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THE BUG'S VIEW-POINT.
Beyond the sleet, across the snows
He did not see the budding rose
That waved its crimson welcome to
An earth of green, a sky of blue,
Nor yet the daffy daffodils
That crowned the valleys and the hills;
The apple blossoms, pink and white,
That drifted into lanes of light;
He did not hear the bluebird sing
Nor yet the south wind whispering
In murmur through the maple trees
That swayed and slanted to the breeze
And harbored on each bending limb
The maker of a woodland hymn—
And yet, like every living thing,
He, too, had drawn his dream of spring.
He did not see the budding rose
That waved its crimson welcome to
An earth of green, a sky of blue,
Nor yet the daffy daffodils
That crowned the valleys and the hills;
The apple blossoms, pink and white,
That drifted into lanes of light;
He did not hear the bluebird sing
Nor yet the south wind whispering
In murmur through the maple trees
That swayed and slanted to the breeze
And harbored on each bending limb
The maker of a woodland hymn—
And yet, like every living thing,
He, too, had drawn his dream of spring.
He saw a gent arrayed in blue
Heave boldly into public view,
And in a fog-horn tenor call
To thousands: "Batter up—play ball!"
He saw a tall guy nod and beck
And then cut one around the neck,
While in a trance the slugger there
Inanely paddled at the air;
He saw the shortstop leave his place
And flag one back of second base
And wing it swiftly on ahead
To where the dashing runner sped;
Heave boldly into public view,
And in a fog-horn tenor call
To thousands: "Batter up—play ball!"
He saw a tall guy nod and beck
And then cut one around the neck,
While in a trance the slugger there
Inanely paddled at the air;
He saw the shortstop leave his place
And flag one back of second base
And wing it swiftly on ahead
To where the dashing runner sped;
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