So the argument ran; but one bright Spring day
Sym settled it all in his own strange way.
   "'Tis a tramp," he announced, "I've decided to be;
   And I start next Monday at twenty to three . . ."
When the aunt recovered she screamed, "A tramp?
A low-lived, pilfering, idle scamp,
Who steals people's washing, and sleeps in the damp?"

Sharp to the hour Sym was ready and dressed.
"Young birds," sighed the father, "must go from the nest.
   When the green moss covers those stones you tread,
   When the green grass whispers above my head,
Mark well, wherever your path may turn,
They have reached the valley of peace who learn
That wise hearts cherish what fools may spurn."

So Sym went off; and a year ran by,
And the father said, with a smile-masked sigh,
   "It is meet that the young should leave the nest."
   Said the aunt, "Don't spill that soup on your vest!
Nor mention his name! He's our one disgrace!
And he's probably sneaking around some place
With fuzzy black whiskers all over his face."

But, under a hedge, by a flowering peach,
A youth with a little blue wren held speech.
   With his back to a tree and his feet in the grass,
   He watched the thistle-down drift and pass,
And the cloud-puffs, borne on a lazy breeze,
Move by on their errand, above the trees,
Into the vault of the mysteries.

"Now, teach me, little blue wren," said he.
"'Tis you can unravel this riddle for me.
   I am 'mazed by the gifts of this kindly earth.
   Which of them all has the greatest worth?"
He flirted his tail as he answered then,
He bobbed and he bowed to his coy little hen:
"Why, sunlight and worms!" said the little blue wren.

They climbed the trees . . . As was told before,
The Glugs climbed trees in the days of yore,
   When the oldes tree in the land to-day
   Was a tender little seedling--Nay,
This climbing habit was old, so old
That even the cheeses could not have told
   When the past Glug people first began
   To give their lives to the climbing plan.
           And the legend ran
   That the art was old as the mind of man.


And even the mountains old and hoar,
And the billows that broke on Gosh's shore
   Since the far-off neolithic night,
   All knew the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they tell of a perfectly easy way:
For yesterday's Glug is the Glug of to-day.
   And they climb the trees when the thunder rolls,
   To solemnly salve their shop-worn souls.
           For they fear the coals
   That threaten to frizzle their shop-worn souls.

They climbed the trees. 'Tis a bootless task
To say so over again, or ask
   The cause of it all, or the reason why
   They never felt happier up on high.
For Joi asked why; and Joi was a fool,
And never a Glug of the fine old school
   With fixed opinions and Sunday clothes,
   And the habit of looking beyond its nose,
           And treating foes
   With the calm contempt of the One Who Knows.


And every spider who heaves a line
And trusts to his luck when the day is fine,
   Or reckless swings from an awful height,
   He knows the Glugs quite well by sight.
"You can never mistake them," he will say;
"For they always act in a Gluglike way.
   And they climb the trees when the glass points fair,
   With circumspection and proper care,
           For they fear to tear
   The very expensive clothes they wear."

But Joi was a Glug with a twisted mind
Of the nasty, meditative kind.
   He'd meditate on the modes of Gosh,
   And dared to muse on the acts of Splosh;
He dared to speak, and, worse than that,
He spoke out loud, and he said it flat.
   "Why climb?" said he.  "When you reach the top
   There's nowhere to go, and you have to stop,
           Unless you drop.
   And the higher you are the worse you flop."


And every cricket that chirps at eve,
And scoffs at the folly of fools who grieve,
   And the furtive mice who revel at night,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For, "Why," they say, " in the land of Gosh
There is no one else who will bow to Splosh.
   And they climb the trees when the rain pelts down
   And feeds the gutters that thread the town;
           For they fear to drown,
   When floods are frothy and waters brown."

Said the Glug called Joi, "This climbing trees
Is a foolish art, and things like these
   Cause much distress in the land of Gosh.
   Let's stay on the ground and kill King Splosh!"
But Splosh, the king, he smiled a smile,
And beckoned once to his hangman, Guile,
   Who climbed a tree when the weather was calm;
   And they hanged poor Joi on a Snufflebust Palm;
           Then they sang a psalm,
   Did those pious Glugs 'neath the Snufflebust Palm.


And every bee that kisses a flow'r,
And every blossom, born for an hour,
   And every bird on its gladsome flight,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say, "'Tis a simple test we've got:
If you know one Glug, why, you know the lot!"
   So, they climbed a tree in the bourgeoning Spring,
   And they hanged poor Joi with some second-hand string.
           'Tis a horrible thing
   To be hanged by Glugs with second-hand string.

Then Splosh, the king, rose up and said,
"It's not polite; but he's safer dead.
   And there's not much room in the land of Gosh
   For a Glug named Joi and a king called Splosh!"
And every Glug flung high his hat,
And cried, "We're Glugs! and you can't change that!"
   So they climbed the trees, since the weather was cold,
   While the brazen bell of the city tolled
           And tolled, and told
   The fate of a Glug who was over-bold.


And every cloud that sails the blue,
And every dancing sunbeam too,
   And every sparkling dewdrop bright
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
"We tell," say they, "by a simple test;
For any old Glug is like the rest.
   And they climb the trees when there's weather about,
   In a general way, as a cure for gout;
           Tho' some folks doubt
   If the climbing habit is good for gout."

So Joi was hanged, and his race was run,
And the Glugs were tickled with what they'd done.
   And, after that, if a day should come
   When a Glug felt extra specially glum,
He'd call his children around his knee,
And tell that tale with a chuckle of glee.
   And should a little Glug girl or boy
   See naught of a joke in the fate of Joi,
           Then he'd employ
   Stern measures with such little girl or boy.


But every dawn that paints the sky,
And every splendid noontide high,
   All know the Glugs so well, so well.
   'Tis an easy matter, and plain to tell.
For, lacking wit, with a candour smug,
A Glug will boast that he is a Glug.
   And they climb the trees, if it shines or rains,
   To settle the squirming in their brains,
           And the darting pains