I wandered through the orchard near the brook.
That's how I came to write about the hook,
The hook-worm, very fancy in its work,
Shooting ahead with many a foxy quirk.

I lingered near the brook, I stopped to rest,
Albeit I knew it not a winsome pest
Lurked very near awaiting but the time
To procreate, a sneaky, slimy crime.

Plump in the middle of the babbling brook
One small flat blackish rock protrudes, just look!
That yellow streak upon the rock so gay,
It is a hook-worm waiting for its prey.

I shook my cane and said, "My squirming friend,
Keep off my private pasture, do not rend
My heart by creeping deeply into me."
The hook-worm smiled and told this tale with glee.

The hook-worm said, "I'm on to you, Alphonse,
You are too fly for me; yes for the nonce
I'm beaten like a liquidated whale.
Just rest a bit and listen to my tale.

"I killed a girl last week, she was a peach!
Look, see that rocky hill this side the breach
That cuts in twain the precipice beyond.
That's where I killed the girl, a pretty blond.

"Perhaps you marvel at my heartless drawl,
You see a hook-worm has no heart at all.
I only kill because I have to eat,
Before I eat I nibble into feet.

"The girl, my latest victim, came this way
Last week; she tripped along so happy, gay.
She rested underneath that willow tree
That grows aslant the brook, my mystic key.

"The brooklet is my mystic key, because
Its cooling water often gently draws
Attention to the fact how nice it is
To wade knee deep. The brooklet helps my biz.

"The gentle Clytie, pretty little girl,
Took off her shoes and stockings in a whirl
Of pleasure, wading in the stream knee deep,
Laughing aloud—but let the angels weep.

"The small bare foot has got one pink bare sole,
The hook-worm's harbinger, my flowing bowl,
The place I enter when I ply my trade,
Wiggle with glee and sing my serenade.

"Close to the bank I stealthily did crawl,
Ready my pretty victim to forestall,
Ready to make my fascinating bite,
Dive in the bleeding tunnel out of sight.

"The gentle Clytie splashes in the stream,
Then slashes out to rest, oh, happy dream!
Beneath the spreading branches of the larch,
I crawl beneath the foot, I bite the arch.

"I hear a splash, and still another splash,
The gentle Clytie says, 'Dear me, how rash,
Where are my shoes? I left them on the ledge.'
And then she rushes to the water's edge.

"The footwear floats away at rapid rate.
She utters one despairing crepitate,
'My mother's shoes and stockings, heaven spare 'em,
Oh dear, oh dear, she told me not to wear 'em!'

"The naughty Clytie wrings her hands and weeps.
She don't know what to do, she has the creeps.
Far down the stream the shoes and stockings whirl,
Poor little Cly, poor little barefoot girl.

"She homeward limps along without delay.
Of course I get a joy ride all the way
Inside the tender, bleeding, throbbing sole.
The whole affair to me is rather droll.

"The mother, standing in the door, says, 'Douse
That crying, Clytie, and come in the house.'
They enter and the door is closed at once.
The mother says, ' Now for the spanking dunce.'
"Mother brings water in a cedar tub,

Bathes the small feet, then tenderly doth rub
The muddy soles, when presto! biff, bang, wink!
The little naked feet are nice and pink.
"Clytie knelt down, one fervent prayer said.

Her mother helped her to prepare for bed.
The child began to cry, 'Oh, mother, pray
Don't whip me, mother, spare me, please, to-day.'
"The mother said, You are so careless, dear.

I have to whip you, have to be severe.
Now lie across my knee, poor wilful Clytie,
I fear I must roll up your little nightie.'

"I hung my head and started off to go.
Even the hook-worm has some shame, you know.
I left my nest, one jump, I did alight
Upon a shelf from which I saw this sight.

"Clytie across her mother's knee did lay,
Face downward, in the prehistoric way,
The mother swings the shingle with a whirl
Spanking pink blisters on the little girl.

"Poor Clytie to her mother's knee is clinging,
Screaming with pain under the cruel stinging,
The angry parent slapping with the shingle,
Spanking the naughty girlie. Oh, the tingle!

"At length the whipping ceased. A sweet voice said
'There, that will do, my child, now go to bed,
It hurts me much to lash my pretty pet;
Now kiss your mother, dear, but don't forget.'

"The child is left to cry and die alone.
Alone she meets the struggle. Hear that moan!
Her life is sobbing out. One little quiver—
Another tiny soul has crossed the river.

"I leave my hiding place. Though but a worm,
Unfit for anything but sting and squirm,
I feel a throbbing in my links, a rush
Of something to my head, I almost blush.

"Upon a cot the gentle Clytie lay;
Only her night-robe covers the poor clay.
Oh, dignity of death, that marble brow!
The little naked feet are quiet now.

"One purple spot upon the pink bare sole
Tells its own story more than bell can toll.
I bow my head; I shudder, creep away.
I've done enough at least for this one day.

"The white enamelled hearse moves down the road
Nearing the graveyard with its precious load.
Poor gentle Clytie, innocent sweet child,
Whipped by her mother, by a bug defiled.

"I'm built without a conscience, like a spider;
Am now on sentry duty, no backslider,
My shadow of a heart all withered soot.
I'm looking for another little foot.

"I'm king of all the hook-worms in the bog.
Forever writing entries in my log,
To-day I wrote about the pollywog
I bled to death. Her father was a frog.

"The latest entry in my book is cranked,
Relating to poor Clytie who was spanked.
I set it down, that all who wish may know
The truth about that tale of long ago.

"Oh what a doleful flight of weary years.
The mother's words are ringing in my ears,
' Dear Clytie, you have lost my Sunday shoes;
'Tis time for shingle drill, come pay your dues.'

"If I had been a man and not a bug,
In Clytie's sole I never would have dug.
I cannot drive her from my mind, oh no!
Her presence follows me where e'er I go."

PRAYER AND PETITION OF A WORM

Just see that little graveyard on the hill.
Forgive me, Clytie dear, for I am nil,
Naught but a worm, and is it all my fault?
Forgive and send a message from the vault.
Pity me, Clytie, nature made me queer;
Pity me, Clytie, spare me just one tear.
The Grecian seer is right. Some future time
May see me rise out of this hell, this grime.
Poor little Clytie, girlie dear, forgive.
The poor misguided sinner yet may live.

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