YE LEGEND OF SIR YRONCLADDE
BY WILBUR D. NESBIT
Now, whenne ye goode knyghte Yroncladde
Hadde dwelte in Paradyse
A matter of a thousand yeares,
He syghed some grievous syghes,
And went unto the entrance gate
To speake hym in thys wyse:
"Beholde, I do not wysh to make
A rackette, nor a fuss,
And yet I fayne wolde hie awaye
And cease from livyng thus;
For it is moste too peaceful here,
And sore monotonous."
"Oh, verie welle," ye keeper sayde,
"You shall have your desyre:
Go downe uponne ye earth agayne
To see whatte you admyre—
But take goode heede that you shall keepe
Your trolley on ye wyre."
Ryghte gladde was goode Sir Yroncladde
To see ye gates unsealed.
He toke a jumpe strayghte through ye cloudes
To what was there revealed,
And strayghtwaye lit uponne ye grounde
Whych was a footeball field!
"Gadzookes!" he sayde; "now, here is sporte!
Thys is a goodlie syghte.
For joustynges soche as here abound
I have an appetyte;
So I will amble to ye scrappe,
For that is my delyghte."
He strode into ye hurtlynge mass,
Whence rose a thrillynge sounde
Of class yelles, sygnalles, breakynge bones,
And moanynges all arounde;
And thenne ye footeballe menne tooke hym
And pushed hym in ye grounde!
They brake hys breastplayte into bits,
And shattered all hys greaves;
They fractured bothe hys myghtie armes
Withynne hys chaynemayle sleeves,
And wounde hys massyve legges ynto
Some oryentalle weaves.
Uppe rose ye brave Sir Yroncladde
And groaned, "I hadde no wrong!
I'll hustle back to Paradyse,
And ryng ye entraunce gong;
For thys new croppe of earthlie knyghtes
At joustynge is too strong;
And henceforth thys is my resolve:
To staye where I belong!"
WINTER DUSK
BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK
The prospect is bare and white,
And the air is crisp and chill;
While the ebon wings of night
Are spread on the distant hill.
The roar of the stormy sea
Seem the dirges shrill and sharp
That winter plays on the tree—
His wild Æolian harp.
In the pool that darkly creeps
In ripples before the gale,
A star like a lily sleeps
And wiggles its silver tail.