with a tray, May be a worthy kind of chap In his way, But when we want one for Recorder, Then, Mr. Walton, take our order. 

 

 THE OLEOMARGARINE MAN

   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." 

 

 GENESIS

   God said, "Let there be Crime," and the 

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