The Poetry Corner

The Whippoorwill And I.

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

In the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still, I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill, Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill, Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will." And why should I whip him? Strange visitant, Has he been playing truant this long summer day? I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will." But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more; I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for. I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will." Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day, And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away? I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will." Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears, I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears. The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill, Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will." But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain; I'm out of all patience, don't mock me again. The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill, Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will." Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell, I'll shut down the window, and bid you farewell; But of one thing be sure, I won't whip him until You give me some reason for whipping poor Will. I listened a moment, as if for reply, But nothing was heard but the bird's mocking cry. I caught the faint echo from valley and hill; It breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."