A line-o'-verse or two

Foodine she cannot eat;
Her special wish is for a dish
Of Expurgated Wheat.

To William Spratt that food is flat
On which his mater dotes.
His favorite feed – his special need —
Is Eata Heapa Oats.

But sister Lil can’t see how Will
Can touch such tasteless food.
As breakfast fare it can’t compare,
She says, with Shredded Wood.

Now, none of these Leander please,
He feeds upon Bath Mitts.
While sister Jane improves her brain
With Cero-Grapo-Grits.

Lycurgus votes for Father’s Oats;
Proggine appeals to May;
The junior John subsists upon
Uneeda Bayla Hay.

Corrected Wheat for little Pete;
Flaked Pine for Dot; while “Bub”
The infant Spratt is waxing fat
On Battle Creek Near-Grub.

“TREASURE ISLAND”

Comes little lady, a book in hand,
A light in her eyes that I understand,
And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze
That sweeps across the uncharted seas.
She gives me the book, and her word of praise
A ton of critical thought outweighs.
“I’ve finished it, daddie!” – a sigh thereat.
“Are there any more books in the world like that?”

No, little lady. I grieve to say
That of all the books in the world to-day
There’s not another that’s quite the same
As this magic book with the magic name.
Volumes there be that are pure delight,
Ancient and yellowed or new and bright;
But – little and thin, or big and fat —
There are no more books in the world like that.

And what, little lady, would I not give
For the wonderful world in which you live!
What have I garnered one-half as true
As the tales Titania whispers you?
Ah, late we learn that the only truth
Was that which we found in the Book of Youth.
Profitless others, and stale, and flat; —
There are no more books in the world like that.

A BALLADE OF SPRING’S UNREST

Up in the woodland where Spring
Comes as a laggard, the breeze
Whispers the pines that the King,
Fallen, has yielded the keys
To his White Palace and flees
Northward o’er mountain and dale.
Speed then the hour that frees!
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Northward my fancy takes wing,
Restless am I, ill at ease.
Pleasures the city can bring
Lose now their power to please.
Barren, all barren, are these,
Town life’s a tedious tale;
That cup is drained to the lees —
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Ho, for the morning I sling
Pack at my back, and with knees
Brushing a thoroughfare, fling
Into the green mysteries:
One with the birds and the bees,
One with the squirrel and quail,
Night, and the stream’s melodies —
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

L’Envoi

Pictures and music and teas,
Theaters – books even – stale.
Ho, for the smell of the trees!
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

WHY?

Why, when the sun is gold,
The weather fine,
The air (this phrase is old)
Like Gascon wine; —