TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL

A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS

"Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil!
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,

Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum
Of volcanic tufa!

"Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
Of earth's epidermis !

"Eo-Mio- Plio-whatsoe'er the 'cene' was

That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder, Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,

Tell us thy strange story!

Or has the professor slightly antedated

By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,
Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted
For cold-blooded creatures?

“Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria

Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch?

“Tell us of that scene, — the dim and watery woodland Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses,

Lycopodiacea,

"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,
While from time to time above thee flew and circled
Cheerful Pterodactyls.

"Tell us of thy food, those half-marine refections,
Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturel,
Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo
Seems a periwinkle.

"Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation,
Solitary fragment of remains organic!

Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence,
Speak! thou oldest primate!"

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,

And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,
Ground the teeth together.

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition,

Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration:

"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County,
But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
Home to old Missouri!"

Bret Harte

THE POPE AND THE NET

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,
Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:
His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,

Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit

No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head;

Each winks at each: "I' faith, a rise! Saint Peter's net, instead

Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!" You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble holy heart! "Unworthy me!" he sighs: "From fisher's drudge to Church's prince- it is indeed a rise:

So, here's my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!"

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net!

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Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: 'The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!

He's just the saint to choose for Pope!" Each adds, ""Tis my advice."

So Pope he was: and when we flocked - its sacred slipper

on

To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone That guarantee of lowlihead, eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried 66 Pish!

I'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common

wish.

Why, Father, is the net removed?"

the fish."

RESIGNATION

I could resign that eye of blue,
Howe'er it's splendor used to thrill me;
And e'en that cheek of roseate hue-

To lose it, Chloe, scarce would kill me.

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However much I raved about it;
And sweetly as that lip can kiss,

I think I could exist without it.

In short, so well I've learn'd to fast,
That, sooth, my love, I know not whether

I might not bring myself at last

To do without you altogether.

Thomas Moore

HOW TO ASK AND HAVE

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,
Sweet Mary," says I;

Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:

“For my mother says men are decaivers,
And never, I know, will consent;

She says girls in a hurry to marry,
At leisure repent."

'Then, suppose I should talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I;

Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:

"For my father he loves me so dearly,
He'll never consent I should go;
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'No.'

ووو

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel, Sweet Mary? says I;

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"If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!"

"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
A way now to save you I see :
Since my parents are both so conthrairy,
You'd better ask me."

Samuel Lover

But, on an after Sunday,

When cloud there was not ane,

This selfsame winsome lassie

(We chanced to meet in the lane),

Said, "Laddie,

Why dinna ye wear your plaidie?

Wha kens but it may rain?"

AN IDYL

Charles Sibley

I saw her first on a day in Spring,

By the side of a stream, as I fished along,

And loitered to hear the robins sing,

And guessed at the secret they told in song.

The apple-blossoms, so white and red,

Were mirrored beneath in the streamlet's flow;

And the sky was blue far overhead,

And far in the depths of the brook below.