Shapes of Clay

  ’Tis the census enumerator
    A-singing all forlorn: 
  It’s ho! for the tall potater,
    And ho! for the clustered corn. 
  The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine
  Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine.

  “Some there must be to till the soil
    And the widow’s weeds keep down. 
  I wasn’t cut out for rural toil
    But they won’t let me live in town! 
  They ’re not so many by two or three,
    As they think, but ah! they ’re too many for me.”

  Thus the census man, bowed down with care,
    Warbled his wood-note high. 
  There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair,
    But he had no blood in his eye.

THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT.

  Baffled he stands upon the track—­
  The automatic switches clack.

  Where’er he turns his solemn eyes
  The interlocking signals rise.

  The trains, before his visage pale,
  Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail.

  No splinter-spitted victim he
  Hears uttering the note high C.

  In sorrow deep he hangs his head,
  A-weary—­would that he were dead.

  Now suddenly his spirits rise—­
  A great thought kindles in his eyes.

  Hope, like a headlight’s vivid glare,
  Splendors the path of his despair.

  His genius shines, the clouds roll back—­
  “I’ll place obstructions on the track!”