 | The Triangular Society |  |
342
THE SPAN-WORM.
A MELANCHOLY MEASURE.
Just at the dawn of the heated term,
Begins the reign of the measuring worm;
From the roadside branches he spins and swings,
Hanging and wriggling on gossamer strings;
Lengthening slowly the swaying threads,
He drops and clings on the passers' heads,
And, happy as in his native leaves,
Crawls under their collars and up their sleeves,—
Or, reaching the ground with a sudden jerk,
Collects his wits and begins his work.
Begins the reign of the measuring worm;
From the roadside branches he spins and swings,
Hanging and wriggling on gossamer strings;
343
He drops and clings on the passers' heads,
And, happy as in his native leaves,
Crawls under their collars and up their sleeves,—
Or, reaching the ground with a sudden jerk,
Collects his wits and begins his work.
A singular fondness the creature shows
For measuring every step he goes;
Stretching at length, he halts and dreams,
Then brings together his two extremes,
(Like a withered tendril curled and brown,
Or a letter U turned upside down,)
Then reaching forward his length once more,
And doubling up as he did before,
He measures the fences, the ground, the wall,
Wherever he happens to swing or fall,
And seems to add up the distance sped,
And keep the reckoning in his head.
For measuring every step he goes;
Stretching at length, he halts and dreams,
Then brings together his two extremes,
(Like a withered tendril curled and brown,
Or a letter U turned upside down,)
Then reaching forward his length once more,
And doubling up as he did before,
He measures the fences, the ground, the wall,
Wherever he happens to swing or fall,
And seems to add up the distance sped,
And keep the reckoning in his head.
Think of the labor to count and count,
Add all together and keep the amount!
Think of his rage, when a footstep's fall
Startles and makes him forget it all,
And he with wearisome toil and pain,
Must measure the space all over again!
Add all together and keep the amount!
Think of his rage, when a footstep's fall
Startles and makes him forget it all,
And he with wearisome toil and pain,
Must measure the space all over again!
Most uncivil of engineers,
What do you care for tar or tears?
In every curtain of leaves you lurk,
And ply your dreadful dimension-work;
Credulous folly it is to think
Of barring your progress with printer's ink;
How shall we check, evade or flee
Your geometrical industry?
When island parties go down the bay,
You vex and trouble the happy day;
When thirst distresses or hunger mocks
The seeker of shells and scaler of rocks,
You twist and wriggle and squirm and roll
In the tempting midst of his chowder-bowl;
Happy he, if its lowest dregs
Be not made up of your skin and legs.
What do you care for tar or tears?
In every curtain of leaves you lurk,
And ply your dreadful dimension-work;
Credulous folly it is to think
Of barring your progress with printer's ink;
How shall we check, evade or flee
Your geometrical industry?
344
You vex and trouble the happy day;
When thirst distresses or hunger mocks
The seeker of shells and scaler of rocks,
You twist and wriggle and squirm and roll
In the tempting midst of his chowder-bowl;
Happy he, if its lowest dregs
Be not made up of your skin and legs.
Geometrid, perform your will;
Compass the width of the window-sill,
Crawl on the table, if you wish,
In butter-cooler and sugar-dish;
Measure the pillow-case at night,
But keep from the elms your gnawing blight;
In the words by George P. Morris sung
To the man with a hatchet, when time was young,
O worm of the genus Phalænidæ,
Inch-worm insatiate, spare that tree!
Compass the width of the window-sill,
Crawl on the table, if you wish,
In butter-cooler and sugar-dish;
Measure the pillow-case at night,
But keep from the elms your gnawing blight;
In the words by George P. Morris sung
To the man with a hatchet, when time was young,
O worm of the genus Phalænidæ,
Inch-worm insatiate, spare that tree!
| The Triangular Society | |