Some thought a bomb hit Trotter's garage. Some thought a comet Blew up the Lodge. Milem Alkire was riding in a Dodge, Saw the water splashing, and a great light flashing, And a thousand arrows flying from the heaven's glow; And heard a great banging and a howling clanging Of a bull-hide's string to a monstrous bow. II Milem Alkire became a changed man, So the thing began, guess it if you can. He turned in an hour from a man who was sour To a singing, dancing satyr like Pan. He hobbled and clattered as if nothing mattered Down in his cellar for any strange fellow, Bringing up the bottles, clinking, winking, For the crowd that was drinking. All against the statutes in such case provided. Drew well water to cool the wine off, Polished up the glasses with a humorous cough. Milem Alkire for years had resided A quiet, pious, law abiding citizen Turned in an hour to a wag who derided The feelings of the people, the village steeple, And the ways that befit a man-- This Spring Lake citizen. III And about the time That Milem Alkire Became a wine seller, And begetter of crime, With parties on his lawn From mid-night to dawn, Making the wine free Under the pine tree, Starling Turner's wife ran away, A woman who before was anything but gay. Never had a lover in her life, so they say, But like other clay, had the longing to stray. She saw a cornet player, An idler, a strayer, And left her husband furious threatening to slay her, And cursing musicians who have no honest missions. So Starling Turner, a belated learner Of life as music, laughter, folly, Grew suddenly jolly, forgot his melancholy, Became a dancer and rounded up the fiddlers, Got up a contest of fifty old fiddlers, With prizes for fiddling from best to middling: A set of fine harness for the best piece of fiddling. Work stopped, business stopped, all went mad, Mad about music, the preachers looked sad For music, the like of which the village never had.... The children in the street were shockingly bad, And danced like pixies scantily clad; Knocked away the crutches from venerable hobblers, Threw pebbles at the windows of grocers and cobblers, Made fun of the preachers, the grammar school teachers, Stole spring chickens and turkey gobblers, Roasted hooked geese in front of the police. Till the quidnuncs decided it wasn't any use, The devil had let a thousand devils loose. IV