Hark, a heavy step advancing,—­list, a father’s angry cry,
“He hain’t shucked a single nubbin; where’s that good-fer-nothin’ Hi?”
“Here, base catiff,” comes the answer, “here am I who was your slave,
But no more I’ll do your shuckin’, though I fill a bloody grave! 
Freedom’s fire my breast has kindled; there’ll be bloodshed, tyrant!
    brute!”
Quoth brave Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

“Breast’s a-blazin’, is it, Sonny?” asks his father with a smile,
“Kind er like a stove, I reckon, what they call ‘gas-burner’ style. 
Good ‘base-burner’ ‘s what your needin’”—­here he pins our hero fast,
“Come, young man, we’ll try the woodshed, keep the bloodshed till the
    last.” 
Then an atmosphere of horse-whip, interspersed with cow-hide boot,
Wraps young Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

* * * * *

Weep ye now, oh, gentle reader, for the fallen, great of heart,
As ye wept o’er Saint Helena and the exiled Bonaparte;
For a picture, sad as that one, to your pity I would show
Of a spirit crushed and broken,—­of a hero lying low;
For where husks are heaped the highest, working swiftly, hushed and mute,
Shucketh Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

* * * * *

A THANKSGIVING DREAM

I’m pretty nearly certain that’t was ’bout two weeks ago,—­
It might be more, or, p’raps ’t was less,—­but, anyhow, I know
’T was on the night I ate the four big saucers of ice cream
That I dreamed jest the horriblest, most awful, worstest dream. 
I dreamed that ’twas Thanksgiving and I saw our table laid
With every kind of goody that, I guess, was ever made;
With turkey, and with puddin’, and with everything,—­but, gee! 
’T was dreadful, ’cause they was alive, and set and looked at me.

And then a great big gobbler, that was on a platter there,
He stood up on his drumsticks, and he says, “You boy, take care! 
For if, Thanksgivin’ Day, you taste my dark meat or my white,
I’ll creep up to your bedroom in the middle of the night;
I’ll throw off all the blankets, and I’ll pull away the sheet,
I’ll prance and dance upon you with my prickly, tickly feet;
I’ll kick you, and I’ll pick you, and I’ll screech, ‘Remember me!’
Beware, my boy!  Take care, my boy!” that gobbler says, says he.

[Illustration:  The Talking Turkey]

And then a fat plum puddin’ kind er grunted-like and said: 
“I’m round and hot and steamin’, and I’m heavier than lead,
And if you dare to eat me, boy, upon Thanksgivin’ Day,
I’ll come at night and tease you in a frightful sort of way. 
I’ll thump you, and I’ll bump you, and I’ll jump up high and fall
Down on your little stomach like a sizzlin’ cannon-ball
I’ll hound you, and I’ll pound you, and I’ll screech ‘Remember me!’
Beware, my boy!  Take care, my boy!” that puddin says, says he.