Mr. Poole:  “Of course.  As for myself, I shall contribute the stuffed
  tarantula which I brought back with me from Arizona.”

  Dr. F.M.  Bristol:  “Another interesting relic that should go into
  that corner-stone is the stump of the cigar which the Rev. Dr.
  Gunsaulus smoked at camp-meeting.”

  Dr. Gunsaulus:  “I will cheerfully contribute that relic if upon his
  part Brother Bristol will contribute his portrait of Eliphalet W.
  Blatchford disguised as Falstaff.” (Cheers.)

  The Rev. Dr. Stryker:  “I have a completed uncut set of ’Monk and
  Knight,’ which I will be happy to devote to the same cause.”

Dr. Gunsaulus:  “The contributions will be hardly complete without a box of those matches with which Brother Stryker wanted to kindle a bonfire which was to consume the body of the heretical Briggs.  But speaking of that novel of mine (’Monk and Knight’) reminds me that I wrote a poem on the railway the other day, and I will read it now if there be no objection.” (Cries of ‘Read it,’ ‘Go ahead.’) “The poem, humble as it is, was suggested by seeing a fellow-passenger fall asleep over his volume of Bion and Moschus.  This is the way it goes: 

    Wake, wake him not; the book lies in his hands—­
      Bion and Moschus smile within his sleep;
    Tired of our world, he lives in other lands—­
      Wanders in Greece, where fauns and satyrs leap.

    Dull, even sweet, the rumble of the train—­
      ’Tis Circe singing near her golden loom;
    No garish lamps afflicted his charmed brain—­
      Demeter’s poppies brighten o’er her tomb.

    But half-awake he looks on starlit trees—­
      Sees but the huntress in her eager chase;
    Wake, wake him not upon the fragrant breeze,
      Let horn and hound announce her rapid pace.

    Blithe shepherds pipe within the Dorian vales,
      Hellenic airs blow through their sun-bright hair,
    To him alone the wooers whisper tales—­
      Bloomed kind Calypso’s islet ne’er so fair.

    Unbanished gods roam o’er the thymy hills,
      Calm shadows slumber on the purple grapes,
    Hid are the dryads near the star-gemmed rills,
      Far through the moonlight wander love-lorn shapes.

    Gray olives shade the dancing-naiads’ smile,
      Flutes loose their raptures in the murmuring stream,
    These, these are visions modern cares beguil—­
      Echoes of the old Greek’s dream._”

  Mr. Stryker:  “That is good poetry, Brother Gunsaulus.  If you would
  tone it down a little, and contrive to work in a touch of piety here
  and there, I would be glad to print it in my next volume of hymns.”