AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY THREE LITTLE FISHERS T HREE little |
  AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY THREE LITTLE FISHERS T HREE little fishers trudged over the hill, Over the hill in the sun's broad glare, With rods and crooked pins, to the brookby the mill, While three fond mothers sought them everywhere. For boys will go fishing, though mothers deny. Watching their chance they sneak off on the sly To come safely back in the gloaming. Three mothers waited outside the gate. Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt, and worn, Came into sight as the evening grew late, Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn, For "boys will be boys"--have a keen eye for fun, While mothers fret, fume, scold, and--succumb, And welcome them home in the gloaming. Three little fishers were called to explain-- Each stood condemned, with his thumb in his eye, They promised never to do so again, And were hung up in the pantry to dry. Three mothers heaved great sighs of relief, An end had been put to their magnified grief, When the boys came home in the gloaming. Frank H. Stauffer.
THE THREE POETS THREE poets went sailing down Boston Bay, All into the East as the sun went down. Each felt that the editors loved him best, And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. For poets must dream, though the editors frown; Their revel in visions will not be turned down, Though the general reader is moaning! Three editors climbed to the loftiest tower That they could find in all Boston town. And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, Till the Sun—and the poets—had both gone down. For spring poets must write, though the editors rage. The artistic nature must thus be engaged, Though the publishers all are groaning! Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand Just after the first Spring Sun went down, And the Press sat down to a banquet grand In honor of poets no more in the town. For poets will write while the editors sleep, Though they've little to earn and nothing to keep, And the populace all are moaning! Lilian Whiting.
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