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.
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