Page 35 - Poetry-Books

Dear Editor

I essayed to write
Some ideas which I thought were bright,
And wished to have them make a show,
That you might of my talent know.
But when I’d filled my pen with ink,
And brought my mind aright to think,
I heard a rattling on the floor
Such as I’ve never heard before.
I started—throwing down the pen,
And looked round about me then,
Beheld a sight and heard a din
Which made me think of “Babel’s sin.”
A large tin can—one foot in length—
Was tied on to a dog of strength,
Who thought the monster Death had come
To call our “fiercest yelper” home.
The way he raced about the house,
Had frightened off the oldest mouse,
And when at length we got him free,
No sentiment was left in me.
“My husband’s off, and I must write,”
I cried; “he may be home tonight,
And does not like to see my time
So precious, used in writing rhyme.”
So down I sat and called my muse,
Although I feared she would refuse,
And added two lines to the other,
Which made just three when put together.
What piercing shriek rent the still air!
‘Twas quite unearthly, I declare,
While thinking, “murder, robbers, fire!”
To learn the cause, was my desire.
So off I ran with trembling haste,
Nor did my time in thinking waste,
And found, in bloody conflict then,
My wounded child, and setting hen.
With soothing balm I bound the bite,
And kissing, left him quick to write;
But as my mind was somewhat “flurried,”

~ 33 ~