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he knights did fall Upon that bag puddynge. One taste, and every holy knight Sat speechless for a space, While disappointment and disgust Were writ in every face. "Odsbodikins!" Sir Tristram cried, "In all my days, by Jing! I ne'er did taste so flat a mess As this here bag puddynge." "Odswhiskers, Arthur!" cried Sir Launce, Whose license knew no bounds, "I would to Godde I had this stuff To poultice up my wounds." King Arthur spat his mouthful out, And sent for Guinevere. "What is this frightful mess?" he roared. "Is this a joke, my dear?" "Oh, ain't it good?" asked Guinevere, Her face a rosy red. "I thought 'twould make an awful hit: _I made it out of bread!_" . . . . . . . . . . When good King Arthur ruled our land He was a goodly king, And only once in all his reign Was made a Bread Puddynge. MUSCA DOMESTICA Baby bye, here's a fly, We will watch him, you and I; Lest he fall in Baby's mouth, Bringing germs from north and south. In the world of things a-wing There is not a nastier thing Than this pesky little fly;-- So we'll watch him, you and I. See him crawl up the wall, And he'll never, never fall; Save that, poisoned, he may drop In the soup or on the chop. Let us coax the cunning brute To the tempting Tanglefoot, Or invite his thirsty soul To the poison-paper bowl. I believe with six such legs You or I could walk on eggs; But he'd rather crawl on meat With his microbe-laden feet. Eggs would hardly do as well-- He could not get through the shell; Better far, to spread disease, Vegetables, meat, or cheese. There he goes, on his toes, Tickling, tickling Baby's nose. Heaven knows where he has been, And what filth he's wallowed in. Drat the nasty little wretch! He's the deuce and all to ketch. Ah! He's settled on the wall. Now the thunderbolt shall fall! Baby bye, see that fly? We will swat him, you and I. THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR "_But bending low, I whisper only this:_ _'Love, it is night.'_" --HARRY THURSTON PECK. Love, it is night. The orb of day Has gone to hit the cosmic hay. Nocturnal voices now we hear.
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