“He’s thanking them, father, with tears in his eyes,
For giving him lately that fine surprise.”

“My memory fails as I near mine end;
How did they astonish their grateful friend?”

“By letting him buy, like apples or oats,
With that which has made him so good, the votes
Which make him so wise and grand and great. 
Now, father, please die, for ’tis growing late.”

POSTERITY’S AWARD

I’d long been dead, but I returned to earth. 
  Some small affairs posterity was making
A mess of, and I came to see that worth
  Received its dues.  I’d hardly finished waking,
The grave-mould still upon me, when my eye
Perceived a statue standing straight and high.

’Twas a colossal figure—­bronze and gold—­
  Nobly designed, in attitude commanding. 
A toga from its shoulders, fold on fold,
  Fell to the pedestal on which ’twas standing. 
Nobility it had and splendid grace,
And all it should have had—­except a face!

It showed no features:  not a trace nor sign
  Of any eyes or nose could be detected—­
On the smooth oval of its front no line
  Where sites for mouths are commonly selected. 
All blank and blind its faulty head it reared. 
Let this be said:  ’twas generously eared.

Seeing these things, I straight began to guess
  For whom this mighty image was intended. 
“The head,” I cried, “is Upton’s, and the dress
  Is Parson Bartlett’s own.”  True, his cloak ended
Flush with his lowest vertebra, but no
Sane sculptor ever made a toga so.

Then on the pedestal these words I read: 
  “Erected Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven”
(Saint Christofer! how fast the time had sped! 
  Of course it naturally does in Heaven)
“To ——­” (here a blank space for the name began)
“The Nineteenth Century’s Great Foremost Man!”

“Completed” the inscription ended, “in
  The Year Three Thousand”—­which was just arriving. 
By Jove! thought I, ’twould make the founders grin
  To learn whose fame so long has been surviving—­
To read the name posterity will place
In that blank void, and view the finished face.

Even as I gazed, the year Three Thousand came,
  And then by acclamation all the people
Decreed whose was our century’s best fame;
  Then scaffolded the statue like a steeple,
To make the likeness; and the name was sunk
Deep in the pedestal’s metallic trunk.

Whose was it?  Gentle reader, pray excuse
  The seeming rudeness, but I can’t consent to
Be so forehanded with important news. 
  ’Twas neither yours nor mine—­let that content you. 
If not, the name I must surrender, which,
Upon a dead man’s word, was George K. Fitch!

AN ART CRITIC