WINDSOR, VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY

THE Windsor that I used to know
Was sorter slacker-like and slow,
With only convicts busy;
But now that sleepy state is past,
And wheels and men go 'round so fast
It fairly makes you dizzy.

The dust that lay on Common Hill,
It would have stopped a motor still,
If there had been a motor;
And people thought they oughter stay
When anybody moved away
To North or South Dakota.

The years went by with silent step,
And no one even hollered "Hep,"
And scarce a whistle sounded,
Until that day—Hurrah for Blaine!
When patriotic Colonel Paine
Had celery compounded.

But while she dozed, it came to pass
That Windsor cultivated "class"
As her peculiar tillage;
Here ministers of state repaired,
And dreamy diplomats declared,
"Oh! what a lovely village."

And more aristocratic heads
O'ertopped the town than Russian Reds
Have ever heaved a brick at;
And more patricians strolled the streets,
And set around on summer seats
Than you could shake a stick at.

One far-off year there came from Yale
A student trim and slim and pale
To be the village teacher;
And afterward so great he grew
He carried Andy Johnson through,
And saved the sinking Beecher.

And here, too, bloomed the builder's art,
And egg and bead and egg and dart
Adorned unusual finish;
Ionic columns lined the road,
The ladies took their tea from Spode
And watched their weights diminish.

But now the wheels, they race and roar,
The whistles blow, the payrolls soar,
And life is "automatic";
There's more reward, if less renown,
And once, By George! they say the town
Has voted Democratic.

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