A portly, fancy-vested thrush,
That carolled, on a wintry spray,
A crazy song of Spring-time—Hush!
No, not the one
By Mendelssohn
Victorian Britons used to play,
But just the sort of casual thing
An absent-minded bird might sing.
Observing whom—"Alas," I said,
"Good friend, how premature your theme!
By some phenomenon misled,
You've overshot
The date a lot;
Things are so seldom what they seem!"
"Then hear the simple truth," quoth he,
"For that's another rarity.
"There is a foreign, furious man,
That sends great engines through the air
To deal destruction where they can,
To rain their fires
On ancient spires,
Ousting the birds that settle there,
And agitates, of fixed intent,
Our pleasaunce in the firmament.
"And everybody says the Spring
Will see him pay the price of it,
So that is why I choose to sing
What isn't true—
But as for you,
Be off and do your little bit!
It's not for you to stand and quiz—
The season's what I say it is!"
"A Chicago Reuter message says that Hugh Henderson has won the American draughts championship by defeating Alfred Jordan, the London champion.
Draught horses were in most demand at Aldridge's, St. Martin's-lane, yesterday, and the sums obtained ranged from 30gs. to 49gs."
Daily Telegraph.
The forty-nine guinea one has challenged Hugh Henderson.