THE swampy State of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy—
“Excelsior!”
He tarried not to eat or drink,
But put a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it in violet ink—
Excelsior!
Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record—
Excelsior!
The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain
With greater clearness to explain—
Excelsior!
And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)—
“Excelsior!”
And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad—
“Excelsior!”
“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried;
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied—
“Excelsior!”
The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)
“Excelsior!”
And ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag—
Excelsior!
Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back—
Excelsior!
Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more—
“Excelsior!”
_Anonymous._
“THE DAY IS DONE”
THE day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper,—
A good and regular meal—
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn’t give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
_Phœbe Cary._