Page:Life of John Boyle O'Reilly.djvu/284

244 No word was said; but each man wrote his name, And hailed him President with loud acclaim. He stepped him down: "You know me like a book," He said, "I am the friend of Joseph Cook!"

While Rogers reigned the club climbed high in air; Then paused to help O'Reilly fill the chair. Selected he for neither gift nor grace, But just a make-shift for the vacant place.

Twelve months the club considered then its choice, And, like a trained Calliope, one voice Announced that Alexander Young was Mayor ; They chose him for his grave, benignant air: "We want historians!" they proudly said: "The Netherlands," by Young, they had not read. Nor had he writ; but their prophetic rage. Could see the writing in him, every page!

Then grew they weary of the serious minds. As children long for candy's varied kinds. They cried: "We want a man to please the eye; A sensuous, soft, mellifluent harmony!" And all eyes centered with direct accord On Towle, the gentle wrangler of the board. He swayed the gavel with a graceful pose And wore a wreath of sweet poetic prose.

Wide swings the pendulum in one brief year: The fickle-hearted Club cries: "Bring us here A man who knows not poetry nor prose; Nor art nor grace, yet all these graceful knows; Bring us a brusque, rude gentleman of parts!" They brought in Hovey, who won all their hearts.

Next year, the Club said: "Now, we cannot choose; Goodness, we've had, and beauty, and the muse; Religion's friend and Holland's guardian, too: Go—nominate—we know not what to do."

And forth they brought a man, and cried: "Behold! A balanced virtue, neither young nor old; A pure negation, scientific, cold— Yet not too cold—caloric, just enough— Simple and pure in soul, yet up to snuff.