“Fritterday.”

Don't you remember Saturday? Why, even Friday was warmed by the anticipatory efflatus of Saturday. Even dull Duty, with pen poised over facts and figures in the Book of Scholastic Skill and Nutrient Knowledge, smiled wanly on youth, toiling to acquire they knew not what, for what they knew not.

Friday was almost as admirable as Saturday because, “if Friday comes ‘twill soon be Saturday.”

Some of us adulterated adults must still be capable of capturing a faint reflection of those fibulous Fridays. Even yet—

There's “something” in the ambient air of Friday,
A something subtly soothing—bona fide,
For Friday is the worn week's latter-day,

And almost hand-in-hand with Saturday.
On Friday comes the maid Ann Ticipation
To woo the mind with hints of relaxation,
And Striving needs must vie with puckish Play,
When Friday comes to herald Saturday.
That's if the soul's not dead but only slumbers,
And life is something more than sums and numbers.
The gardener turns his thoughts to planting “caulis,”
Forgetting for the nonce man's fettered follies,
And finding freedom from the toils of Toil,
In contemplation of the simple soil.
The golfer dreams of niblick and of “putt,”
And wonders why his mashie shots go “phut.”
So Friday, on a proper estimation,
Is brightened by such thoughts of relaxation,
Until, in fact, ‘tis almost true to say,
That out of both emerges “Fritter-day.”