THE OLEOMARGARINE MANOnce—in the county of Marin,Where milk is sold to purchase gin—Renowned for butter and renownedFor fourteen ounces to the pound—A bull stood watching every turnOf Mr. Wilson with a churn,As that deigning worthy stalkedAbout him, eying as he walked,El Toro's sleek and silken hide,His neck, his flank and all beside;Thinking with secret joy: "I'll spreadThat mammal on a slice of bread!"Soon Mr. Wilson's keen concernTo get the creature in his churnUnhorsed his caution—made him blindTo the fell vigor of bullkind,Till, filled with valor to the teeth,He drew his dasher from its sheathAnd bravely brandished it; the whileHe smiled a dark, portentous smile;A deep, sepulchral smile; a wideAnd open smile, which, at his side,The churn to copy vainly tried;A smile so like the dawn of doomThat all the field was palled in gloom,And all the trees within a mile,As tribute to that awful smile,Made haste, with loyalty discreet,To fling their shadows at his feet.Then rose his battle-cry: "I'll spreadThat mammal on a slice of bread!"To such a night the day had turnedThat Taurus dimly was discerned.He wore so meek and grave an airIt seemed as if, engaged in prayerThis thunderbolt incarnate hadNo thought of anything that's bad:This concentrated earthquake stoodAnd gave his mind to being good.Lightly and low he drew his breath—This magazine of sudden death!All this the thrifty Wilson's glanceTook in, and, crying, "Now's my chance!"Upon the bull he sprang amainTo put him in his churn. AgainRang out his battle-yell: "I'll spreadThat mammal on a slice of bread!"Sing, Muse, that battle-royal—singThe deeds that made the region ring,The blows, the bellowing, the cries,The dust that darkened all the skies,The thunders of the contest, all—Nay, none of these things did befall.A yell there was—a rush—no more:El Toro, tranquil as before,Still stood there basking in the sun,Nor of his legs had shifted one—Stood there and conjured up his cudAnd meekly munched it. Scenes of bloodHad little charm for him. His headHe merely nodded as he said:"I've spread that butterman uponA slice of Southern Oregon."
Once—in the county of Marin,Where milk is sold to purchase gin—Renowned for butter and renownedFor fourteen ounces to the pound—A bull stood watching every turnOf Mr. Wilson with a churn,As that deigning worthy stalkedAbout him, eying as he walked,El Toro's sleek and silken hide,His neck, his flank and all beside;Thinking with secret joy: "I'll spreadThat mammal on a slice of bread!"Soon Mr. Wilson's keen concernTo get the creature in his churnUnhorsed his caution—made him blindTo the fell vigor of bullkind,Till, filled with valor to the teeth,He drew his dasher from its sheathAnd bravely brandished it; the whileHe smiled a dark, portentous smile;A deep, sepulchral smile; a wideAnd open smile, which, at his side,The churn to copy vainly tried;A smile so like the dawn of doomThat all the field was palled in gloom,And all the trees within a mile,As tribute to that awful smile,Made haste, with loyalty discreet,To fling their shadows at his feet.Then rose his battle-cry: "I'll spreadThat mammal on a slice of bread!"To such a night the day had turnedThat Taurus dimly was discerned.He wore so meek and grave an airIt seemed as if, engaged in prayerThis thunderbolt incarnate hadNo thought of anything that's bad:This concentrated earthquake stoodAnd gave his mind to being good.Lightly and low he drew his breath—This magazine of sudden death!All this the thrifty Wilson's glanceTook in, and, crying, "Now's my chance!"Upon the bull he sprang amainTo put him in his churn. AgainRang out his battle-yell: "I'll spreadThat mammal on a slice of bread!"Sing, Muse, that battle-royal—singThe deeds that made the region ring,The blows, the bellowing, the cries,The dust that darkened all the skies,The thunders of the contest, all—Nay, none of these things did befall.A yell there was—a rush—no more:El Toro, tranquil as before,Still stood there basking in the sun,Nor of his legs had shifted one—Stood there and conjured up his cudAnd meekly munched it. Scenes of bloodHad little charm for him. His headHe merely nodded as he said:"I've spread that butterman uponA slice of Southern Oregon."