Mother Truth's Melodies Part 17

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And when you're in, a path Leads on, right under ground, And by-and-by you come to a place Like a room with walls around.

'Tis jagged and rough and rude, 'Tis dark and damp as a grave, But whether 'tis large or small, 'Tis always called a cave.

Now, Mammoth means _monstrous big_, And the Mammoth cave, we claim As the largest known in the world, And that's what gives the name.

And it has many a room, Quite large and wondrous grand, And it has springs and streams and lakes, All dark, you understand.

And here are fishes, too, Yes, fishes with no eyes, That have lived in the dark for ages past, As learned men surmise.



The Camels live in desert lands; Their feet are made to walk on sands; They carry burdens far and near, Where neither gra.s.s nor trees appear;

Where there's no rain, no rivers, brooks, No water anywhere for folks;-- But G.o.d has made in Camels' chest Peculiar sacs, for He knew best

What they must do, and that they'd die, If He did not their drink supply.

Before they start they drink and drink, Till every sac is full, I think;--

And at the mouth of every sac, A muscle strong, but loose and slack, Will tighten up when it is filled, So that no drink can e'er be spilled.

And when on journey, last or first, The camel wants to slake his thirst, A bag-string loosens, and out-pours Enough to satisfy for hours.



The laden camels, in a row, Are called a Caravan, you know;-- Sometimes a caravan is lost, Being buried deep in sand and dust.

A storm of wind, a Simoon named, Will sweep across the desert sand, When camels, men, and every one Must throw themselves their knees upon,

And bury faces in the earth, For thus alone they save their breath; A fearful thing, but 'tis the best That they can do,--now hear the rest.


Sometimes they're buried deep, and find When they dig out they're almost blind And cannot tell which way to go, And thus are lost, a serious woe!

Sometimes, when lost, the drink for men Gets short; is gone; they thirst, and then They kill a camel just for lack Of what he carries in his sac.


In deserts bare and bleak and drear, The sun s.h.i.+nes hot through all the year, But many an Oasis is found, Or spot where gra.s.s and trees abound.

And here is drink, and here they rest, And take their fill of what is best; Then travel on in thankful mood, With song and shout! "Allah is good!"




LIGHTLY flowing LIQUIDS, we,-- Tethered with our brothers.

Make we music, melody, More than all the others; Lulling, mellowy, nimble, rare, Reveling in rhythm, Running here and everywhere, Make me merry with 'em.



Wild bears are found all over, From Northern lands to South, But largest, strongest, where 'tis cold And fiercest farthest North.

All bears are fond of honey, Of berries, too, and roots; They hug or squeeze their prey to death, As this their nature suits.

They mate in June-y weather; Their little ones are cubs; They sadly mourn when mates are killed, You'd almost hear their sobs.

They'll try to feed a cub That's lying cold and dead, And will not flee, but stand and take The fatal knife instead.



They sleep through winter-time, But prowl in wildest storms, With hope to find some creature killed, Or struck with death's alarms.

The bears are white, or black, Or brown or grizzly gray, The white 'mong polar snows are found, Where half the year is day.

Their fur is used for robes, For coats, sometimes a m.u.f.f,-- Their meat is prized by some as food, While some would call it "stuff."


They nimbly climb a tree, But "back down," for their frame Is made so lungs would forward press, If they head-foremost, came.

Mother Truth's Melodies Part 17

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Mother Truth's Melodies Part 17 summary

You're reading Mother Truth's Melodies Part 17. This novel has been translated by Updating. Author: E. P. Miller already has 162 views.

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