In XXVII: Laughter, The Mark of the Moron Races
Ambled I ‘mid crepuscular gloaming Thru’ that bower ‘neath the old pine stand When with snowflake stealth unnoticed— Fell the mitten, from my hand!
Half a hectare had I wander’d Ere St. Chilblain’s frosty bite Told the chill tale to my digits— My dear mitten, lost from sight!
Bid I Spot to fetch yon yarnwork; “Go, cur, scour ye dell and bog! Dark is nigh and frost comes creeping— Bring me back my mitten, dog!”
Lo, then, came Sir Grizzly thrashing Thru’ the woods with carmine eyes Ursus, bent on battling Canine— With my mitten, for the prize!
‘Twas then I woke in my bedchamber, In a trice delivered from that far dreamland. Proffered Spot his antemeridian tidings— And the mitten, for my hand!
—Edith Quimby Quince
Volume44Issue8