The Bold Bad Butterfly

ne day a Poppy, just in play,Said to a butterfly, “Go ’way,Go ’way, you naughty thing! Oh, my!But you’re a bold bad butterfly!”Of course ’t was only said in fun,He was a perfect paragon—In every way a spotless thing(Save for two spots upon his wing).

ne day a Poppy, just in play,Said to a butterfly, “Go ’way,Go ’way, you naughty thing! Oh, my!But you’re a bold bad butterfly!”

ne day a Poppy, just in play,

Said to a butterfly, “Go ’way,

Go ’way, you naughty thing! Oh, my!

But you’re a bold bad butterfly!”

Of course ’t was only said in fun,He was a perfect paragon—In every way a spotless thing(Save for two spots upon his wing).

Of course ’t was only said in fun,

He was a perfect paragon—

In every way a spotless thing

(Save for two spots upon his wing).

ne day a Poppy, just in play,

Said to a butterfly, “Go ’way,

Go ’way, you naughty thing! Oh, my!

But you’re a bold bad butterfly!”

Of course ’t was only said in fun,He was a perfect paragon—In every way a spotless thing(Save for two spots upon his wing).

Of course ’t was only said in fun,

He was a perfect paragon—

In every way a spotless thing

(Save for two spots upon his wing).

But tho’ his morals were the best,He could not understand a jest;And somehow what the Poppy saidPut ideas in his little head,And soon he really came to wishHewerethe least bit “devilish.”

But tho’ his morals were the best,

He could not understand a jest;

And somehow what the Poppy said

Put ideas in his little head,

And soon he really came to wish

Hewerethe least bit “devilish.”

He then affected manners roughAnd strained his voice to make it gruff,And scowled as who should say “Beware,I am a dangerous character.You’d best not fool with me, for I—I am a bold, bad butterfly.”

He then affected manners rough

And strained his voice to make it gruff,

And scowled as who should say “Beware,

I am a dangerous character.

You’d best not fool with me, for I—

I am a bold, bad butterfly.”

He then affected manners rough

And strained his voice to make it gruff,

And scowled as who should say “Beware,

I am a dangerous character.

You’d best not fool with me, for I—

I am a bold, bad butterfly.”

He hung around the wildest flowers,And kept the most unseemly hours,With dragonflies and drunken bees,And learned to say “By Jove!” with easeUntil his pious friends, aghast,Exclaimed, “He’s getting awf’lly fast!”

He hung around the wildest flowers,

And kept the most unseemly hours,

With dragonflies and drunken bees,

And learned to say “By Jove!” with ease

Until his pious friends, aghast,

Exclaimed, “He’s getting awf’lly fast!”

He shunned the nicer flowers, and threwOut hints of shady things he knewAbout the laurels, and one dayHe even went so far to saySomething about the lilies sweetI could not possibly repeat!At length, it seems, from being toldHow bad he was, he grew so bold,This most obnoxious butterfly,That one day, swaggering ’round the sky,He swaggered in the net of Mist-er Jones, the entomologist.

He shunned the nicer flowers, and threwOut hints of shady things he knewAbout the laurels, and one dayHe even went so far to saySomething about the lilies sweetI could not possibly repeat!

He shunned the nicer flowers, and threw

Out hints of shady things he knew

About the laurels, and one day

He even went so far to say

Something about the lilies sweet

I could not possibly repeat!

At length, it seems, from being toldHow bad he was, he grew so bold,This most obnoxious butterfly,That one day, swaggering ’round the sky,He swaggered in the net of Mist-er Jones, the entomologist.

At length, it seems, from being told

How bad he was, he grew so bold,

This most obnoxious butterfly,

That one day, swaggering ’round the sky,

He swaggered in the net of Mist-

er Jones, the entomologist.

“It seems a sin,” said Mr. J.,“This harmless little thing to slay,”As, taking it from out his net,He pinned it to a board, and setUpon a card below the same,In letters large, its Latin name,Which is—

“It seems a sin,” said Mr. J.,

“This harmless little thing to slay,”

As, taking it from out his net,

He pinned it to a board, and set

Upon a card below the same,

In letters large, its Latin name,

Which is—

—————————————|||?|||—————————————

but I omit it, lestIts family might be distressed,And stop the little sum per yearThey pay me not to print it here.

but I omit it, lest

Its family might be distressed,

And stop the little sum per year

They pay me not to print it here.

FINIS

CRUMBS.p to my frozen window-shelfEach day a begging birdie comes,And when I have a crust myselfThe birdie always gets the crumbs.They say who on the water throwsHis bread, will get it back again;If that is true, perhaps—who knows?—I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

CRUMBS.

p to my frozen window-shelfEach day a begging birdie comes,And when I have a crust myselfThe birdie always gets the crumbs.They say who on the water throwsHis bread, will get it back again;If that is true, perhaps—who knows?—I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

p to my frozen window-shelfEach day a begging birdie comes,And when I have a crust myselfThe birdie always gets the crumbs.

p to my frozen window-shelf

Each day a begging birdie comes,

And when I have a crust myself

The birdie always gets the crumbs.

They say who on the water throwsHis bread, will get it back again;If that is true, perhaps—who knows?—I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

They say who on the water throws

His bread, will get it back again;

If that is true, perhaps—who knows?—

I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

p to my frozen window-shelf

Each day a begging birdie comes,

And when I have a crust myself

The birdie always gets the crumbs.

