By the bag of Gold Medal flour,
By the sneezes contained therein,
In the pleasant April morning,
Little Hunter stood and waited.
At the pantry bifold doorway,
Foodstuffs taunted from within.
All the air was full of food smells,
All the room was bright and joyous.
And before him, through the sunshine,
Visions of feasting evermore.
Passed in wafts of smells, the food bin,
Passed the time of snarfing gone,
Hungry little tummy grumbling.
Grumbling loud for all to hear.
Right above him, tempting food stuffs,
High outside his range of vision,
But the nose did sense the offerings,
Tempting, calling, evermore.
Curses, no one hears his pleading.
No one pays a heed to call,
Sadly, turning now from bifold,
Little puppy plods away.
Burrowed, underneath the blanket
Hungry little puppy frowns.
Burrowed, pouting, no one loves him.
Hungry puppy. No one loves him.
He is hungry evermore.
[Young Hunter has just finished reading Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s epic poem "Hiawatha." He found the work inspiring and hunkered down for several evenings to write something of equal importance. Here is the exciting conclusion to his epic poem. -Ed.]