July was a trifle unhealthy,—Pagett was ill with fear,
Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of "eastern exile," and mentioned his home with tears;
But I hadn't seen my children for close upon seven years.
We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,
[I've mentioned Pagett was portly] Pagett went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.
And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips,"
And the sneers of the travelled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.
