ADDISON COUNTY, VERMONT, CLAY by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY

THE North Vermonter who would fain
The Equinox Hotel attain;
The South Vermonter, who, in turn,
Would see some Swanton powder burn;
The East Side habitant who tries
To view Vergennes before he dies,
Are each and all compelled to share
The same intensive wear and tear,
And cross, to their extreme dismay,
The Addisonian wastes of clay.

Each time my fliverette goes through
New Haven on the double skew,
Each time my touring chariot skids
Amongst the Dunmore dogs and kids,
Each time I stop to set a tire
In Middlebury's classic mire,
I ask myself, What in the deuce
Can be the town or county use,
The rhyme or reason, anyway,
For such a monstrous mess of clay?

And answers two have come to hand
Which absolute respect command;
The first one says, "These lofty hills,
Which give your motor man the chills,
These hills that make the soul recoil,
The spark plug swoon, the water boil,
Require to hold 'em where they b'long
An underpinning stiff and strong,
And nothing else will make 'em stay
In place but Addisonian clay."

The other says, "That when the snow
Makes up its April mind to go,
When runners scrape and sleds cut through,
And girls get red and "fellers" blue;
When Lincoln teams throw off their loads
And you'd be stuck on other roads,
This pasty blueness acts like grease
And slides you on your way in peace;
Your harness holds, your heart is gay—
You're saved by Addisonian clay!"

These reasons sort of disagree,
But either one will do for me;
For when I'm told a thing is so
It's all I ever want to know;
I now can slip and skip and slue
Through Weybridge and through Waltham, too,
And 'long the heights of Hancock hump,
In Bristol bump and Shoreham slump
And feel I'm favored all the way
In travelling over first-class clay.

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