The Early Owl
An Owl once lived in a hollow tree,
And he was as wise as wise could be.
The branch of Learning he didn’t know
Could scarce on the tree of knowledge grow.
He knew the tree from branch to root,
And an Owl like that can afford to hoot.
And he hooted—until, alas! one day
He chanced to hear, in a casual way,
An insignificant little bird
Make use of a term he had never heard.
He was flying to bed in the dawning light
When he heard her singing with all her might,
“Hurray! hurray for the early worm!”
“Dear me!” said the Owl, “what a singular term!
I would look it up if it weren’t so late;
I must rise at dusk to investigate.
Early to bed and early to rise
Makes an Owl healthy and stealthy and wise!”
So he slept like an honest Owl all day,
And rose in the early twilight gray,
And went to work in the dusky light
To look for the early worm all night.
He searched the country for miles around,
But the early worm was not to be found.
So he went to bed in the dawning light,
And looked for the “worm” again next night.
And again and again, and again and again
He sought and he sought, but all in vain,
Till he must have looked for a year and a day
For the early worm, in the twilight gray.
At last in despair he gave up the search,
And was heard to remark, as he sat on his perch
By the side of his nest in the hollow tree,
“The thing is as plain as night to me—
Nothing can shake my conviction firm,
There’s no such thing as the early worm.”
A Dark Career
Call it misfortune, crime, or what
You will—his presence was a blot
Where all was bright and fair—
A blot that told its darksome tale
And left its mark a blighting trail
Behind him everywhere.
* * *
He stood by the Atlantic’s shore,
And crossed the azure main,
And even the sea, so blue before,
About his wake grew dark and bore
The semblance of a stain.
On English soil he scarcely more
Than paused his breath to gain;
But on that fair historic shore
There seemed to gather, as before,
A darkness in his train.
Through sunny France, across the line
To Germany, and up the Rhine
To Switzerland he came;
Then o’er the snowy Alpine height,
To leave a stain as black as night
On Italy’s fair name.
From Italy he crossed the blue,
And hurried on as if he knew
His journey’s end he neared.
On Darkest Africa he threw
A shade of even darker hue,
Till in the sands of Timbuctoo
His record disappeared.
* * *
Only an inkstand’s overflow,
O Bumblebee! remains to show
The source of your mishap;
But though you’ve flown my ken beyond,
The foot-notes of your tour du monde
Still decorate my map.
A Packet of Letters
I.
FROM MR. RUFUS FOX TO MISS BLANCHE GOOSE.
The Fernwoods, Friday.
Dear Miss Goose:
Accept apologies profuse,
For the abrupt and hasty way,
In which I left you yesterday.
I don’t know how I came to be
So very rude, but then you see,
I was just offering my arm,
When stupid Rover from the farm,
Appeared so suddenly, and so—
Well, two is company, you know,
While three—! Besides, ’twas getting late,
So I decided not to wait.
Yet, after all, another day
Will do as well. What do you say?
Can you contrive to dine with me
To-morrow afternoon at three?
Pray do, and by the hollyhocks
Meet yours, sincerely,
Rufus Fox.
II.
FROM MISS BLANCHE GOOSE TO MR. FOX.
The Farmyard, Friday afternoon.
Dear Mr. Fox, it seems so soon,
You almost take my breath away!
To-morrow? Three?—what shall I say?
Nothing could charm me more—but, no—
Alas! I fear I cannot go.
Don’t think that I resent, I pray,
Your hastiness of yesterday.
It is not that. But if I went,
Without my dear Mama’s consent,
And she should somehow chance to hear,
She would be dreadfully severe;
And so, oh, dear! it is no use!
Believe me,
Sadly yours, Blanche Goose.
P. S.—On second thoughts, dear Fox,
I’ll meet you by the hollyhocks,
For if Mama but knew how kind
You are, I’m sure she would not mind,
To-morrow, then—we’ll meet at three;
Don’t fail to be there. Yours,
B. G.