“What makes him fly lop-sided?” cried
  A soul of the elected. 
“One ear was wax,” a rogue replied,
  “And isn’t resurrected.”

Below him on the pitted plain,
  By his abandoned hollow,
His hair and teeth tried all in vain
  The rest of him to follow.

Saint Peter, seeing him ascend,
  Came forward to the wicket,
And said:  “My mutilated friend,
  I’ll thank you for your ticket.”

“The Call,” said Pickering, his hand
  To reach the latch extended. 
Said Peter, affable and bland: 
  “The free-list is suspended—­

“What claim have you that’s valid here?”
  That ancient vilifier
Reflected; then, with look austere,
  Replied:  “I am a liar.”

Said Peter:  “That is simple, neat
  And candid Anglo-Saxon,
But—­well, come in, and take a seat
  Up there by Colonel Jackson.”

MONTAGUE LEVERSON

As some enormous violet that towers
Colossal o’er the heads of lowlier flowers—­
Its giant petals royally displayed,
And casting half the landscape into shade;
Delivering its odors, like the blows
Of some strong slugger, at the public nose;
Pride of two Nations—­for a single State
Would scarce suffice to sprout a plant so great;
So Leverson’s humility, outgrown
The meaner virtues that he deigns to own,
To the high skies its great corolla rears,
O’ertopping all he has except his ears.

THE WOFUL TALE OF MR. PETERS

I should like, good friends, to mention the disaster which befell
Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel,
Whose fate is full of meaning, if correctly understood—­
Admonition to the haughty, consolation to the good.

It happened in the hot snap which we recently incurred,
When ’twas warm enough to carbonize the feathers of a bird,
And men exclaimed:  “By Hunky!” who were bad enough to swear,
And pious persons supervised their adjectives with care.

Mr. Peters was a pedagogue of honor and repute,
His learning comprehensive, multifarious, minute. 
It was commonly conceded in the section whence he came
That the man who played against him needed knowledge of the game.

And some there were who whispered, in the town of Muscatel,
That besides the game of Draw he knew Orthography as well;
Though, the school directors, frigidly contemning that as stuff,
Thought that Draw (and maybe Spelling, if it pleased him) was enough.

Withal, he was a haughty man—­indubitably great,
But too vain of his attainments and his power in debate. 
His mien was contumelious to men of lesser gift: 
“It’s only me,” he said, “can give the human mind a lift.

“Before a proper audience, if ever I’ve a chance,
You’ll see me chipping in, the cause of Learning to advance. 
Just let me have a decent chance to back my mental hand
And I’ll come to center lightly in a way they’ll understand.”