“Oh, no, taint Dan—I know ’tis Lute—
To reason this appeals:—
These tracks look like an Elephant
While Dan’s got Nigger heels!”
Then exclamations volleyed forth,
With laughter long and loud;
Just then Geo. Record’s silvery voice
Came ringing through the crowd:
“I say there, Bill! Tim Jones’n me
Will give fifty cents in change
To whom will write this story up
And read it in the Grange!”
Five poetic pencils glibly glide—
Low bends each thoughtful head—
Presented for inspections, thus
Brad Damon’s poem read:—
Lucius Record
Sat up late,—
Broke the ground—
Honor great.
Road to fame—
Show’s us how,—
Pile of dirt—
Big’s a cow.
Danville Jack—
Gloomy feels—
Awfully fat—
Nigger heels.
Awfully solemn—
Awfully mute—
Sadly feels—
Beat by Lute!
Walls of fame—
Got Lute’s name on—
Poem complete—
Bradbury Damon.
“By Gum! he’s beaten us all!” they cried
Between their tight—shut teeth;
Then brushed away that pile of sand
And saw what lay beneath!
They cried “Let’s give three cheers for Lute!
Of him we have learned this day
If we can’t succeed just as we wish
We’ll do it as we may.”
Patrons, Friends:—
Should aught arise within this Grange
Which we don’t understand;
Let’s look beneath the surface then,
Let’s clear away the sand.