Our airship spread her pinions
Everything was snug and tight
And thro' the mist above the clouds
We floated through the nigh;
And when the crimson tints of morn
Began the sky to span
We were sailing o'er the forest wilds
Of for off Michigan.
We "shifted ballast" o'er the keel
And "hove to" in the air.
To take a look once more on earth
Upon this morn so fair
The mist of morn was sweet, indeed
It filled our Souls with awe
We turned our glasses down below
And this is what we saw.
A railroad grade wound thro' the brush
It's usefulness was o'er--
The lumber jacks who once were there
Would visit it no more
Two little tents pitched by the grade
Now dawned upon our sight--
We knew at once some berry gang
Had camped there, thro' the night
We searched around; at last we found
Four people in the patch--
Two of them were noble men
The prize in any batch--
They always bravely do their part
And duty never shirk
It made us sad to see
How hard they had to work!
They picked the berries, hunted bees
Got wood and water too--
In fact, most every bit of work--
Those poor men had to do.
They built the fires, and helped to cook
Fixed up seats, and then
The only "it" in that outfit
Were those good-natured men.
The other two were women-kind
Decked out in men's attire;
Their rig was anything but sweet
'twas nothing to admire.
Our crew all laughed to see them try
To sit down on a chuck--
They'd bend their knees a little bit
Then go right down ker-plunk!
The one was very plump indeed,
Her build would scoop the crown--
'twas something like the Bartlett Pear--
The largest end was down.
The other one around the hips,
Was quite a lean surprise--
Two crackers nailed upon a board
Would be about their size.
They straddled 'round those lumber roads,
Picked berries, now and then,
And tried to think up something mean,
To say to those "dear" men.
The only thing they build, to hint
That they were Heaven-made,
Was the veranda on the wagon-box,
And "sand range" on the grade.
At last they went down to the creek
Pulled off their shoows and socks,
The smudge that rose up from their feet
Would almost blast the rocks.
Our Captain signalled:--"flop your winds,"
We quickly forged ahead
And from the Denmark smell on earth,
Our gallant airship fled.
Our engines throbbed, the ship flew on
Great speed did we attain--
And when at last we settled down,
'twas on the hills of Spain.
But when we think about those feet,
We brush away a tear--
And wonder if those women folks
Did wash but once a year.
Poetry by Tikiri
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