By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
I’m not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though 1 was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;—
For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do,