By Jessica H. Lowell.
A fish sat him down with a blink to think,
And dipped his fin thoughtfully into the ink;
Then finned this short note:
"Dear Tommy," he wrote,
"In response to your line of the other day
I hasten to thank you without delay.
But had not that squirming, delicious young worm
Shown a set in his curves too suspiciously firm,
I might not be here
To write you, my dear
(What you may not believe, 'tis so monstrously queer),
That the wriggler you sent
With most kindly intent
Had swallowed a pin that was frightfully bent!
"You see--if I'd greedily taken a bite,
The pain and the shock would have finished me quite;
So, the next time you send,
My juvenile friend,
Just mark if the worm has a natural bend
Ere you dangle him temptingly down here to be
The death of some innocent young thing like me."
And he grinned as he used some dry sand for a blotter
(Ink dries rather slowly, you know, under water),
Then signed it in haste
And sealed it with paste.
It was growing quite dark and he's no time to waste,
So he posted it slyly, without wasting more,
On the crest of a ripple that ran toward shore;
Then, shaking his scales in a satisfied glow,
All shining and shimmering, sank down below,
Where he soon fell asleep
In an oyster bed deep,
With the green sheets of water his slumber to keep.
_St. Nicholas._