Somewhere, sometime, I've heard it said, or read
That Fools butt in where Angels fear to tread.
A single "Angel" with a Pack of Fools
Is not enough to change established rules;
And so, I think, the "Angel" in this case
Should bear, alone, the onus and disgrace,--
For Angels should know better than to swoop
Upon the Dove of Peace and fowl her coop.
The Good Ship Squirrel has left our shores behind
To measure human breath 'gainst Ocean Wind.
"Laden with Nuts" her clearance shows. Four Bells!
She's off! to fight for Peace with all those shells.
No Port, however, figures in her quest,
Her "papers" show,--and this is manifest!
The Dove of Peace, perched on the mizzen-top,
Hath disappointments sticking in her crop.
The peaceful bird is shy and very frail;
Can't stand the weight of salt upon her tail;
The War has made her nervous, and the roar
Of many cannon made the poor bird soar.
Up springs a storm! The Dove's white feathers show,
While Nuts are cracking on the deck below.
And then an iceberg looms against the sky,
But still the Dove is far too proud to fly;
But when, anon, a periscope appears
The Bird of Peace is overcome by fears,
And "beats it" to the iceberg's crystal crest,
Where she prepares to build her neutral nest.
The Submarine atop the billows now,
Stands by the Squirrel until she dips her bow
And sinks beneath the waves; then looks above
And takes a parting broadside at the Dove.
The "Angel" then, in Neptune's sky-machine
Ascendeth in a blaze of gasoline;
The Dove, marooned, broods over many things,
Nestling her poor _cold feet_ beneath her wings.
* * * * *
Regenerate, the Angel has returned
From empyrean Flight, to Earth, and learned
(I think Saint Peter gave him sound advice!)
To keep the Pacifistic Germ on ice
Until a Luther, if there still remains
One decent man where Wilhelm Cæsar reigns,
Denounces all the crimes of Germany,
And proselytes to crush Autocracy.