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.
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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:
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