There rested all the Spriggins tribe, each in his little urn, On which the names and dates were carved, as each had died in turn; And Spriggins, _père_, was proud of them, and often went to weep, Beside the sacred shelf on which he one day hoped to sleep. One fatal afternoon it chanced that Spriggins's youngest son, Whose un-Christian age was seven, and whose Christian name was John, Obtained the key to that small room, and found that sacred store Of the ashes of his fathers, which he ne'er had seen before. This Johnny was a clever boy, much given to research, His very nose turned up, with interrogatory perch; His head--excuse the slang--was very level, you'll surmise, But 'twas level where his bump of veneration ought to rise. He knew they were his relatives, within those vases packed, But he didn't care a button for that interesting fact; All he wanted was to reach those curious urns and take them down. (Alas! the shelf was several feet above his little crown.) There came a sudden avalanche, and flat upon the floor He lay, sprinkled with the ashes of a century or more! A portion of his grandpa ran in torrents down his neck, And 'round him all his great-great aunts were lying by the peck. He had Pilgrim Fathers in his shoes, all trickling 'round his toes; He had grandmas in his hair, and he had cousins in his nose, And, worst of all, a fragment of the late lamented Jane Had lodged beneath his eyelid, and was causing dreadful pain! But John had lots of courage, and he didn't stop to cry, Not even with the ashes of his sister in his eye; He only gasped, and quickly rose, and ruefully surveyed The ruin and confusion that his luckless fall had made. He could sweep up all the ashes, but things never could be fixed, For the worthy house of Spriggins was inextricably mixed! Such stirring up would stagger e'en the very stoutest brain; Why, you couldn't tell old Amram from the late lamented Jane. The scions of this honored line, all by that little loon, Might just as well have been stirred up, like pudding, with a spoon. 'Twas very sad; but Johnny, yielding not to thoughts of gloom, Brought up a chair to stand on, and a dustpan and a broom, And soon that little room was very, very cleanly swept, And urns and ashes all put back, just where they had been kept. You never, never would suspect what that one day had cost, And that in that act each Spriggins's identity was lost! * * * * *