"You, pretty maiden--none has time to tell her
I am coming, ere I shall be there.
I will twirl her zephyr--snatch her light umbrella,
Seize her hat, and snarl her glossy hair!"

On went the Whirlwind, showing many capers
One would hardly deem it meet to tell;--
Dusting Judge and Parson--flirting gown and papers,--
Discomposing matron, beau and belle.

"Whisk!" from behind came the long and sweeping feather,
Round the head of old Chanticleer:--
Plumed and plumeless biped felt gust together,
In a way they wouldn't like to hear.

Snug in his arbor sat a scholar, musing
Calmly o'er the philosophic page:
"Flap!" went the leaves of the volume he was using,
Cutting short the lecture of the sage.

"Hey!" said the bookworm, "this I think is taking
Rather too much liberty with me!
Yet I'll not resent it; being bent on making
Use of every thing I hear and see.

"Many, I know, will not their anger stifle,
When as little cause as this, they find
To let it kindle up; but minding every trifle
Is profitless as quarrels with the wind.