Spark Plug. I rode home—one happy kid. —Lloyd R. Warner, Mountain Green A SAD, SAD TALE The farmer, on a summer day Went out to cut his field of hay. But the lightening flashed and a flood of rain Knocked down all his hay and grain. The thunder turned the milk to whey And the chickens all refused to lay. The pigs excaped in the early mom And tooted out all the farmer's corn. His horse went dead and his mule went lame And he lost six cows in a poker game. Then a hurricane came on a summer day And blew the house where he lived away. An earthquake came when that was gone And swallowed the land that his house stood on. Then the tax collector came around And charged him for the hole in the ground. His wife got mad and flew the coop And claimed he was a nincompoop. She had him summoned into court And had him charged with non support. His kids declared he made them toil From sun to dusk upon the soil. His neighbors said his day was past And thus his failure did forecast. He tried his hand at politics Folks claimed he was a heretic. Thus he became an 'also ran' And signed up for the Welfare Plan. And now he sits and whistles away. 'I've come to the end of a perfect day.' 102