In the island of Sumatra, at the bottom of the map,
Where Asia holds such giant lands in her capacious lap,
The Elephants rise fiercely, in the maddest kind of mob,
When the telegraph employés have finished up a job,
And joined by wires electric places very far away,
For the purpose of conversing—if they've anything to say;
These animals uproarious will throw upon the ground
The telegraphic poles and wires wherever they are found,
While wires and insulators are carried off to hide
In the deep gloomy jungles where the angry beasts abide.
All the labor goes for nothing when the poles are set again,
For the Elephants are watching these persevering men,
Who stick poles where they don't want them, across their "right of way,"
And they tear down in the night-time what the men have done by day.
With the Monkeys and Baboons it is quite another thing,
For the telegraphic wires make the nicest kind of swing;
And just the firmest tight-rope for any sort of antic.
While rambling on "from pole to pole" sounds really quite romantic.
It's a very cute arrangement, far better than the trees,
Which do for common purposes, but not for such as these.
"And those lovely colored glasses!" says delighted Mrs. Ape,
"This really looks like living in some decent sort of shape;
The cocoa-nut shells hold water, which is all that one can say,
But these glasses for the future shall cover my buffet."
So the monkeys haste to gather all the prizes they can reach,
And twist off every insulator with a triumphant screech,
While they chatter and they gibber, and they dance and they play
On the telegraphic wires all the night and all the day.
We read in "Mother Goose" of quiet little Miss Muffet,
Who was eating curds and whey, and sitting on a tuffet,
When, in the midst of happiness, there came along a Spider,
And, without waiting to be asked, sat down just beside her.
Now the Spiders in Japan treat the telegraphic wires
(Not daunted in the least by their being such high-flyers)
As this Spider did Miss Muffet, and coolly took a seat
On the pole, perhaps, beside the wires so high above the street;
For they bring their spinning with them, so dainty and so fine,
And they drop, to begin with, an experimental line.
With such a handy frame-work as these telegraphic wires
Mrs. Spider soon can weave a web that meets all her desires,
With draperies for the parlor that's to catch the silly fly,
And it is the prettiest parlor that ever you did spy.
On the bare Western plains there's a dreadful lack of trees,
And nothing for the Buffaloes to scratch themselves at ease;
So a telegraphic pole proves a blessing in disguise,
That brings the tears of gratitude to many hair-roofed eyes.
Though first with some suspicion, "What ever is this thing?"
Exclaims, in great perplexity, the dauntless prairie King;
Then makes a sudden onslaught, as is his mighty way,
To find a pole for scratching, and not a foe at bay.
"How jolly!" says King Buffalo—"how very kind of man
To get up this convenience on such an easy plan!
One grand good scratch, and then I'm off"—but so the pole is too,
Off from its equilibrium—a sorry sight to view.
That sudden rush of matter lays it flat upon the plain,
Until the telegraphic men have set it up again;
And when they seek with roughest nails to bristle it all o'er,
The Buffalo pronounces them even kinder than before;
For what are nails for but to scratch? and as scratching is his plan,
He feels under obligations to the thoughtfulness of man.
So he scratches all the poles down, rejoicing on his way,
While the men who set them up again have something else to say;
That something is not flattering to friend Buffalo at all,
But he is off beyond the sound of voice or musket-ball.
[LITTLE NYÂGÂNDI.]
Nyâgândi is a little girl whose home is a mere hut on the shores of the Ogawe River, in West Africa. A lady who has gone as a missionary to her people has told a very pretty story about her, which we are sure our girls will like to read.
Nyâgândi has never worn any clothing in her life, except a cloth tied around her waist. It has been only lately that she has thought of wearing anything else.
Since she has been attending school in the mission-house, and learning to read, she is anxious to wear a dress like her kind friends, and so with slow but patient fingers she is learning to make one out of some bright calico.
She owns a canoe, in which she darts here and there over the creeks and rivers like a graceful dusky bird.
One Saturday she paddled to the mission-house, and sold some bunches of plantains to the ladies.
"Now, Nyâ," said one of them, "to-morrow will be Sunday, and you must come to service."