Classic Poem

The Hero of my tale
Was a serpent—don't turn pale!
My snake was not the “serpent” of Theology,
With an apple up his sleeve
To tempt some child of Eve,
Nor was he versed in deadly Toxicology
No, his fangs were free from guile,
And he had a roomy smile.
There was no more harmless snake in all Zoology.
But since no creature known
Is perfect, I will own
He had one failing—vanity, alas! innate
He was also fond of sport,
Though not a cruel sort:
His aim was more to charm than to assassinate,
He was often heard to say,
When feeling rather gay,
“I'd like to see the Bird I cannot fascinate!”

And one day
Some laughter-loving Fay
His boasting heard,
And sent a Bird.

It was sitting, stuffed and stiff, on
A thing of straw and chiffon,
Ribbands and lace and jet and such like finery,
By a milliner begotten
And some careless maid forgotten,
In stuffed and lonely splendour in the Vinery,
When with expectant eye
Mr. Serpent, by-and-by,
Strolled forth in search of game from out the Pinery.

And the Bird
Never stirred
Or said a word.

“Aha!” said Mr. Snake,
“Unless I much mistake,
Here's a charming subject for a Trance Hypnotic;
Soon I'll have her in my toils!”
And with mysterious coils
He advanced with air complacent and despotic.
Then he rose up, and let fly
A glance from out his eye,
And watched for the effect of his narcotic.

And the Bird
Never stirred
Or said a word.

Said Mr. Snake, “My spell
Seems to work extremely well”
And straightway with Majestic Pride he puffed.
But when an hour had passed
And still the Bird stood fast,
I must confess he felt a trifle huffed.
“There's something wrong,” said he,
“With the Bird—or else with me.”
How should he know the wretched thing was stuffed?

That Bird,
Who never stirred
Or said a word

Mr. Snake was sorely troubled,
And his efforts he redoubled,
And he balanced on the tip end of his tail,
Swaying to and fro the while
Like a pendulum—a style
That hitherto he'd never known to fail.
But not a word she uttered,
And not a feather fluttered
As he plied his mystic Art without avail
“Confound the bird!” he said,
And he stood upon his head
And waved his long mysterious tail in air,

And he focussed all the rays
Of his esoteric gaze
Into one cold and petrifying glare
But the Deadly Glance fell wide;
He might as well have tried
To hypnotize a table or a chair—

As that Bird,
Who never stirred
Or said a word.

“That settles it!” he cried.
“I will not be defied!”
And he coiled himself to spring—oh, rash proceeding!
Like an arrow from a bow
He sprang—how should he know
The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding?
Next momenThe lay dead,
With a Hat Pin through his head,
Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding—

The Bird
Never stirred
Or said a Word.