_That Bird, Who never stirred Or said a word._
Mr. Snake was sorely troubled, And his efforts he redoubled, And he balanced on the tip end of his tail, Swaying to and fro the while Like a pendulum--a style That hitherto he’d never known to fail. But not a word she uttered, And not a feather fluttered As he plied his mystic Art without avail.
“Confound the bird!” he said, And he stood upon his head And waved his long mysterious tail in air, And he focussed all the rays Of his esoteric gaze Into one cold and petrifying glare. But the Deadly Glance fell wide; He might as well have tried To hypnotize a table or a chair--
_As that Bird, Who never stirred Or said a word._
“That settles it!” he cried. “I will not be defied!” And he coiled himself to spring--oh, rash proceeding! Like an arrow from a bow He sprang--how should he know The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding? Next moment he lay dead, With a Hat Pin through his head, Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding--
The Sun appeared so smug and bright, One day, that I made bold To ask him what he did each night With all his surplus gold.
He flushed uncomfortably red, And would not meet my eye. “I travel round the world,” he said, “And travelling rates are high.”
With frigid glance I pierced him through. He squirmed and changed his tune. Said he: “I will be frank with you: I lend it to the Moon.
“Poor thing! You know she’s growing old And hasn’t any folk. She suffers terribly from cold, And half the time she’s broke.”
That evening on the beach I lay Behind a lonely dune, And as she rose above the bay I buttonholed the Moon.
“Tell me about that gold,” said I. I saw her features fall. “You see, it’s useless to deny; The Sun has told me all.”
“Sir!” she exclaimed, “how _can_ you try An honest Moon this way? As for the gold, I put it by Against a rainy day.”
I smiled and shook my head. “All right, If you _must_ know,” said she, “I change it into silver bright Wherewith to tip the Sea.
“He is so faithful and so good, A most deserving case; If he should leave, I fear it would Be hard to fill his place.”
When asked if they accepted tips, The waves became so rough; I thought of those at sea in ships, And felt I’d said enough.
For if one virtue I have learned, ’Tis _tact_; so I forbore To press the matter, though I burned To ask one question more.