Now I wondered much As I thought of such, And asked him about the fire; The amount it took For the stuff to cook, The fuel that it would require. So he scratched his head As he quietly said The amount he'd clean forgot, But he understood That he used more wood Than ever the comp'ny got. When he made his pie He would never try To finish them one by one; With an oven large As a young garage, The baking was quickly done. With his pies all lined, And the man behind, They close to the oven drew, He would throw the pie To the other guy, Which baked as it travelled through. He'd a cycle path That was made of lath Where the men at dinner sat, And the waiter rode With a ready load Of eatables on his back. He was soaked with grease, But he couldn't cease, For washing to think about, So he lined his bunk With some sandy junk To keep him from slipping out. He had lost his leg, While at sea he said-- Got wrecked on a desert isle, Where the cannibals, And the animals Had given themselves the bile. They had tried to eat Some of Mike's own meat, And one of his legs prepared, But they found the stuff Was exceeding tough, So that's why his life was spared. * * * * * * * * Now I don't ask you. To believe it's true, For Mike was a bad old man. I with him agreed, For to get a feed, Believing it like a lamb. THE SPECTRE _They call it the Prairie Madness. Be-ware as you enter its lair, For many have started in gladness. But few can the loneliness bear._ * * * * * * * * Desolate, lonely, forsaken, deserted for many a year, The joy of a soul in its building, with its hopes, lie buried here; For the grim old shack has a story that few but the winds ever know, The man who lived for its building, the man who was wrecked in its woe. Bringing his logs from the mountain, toting them over the plain, Never a thought of his danger, smiling again and again, Thinking of her who would help him, watching his work as it grew, Speaking aloud in the silence the things that he meant to do. Fretting alone through the winter, planning his plans all anew, Wondering why in the silence shapes in his memory grew. Trying to crush out the Spectre, still by his side it would lurk, Humming the snatch of a chorus, hymns he had sung in the Kirk. Cooking his sol-a-try supper, dreaming of days that should come; Love that his soul could not utter held him unspeakably dumb, Trying to pierce through the shadows, oft that would darken his brain, Laughing because of the fancies, following on in their train.