Читать книгу Frontier Humor in Verse, Prose and Picture - Палмер Кокс - Страница 16

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The frog that once in Selby’s dam

Its weird music shed,

Now lies as mute as stranded clam—

Because that frog is dead.

So sleeps the plague of former days,

So noisy nights are o’er,

And he now on the pond decays

Who long cried, “Sleep no more!”

A frog upon a log one day

In meditation sat,

And gazed upon his pond, that lay

Still as a tanner’s vat.

No fish swam in his fetid lake,

No current seaward run;

But hemmed by grasses, weed, and brake,

It mantled in the sun.

IN MEDITATION.

At length from revery he woke,

And thus to free his mind,

He in the gutt’ral jargon spoke

Peculiar to his kind:—

“Give me my slimy pool,” quoth he,

“Before a river wide,

Where cranes are found, still wading round,

And hungry fishes glide.

“Here light first dawn’d, here was I spawn’d,

And here I make my home—

Those longest live who’re not inclined

In foreign parts to roam.

“Upon this log, or stone, I sit,

The water-fly to view,

Or watch the glossy whirligig

Describe his circles true.

“How foolish are some pollywogs;

Before they’ve lost their tails

They often class themselves with frogs,

And leave their native swales;

“And while exploring down some ditch,

Beneath a scorching ray,

Upon a sandy bar they hitch,

And bake as dry as hay.

“Had they but waited till the tail

Had from their body dropp’d—

And in its stead four legs shot forth—

Away they might have hopp’d.”

Thus while he sat above the pool,

Commenting on his lot,

He heard a truant boy from school

Come whistling to the spot.

“Ah ha!” quoth he, “I hear, I see

An ancient foe of mine;

He stones will throw, that well I know,

And straight ones I divine.

“The sparrow on the picket fence,

The squirrel on the limb,

The swallow flying overhead,

Alike look out for him.

“There are some hands I scarcely fear,

So ill a stone they guide;

But when Bob Stevenson is near

’Tis meet that I should hide.”

So, prompted by the fearful thought,

He leaped in with a thud,

And diving to the bottom, sought

Concealment in the mud.

Now burrow, burrow, little frog,

As you will trouble find;

Think not because your eyes are shut

That every one is blind.

Then burrow deeper, deeper far,

Leave not one claw in view;

Or, swifter than a falling star,

A stone will cleave you through.

“While here,” said he, “I’m safe enough,

And here I’ll peaceful lie

Until that little whistling rough

Has passed the water by.”

BOB’S ATTACK.

But, ah! while he did reckon that

The host was not around,—

The youngster saw him quit the log,

And soon a stone was found.

He stood beside the circling pond,

And gazed a while below—

The tell-tale mud the frog disturbed

Rose from the bottom slow.

But, ah! for childhood’s searching eyes!

What can escape their darts?

Projecting from the mud he spies

The croaker’s hinder parts.

“Ho! ho!” then laughed this cruel boy,

As downward he did stare,

“If you from trouble would be free

Of every part take care.”

Then down he sent the ready stone,

Nor went it down in vain—

Dead as the missile that was thrown,

The frog came up again.

Along the river’s ferny banks

The frogs still chant their lays

While floating on his native pool

That stone-killed frog decays.