e me to sing and die."

The water was weltering round my feet,
As prone on the beach they lay.
I chanted my death-song loud and sweet;
"Kioodle, ioodle, iay!"

Then I heard the swish of erecting ears
Which caught that enchanted strain.
The ocean was swollen with storms of tears
That fell from the shining swain.

"O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand,
"That ravishing song would make
The devil a saint." He held out his hand
And solemnly added: "Shake."

We shook. "I crave a victim, you see,"
He said--"you came hither to die."
The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he!
And the victim he crove was I!

'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard;
And he knocked me on the head.
O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard,
For I didn't want to be dead.

"You'll sing no worser for that," said he,
And he drove with my soul away,
O, death-song singers, be warned by me,
Kioodle, ioodle, iay!

AGAIN.

Well, I've met her again--at the Mission.
She'd told me to see her no more;
It was not a command--a petition;
I'd granted it once before.

Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me.
Repenting her virtuous freak--
Subdued myself daily and nightly
For the better part of a week.

And then ('twas my duty to spare her
The shame of recalling me) I
Just sought her again to prepare her
For an everlasting good-bye.

O, that evening of bliss--shall I ever
Forget it?--with Shakespeare and Poe!
She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never
To see me again. And now go."

As we parted with kisses 'twas human
And natural for me to smile
As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman:
She'll send for me after a while."

But she didn't; and so--well, the Mission
Is fine, picturesque and gray;
It's an excellent place for contrition--
And sometimes she passes that way.

That's how it occurred that I met her,
And that's ah there is to tell--
Except that I'd like to forget her
Calm way of remarking: "I'm well."

It was hardly worth while, all this keying
My soul to such tensions and stirs
To learn that her food was agreeing
With that little stomach of hers.

HOMO PODUNKENSIS.

As the poor ass that from his paddock strays
Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise,
Recounting volubly their well-bred leer,
Their port impressive and their weal