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56 'Till a flash—not all of steel—

Where the flying squadrons wheel,

Brought a rumble and a roar

Rolling down the velvet floor,

And like blows of Autumn flail,

Sharply beat the iron hail.

Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears,

Raised his long and pointed ears,

Mumbled his prehensile lip,

Quivered his pulsating hip

When the sharp vindictive yell

Rose above the screaming shell;

Thought the world and all the men—

All the charging squadrons meant—

All were rabbit hunters then,

All to capture him intent.

Bunny was not much to blame,

Wiser folk have thought the same;

Wiser folk, because they spy

Every ill begins with "I."

Wildly panting here and there,