MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME.

They called him Mr. What's-his-name:

From where he was, or why he came,

Or when, or what he found to do,

Nobody in the city knew.

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone

In a low hovel of his own;

There cooked his meals and made his bed,

Careless of all his neighbors said.

His neighbors, too, said many things

Expressive of grave wonderings,

Since none of them had ever been

Within his doors, or peered therein.

In fact, grown watchful, they became

Assured that Mr. What's-his-name

Was up to something wrong — indeed,

Small doubt of it, we all agreed.

At night were heard strange noises there,

When honest people everywhere

Had long retired; and his light

Was often seen to burn all night.

He left his house but seldom — then

Would always hurry back again,

As though he feared some stranger's knock,

Finding him gone, might burst the lock.

Beside, he carried, every day,

At the one hour he went away,

A basket, with the contents hid

Beneath its woven willow lid.

And so we grew to greatly blame

This wary Mr. What's-his-name,

And look on him with such distrust

His actions seemed to sanction just.

But when he died — he died one day —

Dropped in the street while on his way

To that old wretched hut of his —

You'll think it strange — perhaps it is —

But when we lifted him, and past

The threshold of his home at last,

No man of all the crowd but stepped

With reverence,— Aye, quailed and wept!

What was it? Just a shriek of pain

I pray to never hear again —

A withered woman, old and bowed,

That fell and crawled and cried aloud —

And kissed the dead man's matted hair —

Lifted his face and kissed him there —

Called to him, as she clutched his hand,

In words no one could understand.

Insane? Yes.— Well, we, searching, found

An unsigned letter, in a round

Free hand, within the dead man's breast:

“Look to my mother — I'm at rest.

You'll find my money safely hid

Under the lining of the lid

Of my work-basket. It is hers,

And God will bless her ministers!”

And some day — though he died unknown —

If through the City by the Throne

I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame,

I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name.