Speaking of fires, my powers of language fail;
They run them here upon so large a scale.
My son, Charles Sumner ( who is, by-the-way,
In Europe — terms ten dollars by the day,
Paid strictly in advance ), can rhyme somewhat,
And often seems to me to touch the spot,
And light the truth up with a healthier glare,
And make it truthfuller for his being there.
( But in such furrows human nature runs,
That old men are n't good critics for their sons. )
He used to rush ( as youngsters often will )
To every fire we had at Tompkins Hill,
And seemed to plan less how to put them out
Than to get something new to write about.
He struck a rhyme I think is n't over bad,
About a “fire” our little village had
( Or city; for that town took city airs
Before its village short-clothes reached repairs ).
I found a copy of it t'other day
Where he had laid it carefully away,
To keep me from not finding it ( he meant
To get it back in the next check I sent ).
‘ Twill cost me several dollars yet, I fear;—
I'll paste the fellow's nonsense right in here: