A Serious Question
A kitten went a-walkingOne morning in July,And idly fell a-talkingWith a great big butterfly.
The kitten’s tone was airy,The butterfly would scoff;When there came along a fairyWho whisked his wings right off.
And then—for it is writtenFairies can do such things—Upon the startled kittenShe stuck the yellow wings.
The kitten felt a quiver,She rose into the air,Then flew down to the riverTo view her image there.
With fear her heart was smitten,And she began to cry,“Am I a butter-kitten?Or just a kitten-fly?”
Two Old Kings
Oh! the King of KanoodledumAnd the King of Kanoodledee,They went to seaIn a jigamaree—A full-rigged jigamaree.
And one king couldn’t steer,And the other, no more could he;So they both upsetAnd they both got wet,As wet as wet could be.
And one king couldn’t swimAnd the other, he couldn’t, too;So they had to float,While their empty boatDanced away o’er the sea so blue.
Then the King of KanoodledumHe turned a trifle pale,And so did heOf Kanoodledee,But they saw a passing sail!
And one king screamed like funAnd the other king screeched like mad,And a boat was loweredAnd took them aboard;And, my! but those kings were glad!
A Day Dream
Polly’s patchwork—oh, dear me!—Truly is a sight to see.Rumpled, crumpled, soiled, and frayed—Will the quilt be ever made?See the stitches yawning wide—Can it be that Polly tried?
Some are right and some are wrong,Some too short and some too long,Some too loose and some too tight;Grimy smudges on the white,And a tiny spot of red,Where poor Polly’s finger bled.Strange such pretty, dainty blocks—Bits of Polly’s summer frocks—Should have proved so hard to sew,And the cause of so much woe!
One day it was very hot,And the thread got in a knot,Drew the seam up in a heap—Polly calmly fell asleep.Then she had a lovely dream;Straight and even was the seam,Pure and spotless was the white;All the blocks were finished quite—Each joined to another one.Lo, behold! the quilt was done,—Lined and quilted,—and it seemedTo cover Polly as she dreamed!
We’re going to have the mostest fun!It’s going to be a club;And no one can belong to itBut Dot and me and Bub.
We thought we’d have a Reading Club,But couldn’t ’cause, you see,Not one of us knows how to read—Not Dot nor Bub nor me.
And then we said a Sewing Club,But thought we’d better not;’Cause none of us knows how to sew—Not me nor Bub nor Dot.
And so it’s just a Playing Club,We play till time for tea;And, oh, we have the bestest times!Just Dot and Bub and me.
There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.He’d written treatises and themes till, “For a change,” he said,“I think I’ll write a children’s book before I go to bed.”
He pulled down all his musty tomes in Latin and in Greek;Consulted cyclopædias and manuscripts antique,Essays in Anthropology, studies in counterpoise—“For these,” he said, “are useful lore for little girls and boys.”
He scribbled hard, and scribbled fast, he burned the midnight oil,And when he reached “The End” he felt rewarded for his toil;He said, “This charming Children’s Book is greatly to my credit.”And now he’s sorely puzzled that no child has ever read it.