A MORAL VINDICATOR

If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B., Had one peculiar quality, 'Twas his severe advocacy Of conjugal fidelity.

His views of heaven were very free;

His views of life were painfully Ridiculous; but fervently He dwelt on marriage sanctity.

He frequently went on a spree;

But in his wildest revelry, On this especial subject he Betrayed no ambiguity.

And though at times Lycurgus B.

Did lay his hands not lovingly Upon his wife, the sanctity Of wedlock was his guaranty.

But Mrs. Jones declined to see Affairs in the same light as he, And quietly got a decree Divorcing her from that L. B.

And what did Jones, Lycurgus B., With his known idiosyncrasy?

He smiled,--a bitter smile to see,--And drew the weapon of Bowie.

He did what Sickles did to Key,--What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he;

In fact, on persons twenty-three He proved the marriage sanctity.

The counselor who took the fee, The witnesses and referee, The judge who granted the decree, Died in that wholesale butchery.

And then when Jones, Lycurgus B., Had wiped the weapon of Bowie, Twelve jurymen did instantly Acquit and set Lycurgus free.

CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL

(ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING)

Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode, From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed;

For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled, And the river once more has returned to its bed.

Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near!

How the fences and tules once more reappear!

How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough By the hole in the levee the waters broke through!

All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet;

For the trails are all open, the roads are all free, And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea.

Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale;

The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain, Where the smut is not always confined to the grain.

Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof, Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red, Once more at the station the whiskey is spread.

Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun, And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one;

Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, In the spring that obtains but one month in the year.

WHAT THE ENGINES SAID

(OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD)

What was it the Engines said, Pilots touching,--head to head Facing on the single track, Half a world behind each back?

This is what the Engines said, Unreported and unread.

With a prefatory screech, In a florid Western speech, Said the Engine from the WEST:

"I am from Sierra's crest;

And if altitude's a test, Why, I reckon, it's confessed That I've done my level best."

Said the Engine from the EAST:

"They who work best talk the least.

S'pose you whistle down your brakes;

What you've done is no great shakes, Pretty fair,--but let our meeting Be a different kind of greeting.

Let these folks with champagne stuffing, Not their Engines, do the PUFFING.

"Listen! Where Atlantic beats Shores of snow and summer heats;

Where the Indian autumn skies Paint the woods with wampum dyes,--I have chased the flying sun, Seeing all he looked upon, Blessing all that he has blessed, Nursing in my iron breast All his vivifying heat, All his clouds about my crest;

And before my flying feet Every shadow must retreat."

Said the Western Engine, "Phew!"

And a long, low whistle blew.

"Come, now, really that's the oddest Talk for one so very modest.

You brag of your East! YOU do?

Why, I bring the East to YOU!

All the Orient, all Cathay, Find through me the shortest way;