THE SQUEALER.
Of course some people are born so bright
That no matter what one may say, or write,
The theme is old and the lesson is trite,
Which is what you may say, as these lines unreel
And I mildly suggest it is better to feel
Than to squeal.
Everybody knows that? Yes, it's certain they do,
Everybody, that is, with exception of two,
Of whom I am one and the other is you.
But for us the lesson is still remote,
Although we commit it and cite it and quote
It by rote.
But still when you thrill with the thudding thump
From the fist of the fellow you tried to bump
And the world looks hard at the swelling lump,
There's a strong temptation to open your door
And invite the public to hear you roar
That you're sore.
And again, tho' 'tis plain as the printed page:—
"Keep your hand on the lever and watch the gauge
When the fire-pot's full and the boilers rage,"
How often the steam-pressure grows and grows
And before the engineer cares or knows,
Up she goes.
So why should you fret if I send you to school
Again to consider the sapient rule
That Wisdom is Silence and Speech is a Fool.
Close up! and a year from to-day you will kneel
And thank the good Lord that you knew how to feel
And not squeal.
DISTANCE AND DISENCHANTMENT.
He was playing New York, and on Broadway at that;
I was playing in stock, in Chicago.
I heard that his Hamlet fell fearfully flat;
He heard I was fierce, as Iago.
Each looked to the other exceedingly small;
We were too far apart, that is all.
You, too, if your vision is ever reflective,
Have noticed your rival is small in perspective.