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 By Mr. E. Bates
‘Twas early in the time of spring
The beaver seeking mate,
Chewed through the leg which held him down
To cheat his deadly fate.
“Beware the beaver trap, my son!
The chain that binds, the jaws that catch.
Beware the scented stick and fear
The trapper’s lethal snatch.”
While still a kit, he heard the cry
And saw the frightful deed,
But heeding the words the father said,
He lived to spread his seed.
The trapper makes his way to town
With beaver pelts to trade
Perfumed Marie who lays him down
And takes what she is paid.
But gives he secret silent sore
Reminder of the deed
And folly of the faithless whore
Who knows no love but greed.
“Then have you set the beaver trap?”
Said mother to her girl.
“Oh, happy day – I made it pay!”
She boasted to the world.
‘Twas early in the time of spring.
Mr. E. Bates is a poet who likens the quest for love to a foxhunt, in which it is the chase and not the kill that appeals.
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April 01, 2005
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