Classic Poem

If you haven't heard, you can hardly tell
The marmot's way
Of hauling hay
To his hole, to his house, to his home, his—well,
Wink if you will and say—his “cell!”

Flat of his back, with his legs on end,
Like a fodder-frame, as you comprehend,
Stiff as sticks; while a marmot friend
Piles him high with the fragrant stuff,
Packs him down with a “quantum suff,”
Till the under marmot hollers “enough!”

Then four marmots, all in a row,
Haul him by the tail, you know,
To his hole, his house, his home, his—well,
Quite excusable—say his “sell!”

You don't believe it? There may be some
They don't invite to their harvest home;
But I believe it! and here I say
That never since marmots have gathered hay
Did your Doctor meet 'em, by night or day,
Hauling it home another way.