Wild and gloomy thoughts were tumbling through his head and set him grumbling, And his voice in accents mumbling ’gan the harsh fates to implore, That they’d come to some decision, either make him some provision, Or at once their utmost fury on his willing head outpour―― “Either make me some provision, or your deadliest vials pour”―― He kept crying o’er and o’er. Swearing, snapping, musing, napping, presently there came a tapping, Quite an unaccustomed tapping at this fate-tossed digger’s door, And it roused him from his musing with expectancy confusing, Made him listen to that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore, Wond’ring what could cause that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore, Wondering, guessing, more and more. Softly then he seized a waddy, quietly he bore his body To that space within his hut, immediately behind the door; And with easiest, gentlest motion, like the wave of summer ocean, He hove up the latch that barred all ingress to his shanty floor, Hove it up, and grasped his waddy, scanned the night’s Plutonian shore, Saw the light, and nothing more. Then cried he, “What shicer is it pays me this mysterious visit? Is’t a snake or is’t a wild dog? either sneak I do abhor, Well! I don’t know about funking, but I’ll just lie down my bunk in, And I’ll leave the door wide open, open to what may explore The old hut, and while exploring, if the explorer don’t get sore, Cooey on me, nevermore.” From the darkness came a fluttering, and a sort of subdued muttering That developed into stuttering, stuttering at the open door; And a lovely Cochin China, impudent as any Dinah, Strutted proudly o’er the threshold like as he’d been there before, Just as though he had a right that came all other rights before, A right that still demanded more. But a different opinion reigned without that small dominion; There a calm recumbent digger eyed the proud bird o’er and o’er, And then stealthily arising, with a cunning most surprising, Ere Chanticleer had perceived it, he had fastened to the door; Had made the door so very fast that the chanticleer’s uproar Might undo it, nevermore. Then said he, “This bird celestial may I civilly request he’ll Now disclose the cause of his nocturnal tapping at my door? Say! hath my good angel sent thee? Flutter not, nay, nay, content thee, Thou shalt have as warm a welcome as e’er cocky had before, Have a regular hot old welcome, such as others had before; I can offer nothing more.”