Story of the Turbine Test
By Aiken Moore
Now Papa Groat, he had three boys
Away up in P.A.
He said, “Let’s see about the joys
They have down Badin way.
Come now, pack your trunks with zest;
Let’s get an early start,
We’ll go and have a turbine test”
(A sport dear to his heart)
They said, “We’ll take a friend this time,
A beau of Cousin Alma’s.”
(That name is just to fill the rhyme—
It’s really Alice Chalmers.)
That’s why they took young Roberts, too,
And made the party five;
They thought that four might be too few
With such a job to strive.
Now Svitz was a handsome youth,
Admired of females fair—
I think it was, to tell the truth,
The way he fixed his hair;
While Ely was to be sedate
A little bit inclined;
The things about him they relate
Were rather of that kind.
Bromelmeir had a tongue
Quite sharp, as you’ll discover
(It got that when when he was young,
And never did recover.)
Roberts dressed in early morn,
And dressed again for lunch;
At dinner, too, he would adorn
Himself—he played a hunch.
Now that we’ve learned the personnel
Of this delightful party,
I’ll hasten on—there’s much to tell—
Of deeds they did, right hearty;
And if I seem to stretch the truth,
That’s but to be expected,
When we consider every youth
So carefully selected.
To the Badin Club they came,
Their welcome was the best;
For Far abroad had gone the name—
The magic turbine test.
If E-510 B. Y. N.
Is mounting rather high,
Remember what we’ve gained in men,
And pass the matter by.
In work like this, so delicate,
Of course opinions vary;
But Papa Groat, I must relate,
Pursued a plan most wary.
A fish was caught, a healthy pearch,
Stretch your imagination!
The work was to be as a search
For signs of agitation.
An humble rabbit wouldn’t do
To send down thru the penstock,
Because they are so subject to
Those fierce attacks of shin-shock.
The fish was started down the flue,
And he was scared a-plenty;
With pulse a hundred sixty-two,
And temperature at twenty.
Said Papa Groat, “See what I’ve planned”
(A smile lit up his face),
“We test once at the turbine, and
Again down at the tailrace.”
This, too, he said, with conscious pride,
And paused to scratch his dome;
“We’ll put a lot of salt inside,
So Fishy’ll feel at home.”
Thru surging wave, in mad surprise,
Onward sped our hero.
The salt was dashing in his eyes,
His temperature was zero.
On poor Fishy, Roberts pounced,
And laughed with fiendish glee.
His pulse was taken and announced—
“Two hundred sixty-three!”
With fearless mien, and purpose true,
At tailrace Sivitz waited.
He knew exactly what to do;
The trap was set and baited.
This final chapter was to tell,
And prove our fondest hope,
That our turbines turbined well,
According to the dope.
He brought along a periscope,
Also a micrometer.
Of course he had a stethoscope
And very strong thermometer.
With calipers of finest grade,
A small tough rubber sack—
You know young Fishy must be weighed,
His scales were on his back.
Alas! the test is now in Dutch,
For, to their consternation,
Someone turned a valve too much,
And spoiled the situation.
Fishy waved a glad good bye.
A fond adieu he kissed ‘em;
Another channel he did find
Into the oiling system!
Oh! breathe a prayer for Fishy dear!
His grave is dark and dank.
He chose a strange place for his bier—
A thousand-gallon tank.
Blame not the men that did fail
But pluck up hope, Oh! Brother;
Their reappearance you may hail—
They soon will start another.