The Impetuous Breeze and the Diplomatic Sun

by Guy Wetmore Carryl

A Boston man an ulster had,
    An ulster with a cape that fluttered:
  It smacked his face, and made him mad,
    And polyglot remarks he uttered:
      "I bought it at a bargain," said he,
      "I'm tired of the thing already."

  The wind that chanced to blow that day
    Was easterly, and rather strong, too:
  It loved to see the galling way
    That clothes vex those whom they belong to:
      "Now watch me," cried this spell of weather,
      "I'll rid him of it altogether."



  It whirled the man across the street,
    It banged him up against a railing,
  It twined the ulster round his feet,
    But all of this was unavailing:
      For not without resource it found him:
      He drew the ulster closer round him.

  "My word!" the man was heard to say,
    "Although I like not such abuse, it's
  Not strange the wind is strong to-day,
    It always is in Massachusetts.
      Such weather threatens much the health of
      Inhabitants this Commonwealth of."

  The sun, emerging from a rift
    Between the clouds, observed the victim,
  And how the wind beset and biffed,
    Belabored, buffeted, and kicked him.
      Said he, "This wind is doubtless new here:
      'Tis quite the freshest ever blew here."

  And then he put forth all his strength,
    His warmth with might and main exerted,
  Till upward in its tube at length
    The mercury most nimbly spurted.
      Phenomenal the curious sight was,
      So swift the rise in Fahrenheit was.

  The man supposed himself at first
    The prey of some new mode of smelting:
  His pulses were about to burst,
    His every limb seemed slowly melting,
      And, as the heat began to numb him,
      He cast the ulster wildly from him.

  "Impulsive breeze, the use of force,"
    Observed the sun, "a foolish act is,
  Perceiving which, you see, of course.
    How highly efficacious tact is."
      The wondering wind replied, "Good gracious!
      You're right about the efficacious."

  THE MORAL deals, as morals do,
    With tact, and all its virtues boasted,
  But still I can't forget, can you,
    That wretched man, first chilled, then roasted?
      Bronchitis seized him shortly after,
      And that's no cause for vulgar laughter.