  The air was full of shouts and cries, Of shrill “Ha-ha’s,” and “Ho’s,” and “Hi’s,” And every kind of whistle, And the sky was dark with flying things— Golf-sticks, balls, engagement-rings, Novels, rackets, and billiard-cues, Cameras, fishing-rods, and shoes, And every sort of missile. The ground was black with a seething mass Of people of every kind and class— Matrons, men, and misses, Ladies and gentlemen, old and new, Lads and lasses, and children too, Elderly men with elderly wives— Hustling and bustling for their lives. “I wonder what all this is?” Said I: “I fear that it may be Another case for the S. P. C. ’T will bear investigation.” I dropped my book and joined the race, And struggling into the foremost place, Behold, the object of the chase Was an aged man with wrinkled face! I was filled with indignation. His frame was bent and his knees aknock, His head was bald but for one lock, And I cried with anger thrilling, “This thing must stop; ’t is a disgrace An aged gentleman to chase.” Then everybody laughed in my face. “This,” they cried, “is a different case; It’s only ‘Time’ we’re killing.” Then it was I observed two things That grew from his shoulders—two big wings! And I joined in the people’s laughter. Tho’ killing is often out of place, A circumstance may alter a case. So I took my pad and pencil-case, And for want of a missile, in its place I tossed these verses after. |
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