youth denies it;
A barroom loafer testifies it.
"Fine him," the court-house rabble shout
(This is the latest jury out).
So when his pocketbook is eased
Most righteous justice is appeased.

The Doctor lay in his little bed,
His night-cap 'round his God-like head,
With a blanket thick and snowy sheet
Enveloped his l---- pshaw! and classical feet,
And he cleared his throat and began: "My dear,
As well in Indiana as here--
I always took a morning ride,
With you, my helpmeet, by my side.

"This morning is so clear and cool,
We'll ride before it's time for school.
Holloa, there John! you lazy cuss!
Bring forth my horse, Bucephalus!"
So spake the man of letters. Straight
Black John went through the stable gate,
But soon returned with hair on end,
While terror wings his speed did lend,
And out he sent his piteous wail:
"O boss! Old Bucky's lost his tail!"

Down went the night-cap on the ground,
Hats, boots and clothing flying round;
In vain his helpmeet cried "Hold on!"
He went right through that sable John.
Sing, sing, O Muse, what deeds were done
This morn by God-like Peleus' son;
Descend, O fickle Goddess, urge
My lyre to his bombastic splurge.

Boots and the man I sing, who first
Those Argive machinations cursed;
His swimming eyes did Daniel raise
To that sad tail of other days,
And cried "Alas! what ornery cuss
Has shaved you, my Bucephalus?"
Then turning round he gently sighed,
"We will postpone our morning ride."

In wrath I smite my quivering lyre,
Come once again, fair Muse, inspire
My song to more heroic acts
Than these poor simple, truthful facts.
Cursed be the man who hatched the plot!
Let dire misfortune be his lot!
Palsied the hand that struck the blow!
Blind be the eyes that saw the show!
Hated the wretch who ruthless bled
This innocent old quadruped.

Subpreps, a word of caution, please;
Better prepare your A, B, C's
Than prowl around at dead of night.
Don't rouse the beast in Daniel's breast;
Perhaps you'll come out second best.

Dear, gentle reader, pardon, pray,
I'm thinking now I hear you say,
"Oh, nonsense! what a foolish fuss
About a horse, Bucephalus."_

This is no better verse, and possibly no worse, than much of the
adolescent doggerel that is so often preserved by fond parents to
prove that their child early gave signs of poetic and literary genius.

[Ill