So I cried (pray remember this all was a dream): 
  “Get off of the platform!—­it isn’t the kind!”
But he fell through the trap, with a jerk at the beam,
  And wiggled his toes to unburden his mind. 
And, O, so bewitching the thoughts he advanced,
That I clung to his ankles, attentive, entranced!

A DAMPENED ARDOR

The Chinatown at Bakersfield
  Was blazing bright and high;
The flames to water would not yield,
  Though torrents drenched the sky
And drowned the ground for miles around—­
  The houses were so dry.

Then rose an aged preacher man
  Whom all did much admire,
Who said:  “To force on you my plan
  I truly don’t aspire,
But streams, it seems, might quench these beams
  If turned upon the fire.”

The fireman said:  “This hoary wight
  His folly dares to thrust
On us!  ’Twere well he felt our might—­
  Nay, he shall feel our must!”
With jet of wet and small regret
  They laid that old man’s dust.

ADAIR WELCKER, POET

The Swan of Avon died—­the Swan
Of Sacramento’ll soon be gone;
And when his death-song he shall coo,
Stand back, or it will kill you too.

TO A WORD-WARRIOR

Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand
  That strove to cut the country’s throat,
  Cannot forgive the hands that smote
Applauding in a distant land,—­

Applauding carelessly, as one
  The weaker willing to befriend
  Until the quarrel’s at an end,
Then learn by whom it was begun.

When North was pitted against South
  Non-combatants on either side
  In calculating fury vied,
And fought their foes by word of mouth.

That devil’s-camisade you led
  With formidable feats of tongue. 
  Upon the battle’s rear you hung—­
With Samson’s weapon slew the dead!

So hot the ardor of your soul
  That every fierce civilian came,
  His torch to kindle at your name,
Or have you blow his cooling coal.

Men prematurely left their beds
  And sought the gelid bath—­so great
  The heat and splendor of your hate
Of Englishmen and “Copperheads.”

King Liar of deceitful men,
  For imposition doubly armed! 
  The patriots whom your speaking charmed
You stung to madness with your pen.

There was a certain journal here,
  Its English owner growing rich—­
  Your hand the treason wrote for which
A mob cut short its curst career.

If, Pixley, you had not the brain
  To know the true from false, or you
  To Truth had courage to be true,
And loyal to her perfect reign;

If you had not your powers arrayed
  To serve the wrong by tricksy speech,
  Nor pushed yourself within the reach
Of retribution’s accolade,