The  Comedian. 
He  hasn’t  any  special  song, 
He  never  waits  for  inspirations, 
But  all  the  afternoon  long 
He  does  his  trifling  imitations. 
I  hear  the  shrieking  of  the  jay, 
And  softer  notes  from  this  or  that  bird 
All  woven  in  a  single  lay 
Arranged  and  rendered  "by  the  cat  "bird. 
Perhaps  up  there  among  the  leaves, 
Where  still  the  morning  dew  drop  glistens, 
He  fancies  that  his  song  deceives 
The  foolish  man  who  peers  and  listens; 
Perhaps  he  thinks,  conceited  elf, 
From  "bough  to  bough  so  lightly  springing, 
That  he  composed  and  wrote  himself 
The  endless  song  that  he  is  singing. 
Perhaps  to  his  unrighteous  soul 
He  never  lays  this  flattering  unction. 
But  knows  that  every  note  he  stole 
Without  a  quaver  of  compunction 
He  sings  some  tones  a  little  flat. 
He  rises  to  a  wail  on  others, 
And  often  I've  suspected  that 
He's  taking  off  his  gifted  brothers. 
But  whether  he  believes  it's  art 
Or  knows  -  the  wretch  -  that  he  is  jeering, 
His  song  comes  swelling  frcm  his  heart 
And  it  is  always  worth  the  hearing, 
I  look  into  the  beady  eyes, 
With  which  from  his  retreat  he  views  me 
The  while  he  sings,  and  I  surmise, 
That  he  is  singing  to  amuse  me. 
James  J.  Montague, 
H.Y.  Tribune 
June  19,1922 
