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Mother Goose for Grown-ups

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THE DISCOURAGING DISCOVERY OF LITTLE JACK HORNER

 
A knack almost incredible for dealing with an edible
Jack Horner's elder sister was acknowledged to display;
She labored hard and zealously, but always guarded jealously
The secrets of the dishes she invented every day.
She'd take some indigestible, unpopular comestible,
And to its better nature would so tenderly appeal
That Jack invoked a benison upon a haunch of venison,
When really she was serving him a little leg of veal!
 
 
Jack said she was a miracle. The word was not satirical,
For daily climbing upward, she excelled herself at last:
The acme of facility, the zenith of ability
Was what she gave her brother for his Christmas Day repast.
He dined that evening eagerly and anything but meagerly,
And when he'd had his salad and his quart of Extra Dry,
With sisterly benignity, and just a touch of dignity,
She placed upon the table an unutterable pie!
 
 
Unflagging pertinacity, and technical sagacity,
Long nights of sleepless vigil, and long days of constant care
Had been involved in making it, improving it, and baking it,
Until of other pies it was the wonder and despair:
So princely and so prominent, so solemn, so predominant
It looked upon the table, that, with fascinated eye,
The youth, with sudden wonder struck, electrified, and thunder struck,
Could only stammer stupidly: "Oh Golly! What a pie!"
 
 
In view of his satiety, it almost seemed impiety
To carve this crowning triumph of a culinary life,
But, braced by his avidity, with sudden intrepidity
He broke its dome imposing with a common kitchen knife.
Ah, hideous fatality! for when with eager palate he
Commenced to eat, he happened on an accident uncouth,
And cried with stifled moan: "Of it one plum I tried. The stone of it
Had never been extracted, and I've broke a wisdom tooth!"
 
 
Jack's sister wept effusively, but loudly and abusively
His unreserved opinion of her talents he proclaimed;
He called her names like "driveller" and "simpleton" and "sniveller,"
And others, which to mention I am really too ashamed.
The moral: It is saddening, embarrassing, and maddening
A stone to strike in what you thought was paste. One thing alone
Than this mischance is crueller, and that is for a jeweller
To strike but paste in what he fondly thought to be a stone.
 

THE EMBARRASSING EPISODE OF LITTLE MISS MUFFET

 
Little Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet,
(Which never occurred to the rest of us)
And, as 'twas a June day, and just about noonday,
She wanted to eat – like the best of us:
Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say
It is wholesome and people grow fat on it.
The spot being lonely, the lady not only
Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it.
 
 
A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled,
As rivulets always are thought to do,
And dragon-flies sported around and cavorted,
As poets say dragon-flies ought to do;
When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied
A horrible sight that brought fear to her,
A hideous spider was sitting beside her
And most unavoidably near to her!
 
 
Albeit unsightly, this creature politely
Said: "Madam, I earnestly vow to you,
I'm penitent that I did not bring my hat. I
Should otherwise certainly bow to you."
Though anxious to please, he was so ill at ease
That he lost all his sense of propriety,
And grew so inept that he clumsily stept
In her plate – which is barred in Society.
 
 
This curious error completed her terror;
She shuddered, and growing much paler, not
Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet
Which doubled him up in a sailor-knot.
It should be explained that at this he was pained:
He cried: "I have vexed you, no doubt of it!
Your fist's like a truncheon." "You're still in my luncheon,"
Was all that she answered. "Get out of it!"
 
 
And The moral is this: Be it madam or miss
To whom you have something to say,
You are only absurd when you get in the curd
But you're rude when you get in the whey.
 

THE FEARFUL FINALE OF THE IRASCIBLE MOUSE

 
Upon a stairway built of brick
A pleasant-featured clock
From time to time would murmur "Tick"
And vary it with "Tock":
Although no great intelligence
There lay in either word,
They were not meant to give offence
To anyone who heard.
 
 
Within the pantry of the house,
Among some piles of cheese,
There dwelt an irritable mouse,
Extremely hard to please:
His appetite was most immense.
Each day he ate a wedge
Of Stilton cheese. In consequence
His nerves were all on edge.
 
 
With ill-concealed impatience he,
Upon his morning walk,
Had heard the clock unceasingly,
Monotonously talk,
Until his rage burst every bound.
He gave a fretful shout:
"Well, sakes alive! It's time I found
What all this talk's about."
 
 
With all the admirable skill
That marks the rodent race
The mouse ran up the clock, until
He'd crept behind the face,
And then, with words that no one ought
To use, and scornful squeals,
He cried aloud: "Just what I thought!
Great oaf, you're full of wheels!"
 
 
The timepiece sternly said: "Have done!"
And through the silent house
It struck emphatically one.
(But that one was the mouse!)
To earth the prowling rodent fell,
In terror for his life,
And turned to flee, but, sad to tell,
There stood the farmer's wife.
 
 
She did not faint, she did not quail,
She did not cry out: "Scat!"
She simply took him by the tail
And gave him to the cat,
And, with a stern, triumphant look,
She watched him clawed and cleft,
And with some blotting paper took
Up all that there was left.
 
 
The moral: In a farmer's home
Run down his herds, his flocks,
Run down his crops, run down his loam,
But when it comes to clocks,
Pray leave them ticking every one
In peace upon their shelves:
When running down is to be done
The clocks run down themselves.
 
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