John Kendrick Bangs.

From “Songs of Cheer.”

THE NEW DUCKLING

There are people who, without having anything exceptional in their natures or purposes or visions, yet try to be different for the sake of being different.  They are not content to be what they are; they wish to be “utterly other.”  Of course they are hollow, artificial, insincere; moreover they are nuisances.  Their very foundations are wrong ones.  Be yourself unless you’re a fool; in that case, of course, try to be somebody else.

  “I want to be new,” said the duckling. 
    “O ho!” said the wise old owl,
  While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling
    To tell all the rest of the fowl.

  “I should like a more elegant figure,”
    That child of a duck went on. 
  “I should like to grow bigger and bigger,
    Until I could swallow a swan.

  “I won’t be the bond slave of habit,
    I won’t have these webs on my toes. 
  I want to run round like a rabbit,
    A rabbit as red as a rose.

  “I don’t want to waddle like mother,
    Or quack like my silly old dad. 
  I want to be utterly other,
    And frightfully modern and mad.”

  “Do you know,” said the turkey, “you’re quacking! 
    There’s a fox creeping up thro’ the rye;
  And, if you’re not utterly lacking,
    You’ll make for that duck-pond.  Good-bye!”

  But the duckling was perky as perky. 
    “Take care of your stuffing!” he called. 
  (This was horribly rude to a turkey!)
    “But you aren’t a real turkey,” he bawled.

  “You’re an Early-Victorian Sparrow! 
    A fox is more fun than a sheep! 
  I shall show that my mind is not narrow
    And give him my feathers—­to keep.”

  Now the curious end of this fable,
    So far as the rest ascertained,
  Though they searched from the barn to the stable,
    Was that only his feathers remained.

  So he wasn’t the bond slave of habit,
    And he didn’t have webs on his toes;
  And perhaps he runs round like a rabbit,
    A rabbit as red as a rose.

Alfred Noyes.

From “Collected Poems.”

CAN YOU SING A SONG?

Nothing lifts the spirit more than a song, especially the inward song of a worker who can sound it alike at the beginning of his task, in the heat of midday, and in the weariness and cool of the evening.

  Can you sing a song to greet the sun,
  Can you cheerily tackle the work to be done,
  Can you vision it finished when only begun,
    Can you sing a song?

  Can you sing a song when the day’s half through,
  When even the thought of the rest wearies you,
  With so little done and so much to do,
    Can you sing a song?