Out in the country where they tap The maple-trees in Spring, There’s something doin’ on the map When March is on the wing. The bar’ls and buckets overrun, The busy farmer’s smilin’, The cracklin’ fire helps the fun; For sap’s a-bilin’. Out in the country where they all Have lived a hundred years And heard the go-to-meetin’ call As Sunday storms or clears, Thermometer’s a-risin’ when For trouble folks are spilin’; Till some one pokes the kettle—then The sap’s a-bilin’. Just hold a bit—don’t let it burn By bein’ too intense! The man who biles has first to learn A leetle common sense. It’s sugar that we’re bilin’, mind, Not human nature rilin’; So jest go back to sweetness kind When sap’s a-bilin’! JUST MUDWhat’s this live stuff you call a boy Just in the plastic stage And fairly oozing with the joy Of youth’s unmoulded age? What’s this to fashion into form Of early blade or bud Or fruit with life or color warm? Why say, just mud! What’s Summer’s golden harvest-yield That ripens into grain, The bloom of orchard, wood or field So riotous with gain? What’s this comes trooping with the grace Of man-and-woman-hood From out the muck of yesterdays? Why say, just mud! What’s yonder statue borne aloft By noble edifice, Which passers-by beholding oft Forget immortal is Of living deed and living art (Now clay, once flesh and blood) Both growing from a humble start? Why say, just mud! KNOCKIN’ ROUNDFunny how some men grow up Knockin’ round— Drinkin’ out of fortune’s cup Overwound With the ivy of Japan Or a South-American Revolutionary plot— Comin’ back no matter what, Knockin’ round. After seein’ half the world, Knockin’ round Under every flag unfurled Safe and sound— Home again from climbin’ Alps, Raisin’ Filipino scalps, Fishin’ in a Scottish tarn— You will find him at the barn Knockin’ round. All the smiles of Beauty’s eyes Knockin’ round Underneath Italian skies Or renowned Erin’s native land of charms Fade away as in his arms Blushes—just the same old girl From whose locks he kept a curl, Knockin’ round. THE SNAIL AND STARA humble snail crawled from his shell one night To drink the dew and surfeit on young greens; How came he wise in nature when so slight A weakling of it passes wisdom’s means. But as he inched along, a winking star His locomotion mocked and oddity— “How far, O pigmy gastropod, how far Dost thou suppose it is from thee to me? “And at the rate of travel thou dost creep How long to bridge the distance would it take? Yet I across its vastness nightly leap While you a paltry rod of progress make.” “I may be slow,” the snail vouchsafed reply, “But then I’m no pretense, howe’er you twit; Thou movest not at all except thy eye And now as I perceive thy nimble wit. “No doubt we both our mission magnify; You give the world the cheer of astral fire While from a lowlier position I A proverb for its ridicule inspire,— “A proverb which, while I’m the ancient butt, Yet makes the human snail a byword too, And often moves him more of life to put In duty; therefore why so much ado?” The star had no retort, so saved its face By prompt amends:—“My brother, you are right; We both are filling our appointed place To teach the world a lesson. So good night!” THE OLD SOR’L HOSSThe old sor’l hoss limps up the lane And whinners for his oats; But he will never work again ’Cept as the milk he totes To skimmin’-station down the road To sort-o’-make-believe He’s haulin’ of an honest load And earnin’ his reprieve. Sure that was paid for long ago If twenty faithful years Can make a critter’s master owe Return for what he clears By plow and reaper, laden rack, And stump-an’-loggin’ bee, Yet gives the beast-of-burden back Oft scant humanity. For when the old sor’l hoss’s jints Grow stiff with work and age, There’s many a man with musket pints His death and keeps his wage; But not this hoss with sorrel mane And coat, which every morn Comes limpin’ up the scrubby lane And whinners for his corn. NICODEMUS BOGGSNicodemus Boggs was named By scripture-loving aunts, Though never for that virtue famed Was Demus—— till by chance His mind was turned to churchly choice, And then one solemn night He heard an otherworldly voice Which put him in a fright Call ——“Nicodemus! Nico-de-mus! Nic-o-de-mus Boggs!” Although there were some folks blasphemous Who said ’twas only frogs; Be that however as it may, To Demus ’twas a sign; So forthwith he began to pray And talk of things divine. Of course ’twas given him to know Without a studied mind; His tongue was loosened and the flow Of words left wit behind. Yet strange to say no church was moved His parish to become, Though Demus said it only proved The church was deaf and dumb. For certainly the call was plain, As often half-asleep He heard the selfsame voice again In solemn tones and deep Urge ——“Nicodemus! Nic-o-de-mus! Nic-o-de-mus-s Bog-g-s!” Although there were some folks blasphemous Who said ’twas only frogs. Be that as each opined, ’tis sure With Demus soon it turned To ague, and the only cure For flesh which froze or burned, The doctor ordered, was to drain The hollow in the rear Where Demus lived; for while in vain He followed his career Of human welfare, there had lain The most neglected near. ’Twas remedied and ne’er again Did Nicodemus hear The voice which had become so famous For back-door croaks and frogs Call ——“Nicodemus! Nic-o-de-mus! Nic-o-de-mus-s Bog-g-s!” |
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