THE CRIME

"Small habits well pursued betimes May reach the dignity of crimes."

Thoring Thong

In Winter when the snow is on the ground,

The poet's sap is low, his spirits drag;

Our Harvard warbler makes a rhyming sound

But cannot for his life think up a gag.

But when at last the birds begin to sing.

And every songster calls unto his mate,

"Up! up!" he cries, "I'll gush a song to Spring!"

And lisps his lines to Mother Advocate:

Lo! Thpring hath come, ath everybody theeth!

The robbin thkip-th and thing-th among the grathth,

The thquirrel thit-th and thqueek-th up in tile treeth,

The thun ith warm, ath ith my thunny lathth.

She thqueetheth my hand,

I gathp with delight: