. . . . .

The winter rolled by, and the station
Was green with the garland of spring
A spirit of glad exultation
Awoke in each animate thing.
And all the old love, the old longing,
Broke out in the breasts of the boys,
The visions of racing came thronging
With all its delirious joys.

The rushing of floods in their courses,
The rattle of rain on the roofs
Recalled the fierce rush of the horses,
The thunder of galloping hoofs.
And soon one broke out: `I can suffer
No longer the life of a slug,
The man that don't race is a duffer,
Let's have one more run for the mug.

`Why, EVERYTHING races, no matter
Whatever its method may be:
The waterfowl hold a regatta;
The 'possums run heats up a tree;
The emus are constantly sprinting
A handicap out on the plain;
It seems like all nature was hinting,
'Tis time to be at it again.

`The cockatoo parrots are talking