  A TRAVELER rode hard and fast, Shivering with cold and dread. “If I can but reach my first in my last, I shall then be safe,” he said. The way was rocky and dark and steep, My last was flying past; He sought for an inn where he might sleep, Sheltered from storm and blast. He traveled on, through mud and mire, When, to his great delight, He saw an inn and a friendly fire, And went there for the night. And from him shouts of laughter burst— He reveled in my whole, Which quickly made my last my first, And cheered his lonely soul. |
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