— — " There comes — — — , for instance; to see him 's rare sport,
Tread in Emerson's tracks with legs painfully short;
How he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in the face,
To keep step with the mystagogue's natural pace!
He follows as close as a stick to a rocket,
His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket.
Fie, for shame, brother bard; with good fruit of your own,
Can't you let Neighbor Emerson's orchards alone?
Besides, 't is no use, you'll not find e'ndash a core, —
— — — has picked up all the windfalls before.
They might strip every tree, and E. never would catch 'mdash,
His Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch 'mdash;
When they send him a dishful, and ask him to try 'mdash;
He never suspects how the sly rogues came by 'mdash;
He wonders why 't is there are none such his trees on,
And thinks 'mdash the best he has tasted this season.