Volume 10 — "FESTINA LENTE"

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

Blessings on thee, little man, Hasten slowly as you can; Loiter nimbly on your tramp With the ten-cent speedy stamp. Thou art "boss"; the business man Postals writes for thee to scan; And the man who writes, "With speed," Gets it—in his mind—indeed. Lo, the man who penned the note Wasted ten cents when he wrote; And the maid for it will wait At the window, by the gate, In the doorway, down the street, List'ning for thy footsteps fleet. But her cheek will flush and pale, Till it comes next day by mail, With thine own indorsement neat— "No such number on the street." Oh, if words could but destroy, Thou wouldst perish, truthful boy! Oh, for boyhood's easy way— Messenger who sleeps all day, Or, from rise to set of sun, Reads "The Terror" on the run. For your sport, the band goes by; For your perch, the lamp post high; For your pleasure, on the street Dogs are fighting, drums are beat; For your sake, the boyish fray, Organ grinder, run-away; Trucks for your convenience are; For your ease, the bob-tail car; Every time and everywhere You're not wanted, you are there. Dawdling, whistling, loit'ring scamp, Seest thou this ten-cent stamp? Stay thou not for book or toy— Vamos! Fly! Skedaddle, boy!