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.

      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!

      Pictures and music and teas,

      Theaters – books even – stale.

      Ho, for the smell of the trees!

      Ho, for the pack and the trail!

      Why, when the sun is gold,

      The weather fine,

      The air (this phrase is old)

      Like Gascon wine; —

      Why, when the leaves are red,

      And yellow, too,

      And when (as has been said)

      The skies are blue; —

      Why, when all things promote

      One’s peace and joy, —

      A joy that is (to quote)

      Without alloy; —

      Why, when a man’s well off,

      Happy and gay,

      Why must he go play golf

      And spoil his day!

      Twas in a vault beneath the street,

      In the trench of the traction rope,

      That I found a guy with a fishy eye

      And a think tank filled with dope.

      His hair was matted, his face was black,

      And matted and black was he;

      And I heard this wight in the vault recite,

      “In a singular minor key”:

      “Oh, I am the guy with the fishy eye

      And the think tank filled with dope.

      My work is to watch the beautiful botch

      That’s known as the Clark Street Rope.

      “I pipes my eye as the rope goes by

      For every danger spot.

      If I spies one out I gives a shout,

      And we puts in another knot.

      “Them knots is all like brothers to me,

      And I loves ’em, one and all.”

      The muddy guy with the fishy eye

      A muddy tear let fall.

      “There goes a knot we tied last week,

      There’s one what we tied to-day;

      And there’s a patch was hard to reach,

      And caused six hours’ delay.

      “Two hundred seventy-nine, all told,

      And I knows their history;

      And I’m most attached to a break we patched

      In the winter of ’eighty-three.

      “For