By chance it happened that in Rye town dwelt. 
    A German grocer (and his wife, a Celt),
    Who loved his lager and his pretzels too
    (His wife was partial to the morning dew). 
    But, when we fell into these troublous times,
    He cared for nothing but to save his dimes.

    He had a donkey, that would sometimes go. 
    Just as the donkey chanc’d to feel, you know,
    Which he would ride, whenever his brigade
    Was ordered to the streets for a parade;
    But as the times got hard, he’d loudly swear
    The oats that donkey ate he could not spare. 
    At length he said:  “I’ll turn him out, py Gott!”
    Looked at his wife and to her said, “Vy not? 
    Let him go eat upon the public ways,
    I want him only for the training days.” 
    So the poor donkey had to feed on thistles. 
    Until his hair became like unto bristles.

    One afternoon, when everybody slept
    Except the belle, out from her house she crept,
    And met the donkey, walking on the way;
    He smelt the calf and thought to have some play. 
    Kicked up his heels, a grating bray did utter. 
    And laid the belle a-rolling in the gutter. 
    She raised a mighty shout, she raised a squeal. 
    And loudly her persistent tongue did peal,
    And this did seem the burden of her song: 
    “Some chap hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!

    “Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd”
    Of vagabonds and urchins, shouting loud,
    Gathered around the poor, bedraggled squealer,
    Until at length there came a stout Rye peeler;
    Who forthwith told the belle her cries to cease. 
    And took her to a Justice of the Peace.

    The Justice heard the story of the belle,
    And looking wise and grave, he said:  “’Tis well;
    Bring me the old Dutchman.”  The grocer brought,
    Shaking with fear, then stood before the Court.

    And then’ the Justice to recite began
    The charter of the Cruelty to An-
    Imals Society, and then he said: 
    “Pride rideth on a donkey, as I’ve read,
    Until it gets a fall, and then it loses
    Its dignity and blubbers o’er its bruises. 
    These are newspaper proverbs, but I fear
    You don’t love proverbs, as you do your beer. 
    Just take that donkey and give him an oat,
    And don’t show up until you’ve brushed his coat.”

The grocer left disgusted, took the brute; And all the people then at him did hoot.  The cobbler heard and almost split his knee [He took it for the lapstone in his glee], “Church bells,” quoth he, “but ring us to the mass.  My belle hath gone and saved a starving ass; And this shall make, when put in jingling rhyme, The Belle of Rye all famous for all time.”

* * * * *

A CHEERFUL SUBJECT.