("I always take a book with me to the beach," writes an ultra-delicate correspondent of the daily Press, "and when I see ladies bathing, I begin to read. I know dozens of fellows who would not, but I always do." He always does. Of course.)
When he walks along the beaches, and a score of dainty peaches
Emerge in bathing costume from a sheltered, shady nook,
To avoid undue surprises, the direction of his eyes is
Immediately and always to the pages of his book.
And he couldn't tell the copper if their costumes were improper --
He was very busy reading, and he never had a look.
They might have been Canadian, and they might have been Arcadian,
His attention was diverted to an interesting book.
Didn't know if they were skimpy or would reach from here to Gympie,
Fitted tight or floated limply like a lily on a brook;
They were over his horizon, for he kept his earnest eyes on
The safe, monastic refuge that was offered by his book.
Strolling Tom and Dick and Harry no literature carry,
For they'd miss a lot of learning if a glance they never took.
Twenty pairs of white feet dancing, twenty sun-kissed throats entrancing
Lend a greater store of knowledge than the very wisest book.
First published in Melbourne Punch, 15 February 1912
