambronne’s dying words, Standing with the heroic remnant Of Napoleon’s guard on Mount Saint Jean At the battle field of Waterloo, When Maitland, the Englishman, called to them: “Surrender, brave Frenchmen!”— There at close of day with the battle hopelessly lost, And hordes of men no longer the army Of the great Napoleon Streamed from the field like ragged strips Of thunder clouds in the storm. Well, what Cambronne said to Maitland Ere the English fire made smooth the brow of the hill Against the sinking light of day Say I to you, and all of you, And to you, O world. And I charge you to carve it Upon my stone. Benjamin Pantier Together in this grave lie Benjamin Pantier, attorney at law, And Nig, his dog, constant companion, solace and friend. Down the gray road, friends, children, men and women, Passing one by one out of life, left me till I was alone With Nig for partner, bed-fellow; comrade in drink. In the morning of life I knew aspiration and saw glory, The she, who survives me, snared my soul With a snare which bled me to death, Till I, once strong of will, lay broken, indifferent, Living with Nig in a room back of a dingy office. Under my Jaw-bone is snuggled the bony nose of Nig Our story is lost in silence. Go by, mad world! Mrs. Benjamin Pantier I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him, And most of the women pitied him. But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions, And the rhythm of Wordsworth’s “Ode” runs in your ears, While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; “Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?” And then, suppose; You are a woman well endowed, And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust Every time you think of it while you think of it Every time you see him? That’s why I drove him away from home To live with his dog in a dingy room Back of his office. Reuben Pantier