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William T. Cox's
“ T H E    H O D A G    A N D   O T H E R   T A L E S    O F   T H E   L O G G I N G   C A M P S ”
(  90th  A N N I V E R S A R Y    H Y P E R T E X T   E D I T I O N  )
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And when you reach your domiciles
         And chew your chops and steak,
You’ll sigh for bass and muskie
         And the distant Land O’ Lakes.
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You’ll tell your male and female friends
         Your uncles and your aunts,
About the lovely lakelets
         Where the golden sunbeams dance.
And they’ll exclaim with one accord,
         “We’ll pack our tents and stakes
And fly next up northward,
         To the lovely “Land O’ Lakes.”
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THE   SQUIRREL   AND   THE   OX
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A Fable
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’Twas on a lovely day in June,
When toads and chipmonks were in bloom,
Near to the margin of a wood,
Where maple trees for ages stood
And where a gentle summer breeze
Was playing with the leafy trees.
A little old log cabin stood,
Within the margin of the wood,
A limpid brook ran past the door
And kissed the pebbles on the shore.
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A worn out pasture near this scene,
With very little foliage green,
Where grass was nipped in summer time
By mooing, lowing, hungry kine.
A crystal lakelet nestled there,
Reflecting sunny summer’s glare,
Gaudily and superbly dressed,
With water lilies on its breast,
Upon this lovely summer day,
Where zephyrs bright and sunbeams play,
Among the stumps and trees and rocks,
A squirrel met a big black ox.
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“Good morning sir,” the squirrel said,
“I just now left my downy bed,
Within yon hollow basswood tree,
’Tis warm and cosy as can be.
While sadly o’er the earth you plod,
And slumber nightly on the sod.
I would not like the life you lead,
Nor do I like your snail-like speed.
Your owner makes you haul the plow,
While sweat and flies are on your brow,
You labor hard the livelong day,
While I can gambol, frisk and play.
And when the summer days are o’er,
And you can pull the plow no more,
They’ll send you on a weary tramp.
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81
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