From the Evening Star, June 12, 1915. By Philander Johnson.
“It’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete,
“The bank whose solidity can’t be beat—
The bank o’ the stream that reflects the glint
Of the golden coin from the sunshine mint,
Where the jewels don’t need a safety box,
But are tossed where the water hits the rocks
Into the air with a sparkle gay,
With plenty to spare and some more next day.
Oh, there’s never a thought of gain or loss
As you sit on a cushion built of moss.
The stately pillars are trees that grow
With a grace that your builders may never know.
There I may draw from the mighty store
All that I need an’ come back fur more
With a welcome endurin’ an’ complete;
So it’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete.