Classic Poem

You remember, dear J., that Saturday's stroll, —
No Latin, no Greek, no calling the roll
By old Alma Mater that morning, and so
We crossed into Jersey, by ferry, you know:
'T is twenty odd years, or nearly, ago.

Poor Phelps was along, we three and no more;
P.'s two legs were nearly as long as our four:
His body was thinner than yours, e'en if you
Had lengthwisely cut your body in two, —
A sum in division you 'd rather not do.

P.'s nose looked ahead; but never mind that, —
A large nose is not the sure sign of a flat;
But you always held that the nose on P.'s face
Gave him the advantage in running a race:
" His nose throws forward, " quoth you (a clear case),
" His centre of gravity quite a long space,
And hence drives him on a centrifugal pace! "

P.'s pride on a tramp was in going ahead
In a bee-line course and Indian-file tread;
P. copied the Indians of whom he had read.
So, when in New Jersey, we three, as I said,
P. struck a bee-line to somewhere unknown;
" Because, " reasoned P., " every Indian, as shown
In history, goes straight and that way alone. "
" Good reason! " quoth we, and followed, half blown.

P.'s reason was good, and as he was bent
To go straight, we let him: with rent upon rent
In coats, pants, and skin we bolted ahead,
Through bushes, a swamp, and a soft turnip-bed,
And then a cornfield, till we came to a shed
Where an old brindle bull was just being fed.

Bull " struck a bee-line " for P., and poor P.
Turned tail to the bull as quick as might be,
And gave the old bull a fair chance for a race, —
P. taking the lead at a two-forty pace.
I never yet saw more fright in a face,
And never more fun in any bull-chase.

P.'s legs cut the air like scissors, the eye
Of the bull glared fiercely: bull's horns were quite nigh
To poor P.'s coat-tail; bull's own tail was high:
Bull roared, foamed, and bellowed; but P. kept ahead, —
Still " straight as a bee-line " the bull-chase he led
Back to the said turnip-patch from the old shed,
And leaping the rail-fence fell buried, half dead,
In the mud the other side, which he sank in like lead.

But soon he revived, and again we set forth;
P., saying the Indians travelled best North,
Turned his face to the yet sharper face of the wind, —
A cutting Nor'wester: we followed behind.
P.'s meeting the bull had quite altered his mind,
And he crooked his bee-line, which thing is, I find,
A common occurrence with most human kind.

'T was morning, October, a glorious day,
Old Boreas had blown all his fury away,
And everything made us feel happy and gay.
Far up in the clear, placid deep of the air,
Crows sailed about, cawing, and, winds being fair,
Were noisily chasing a hen-hawk corsair;
While chattering squirrels seemed trying to swear
They were happy to meet three chaps without care,
And never a gun to ravage their lair.

Thus welcomed were we by all everywhere,
Except by that old brindle bullock back there.
O'er fields, over fences, o'er hedges and logs,
Through forests, through briers, through bushes, and bogs,
Through streamlets that laughed like children at play,
We reached a high wooded hill in our way,
Which the fairy pencils of Autumn's bright fay
Had recently changed to a giant bouquet:
It looked like a great bunch of flowers that lay
In the breast of the glorious King of the Day.

Oak, beech, sugar-maple, and hickory-trees
Stood up and waved softly their hands to the breeze;
Their crimson, brown, scarlet, and bright yellow leaves
Were kissing the evergreen hemlock and pine;
While lovingly round them the fast-clinging vine
Its tendrils had timidly dared to entwine,
And modestly hugged them, though blushing like wine.

'T was a splendid bouquet! Even P., standing still
To rest his long legs, took a look at the hill.
" First rate! " shouted P. " See! there 's chestnuts up there!
Come ahead! for I'm bound to have some. I don't care
How much my old coat or my trousers I tear;
I'm glad now, however, that I did n't wear,
As I had a good mind to, my best Sunday pair! "

We entered the wood, — a little chipmonk
First scolded, then scampered away to his hunk;
High up on a limb of a tall chestnut-tree
A gray squirrel was cracking a nutshell; " And we
Shall do the same thing pretty soon, " promised P.

" They 're very high up, " said P., " but I 'll get 'em; "
Ambitious to climb was P., and we let him.
The tree being a large one, we gave him a boost, —
Up he went like a Shanghai when going to roost,
And soon from their cells the brown prisoners loosed.
Released, how they leaped from the tree to the ground!
And rattled and capered and danced all around,
Then hid away under the leaves with a bound,
With a " hide-and-go-seek, " yet glad to be found.

So we picked them up, while P . shook them down, —
A custom time-honored in country and town,
By old man and young, by wise man and clown:
At home and abroad, on land and the sea,
Some men do the shaking, the same as poor P.,
And some have the picking, like you, John, and me.
At length Shanghai saw it, then shouted forth he,
From the top of his lungs and the top of the tree, —
" Say, fellows! suppose that we all three agree
Not to pick till I 'm down; that 's fair for all three! "

That 's what shouted P. down to both you and me.
" The offer 's too late! too late! " answered we, —
Words famous just then in the French history.
The crown had been shaken from Philippe (Louis),
And his wife wished it kept in the king's family,
So she tardily made an offer like P.,
When he saw us there picking the nuts 'neath the tree,
And thought of his rights as one of us three.
" Too late! " was our answer. " Too late! don't you see!
It might once have been, but never can be! "
Suaviter modo, fortiter re.

That's what we both shouted in answer to P.,
From the top of our voice to the top of the tree,
And picked away, laughing right merrily.
You know what a time P. had to get down,
And how he was torn from his boots to his crown,
And looked like a scarecrow just tossed by a bull,
With his pockets empty and our pockets full!

" But never mind that! " quoth P. " I don't care;
'T is a joke, we all know, and a joke is all fair.
But look at my trousers! " quoth P., in a plight;
" 'T won't answer for me to go home by daylight! "
We held a long council to make it all right,
And agreed to go home that day in the night;
And generously gave friend P. a full sight
Of the nuts we 'd crammed in our pockets so tight, —
Of the nuts he had shaken us down in his might,
When up in the world at that dazzling great height.
Dear J., it still makes me laugh while I write:
It makes me a boy just to think of those times,
And adds to the fun when I put them in rhymes.