The wind was spent.
Round veered the weathercock,
The sun drew in -
And stuck was Jim
Like a rusty pin...
We pulled and we pulled
From seven till twelve,
Jim, too frightened
To help himself.
But all in vain.
The clock struck one,
And there was Jim
A little bit gone.
At half-past five
You scarce could see
A glimpse of his flapping
Handkerchee.
And when came noon,
And we climbed sky-high,
Jim was a speck
Slip - slipping by.
Come to-morrow,
The neighbours say,
He'll be past crying for;
Poor Jim Jay.


MISS T.

It's a very odd thing -----