A poet sang a song so wondrous sweet,
That toiling thousands paused and listened long;
So lofty, strong, and noble were his themes,
It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.
He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,
And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears.
Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,
And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.
The poet groveled on a fresh-heaped mound
Raised o’er the grave of one he fondly loved,
And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears,
And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.
Identified
A stranger walked into a Houston bank the other day and presented a draft to the cashier for payment.
“You will have to be identified,” said the cashier, “by someone who knows your name to be Henry B. Saunders.”
“But I don’t know anybody in Houston,” said the stranger. “Here’s a lot of letters addressed to me, and a telegram from my firm, and a lot of business cards. Won’t they be identification enough?”
“I am sorry,” said the cashier, “but while I have no doubt that you are the party, our rule is to require better identification.”
The man unbuttoned his vest and showed the initial, H. B. S., on his shirt. “Does that go?” he asked. The cashier shook his head. “You might have Henry B. Saunders’ letters, and his papers, and also his shirt on, without being the right man. We are forced to be very careful.”
The stranger tore open his shirt front, and exhibited a large mustard plaster, covering his entire chest. “There,” he shouted, “if I wasn’t Henry B. Saunders, do you suppose I would go around wearing one of his mustard plasters stuck all over me? Do you think I would carry my impersonation of anybody far enough to blister myself to look like him? Gimme tens and fives, now, I haven’t got time to fool any more.”