"Pfhat are you thinkin' of? Well I know pfhat you're thinkin' of. You're thinkin' I'm Pat, but you're tirribly mistakin'; I'm his brother Mike!"
THE WIND AND THE MOON
BY GEORGE MACDONALD
Said the wind to the moon, "I will blow you out.
You stare
In the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about;
I hate to be watched; I will blow you out."
The wind blew hard and out went the moon.
So, deep
On a heap
Of clouds, to sleep,
Down lay the wind, and slumbered soon—
Muttering low, "I've done for that moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high
In the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the wind—"I will blow you out again."
The wind blew hard, and the moon grew dim.
"With my sledge
And my wedge
I have knocked off her edge!
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff
More's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!"
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;
In the air
Nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain the moon was gone!
The wind, he took to his revels once more;
On down,
In town,
Like a merry mad clown,
He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar,
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;
But in vain
Was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.