THE CHARM THAT FAILED

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The Hero of my tale

The Hero of my tale

Was a serpent—don’t turn pale!

My snake was not the “serpent” of Theology

With an apple up his sleeve

To tempt some child of Eve,

Nor was he versed in deadly Toxicology.

No, his fangs were free from guile,

And he had a roomy smile.

There was no more harmless snake in all Zoology.

But since no creature known

Is perfect, I will own

He had one failing—vanity, alas! innate.

He was also fond of sport,

Though not a cruel sort:

His aim was more to charm than to assassinate.

He was often heard to say,

When feeling rather gay,

“I’d like to see the Bird I cannot fascinate!”

And one day

Some laughter-loving Fay

His boasting heard,

And sent a Bird.

It was sitting, stuffed and stiff on

A thing of straw and chiffon,

Ribbands and lace and jet and such like finery,

By a milliner begotten

And some careless maid forgotten,

In stuffed and lonely splendor in the Vinery,

When with expectant eye

Mr. Serpent, by and by,

Strolled forth in search of game from out the Pinery.

And the Bird

Never stirred

Or said a word.

“Aha!” said Mr. Snake,

“Unless I much mistake,

Here’s a charming subject for a Trance Hypnotic;

Soon I’ll have her in my toils!”

And with mysterious coils

He advanced with air complacent and despotic.

Then he rose up, and let fly

A glance from out his eye,

And watched for the effect of his narcotic.

And the Bird

Never stirred

Or said a word.

Said Mr. Snake, “My spell

Seems to work extremely well.”

And straightway with Majestic Pride he puffed,

But when an hour had pass’d,

And still the Bird stood fast,

I must confess he felt a trifle huff’d.

“There’s something wrong,” said he,

“With the Bird—or else with me.”

How should he know the wretched thing was stuffed?

That Bird,

Who never stirred

Or said a word.

Mr. Snake was sorely troubled,

And his efforts he redoubled,

And he balanced on the tip end of his tail,

Swaying to and fro the while

Like a pendulum—a style

That hitherto he’d never known to fail.

But not a word she uttered,

And not a feather fluttered

As he plied his mystic Art without avail.

“Confound the bird!” he said,

And he stood upon his head

And waved his long mysterious tail in air,

And he focussed all the rays

Of his esoteric gaze

Into one cold and petrifying glare.

But the Deadly Glance fell wide;

He might as well have tried

To hypnotize a table or a chair—

As that Bird,

Who never stirred

Or said a word.

“That settles it!” he cried.

“I will not be defied!”

And he coiled himself to spring—oh, rash proceeding!

Like an arrow from a bow

He sprang—how should he know

The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding?

Next moment he lay dead,

With a Hat Pin through his head,

Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding—

The Bird

Never stirred

Or said a word.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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