And then, soon as the puddin’ stopped, a crusty ol’ mince pie
Jumped from its plate and glared at me and winked its little eye;
“You boy,” it says, “Thanksgivin’ Day, don’t dare ter touch a slice
Of me, for if you do, I’ll come and cramp you like a vise. 
I’ll root you, and I’ll boot you, and I’ll twist you till you squeal,
I’ll stand on edge and roll around your stomach like a wheel;
I’ll hunch you, and I’ll punch you, and I’ll screech, ‘Remember me!’”

* * * * *

I don’t know what came after that, ’cause I woke up, you see.

You wouldn’t b’lieve that talk like that one ever could forget,
But, say! ter-day’s Thanksgivin,’ and I’ve et, and et, and et! 
And when I’d stuffed jest all I could, I jumped and gave a scream,
’Cause all at once, when ’t was too late, I ’membered ’bout that dream. 
And now it’s almost bedtime, and I ought ter say my prayers
And tell the folks “good-night” and go a-pokin’ off up-stairs;
But, oh, my sakes!  I dasn’t, ’cause I know them things’ll be
All hidin’ somewheres ’round my bed and layin there fer me.

* * * * *

O’REILLY’S BILLY-GOAT

A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes,
Among the crags of Shantytown a peaceful quiet reigns,
For down upon McCarty’s dump, in fiery fight for fame,
The Shanties meet the Mudvilles in the final pennant game;
And heedless of the frantic fray, in center field remote,
Behind the biggest ash-heap lies O’Reilly’s billy-goat.

The eager crowd bends forward now, in fierce excitement’s thrall,
The pitcher writhes in serpent twist, the umpire says, “Play ball!”
The batsman swings with sudden spite,—­a loud, resounding “spat,”
And hissing through the ambient air the horse-hide leaves the bat;
With one terrific battle-cry, the “rooter” clears his throat,
But still serene in slumber lies O’Reilly’s billy-goat.

Alas, alas for Shantytown! the Mudvilles forge ahead;
Alas for patriotic hopes! the green’s below the red;
With one half inning still to play the score is three to two,
The Shantys have a man on base,—­be brave my lads, and true;
Bold Captain Muggsy comes to bat, a batsman he of note,
And slowly o’er the ash-heap walks O’Reilly’s billy-goat.

The yelling Mudville hosts have wrecked his slumbers so serene,
With deep disgust and sullen eye he gazes o’er the scene. 
He notes the center-fielder’s garb, the Mudvilles’ shirt of red;
He firmly plants his sturdy legs, he bows his horned head,
And, as upon his shaggy ears the Mudville slogan smote,
A sneer played ’mid the whiskers of O’Reilly’s billy-goat.

The valiant Muggsy hits the ball.  Oh, deep and dark despair! 
He hits it hard and straight, but ah, he hits it in the air! 
The Mudville center-fielder smiles and reaches forth in glee,
He knows that fly’s an easy out for such a man as he. 
Beware, oh rash and reckless youth, nor o’er your triumph gloat,
For toward you like a comet flies O’Reilly’s billy-goat.