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While thus he spake two farmers sauntered past
And turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,—
“I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen,
The little beast has wandered from his pen!”
Jocko is captured by the portly pair,
They lead him, passive, to the Market Square;
Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,—
“Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!”
The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore,
Into a vacant pen and slam the door:—
Through the grim wires the searching breezes moan
And Jocko sits there shivering alone.