Badger Hates Society, And Invitations,

Badger Hates Society, And Invitations, And Dinner, And All That Sort Of Thing.

Banquets Are Always Pleasant Things, Consisting Mostly, As They Do, Of Eating And Drinking; But The Specially Nice Thing About A Banquet Is, That It Comes When Something's Over, And There's Nothing More To Worry About, And To-morrow Seems A Long Way Off.

There He Got Out The Luncheon-basket And Packed A Simple Meal, In Which, Remembering The Stranger's Origin And Preferences, He Took Care To Include A Yard Of Long French Bread, A Sausage Out Of Which The Garlic Sang, Some Cheese Which Lay Down And Cried, And A Long-necked Straw-covered Flask Wherein Lay Bottled Sunshine Shed And Garnered On Far Southern Slopes.

Home! That Was What They Meant, Those Caressing Appeals, Those Soft Touches Wafted Through The Air, Those Invisible Little Hands Pulling And Tugging, All One Way.

It Seemed A Place Where Heroes Could Fitly Feast After Victory, Where Weary Harvesters Could Line Up In Scores Along The Table And Keep Their Harvest Home With Mirth And Song, Or Where Two Or Three Friends Of Simple Tastes Could Sit About As They Pleased And Eat And Smoke And Talk In Comfort And Contentment.