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Chapter 1:- The Tragic End of William Wish
The sun shone bright in the lane that day
That William walked to town.
There never was a lovlier day
To jog along the ground.
He traveled thus from year to year,
Each day, both there and back,
And never stopped his jogging pace
Along the well-worn track.
The weather bad delayed him not,
He merely speeded up.
And every time he spied a girl,
He whistled, but did not stop.
Oh, yes, this was a practice fine:
A whistle shrill he gave.
The girls were tall, the girls were fat--
Their looks no difference made.
For William little cared about
Their shape or form or figure;
It didn't matter whether they
Looked smaller, or were bigger.
At all the girls who passed him by
Our William had to whistle,
Regardless of the thorny path
And danger of the thistle.
On this fine day I speak about
The road was dry and straight;
The afternoon was drifting 'long,
For will had started late.
He trotted over hill and dale
And hurried o'er the bridge.
The carriage-lane deserted was,
Until he came to Ridge.
Now Ridge was populous and rare,
A really prosperous town.
The people there all wore strange clothes
And shot their neighbors down.
They strung them up to every tree
With lengthy ribbons strong,
And sang them to eternal rest
With a hard-rock beat in song.
The day that William happened by,
The square was filled with folk
Who auctioned off their worldly goods
To unsuspecting blokes.
So in this solitary trek
Our william made a halt.
He stopped beside a likely man
And they began to talk.
"This town is dead" the speaker said,
"And no one here will stay.
The oldest ones have all been killed
And we are on our way."
"Oh horrors grim!" William replied,
His countenance turning pale.
"This awful place I've heard about.
It surely must be Hell!"
"Where is the Ridge I've always known?
And where the sweet young girls?
Where are the men who worked so hard?
How comes this new mad whirl?"
"Am I to never see them more
Amid this sere, dark waste?
Is all the world become like this?
Must I repent in haste?
"I've never seen a time like this,
With nothing tranquil known.
I cannot stay, away must flee,
And hide me safe at home!"
With that, our William sprinted off,
Turned back the way he came.
He had to make it home to see
If things there were the same.
His feet flew fast, and, home at last,
He saw his cottage dear:
The sun-kissed yard and trees and things,
And no more did he fear.
"I'm home at last, and all is well.
The terrors now have fled.
My hearth, my cup, my clock and bed,
All are here and safe from dread.
"The kettle sings, the dog doth leap,
And happy is my soul.
No harm to me can ever come,
So long as home is whole."
And yet, while William grateful lay
Upon his on dear bed,
A clatter sounded in his road
And plaster hit his head.
He jumped straight up and brushed him off,
And called his faithful dog.
No answer came, no joyful bark.
Poor Tige lay like a log.
Despite his tears, our William ran,
His home in ruin behind him.
To where he sped, he did not know--
Somewhere they could not find him.
Then shots rang out and William cringed.
Into the ditch he dived,
And, panting, lay upon his back,
Surprised to be alive.
The throng surged by in frantic rush.
Dust clouds marked their way.
Their clamor faded on the air,
And the lane then peaceful lay.
From out the ditch our William climbed
And stood upon the road.
He started toward the mountain crest,
Bowed by a heavy load.
His heart was dead, it felt like lead.
There was no place to go.
The people all had gone insane
And filled the world with woe.
This earth no longer was for him.
The good times all were over.
He couldn't see the blue sky now;
It was shielded by black cover.
He fell upon his knees and cried,
"The time is here, I know.
I cannot face my life like this--
I surely now must go!
"The world no longer gives me joy.
This pain I cannot bide!"
And in the dusty summer road
William laid himself and died.
The crowd surged back along the track
And found him there, quite still.
A few remembered him from old,
But most never knew poor Bill.
They kicked him back into the ditch,
Among the briars and thistle.
And all that was left of William Wish
Was the faint echo of a whistle.
The sun shone bright in the lane that day
That William walked to town.
There never was a lovlier day
To jog along the ground.
He traveled thus from year to year,
Each day, both there and back,
And never stopped his jogging pace
Along the well-worn track.
The weather bad delayed him not,
He merely speeded up.
And every time he spied a girl,
He whistled, but did not stop.
Oh, yes, this was a practice fine:
A whistle shrill he gave.
The girls were tall, the girls were fat--
Their looks no difference made.
For William little cared about
Their shape or form or figure;
It didn't matter whether they
Looked smaller, or were bigger.
At all the girls who passed him by
Our William had to whistle,
Regardless of the thorny path
And danger of the thistle.
On this fine day I speak about
The road was dry and straight;
The afternoon was drifting 'long,
For will had started late.
He trotted over hill and dale
And hurried o'er the bridge.
The carriage-lane deserted was,
Until he came to Ridge.
Now Ridge was populous and rare,
A really prosperous town.
The people there all wore strange clothes
And shot their neighbors down.
They strung them up to every tree
With lengthy ribbons strong,
And sang them to eternal rest
With a hard-rock beat in song.
The day that William happened by,
The square was filled with folk
Who auctioned off their worldly goods
To unsuspecting blokes.
So in this solitary trek
Our william made a halt.
He stopped beside a likely man
And they began to talk.
"This town is dead" the speaker said,
"And no one here will stay.
The oldest ones have all been killed
And we are on our way."
"Oh horrors grim!" William replied,
His countenance turning pale.
"This awful place I've heard about.
It surely must be Hell!"
"Where is the Ridge I've always known?
And where the sweet young girls?
Where are the men who worked so hard?
How comes this new mad whirl?"
"Am I to never see them more
Amid this sere, dark waste?
Is all the world become like this?
Must I repent in haste?
"I've never seen a time like this,
With nothing tranquil known.
I cannot stay, away must flee,
And hide me safe at home!"
With that, our William sprinted off,
Turned back the way he came.
He had to make it home to see
If things there were the same.
His feet flew fast, and, home at last,
He saw his cottage dear:
The sun-kissed yard and trees and things,
And no more did he fear.
"I'm home at last, and all is well.
The terrors now have fled.
My hearth, my cup, my clock and bed,
All are here and safe from dread.
"The kettle sings, the dog doth leap,
And happy is my soul.
No harm to me can ever come,
So long as home is whole."
And yet, while William grateful lay
Upon his on dear bed,
A clatter sounded in his road
And plaster hit his head.
He jumped straight up and brushed him off,
And called his faithful dog.
No answer came, no joyful bark.
Poor Tige lay like a log.
Despite his tears, our William ran,
His home in ruin behind him.
To where he sped, he did not know--
Somewhere they could not find him.
Then shots rang out and William cringed.
Into the ditch he dived,
And, panting, lay upon his back,
Surprised to be alive.
The throng surged by in frantic rush.
Dust clouds marked their way.
Their clamor faded on the air,
And the lane then peaceful lay.
From out the ditch our William climbed
And stood upon the road.
He started toward the mountain crest,
Bowed by a heavy load.
His heart was dead, it felt like lead.
There was no place to go.
The people all had gone insane
And filled the world with woe.
This earth no longer was for him.
The good times all were over.
He couldn't see the blue sky now;
It was shielded by black cover.
He fell upon his knees and cried,
"The time is here, I know.
I cannot face my life like this--
I surely now must go!
"The world no longer gives me joy.
This pain I cannot bide!"
And in the dusty summer road
William laid himself and died.
The crowd surged back along the track
And found him there, quite still.
A few remembered him from old,
But most never knew poor Bill.
They kicked him back into the ditch,
Among the briars and thistle.
And all that was left of William Wish
Was the faint echo of a whistle.
