THE MAN AND THE PICNIC

Under the shellbark hickory tree

    The picnic man he stands;

A woeful looking man is he,

    With 'bruised and grimy' hands;

And the soil that sticks to his 'treusers' 'knee.

    Is the soil of several lands.

His hair is tumbled, his hat is torn,

   His clothes are like the ground;

He wishes he had ne'er been born,

   Or born, had ne'er been found.

He glares and scowls in wrathful scorn

   As oft .he looks around.

At early mom, all dressed in white,

   He sought the picnic park;

His face was clean, his heart was light,

   His loud song mocked the lark.

But now, although the day is bright,

   His world, alas! is dark.

In joyous mood, at early morn

He sat upon the stump,

But soon, as though upon a thorn

   He sat, with mighty jump

He leaped aloft, and, all fodom

   In haste he did crump.

For 10, in hordes the big black ants.

   With nippers long and slim,

Went swiftly crawling up his pants,

   And made it warm for him;

And through the woods they made him dance

   With gasp, and groan, and vim.­

And when the rustic feast is spread,

   And she is sitting by.

His wildwood garland on her head,

   The lovelight in her eye,

He--woe, oh, woe! would he were dead­

   Sits in the custard pie.

Sobbing and sliding and wailing,

   Homeward alone he goes;'

Clay, pie, and grass stain on his clothes,

   More and more plainly shows;

And he vows that to any more picnics

   He never will go, he knows.

But the morning comes, behold its rising sun

   Brings balm to his tattered breeks;

He thinks, after all, he had lots of fun,

   And hopefully, gayly he speaks;

And he goes to picnics one by one,

   Nine times in the next five weeks.

                                                R. J. Burdette.