ot the trail
Until the quarry is at length run down.
And this I must apply to Francos' ear,
Thus breeding deep contempt, clothed with distrust,
For him who puketh up a sour disdain,
From stomach filled with racial prejudice,
That shall his downfall speed, helped by the spleen,
Which pampered youth, fed with a golden spoon,
Must ever show, whene'er its will is crossed.
And thus will I proceed to "cook his goose,"
Until the flesh shall cleave from off its bones.
But as it seemeth to my anxious mind,
I read uncertainty in Francos' eye,
"The welfare of thy people" once he voiced,
Such words make music not unto mine ear.
_(Disdainfully)_
"Thy people!" So it is that Francos speaks.
Ah! little do the workings of his mind
Discern that we who seek the pow'r to rule
Feel not the Tao blood coursing our veins.
For it by stain Caucasian is submerged;
Still, we a ladder make of sable backs,
To climb aloft into the chairs of state.
Exampling thus: "The fittest must survive".
A narrow man, though cast in honest mould,
May mischief work, while conscience wears a smile.
To Francos' I would dare not ope my heart,
So I must feel my way with catlike tread,
And strive with minor things to stuff him full,
So points of import shall his mind escape.

_Francos (drawing near):_

I bid thee happy morn, illustrious friend;
A morn portending a most perfect day.

_Quezox:_

'Tis thus our morn politic brightly breaks
But storms, by Jove engendered, may e'er Night
Enfolds her sable mantle for repose,
Wither the budding dreams that fill our breasts,
And deep within the cave of darkness cast
Ambitions holy which now swell to burst.

_Francos:_

Good Quezox, why dost thou so deep despond?
Methinks the future wears a gladsome smile,
The children of thy race now spy a star
Which like to that of Bethlehem may lead
Them in the future to a state of bliss.

_Quezox:_
Ah, noble sire, mayhap our children may,
But what of us who years have n