Stenography

Our fathers walked around the hill,
And we pursue their journey still,
Ah, toilfully we do it!
Stenography, direct and fleet,
Has used its hrain to save its feet,
And made a tunnel through it.
With inky lines complexly wrought
We spin a spider-web for thought,
And lazily invite it;
Stenography, of fiercer mold,
Leaps after thought, with spirit bold,
As far as it can sight it.
In clumsy coaches dull and slow
The longhand writers plodding go,—
Or break down, woe betide it!
Stenography, a railroad train,
Speeds on the track as Driver Brain
Desires to urge and guide it.
For thought is like a maiden gay
Whom Shorthand takes in dashing way.
And gladly she receives him;
But Longhand is the drawling kind,
Who tries to speak his sluggish mind,
And while he tries, she—leaves him.