MARGINS
BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE
My dreams so fair that used to be,
The promises of youth's bright clime,
So changed, alas; come back to me
Sweet memories of that hopeful time
Before I learned, with doubt oppressed,
There are no birds in next year's nest.
The seed I sowed in fragrant spring
The summer's sun to vivify
With his warm kisses, ripening
To golden harvest by and by,
Got caught by drought, like all the rest—
There are no birds in next year's nest.
The stock I bought at eighty-nine,
Broke down next day to twenty-eight;
Some squatters jumped my silver mine,
My own convention smashed my slate;
No more in "futures" I'll invest—
There are no birds in next year's nest.