Page:St. Nicholas (serial) (IA stnicholasserial402dodg).pdf/678

 On the shore of his Globular Isle
 * The Orc in his slippers reposes;

You can tell he's an Orc by his use of a fork,
 * And the singular color his nose is;

For he batters his fork on the edge of his porringer, And his nose is the shade of an orange, but oranger.

Now the whole of the Globular Isle
 * Is of glass, and belongs to him only;

Any one that he sees must fall down on his knees,
 * Yet he finds it exceedingly lonely.

For, though born with a thirst for exciting adventure, he Hasn't seen any one there for a century.

He must sit on his Globular Isle,
 * For 't is slippery, icy, and little.

If he stood upon that, he would simply fall flat
 * And the glass is remarkably brittle.

So the Ore sits quite still, and when stillness oppresses it, It thinks up a comical riddle, and guesses it.

But the food on the Globular Isle
 * Is observed to be frightfully lacking.

Though he clatters with vim on his porringer's rim,
 * He has never got much by his whacking;

Though he batters his porringer every minute, He's never been known to have anything in it.

And the waves on his Globular Isle
 * Come a-bounding in breakers and billows.

All the night-time they break while the Orc stays awake,
 * Though he lies with his head on three pillows.

For he knows he must swim if they ever should reach him, And there's never been any one handy to teach him.

So the Ore on his Globular Isle,
 * Never moving, or sleeping, or eating,

Lies awake night and day near the billowy spray,
 * While his riddles he keeps on repeating;

And he wonders if life could be really much duller, And just why his nose is that orangey color.

So, my child, when you wake up at night,
 * And you can't see the light in the hall;

When it's yards to the floor and it's miles to the door,
 * And it never gets morning at all;

If you think you are lonely, just manage to smile, and Consider the Orc on his Globular Island.