Hearts and Bones.
And so we turn from this feathered omen of evil to jovial Jumbo. Mother India's big baby. She is a strolling haystack covered with a tarpaulin, and her ears wave with the rhythm of punkahs in an eastern bungalow. She passes with the ponderous poetry of a giant machine, and a bright eye which peeps out at us from its nest of crinkled rubberoid seems to say, “My heart is the heart of a fawn, but—dignity, brother, dignity!” Her feet spread like dobs of fresh-poured pancake dough, and, from the rear, she resembles a broad-beamed old boatman
“A Bird of Satan.”
with sore feet. The heart of a wood nymph and the body of a pantechnicon!
Jumbo, what a tragedy!
Eyes that say that you should be
Springing like an antelope,
Up and down the mountain's slope!
But, of course, with bulk so brave,
You must be demure and grave.