The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped,
And murmured, "Good morning, my dear!
I never will sing to a sensitive thing
That shatters a song with a sneer!"
The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu."
Of course 't was a sensible thing to do;
For Little Peetookle is spared the strain
Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
Arthur Macy.
THE SILVER QUESTION
The Sun appeared so smug and bright,
One day, that I made bold
To ask him what he did each night
With all his surplus gold.
He flushed uncomfortably red,
And would not meet my eye.
"I travel round the world," he said,
"And travelling rates are high."
With frigid glance I pierced him through.
He squirmed and changed his tune.
Said he: "I will be frank with you:
I lend it to the Moon."
"Poor thing! You know she's growing old
And hasn't any folk.
She suffers terribly from cold,
And half the time she's broke."
* * * * *
That evening on the beach I lay
Behind a lonely dune,
And as she rose above the bay
I buttonholed the Moon.
"Tell me about that gold," said I.
I saw her features fall.
"You see, it's useless to deny;
The Sun has told me all."