  July 12, 1886. Another birthday here? It hardly seems a year Since I these words did hear,— When three score years and one did crown thee,— "Not till I am an octagon, Or, worse still, a centurion, Shall I be old, with factories gone All idiomatic and forlorn." But thou art still a "membrane" dear Of what we call society's cheer; "Ordained beforehand, in advance." ('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,) To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting, But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring, Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract The "bigamies" of fate and fact. Alas! thy crutch of many years Still hints "romantic" pains and fears; A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say, To keep "plumbago" still at bay! Its helpful mission has a share In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare. And, by the way, not crutch alone Finds in that book its value shown. There in the depths of friendship's mines Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines; Impromptus born at love's command To deck occasion's wise demand. One finds no "Sarah's desert" there, No "reprehensible" despair; But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press Poured out in pure unselfishness. This brings to mind thy Knitting-Work, Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk, And other books with humor rife, Done in the priming of thy life. "Contusion of ideas." O no; What "Angular Saxon" would say so? "Congestive thoughts then so inane They'd decompose the soundest brain." Yes, there it is, thy humor still, Not seventy years and two can kill. 'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore, A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store. |
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