“All three of these poems were inspired by my father, who thought of the morals, and gave me a rough idea for the stories. But I invented the name and the type of character that he is.”

Willard P. Huggins | Story One

Willard P. Huggins
Skipped school last Wednesday,
His excuse was quite simple
He fancied to play.

So early that morning
He rose with the sun,
To arrange and make plans
For his long day of fun.

Then at eight o’clock sharp
Out the door Willard ran
To put into action his
Number One plan.

He gathered some stones
Then raced down the street,
Till he reached Miss Gallumph’s house
(So tidy and neat.)

Miss Gallumph was the lady
Who stepped on his mouse,
And so for revenge
He threw rocks at her house.

When the job was all done
And the task was complete,
Willard ran on down to
Mullberry Street.

This was the street
Where they built the new zoo,
So Willard got ready
For plan Number Two.

He snuck past the gate
Without paying his fee,
For Willard was clever,
As clever could be.

But while passing the pig pen
His great plan did fail,
For he was rudely disturbed
From uncurling a pig’s tail.

For before Willard ‘s eyes
Stood the strangest type thing,
An overgrown apple
With feet made of springs!

It said, with a strange
And a low, grumbling voice,
“Kick all male doctors.
You haven’t a choice.”

Willard was scared
So he fled from the zoo,
Till he came to the street
Which was known as Patoo.

But there by the hydrant
Stood that apple again,
“You must kick the doctors,
But only the men.”

He became very frightened
Over what must be done .
He must kick the male doctors,
Yes kick everyone .

So he figured his plans,
Which he’d start right away.
His plan was to kick
One male doctor a day.

His plans were quite tricky
But I can’t tell you.
For you’ll tell the police
And he’ll get kicked, too.

But the job was soon done
And Willard was free,
From the overgrown apple
Whom he dreaded to see.

And never again
Did Willard skip school,
But you must remember
This important rule .

And follow this moral,
From it don’t stray:
‘A doctor a day
Keeps the apple away!’

–Jill Thompson, age 12

Willard P. Huggins | Story Two

Willard P. Huggins
Was avoided in school.
“ Do not go near Willard.”
Was the all around rule.

So Willard was lonely
And terribly sad,
Yet he never had done
Anything that was bad.

He had forty-five cents
From allowance to spend,
And with it he wanted to
Purchase a friend.

He thought and he thought
And then thought some more,
Till he thought of a friend he could
Buy at a store.

So he gathered his coins
And then raced off to buy,
A healthy green plant
At the greenhouse nearby.

He soon had arrived
And was looking around,
But not one plant for
Forty-five cents could be found.

So he asked the store clerk
If she’d help him find,
A healthy, green plant
That was loving and kind.

She knew of a plant
That would suit him just great,
That was healthy and green
Over in aisle number eight.

It was small, but still cute,
Yet it didn’t make sense,
That this cute little plant
Cost just forty-five cents.

The tag in the dirt
Had the strangest thing on it.
“This is a Font,
Leave in darkness where quiet.”

He gave her the money,
Then picked up his friend,
And never, forever,
Would be sad again.

He talked to his Font
Each night and each day.
But his plant, it got sick
In its own special way.

First it turned lime,
Then to yellow, then brown.
Till it soon was the ugliest
Plant in the town.

So he took his friend back
To the local greenhouse.
And set his Font down
By the creeping Gallouse.

The clerk took one look
Then knew just what to do,
For Willard’s poor plant
Who had caught the Yant flu.

“The cure for Yant flu
Is absolute aloneness,
Absolute silence,
And absolute darkness.

He was filled with deep sadness
But he took his friend home,
Took it straight to the attic
To leave it alone.

For three weeks poor Willard
Was lonely again,
And soon he forgot
All about his sick friend,

Till one day when Willard
Remembered his plant,
His pal who got sick
From a flu called the Yant.

He entered the attic and
There by the wall,
Stood an overgrown plant
About seven feet tall.

