UNARMED

Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate, When Stephen M. White arrived in state. “Admit me.” “With pleasure,” Peter said, Pleased to observe that the man was dead;

“That's what I'm here for. Kindly show Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.” White stared in blank surprise. Said he “I run this place — just turn that key.”

“Yes?” said the Saint; and Stephen heard With pain the inflection of that word. But, mastering his emotion, he Remarked: “My friend, you're too d —— free;

“I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!” And, “Yes?” the guardian said, with quite The self-same irritating stress Distinguishing his former yes.

And still demurely as a mouse He twirled the key to that Upper House. Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain Admittance to those halls to gain,

Said, neighborly: “Pray tell me. Pete, Does any one contest my seat?” The Saint replied: “Nay, nay, not so; But you voted always wrong below:

“Whate'er the question, clear and high You're voice rang:‘ I,’‘ I,’ ever‘ I.’” Now indignation fired the heart Of that insulted immortal part.

“Die, wretch!” he cried, with blanching lip, And made a motion to his hip, With purpose murderous and hearty, To draw the Democratic party!

He felt his fingers vainly slide Upon his unappareled hide ( The dead arise from their “silent tents” But not their late habiliments )

Then wailed — the briefest of his speeches: “I've left it in my other breeches!”