Six Poigle Hunters in Full Camouflage
As I said on this blog once before, I give full credit, to artist James C. Christensen, for his help in reminding me, of my own Little People. I will share with you one of his paintings, that really inspired my own artistic talents. Not to spoil the fun, but as you can see, there are only five guys in the painting, the sixth it seems is so good, you can't see him. This led me to want to create the sixth hunter, and this led to the following poem.
The Six Poigle Hunters Of Dingle Dale
Six Poigle Hunters of Dingle Dale, went a hunting in Fringle Vale.
They carried there hammers, upon great poles, to hunt the rare Poiggle Birds, Griggles, and Croales.
Each Hunter was ready, with camouflage fair, one with roses, and fruit of the pear.
He knew he’d attract, the best of the breed, for he’d grown both the roses, and pears up from seed.
Another a stump, with fungus had he, and a frog on the top for fair company.
And of all of the hunters, this fellow named Pish, never carried a hammer, he swore by a fish.
The third Poigle Hunter, wore butterfly wings, and carried a trumpet, flute, whistles and things.
He thought would best catch him, a Griggle or Croale, with his blue ribbon tied hammer, atop of his pole.
The fourth Poigle Hunter, they thought him absurd, he was covered in feathers, wore a beak like a bird.
But they had to be careful, whatever they said, for he carried an egg, in a nest on his head.
The fifth Poigle Hunter, they bore with a moan, for he thought to use, “camo,” of pure solid stone.
His hammer was too short, his vision not bright, and he always looked squashed, and a terrible fright.
But they must endure him, as such is the case, for his Grand Sire had sponsored the Club, and the Chase.
Now the sixth Poigle Hunter, a dandy was he, ‘Twas the best of the best, and the hardest to see.
For tho he was dressed, as the rest in some way, when dusk turned to night, he just faded away.
He had learned to be quiet, he had learned to be still, for the hunt of the Poiggle Birds, gave him a thrill.
The rest dressed for daytime, ‘twas foolish thought he, when night was the time, for the Birds in the tree.
To be most at rest, and to be least aware, if a hunter crept up, with the greatest of care.
He could tap a fair Griggle, on top of its head, or a Croale, on the back, was the place it was said.
They’d have to come freely, and grant you a wish, and you'd surely not catch them, with some silly fish.
His hammer was finest, his pole of the best, and he knew of the hunters, he outshone the rest.
What made him so able, you shall soon see, to vanish at will, when in sight of the tree.
‘Twas a close guarded secret, kept by his whole Tribe, and it couldn’t be got, by gold, silver, or bribe.
For this one had been kept, down through very long ages, tho stories of it, had been told by the Sages.
This secret long kept, was a cloak, grey and black, that could shrink down to size, and fit into a pack.
Or a pocket, or purse, or a bag at your side, it was easy to carry, and easy to hide.
For their Clan had long ago, caught Poiggle Birds, and got what they wished, not by halves, nor by thirds.
For their very first hunter, had known what to ask, so now hunting for them, was no longer a task.
But a good bit of fun, time to dress up and act, for full costume was part, of their Poiggle Bird pact.
For the wish from the Birds, came with certain reserve, the cloak only given, if they had the nerve.
To play at illusion, to play at the Hunt, from their largest of hunters, to their smallest runt.
They must swear to keep secret, the source and the cloak, from the highest Punter, to their humblest of Folk.
Or the cloak would betray them, in their neediest hour, it would fade from existence, and lose all its power.
So naturally it followed, that unto a man, the “Punter’s,” had sworn, every man of the Clan.
For ‘twas a great treasure, it brought them great pride, so the cloak was a secret, most easy to hide.
And it still is a secret, they have to this day, so if you don’t go tell it, they’ll keep it that way.
Which is why, tho they’ve tried, no other hunters nor soul, has ever since caught, either Griggle or Croale.
Six Poigle Hunters of Dingle Dale, went a hunting in Fringle Vale.
They carried there hammers, upon great poles, to hunt the rare Poiggle Birds, Griggles, and Croales.
Each Hunter was ready, with camouflage fair, one with roses, and fruit of the pear.
He knew he’d attract, the best of the breed, for he’d grown both the roses, and pears up from seed.
Another a stump, with fungus had he, and a frog on the top for fair company.
And of all of the hunters, this fellow named Pish, never carried a hammer, he swore by a fish.
The third Poigle Hunter, wore butterfly wings, and carried a trumpet, flute, whistles and things.
He thought would best catch him, a Griggle or Croale, with his blue ribbon tied hammer, atop of his pole.
The fourth Poigle Hunter, they thought him absurd, he was covered in feathers, wore a beak like a bird.
But they had to be careful, whatever they said, for he carried an egg, in a nest on his head.
The fifth Poigle Hunter, they bore with a moan, for he thought to use, “camo,” of pure solid stone.
His hammer was too short, his vision not bright, and he always looked squashed, and a terrible fright.
But they must endure him, as such is the case, for his Grand Sire had sponsored the Club, and the Chase.
Now the sixth Poigle Hunter, a dandy was he, ‘Twas the best of the best, and the hardest to see.
For tho he was dressed, as the rest in some way, when dusk turned to night, he just faded away.
He had learned to be quiet, he had learned to be still, for the hunt of the Poiggle Birds, gave him a thrill.
The rest dressed for daytime, ‘twas foolish thought he, when night was the time, for the Birds in the tree.
To be most at rest, and to be least aware, if a hunter crept up, with the greatest of care.
He could tap a fair Griggle, on top of its head, or a Croale, on the back, was the place it was said.
They’d have to come freely, and grant you a wish, and you'd surely not catch them, with some silly fish.
His hammer was finest, his pole of the best, and he knew of the hunters, he outshone the rest.
What made him so able, you shall soon see, to vanish at will, when in sight of the tree.
‘Twas a close guarded secret, kept by his whole Tribe, and it couldn’t be got, by gold, silver, or bribe.
For this one had been kept, down through very long ages, tho stories of it, had been told by the Sages.
This secret long kept, was a cloak, grey and black, that could shrink down to size, and fit into a pack.
Or a pocket, or purse, or a bag at your side, it was easy to carry, and easy to hide.
For their Clan had long ago, caught Poiggle Birds, and got what they wished, not by halves, nor by thirds.
For their very first hunter, had known what to ask, so now hunting for them, was no longer a task.
But a good bit of fun, time to dress up and act, for full costume was part, of their Poiggle Bird pact.
For the wish from the Birds, came with certain reserve, the cloak only given, if they had the nerve.
To play at illusion, to play at the Hunt, from their largest of hunters, to their smallest runt.
They must swear to keep secret, the source and the cloak, from the highest Punter, to their humblest of Folk.
Or the cloak would betray them, in their neediest hour, it would fade from existence, and lose all its power.
So naturally it followed, that unto a man, the “Punter’s,” had sworn, every man of the Clan.
For ‘twas a great treasure, it brought them great pride, so the cloak was a secret, most easy to hide.
And it still is a secret, they have to this day, so if you don’t go tell it, they’ll keep it that way.
Which is why, tho they’ve tried, no other hunters nor soul, has ever since caught, either Griggle or Croale.
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