WHAT time the frogs begin their song, 

 And beasts in burrows feed their young, 

 My neighbor Hans is off among 



The wolves, with animation. 



Now Hans is neither tall nor slim, 

 The wash-tub much resembles him ; 

 Three hundred kicks the beam with vim 



When he's in consultation. 



But when he strikes a lupine trail, 

 There's many a supple youth would fail 

 To keep the pace o'er hill and dale 



Without some palpitation. 



But that, of course, is by-the-way, 

 And what I started out to say 

 Is that, upon a fateful day, 



Our hero took his station, 



And then you ought to see him dig — 

 His shining pate sans hat, sans wig, 

 Bedewed with sweat-drops round and big— 

 I should say, perspiration. 



He tracks the game to its secret lair, 



A naked bone or tuft of hair, 



Or slightest footprint here or there, 



Betrays the prize location. 



Until at last he stoops to greet 



Uose paby volfs, so schmart and neat — 



Coom mit me to de coundy seat, 



Coom shust for registration.'' 



High-mounted in a hemlock tree, 

 Hard by a cave where two or three 

 Young wolves were waiting patiently. 



Expecting >:ome relation. 



But oft young vvoives are hard to find; 

 Then Hans, with his ingenious mind, 

 In scalps of many another kind, 



'Tis said, finds compensation. 



So Hans, whose brain is crammed with tricks. 

 As thick as ghosts along the Styx, 

 Took up his gun, and said, "I'll fix 



To help at. this ovation " 



268 



