And so they talked and they argued, some for and some against,—
And they progressed no further than they were when they commenced.
Until in a burst of eloquence a queer little piece of punk
Arose in his place and said, “I think we ought to show some spunk.
And I for one have decided, although I am no shirk,
That to-day is a legal holiday and not even fire should work.
“And I am of some importance,”—here he gave a pretentious cough,
“For without my assistance none of you could very well be put off.”
“You are right,” said the Roman candle, “and I think we are all agreed
To strike for our rights and our liberty. Hurrah! we shall succeed!”
The dissenters cried with one accord, “Our objections we withdraw.
Hurrah, hurrah for the fireworks’ strike!” and they cried again, “Hurrah!”
Then a match piped up with a tiny voice, “Your splendid scheme I like.
I agree with all your principles and so I, too, will strike!”
Suiting the action to the word, the silly little dunce
Clambered down from his matchsafe and excitedly struck at once.
He lost his head, and he ran around among the fireworks dry,
And he cried, “Hurrah for the fireworks’ strike! Hurrah for the Fourth of July!”
With his waving flame he lit the punk—a firecracker caught a spark,—
Then rockets and wheels and bombs went off—no longer the place was dark!
The explosions made a fearful noise, the flames leaped high and higher,
The village folk awoke and cried, “The town hall is on fire!”
So the strike of the fireworks ended in a wonderful display
Of pyrotechnic grandeur on Independence Day!
The Arch Armadillo
There once was an arch Armadillo
Who built him a hut ’neath a willow;
He hadn’t a bed
So he rested his head
On a young Porcupine for a pillow.