Ah, it's coming! Now she founders! See the crazy wherry reel! Downward to the rocks she flounders-- Just one foot beneath her keel! In the shallow, turbid water Lay the saving reef below. Oh, the waste of high emotion! Oh, the useless fear and woe! Late that day four sopping tourists To their quarters made their way, And the brushes of Futurists Scarce could paint their disarray. And with half-amused compassion They were viewed from the hotel, From the pulp-clad beau of fashion, To the saturated belle. But a change was in their features, And that change has come to tarry, For they all are altered creatures Since the wreck of Loch McGarry. Now McFarlane never utters Any talk of bills or bullion, But continually mutters Texts from Cyril or Tertullian. As to Ainslie, he's not caring How the new-cut collar lies, And has been detected wearing Dinner-jackets with white ties. Waters, who had never thought In his life of others' needs, Has most generously bought A nursing-home for invalids. And the lady--ah, the lady! She has turned from paths of sin, And her husband's face so shady Now is brightened by a grin. So misfortunes of to-day Are the blessings of to-morrow, And the wisest cannot say What is joy and what is sorrow. If your soul is arable You can start this seed within it, And my tiny parable May just help you to begin it. THE BIGOT The foolish Roman fondly thought That gods must be the same to all, Each alien idol might be brought Within their broad Pantheon Hall. The vision of a jealous Jove Was far above their feeble ken; They had no Lord who gave them love, But scowled upon all other men. But in our dispensation bright, What noble progress have we made! We know that we are in the light, And outer races in the shade. Our kindly creed ensures us this-- That Turk and infidel and Jew Are safely banished from the bliss That's guaranteed to me and you. The Roman mother understood That, if the babe upon her breast Untimely died, the gods were good, And the child's welfare manifest. With tender guides the soul would go And there, in some Elysian bower, The tiny bud plucked here below Would ripen to the perfect flower. Poor simpleton! Our faith makes plain That, if no blest baptismal word Has cleared the babe, it bears the stain Which faithless Adam had incurred. How philosophical an aim! How wise and well-conceived a plan Which holds the new-born babe to blame For all the sins of early man! Nay, speak not of its tender grace, But hearken to our dogma wise: Guilt lies behind that dimpled face, And sin looks out from gentle eyes. Quick, quick, the water and the bowl! Quick with the words that lift the load! Oh, hasten, ere that tiny soul Shall pay the debt old Adam owed!