Poets' Corner

THE PATTER OF THE SHINGLE

WHEN THE ANGRY PASSION gathering in my mother's face I see,
And she leads me to the bedroom, gently lays me on her knee,
Then I know that I will catch it, and my flesh in fancy itches
As I listen for the patter of the shingle on my breeches.

Every tingle of the shingle has an echo and a sting
And a thousand burning fancies into active being spring,
And a thousand bees and hornets 'neath my coattail seem to swarm,
As I listen to the patter of the shingle, oh, so warm.

In a splutter comes my father-who I supposed had gone--
To survey the situation and tell her to lay it on,
To see her bending o'er me as I listen to the strain
Played by her and by the shingle in a wild and weird refrain.

In a sudden intermission, which appears my only chance,
I say, "Strike gently, Mother, or you'll split my Sunday Pants!"
She stops a moment, draws her breath, and the shingle holds aloft,
And says, "I had not thought of that, my son, just take them off."

Holy Moses and the angels! Cast your pitying glances down,
And thou, O family doctor, put a good soft poultice on.
And may I with fools and dunces everlastingly commingle,
If I ever say another word when my mother wields the shingle!

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