Ol’
turkle set upon a stump
Along
the shores of Gungywamp,
Ol’
“Lizzard” passin’ lazy by,
A
look uv sorer in his eye.
At
times he stretched his neck afar
Ez
searching fur some distant star;
But
he wuz lookin’ jest to see
What
like the weather wuz to be.
The
autumn winds blew fierce and chill
An’
whistled round each lonely hill;
They
struck ol’ turkle fair abeam,
An’
woke him from his chilly dream.
He
shivered in his spotted shell
An’
drew his head into its cell.
“This
is no place for me,” he cried,
An’
tumbled headlong ‘neath’ the tide.
Ol’
turkle headed for the mud
An’
struck the bottom with a thud.
He’d
found the weather cold and bleak
An’
so he promptly took a sneak.
It
was no place for him, he said,
An’
so he buried up his head.
O’er
he will stay till spring appears,
All
free from toil, an’ free from tears.
Ol’
turkle how I envy him
Down
‘neath ol’ “Lizzard’s” mossy brim,
Snug
from winter, free from care
Without
no diggin’ fur his fare.
Then
when the spring strikes in the bog,
He’ll
crawl again upon the log,
An’
rub himself an’ say with glee:
“This
is the time o’ year for me!”
Sept. 22, 1910
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