And never again
Did a friend Willard want,
For he always would have
His dear friend the Font.

Now here is a moral
With which you can’t barter,
Absence, you see,
Made the Font grow harder.

–Jill Thompson, age 12

Willard P. Huggins | Story Three

If you think this is silly
Because Willard would get caught,
Well, you had better think again,
For stupid Willard’s not.

No don’t go thinking he’s some brain
But luck has passed his way,
And something quite exciting passes
Through his life each day.

Take, for example, if you will,
A scene from just last week,
When Willard’s chance to do a good deed
Had reached its highest penk .

Willard, as you’ve noticed
Has adventure on his mind,
And he goes exploring nearby towns
To see what he can find.

Well, a buddy friend of Willard’s
Described to him a town.
Which he said was quite a challenge
To get in and look around.

The name of the town was Tridville
And was inhabited by Trids,
With a ruler named King McCafrid
But they called him Unfair Frid.

For he wouldn’t admit visitors
Of any shape or kind,
And made them work that he could live
Without a single mind .

Instead of disappointing Willard
As you may have thought,
He took it as a challenge
To get in and not get caught.

So he packed himself a lunch
Which he’d eat along the way,
And took off Saturday morning
To explore the town that day.

He thought of his plans for attack
To ensure a safe entry,
And called them (being such a wit)
Plan A, Plan B, Plan C.

About a half a mile from Tridville
He could see the mighty gates,
So he pulled out an old rule book:
“How to enter an estate.”

For Willard was no criminal
And never broke a rule,
At least, he never had been caught
Because Willard was no fool.

So he started with Plan A
Which he called “Up and Over.”
Requiring skill and timing
To perform this tough maneuver .

For with him he had fourteen sections
One foot long and one inch thick,
Which when fully assembled
Made a “Ronco Pole Vault Stick.”

So he backed up twenty yards
With his pole vault stick in hand,
A heroic expression on his face
Looking proud and oh, so grand.

With increasing speed he ran
Towards the huge and towering wall,
Stuck his stick into the ground
And let out an anguished howl.

For Willard remembered something
When it was just about too late,
He didn’t have a place to land
Once over the pearly gate.

So he stuck his feet straight out
And leaned back toward the ground,
Thus he ceased his forward motion
And descended with a bound.

He wasn’t hurt too badly
But his stick was broke in three,
So he picked himself up bravely
And proceeded with Plan B.

Well, the subject of Plan B
Was to dig beneath the wall,
But the handle of his shovel
Had been broken in the fall.

Since his first two plans had failed him
You may think that Willard blew it .
But since he couldn’t go over or under the wall
He would have to go right through it.

Willard marched up to the entrance
And walked right on through the gate,
Because he told the guy in charge
He was delivering tax rebates.

All around ran little Trids
About thirty inches high.
And one ran up to Willard
And began to sob and cry.

Willard asked him what was wrong
And if he was alright,
So the Trid told him the story
Of the “Horrid Tridville Plight.”

You see up upon this hill
There are bushes full of fruit,
But that’s where Unfair Frid lives
And he’s quite an unfair brute.

The fruit is little berries
And that’s all the Trids can eat,
But when the Trids go pick the fruit
Frid knocks them off their feet.

He just kicks them down the hill
And because they are so small.
They just roll right over the edge
Without any trouble at all.

Well, Willard told the Trid,
He would help them all he could,
By going and picking berries
So the Trids could have some food.

He ascended up the hill
Till he saw the Unfair Frid,
Then he began to pick the berries
Where they’re usually picked by Trids.

Well Unfair Frid just stood and watched
And didn’t kick him down the hill,
So he just kept right on picking
Till he finally had his fill.

Then he asked the king, “What’s up,
And why don’t you kick me?”
And the king, he simply smiled
And leaned back against a tree.

“It’s so obvious,” he replied.
“You’re just like all modern kids.
Can’t you understand that
Kicks are just for Trids?”

–Jill Thompson, age 12

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