Black Beetles in Amber. Ambrose Bierce
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Wilt get thee straight unto to the border land
To mark the President's approach with such
Due, decent courtesy as it shall seem
We have in custom the best warrant for."
Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,
Eyeing the storm of hats which darkened all
The Southern sky, and hearing far hurrahs
Of an exulting people, answered not.
Then some there were who fell upon their knees,
And some upon their Governor, and sought
Each in his way, by blandishment or force,
To gain his action to their end. "Behold,"
They said, "thy brother Governor to South
Met him even at the gateway of his realm,
Crook-kneed, magnetic-handed and agrin,
Backed like a rainbow—all things done in form
Of due observance and respect. Shall we
Alone of all his servitors refuse
Swift welcome to our master and our lord?"
Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,
Answered them not, but turned his back to them
And as if speaking to himself, the while
He started to retire, said: "He be damned!"
To that High Place o'er Portland's central block,
Where the Recording Angel stands to view
The sinning world, nor thinks to move his feet
Aside and look below, came flocking up
Inferior angels, all aghast, and cried:
"Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,
Has said, O what an awful word!—too bad
To be by us repeated!" "Yes, I know,"
Said the superior bird—"I heard it too,
And have already booked it. Pray observe."
Splitting the giant tome, whose covers fell
Apart, o'ershadowing to right and left
The Eastern and the Western world, he showed
The newly written entry, black and big,
Upon the credit side of thine account,
Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon.
Y'E FOE TO CATHAYE
O never an oathe sweares he,
And never a pig-taile jerkes;
With a brick-batte he ne lurkes
For to buste y'e crust, perdie,
Of y'e man from over sea,
A-synging as he werkes.
For he knows ful well, y's youth,
A tricke of exceeding worth:
And he plans withouten ruth
A conflagration's birth!
SAMUEL SHORTRIDGE
Like a worn mother he attempts in vain
To still the unruly Crier of his brain:
The more he rocks the cradle of his chin
The more uproarious grows the brat within.
SURPRISED
"O son of mine age, these eyes lose their fire:
Be eyes, I pray, to thy dying sire."
"O father, fear not, for mine eyes are bright—
I read through a millstone at dead of night."
"My son, O tell me, who are those men,
Rushing like pigs to the feeding-pen?"
"Welcomers they of a statesman grand.
They'll shake, and then they will pocket; his hand."
"Sagacious youth, with the wondrous eye,
They seem to throw up their headgear. Why?"
"Because they've thrown up their hands until, O,
They're so tired!—and dinners they've none to throw."
"My son, my son, though dull are mine ears,
I hear a great sound like the people's cheers."
"He's thanking them, father, with tears in his eyes,
For giving him lately that fine surprise."
"My memory fails as I near mine end;
How did they astonish their grateful friend?" "By letting him buy, like apples or oats, With that which has made him so good, the votes Which make him so wise and grand and great. Now, father, please die, for 'tis growing late."
POSTERITY'S AWARD
I'd long been dead, but I returned to earth.
Some small affairs posterity was making
A mess of, and I came to see that worth
Received its dues. I'd hardly finished waking,
The grave-mould still upon me, when my eye
Perceived a statue standing straight and high.
'Twas a colossal figure—bronze and gold—
Nobly designed, in attitude commanding.
A toga from its shoulders, fold on fold,
Fell to the pedestal on which 'twas standing.
Nobility it had and splendid grace,
And all it should have had—except a face!
It showed no features: not a trace nor sign
Of any eyes or nose could be detected—
On the smooth oval of its front no line
Where sites for mouths are commonly selected.
All blank and blind its faulty head it reared.
Let this be said: 'twas generously eared.
Seeing these things, I straight began to guess
For whom this mighty image was intended.
"The head," I cried, "is Upton's, and the dress
Is Parson Bartlett's own." True, his cloak ended Flush with his lowest vertebra, but no Sane sculptor ever made a toga so. Then on the pedestal these words I read: "Erected Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven" (Saint Christofer! how fast the time had sped! Of course it naturally does in Heaven) "To——" (here a blank space for the name began) "The Nineteenth Century's Great Foremost Man!" "Completed" the inscription ended, "in The Year Three Thousand"—which was just arriving. By Jove! thought I, 'twould make the founders grin To learn whose fame so long has been surviving— To read the name posterity will place In that blank void, and view the finished face. Even as I gazed, the year