Making Up with Mr. Dog Part 3

Mr. 'c.o.o.n and Mr. 'Possum shook their heads. They had their troubles, too.

THE HOLLOW TREE POETRY CLUB

HOW MR. DOG CAME TO A POETRY CLUB, AND WHAT HAPPENED

ONCE upon a time, when it was getting along toward fall in the Hollow Tree, when Jack Rabbit and Mr. Robin and the others had come to live with the 'c.o.o.n and 'Possum and the Old Black Crow, there began to be long evenings, and the Hollow Tree people used to think of new ways to pa.s.s the time. They tried games at first, and sleight-of-hand tricks.

Then they tried doing things, and Mr. Turtle carried them all together twice around the big parlor room on his back. But even that wasn't so funny after the first evening, and Mr. Crow, who did most of the thinking, had to scratch his head and think pretty hard what to do next.

All at once he happened to remember that Jack Rabbit, who was the big man of the party, was also a first rate poet, and liked to read his own poetry better than anything. So, when he thought of that, he said:--

"I'll tell you. We'll have a poetry club."

And of course that made Mr. Rabbit wake up right away.

"What's that?" he said. "What kind of a thing is a poetry club?"

"Why," said Mr. Crow, "it's a place where the members each write a poem and read it at the next meeting. You're the only real, sure enough poet, of course, and will be president, and write the best poem, but the rest of us can try, and you can tell us our mistakes. I've heard that Mr. Man has clubs, and they're ever so much fun."

[Ill.u.s.tration: HAD TO SCRATCH HIS HEAD AND THINK PRETTY HARD]

Jack Rabbit thought so, too, and all the others liked the plan. So they elected Mr. Rabbit president and then went to work on their poems.

They couldn't have the first meeting very soon, for it took longer to write poems in those days than it does now, so before they got half ready the news got out some way, and even Mr. Dog had heard of it.

Poor Mr. Dog! It made him really quite ill to think he wasn't on very good terms with the Hollow Tree people, for he thought he could write pretty nice poetry, too, and he wanted to belong to that club worse than anything he could think of. He wanted to so bad that at last he told Mr.

Robin that if they'd just let him come he'd promise anything they asked.

[Ill.u.s.tration: POOR MR. DOG]

They didn't want to let him, though, until Mr. Crow, who always felt kind of sorry for Mr. Dog, said he didn't see why Mr. Dog shouldn't come and look in through the window shutters, and that they could nail a seat for him on a limb just outside. They could pull him up to it with a rope and he could sit there and listen and applaud the poems all through without being able to do any damage to the poets, and he would be glad enough to be let down by the time they got done reciting.

So they sent him an invitation, and Mr. Dog was as happy as a king. He went right to work on his poem, and he worked all night and walked up and down the yard all day trying to think up rhymes for "joyful" and "meeting," and a lot of other nice words. Even when he was asleep he dreamed about it, and said over some of the lines out loud and jerked his paws about as if he were reciting it and making motions. You see, Mr. Dog hadn't always done just right by the Hollow Tree people, and he was anxious to make a good impression and fix up things. He fixed himself all up, too, when the night came for the meeting, and took his poem under his arm and lit a cigar that he'd borrowed of Mr. Man for the occasion, and away he went.

The Hollow Tree people were on the look-out for him and had the rope down and ready. So Mr. Dog tied it around under his arms, and they pulled and pulled, and up he came. Then, when he got pretty close to the window, they closed the shutter and put the rope through and pulled him up still a little higher, so that he could reach the seat on the limb, which was fixed just right for him to sit there and lean on the window sill while he listened and looked in.

Of course, Mr. Dog wished he was inside, like the others, but he knew why he wasn't, and he was glad enough to be there at all. He peeked through the slats at the big room and smiled and said some nice things about how pretty the room looked, till they all got real sociable with him. Then Jack Rabbit called the meeting to order and made a few remarks.

He said the duties of his office had kept him from writing quite as long and as good a poem as he would have liked to write, but that he hoped they might be willing to hear what he had done. Then they all shouted, "Yes, yes!" and "Hear, hear!" and Mr. Rabbit bowed first to the ones inside and then to Mr. Dog outside, and began:--

THE JOYS OF POETRY

BY J. RABBIT

Oh, sweet the joys of poetry In the merry days of spring, When the dew is on the meadow And the duck is on the wing!

For 'tis then, from Dan to Dover, I'm a rover 'mid the clover, Seeking rhymes the country over With a ring, sing, swing-- With a ding, dong, ding, And a ting a ling a ling-- For I'm the rhyming rover of the spring.

Oh, sweet the joys of poetry In the pleasant summer time!

For 'tis then I have no trouble To compose my gentle rhyme; In a nooklet by the brooklet I can think up quite a booklet, As with fishing line and hooklet I a.s.sist the fish to climb To the music of my chime, For with rollick and with rhyme I'm the poet of the pleasant summer time.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. RABBIT BOWED]

Oh, sweet the joys of poetry When any days have come, When the autumn zephyrs whisper Or the winter breezes hum!

For 'tis then my thoughts unfurling, While the smoke goes upward curling, Come a whirling, swirling, twirling, With a rumty, tumty, tum, Come a twirling, swirling, whirling, Like a rattle of a drum.

Come a whirling, come a swirling; For in spring or in the summer, In the autumn or the winter I'm the rumty, tumty, tummer That rejoices in the seasons as they come.

Well, when Mr. Rabbit got through everybody sat still for a minute, till Mr. Dog called out for somebody to come and unwind him so he could get his breath again. Then they all commenced to laugh and shout and pound on the table. And Mr. Rabbit coughed and looked pleased and said it was easy enough to do when you knew how.

Then Mr. 'Possum, who was next on the program, said he hoped they'd let him off this time because he could only think of four lines, and that he was a better hand at the dinner table than he was at poetry, anyway.

But they wouldn't do it, so he got up and looked foolish and swallowed two or three times before he could get started.

WHAT I LOVE

BY A. PUFFINGTON 'POSSUM

I love the fragrant chicken pie That blooms in early spring; I love a chicken stew or fry, Or any old thing.

Mr. 'Possum's poem was short, but it went right to the spot, and the way they applauded almost made Jack Rabbit jealous. He said that it was 'most too true to be good poetry, but that it was good for a first effort, and that being short helped it. Then Mr. Robin spoke his piece:--

MOTHER AND ME

BY C. ROBIN

When the bud breaks out on the maple bough Mother and me we build our nest-- A twig from the yard and a wisp from the mow And four blue eggs 'neath the mother breast.

Up in the tree, mother and me, Happy and blithe and contented are we.

When the daisies fall and the roses die, An empty nest in the boughs to swing-- Four young robins that learn to fly And a sweet adieu till another spring.

Then up in the tree, mother and me, Happy once more and contented we'll be.

The applause wasn't so loud after Mr. Robin's poem, but they all said it was very pretty, and Mr. 'Possum even wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, because it made him remember something sad. Mr. Rabbit said that it ought to be "Mother and I," but that it didn't make much difference, he supposed, about grammar, so long as it rhymed and sounded nice. Then Mr. Crow got up.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOOKED FOOLISH AND SWALLOWED TWO OR THREE TIMES]

JUST NOTHING

BY J. CROW

While others may sing of the pleasures of spring, Or winter or summer or fall, I'll sing not of these, because, if you please, I'll sing of just nothing at all.

Just nothing at all, because, oh, ho!

I'll sing of myself, an old black crow.

As black as a coal and as homely as sin-- What more can I tell you, I pray?

For when you have nothing to sing of, why, then, Of course there is nothing to say.