Black Beetles in Amber

Once—in the county of Marin,

Where milk is sold to purchase gin—

Renowned for butter and renowned

For fourteen ounces to the pound—

A bull stood watching every turn

Of Mr. Wilson with a churn,

As that deigning worthy stalked

About him, eying as he walked,

El Toro's sleek and silken hide,

His neck, his flank and all beside;

Thinking with secret joy: "I'll spread

That mammal on a slice of bread!"

Soon Mr. Wilson's keen concern

To get the creature in his churn

Unhorsed his caution—made him blind

To the fell vigor of bullkind,

Till, filled with valor to the teeth,

He drew his dasher from its sheath

And bravely brandished it; the while

He smiled a dark, portentous smile;

A deep, sepulchral smile; a wide

And open smile, which, at his side,

The churn to copy vainly tried;

A smile so like the dawn of doom

That all the field was palled in gloom,

And all the trees within a mile,

As tribute to that awful smile,

Made haste, with loyalty discreet,

To fling their shadows at his feet.

Then rose his battle-cry: "I'll spread

That mammal on a slice of bread!"

To such a night the day had turned

That Taurus dimly was discerned.

He wore so meek and grave an air

It seemed as if, engaged in prayer

This thunderbolt incarnate had

No thought of anything that's bad:

This concentrated earthquake stood

And gave his mind to being good.

Lightly and low he drew his breath—

This magazine of sudden death!

All this the thrifty Wilson's glance

Took in, and, crying, "Now's my chance!"

Upon the bull he sprang amain

To put him in his churn. Again

Rang out his battle-yell: "I'll spread

That mammal on a slice of bread!"

Sing, Muse, that battle-royal—sing

The deeds that made the region ring,

The blows, the bellowing, the cries,

The dust that darkened all the skies,

The thunders of the contest, all—

Nay, none of these things did befall.

A yell there was—a rush—no more:

El Toro, tranquil as before,

Still stood there basking in the sun,

Nor of his legs had shifted one—

Stood there and conjured up his cud

And meekly munched it. Scenes of blood

Had little charm for him. His head

He merely nodded as he said:

"I've spread that butterman upon

A slice of Southern Oregon."