THE ten members of the Hopkins family are certainly the most noted criminals known to fame, a remarkable tho' an unworthy bunch. I had a complete story of the entire ten.

            The story was all in verse. The greater part of the verses were lost in the San Francisco earthquake. I preserved only the verses relating to the two Hopkins, five and ten.

            One of those degenerates actually buried his wife alive. He threw her into soft mud and stamped her down. Her troubles were soon over. I will give you the list of the others in rotation. Number One—Confidence man known as Grand Central Pete. Number Two—ditto, whose nom de plume is Hungry Joe. Number Three—a very clever second storey man. Number Four—known as Nimble Nell, the cutest little pickpocket that walks Broadway. Number Six—a rather indifferent sneak thief—always in trouble. Numbers Seven and Eight—dope peddlers. Number Nine—runs a place called Dr. Ramscars, non-sectarian home for senile delinquents. The Doctor has just been arrested for feeding his guests on mule flesh. The poor mule had died a natural death. The Doctor purchased the carcass cheap. The Hopkins bunch remind me of the talkative barbers, brothers in the thousand and one nights. Blood poison wholesale.

            Most of the poems describing the Hopkins family have been lost. The papers had been deposited in a Chinese pagoda that stood on the edge of the Golden Horn. Then came the earthquake. The pagoda toppled into the sea. The manuscripts were lost. And sad to relate, those missing Hopkins' poems were even more sublime than the two Hopkins' poems inserted.

HOPKINS NUMBER FIVE

Hopkins number five
Buried his wife alive,
Because she stole one spud.
He hit her just one thud,
Then stamped her in the mud,
            Mud, mud, mud,
He stamped her in the mud.
Hopkins number five
Never could survive
The shame he felt (poor chump)
When wifie made one slump
Being in need of cash.
Hopkins made one dash.
He gave her nose one smash
            Smash, smash, smash,
He gave her nose one smash.

Hopkins number five
Buried his wife alive.
He never could resist
Vengeance. He raised his fist
And gave his wife one thud,
Because she stole that spud,
Great sin which called for blood
He stamped her in the mud
            Mud, mud, mud,
He stamped her in the mud.

HOPKINS NUMBER TEN

Hopkins number ten
Coddles his painful wen
            Beneath one shoulder blade—
                        it breaks apart,
Bursting his marrow pith;
We know he's troubled with
            Fatty degeneration
                        Of the heart.

We fear his goose is cooked.
Quite certain he is booked
            To cross the river Jordan
                        in a trice.
He'll bump against the rocks,
We'll pack him in a box
            Entangled with the
                        necessary ice.

Hopkins number ten,
Rejecting Nicky Ben
            Smiles gently on the demon.
                        He don't grumble
But peacefully doth writhe.
Old Whiskers with his scythe
            Won't give the guy another
                        chance to tumble.

We buried him with pomp,
The Devil cannot romp.
            No picnic now for
                        foxy Nicky Ben.
Fetch me my hellebore.
None of his fiends galore
            Can ever trouble
                        Hopkins number ten.

Hopkins number ten,
Coddled that lumpy wen,
            That inartistic wen
                        beneath his shoulder.
In spite of pains and aches,
In spite of seeing snakes
            He died before he lived to
                        be much older.

ENVOY

The members of his flock
Tumbled a chunk of rock
            Over the bones of Hopkins—
                        poor slob dobber!
Now with low muffled cries
Heaving a load of sighs
            Dejectedly we drop chins,
                        also slobber.

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