22. The Sewer and the Maple Leaf

 

“Begone, you rude mischievous Imp,”
Exclaimed a stuffy Voice.
“Nor dare you at my foot to limp,
As if you have no choice.”
A Sewer-Grate without relief,
Thus spoke to a poor Maple Leaf,
Who had survived the winter thaw,
And first to fall, and last to go,
Was swimming in the melting snow,
Despite all former law.

“Do you presume my drain to clog?
Off, off! Or, little Scamp!
I’ll hurl thee headlong to the bog,
Your fibers cold and damp.”
The Sewer was beset with rage,
The Maple Leaf clung to his cage,
Nor did he lose in all that waste,
His iron grip upon the Grate,
But fearing it might be too late,
He rebutted posthaste.

“Ah!” said the Leaf. “Punish me not,
Why should we argue thus?
We who have met as if by lot,
By chance, the two of us.
I come aloft from yonder tree,
What pleasure there to live so free,
High above the dirty clutter,
My fibers welcoming each dew,
Nor ever thought I’d live to rue,
In this city gutter.

“When Spring came on in the first shoot,
Among those limbs did I
Stretch out my stem where I took root,
And there no passersby.
In the Summer thundershower,
Paid no heed within my bower,
And cared not what went down the drain,
The litter, or the gathered dust,
That went to you in each quick gust,
Nor did I mind the rain.

“Then came a wind, and with it cold,
Not even I withstood,
Try as I might I could not hold,
But entered in the flood.
Then missed the rake, then came the snow,
Then trodden down in ice below,
Frozen solid, could not revive,
The former strength I knew so well,
And you, Sewer – I need not tell –
Despite you I survive.”

What more he said I cannot tell,
The waste carried along its way,
And gathered at the Grate.
I stood fixed, nor aught else could think,
Than of this leaf at the very brink,
And how that sealed his fate.