When he was strongly moved he could rise and soar like that with ease.  And not only in the prose form, but in the poetical as well.  He had written many pieces of poetry in his time, and these manuscripts he lent around among the passengers, and was willing to let them be copied.  It seemed to me that the least technical one in the series, and the one which reached the loftiest note, perhaps, was his: 

Invocation.

     “Come forth from thy oozy couch,
     O Ornithorhynchus dear! 
     And greet with a cordial claw
     The stranger that longs to hear

     “From thy own own lips the tale
     Of thy origin all unknown: 
     Thy misplaced bone where flesh should be
     And flesh where should be bone;

     “And fishy fin where should be paw,
     And beaver-trowel tail,
     And snout of beast equip’d with teeth
     Where gills ought to prevail.

     “Come, Kangaroo, the good and true
     Foreshortened as to legs,
     And body tapered like a churn,
     And sack marsupial, i’ fegs,

     “And tells us why you linger here,
     Thou relic of a vanished time,
     When all your friends as fossils sleep,
     Immortalized in lime!”

Perhaps no poet is a conscious plagiarist; but there seems to be warrant for suspecting that there is no poet who is not at one time or another an unconscious one.  The above verses are indeed beautiful, and, in a way, touching; but there is a haunting something about them which unavoidably suggests the Sweet Singer of Michigan.  It can hardly be doubted that the author had read the works of that poet and been impressed by them.  It is not apparent that he has borrowed from them any word or yet any phrase, but the style and swing and mastery and melody of the Sweet Singer all are there.  Compare this Invocation with “Frank Dutton”—­particularly stanzas first and seventeenth—­and I think the reader will feel convinced that he who wrote the one had read the other: 

     I.

    “Frank Dutton was as fine a lad
     As ever you wish to see,
     And he was drowned in Pine Island Lake
     On earth no more will he be,
     His age was near fifteen years,
     And he was a motherless boy,
     He was living with his grandmother
     When he was drowned, poor boy.”

     XVII.

    “He was drowned on Tuesday afternoon,
     On Sunday he was found,
     And the tidings of that drowned boy
     Was heard for miles around. 
     His form was laid by his mother’s side,
     Beneath the cold, cold ground,
     His friends for him will drop a tear
     When they view his little mound.”

The Sentimental Song Book.  By Mrs. Julia Moore, p. 36.

CHAPTER IX.

It is your human environment that makes climate. 
                                  —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.