’Twas on a lovely day in June,

When toads and chipmonks were in bloom,

Near to the margin of a wood,

Where maple trees for ages stood

And where a gentle summer breeze

Was playing with the leafy trees.

A little old log cabin stood,

Within the margin of the wood,

A limpid brook ran past the door

And kissed the pebbles on the shore.

A worn out pasture near this scene,

With very little foliage green,

Where grass was nipped in summer time

By mooing, lowing, hungry kine.

A crystal lakelet nestled there,

Reflecting sunny summer’s glare,

Gaudily and superbly dressed,

With water lilies on its breast,

Upon this lovely summer day,

Where zephyrs bright and sunbeams play,

Among the stumps and trees and rocks,

A squirrel met a big black ox.

“Good morning sir,” the squirrel said,

“I just now left my downy bed,

Within yon hollow basswood tree,

’Tis warm and cosy as can be.

While sadly o’er the earth you plod,

And slumber nightly on the sod.

I would not like the life you lead,

Nor do I like your snail-like speed.

Your owner makes you haul the plow,

While sweat and flies are on your brow,

You labor hard the livelong day,

While I can gambol, frisk and play.

And when the summer days are o’er,

And you can pull the plow no more,

They’ll send you on a weary tramp.

Into the distant logging camp,

They’ll yoke you to another mate

And work you early, long and late.

The “goad stick’s point will puncture you

And make you loudly moan and moo.

They’ll hitch you to a logging sled

While I’ll be slumbering in my bed.

They’ll hitch you to a crotch or sleigh,

And make you labor, day by day,

For three long weary months or more,

Until your bones are stiff and sore.

You’ll wade through snow up to your chest,

Without a daylight moment’s rest.

They’ll diet you on corn and hay,

And give you not a cent of pay.

And when the winter days are o’er

And “gentle spring” returns once more,

They’ll send you back from whence you came,

Though you be weary, sore and lame.

And when you’ve rested for a while,

And bright spring days begin to smile,

They’ll hitch you to the plow again,

And make you pull with might and main.

Horse flies will bite you on the nose,

Your ribs resound with kicks and blows.

Thus, month by month from year to year,

You’ll follow up the same career,

Until you get too old and then,

They’ll send you to the slaughtering pen.

They’ll chew your steaks, your bones they’ll boil

No more, you’ll cultivate the soil.

You mammoth brute, I ask you why,

You do not tyrant man defy.

If you had any wit or sense,

You’d pitch your boss across the fence.

You’d stomp him down into the mud,

And then lie down and chew your cud.

Now don’t you wish you were like me,

For I can climb the tallest tree,

My enemies can’t follow me,

When I skip up that big pine tree.

If hunters try to pierce my hide,

I’ll slip around on the other side.

If I’m pursued by cat or dog,

I’ll dodge into a hollow log,

If I’m chased by boy or girl,

They’ll find that I’m a cunning squirrel.

The buzzing flies don’t trouble me,

Neither does a bug or flea.

The forest trees supply my needs,

With sweet, nutritious nuts and seeds.

The pine trees furnish me with cones,

That taste as sweet as corn pones.

The nuts and cones, I store away,

For the proverbial “rainy day”.

I sit and chatter when I please,

Upon the leafy forest trees,

Without a sorrow or a care.

Should day or night be foul or fair

And should the wind blow east or west,

It don’t disturb me in my nest.

My nest is lined with moss and

hay, My cones and nuts are stored away

And on this earth, you’ll vainly try

To find a happier lad than L”

The ox replied, “if you are through

Just let me say a word or two.

I’ve listened to your wild tirade,

Digested every word you’ve said.

You vain and silly little fool,

Subjecting me to ridicule.

Some day, you’ll drop into a trap

And that will stop your senseless yap.

I want to tell you, little scamp,

What you did in a logging camp.

You stole my corn, you stole my hay,

You even “swiped” my meal away.

You e’en stole friedcakes from the cook

And cached them in some hidden nook.

You thieve at evening, noon and morn,

You’ve been a thief since you were born.

You’ve said some dreadful things of me

But you can’t impeach my honesty.

And though I cannot get around,

As fast as you upon the ground,

I’ve been a help, as you must see,

To the whole human family.

When pioneers moved to the wood,

I hauled their meager household goods.

Drew logs to build their cots and barns,

Pulled stumps and plows upon their farms.

When prairie schooners long ago,

With favorite slogan, “westward ho“,

When camped beside the muddy streams,

Their motive power was four ox teams.

And when upon the western plains,

Beset by blizzards, hail and rain,

Mid buffaloes and Indian screams,

They plodded on with four ox teams.

And now, my friend, you have not shown,

A single good deed you have done.

My timid, saucy little friend,

You’ll surely come to some bad end.

You tell how you can frisk and play,

You’ll come to grief, some future day.

And when at last you’re forced to croak,

Your pelt will grace some lady’s cloak,

And now farewell, my agile friend,

Our confab now has reached its end.“

The squirrel that roams the forest shade,

The happiest creature, God e’er made,

For years and ages yet to come,

Will occupy its forest home.

The patient ox, whose faithful toil,

Has helped to cultivate the soil,

In this, our age that is so fast,

Is relegated to the past.

You’ll search this country, round and round

Before an ox team can be found.

The patient ox was far too slow,

For this fast age, he had to go.

And then “old Dobbin” showed his face,

And took the snail-paced ox’s place.

Again, the howling auto came

And put the Dobbins all to shame.

And now we’re taking to the air,

We’ll find all kinds of room up there,

And very soon, the time will come,

When we get tired of staying home.

We’ll saunter to a ten cent store,

Purchase a pair of wings and soar.

We’ll start at morn for France or Spain,

At evening, we’ll be home again.

Now who can tell, or who portend

When this fast age will have an end.