Mixing It

We strolled beside the shingled shore
   One afternoon in Spring,
And the shouting of the noisy sands
   It hurt like anything.
Each separate grain seemed to complain,
   And call us nasty names.
A critic each that would impeach
   Us for past "little games."

We sorted out each noisy grain
   And sized it up -- and down;
And sought to still its howling shrill
   With our ferocious frown.
Then all the fuss appeared to us
   To suddenly abate.
And, looking round we only found
The ship's cook and his mate.
            Yo, ho!
   Old cookie and his mate.

Since that sad afternoon in Spring
We've signed the pledge and cut the thing.