They say who on the water throwsHis bread, will get it back again;If that is true, perhaps—who knows?—I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

They say who on the water throws

His bread, will get it back again;

If that is true, perhaps—who knows?—

I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

Indeed, I know it is not quiteThe thing to boast of one’s good deed;To what the left hand does, the right,I am aware, should pay no heed.Yet if in modest verse I tellMy tale, some editor, maybe,May like it very much, and—well,My bread will then return to me.

Indeed, I know it is not quite

The thing to boast of one’s good deed;

To what the left hand does, the right,

I am aware, should pay no heed.

Yet if in modest verse I tellMy tale, some editor, maybe,May like it very much, and—well,My bread will then return to me.

Yet if in modest verse I tell

My tale, some editor, maybe,

May like it very much, and—well,

My bread will then return to me.

Oh, where the white quince blossom swingsI love to take my Japan ease!I love the maid Anise who clingsSo lightly on my Japan knees;I love the little song she sings,The little love-song Japanese.Ialmostlove the lute’stink tunklePlayed by that charming Jap Anise—For am I not her old Jap uncle?And is she not my Japan niece?

Oh, where the white quince blossom swings

I love to take my Japan ease!

I love the maid Anise who clings

So lightly on my Japan knees;

I love the little song she sings,

The little love-song Japanese.

Ialmostlove the lute’stink tunkle

Played by that charming Jap Anise—

For am I not her old Jap uncle?

And is she not my Japan niece?

Oh, where the white quince blossom swings

I love to take my Japan ease!

I love the maid Anise who clings

So lightly on my Japan knees;

I love the little song she sings,

The little love-song Japanese.

Ialmostlove the lute’stink tunkle

Played by that charming Jap Anise—

For am I not her old Jap uncle?

And is she not my Japan niece?

n the spring the Leaves come outAnd the little Poetlets sprout;Everywhere they may be seen,Each as Fresh as each is Green.Each hangs on through scorch and scoffTill the fall, when both “come off,”With this difference, be it said,That the leaves at least are Red.

n the spring the Leaves come out

And the little Poetlets sprout;

Everywhere they may be seen,

Each as Fresh as each is Green.

Each hangs on through scorch and scoff

Till the fall, when both “come off,”

With this difference, be it said,

That the leaves at least are Red.

n the spring the Leaves come out

And the little Poetlets sprout;

Everywhere they may be seen,

Each as Fresh as each is Green.

Each hangs on through scorch and scoff

Till the fall, when both “come off,”

With this difference, be it said,

That the leaves at least are Red.

Once hoary Winter chanced—alas!Alas! hys waye mistaking,A leafless apple tree to passWhere Spring lay dreaming. “Fie ye lass!Ye lass had best be waking,”Quoth he, and shook hys robe, and lo!Lo! forth didde flye a cloud of snowe.Now in ye bough an elfe there dwelte,An elfe of wondrous powere,That when ye chillye snowe didde pelte,With magic charm each flake didde melte,Didde melte into a flowere;And Spring didde wake and marvelle how,How blossomed so ye leafless bough.

Once hoary Winter chanced—alas!

Alas! hys waye mistaking,

A leafless apple tree to pass

Where Spring lay dreaming. “Fie ye lass!

Ye lass had best be waking,”

Quoth he, and shook hys robe, and lo!

Lo! forth didde flye a cloud of snowe.

Now in ye bough an elfe there dwelte,An elfe of wondrous powere,That when ye chillye snowe didde pelte,With magic charm each flake didde melte,Didde melte into a flowere;And Spring didde wake and marvelle how,How blossomed so ye leafless bough.

Now in ye bough an elfe there dwelte,

An elfe of wondrous powere,

That when ye chillye snowe didde pelte,

With magic charm each flake didde melte,

Didde melte into a flowere;

And Spring didde wake and marvelle how,

How blossomed so ye leafless bough.

The Infant Earth one April day(The first of April—so they say),When toddling on her usual round,

The Infant Earth one April day

(The first of April—so they say),

When toddling on her usual round,

The Infant Earth one April day(The first of April—so they say),When toddling on her usual round,

The Infant Earth one April day

(The first of April—so they say),

When toddling on her usual round,

Spied in her path upon the groundA dainty little garland ringOf violets—andthatwas Spring.She caught the pretty wreath of SpringAnd all the birds began to sing,But when she thought to hold it tight’T was rudely jerked from out her sight;And while she looked for it in vainThe birds all flew away again.Alas! The flowering wreath of SpringWas fastened to a silken string,And Time, the urchin, laughed for glee(He held the other end you see).And that was long ago, they say,When Time was young and Earth was gay.Now Earth is old and Time is lame,Yet still they play the same old game:Old Earth still reaches out for Spring,And Time—well—Time still holds the string.

Spied in her path upon the ground

A dainty little garland ring

Of violets—andthatwas Spring.

She caught the pretty wreath of Spring

And all the birds began to sing,

But when she thought to hold it tight

’T was rudely jerked from out her sight;

And while she looked for it in vain

The birds all flew away again.

Alas! The flowering wreath of SpringWas fastened to a silken string,And Time, the urchin, laughed for glee(He held the other end you see).

Alas! The flowering wreath of Spring

Was fastened to a silken string,

And Time, the urchin, laughed for glee

(He held the other end you see).

And that was long ago, they say,When Time was young and Earth was gay.Now Earth is old and Time is lame,Yet still they play the same old game:Old Earth still reaches out for Spring,And Time—well—Time still holds the string.

And that was long ago, they say,

When Time was young and Earth was gay.

Now Earth is old and Time is lame,

Yet still they play the same old game:

Old Earth still reaches out for Spring,

And Time—well—Time still holds the string.

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