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While thus he spake two farmers sauntered past And turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,— “I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen, The little beast has wandered from his pen!” Jocko is captured by the portly pair, They lead him, passive, to the Market Square; Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,— “Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!” The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore, Into a vacant pen and slam the door:— Through the grim wires the searching breezes moan And Jocko sits there shivering alone.