Tom's pap had helped him start his train,

And all would have been fine

Had not the rocket, raising Cain,

Blocked traffic on the line.

It blew the engine into scrap,

As in a fit of passion.

"Who would have thought that toy," said pap,

"Would blow up in such fashion!"

Orlando Pease, quite at his ease,

The "Morning Star" was reading.

"My dear," said he to Mrs. Pease,

"Here's a report worth heeding."

The rocket then in wanton sport

Flashed through the printed pages.

The lady gasped, "A wild report!"

Then swooned by easy stages.

Doc Danby was a stupid guy,

So, lest he sleep too late,

He placed a tattoo clock near by

To waken him at eight.

But, ah! the rocket smote that clock

And smashed its way clean through it!

"You have a fine alarm," said Doc,

"But, say, you overdo it!"

A penny-liner, Abram Stout,

Was writing a description.

"The flame shot up," he pounded out—

Then threw a mild conniption.

For through his Flemington there shied

A rocket, hot and mystic.

"I didn't mean to be," he cried,

"So