The other day I was made glad by finding that John Burroughs, Poet and
Prophet, says that the male thrush sings to please himself, out of pure
delight; and pleasing himself, he pleases his mate. "The female," says
Burroughs, "is always pleased with a male that is pleased with himself."

The various controversial poems (granting for argument's sake that
controversy is poetic) were written when Burns was smarting under the
sense of defeat. These show a sharp insight into the heart of things, and
a lively wit, but are not sufficient foundation on which to build a
reputation. Ali Baba can do as well. Considering the fact that twice as
many people make pilgrimages to the grave of Burns as visit the dust of
Shakespeare, and that his poems are on the shelves of every library, his
name now needs no defense. The ores are very seldom found pure, and if
even the work of Deity is composite, why should we be surprised that man,
His creature, should express himself in a varying scale of excellence!

* * * * *

There was nothing of Jack Falstaff about Francis Schlatter, whose whitened
bones were found amid the alkali dust of the desert, a few years ago--dead
in an endeavor to do without meat and drink for forty days.

Schlatter purported, and believed, that he was the reincarnation of the
Messiah. Letters were sent to him, addressed simply, "Jesus Christ,
Denver, Colorado," and he walked up to the General-Delivery window and
asked for them with a confidence, we are told, that relieved the
postmaster of a grave responsibility.

Schlatter was no mere ordinary pretender, working on the superstitions of