Bubbles From an Ancient Pipe

I.

THE AMERICAN RAPHAEL.

“ WALK into my studio, don’t be afraid,
And examine my wonders of light and of shade ;
I came out to Rome only six months ago,
And my progress in Art, I tell you, ain’t slow.
Here’s my ‘ Tobit,’ and ‘Venus,’ my ‘Babes in the Wood,'
My ‘Peter F. Jones,’ and my ‘Jason G. Blood,’
My ‘ Lincoln ’ ; my ‘Jackson ’ ; my ‘ Angel of Fire ’
In color so strong it will make you perspire.”
I looked at these terrors in red, blue, and green,
And all other pigments that ever were seen,
And asked for the name of this wanderer from home.
“ The American Raphael they call him in Rome,”
Said my friend, as we came down the artist’s steep stairs,
Our heads full of Sinais, and heroes, and bears, —
“ And the reason is this, as his pictures won’t sell,
He raffles them off, — and it pays very well ! ”

II.

COMPLIMENTS.

I.

A POET whose fame is as wide as the world
Had a call from a youth wishing greatly to know him,
Who entered with stammer and blush, blurting out,
“I am one of the few, sir, who’ve read your new poem.”

II.

Coming out of church, a hearer, greatly pleased,
Accosted Dr. Jerman:
“The best discourse I ever heard you preach,—
What was the subject of your sermon ? ”

III.

My friend Tom Vox once lectured in a town,
The audience numbering twenty-two or three ;
And when Tom closed, they took his hand and said,
“ ’T was not so tedious as we thought ’t would be.”

III.

AN ADVERTISEMENT.

FOR SALE AT A BARGAIN.

A DAMAGED Phœnix
From Arabia Felix;
Has lost a claw,
And part of his maw,
Also his jaw.
His tail is loose,
So that’s no use.
Has lost both wings,
And other things.
He never sings. He can’t fight,
He can’t bite,
He can’t walk,
He can’t talk,
He can’t cry,
He can’t fly,
He is n’t spry,
Has but one eye.
Less than a third
Of the original bird
Is now for sale
By Timothy Vail.