There came by a pedler whose name was Stout, He cut her petticoats all round about He cut her petticoats up to the knees, Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze. When this little woman first did wake, She began to shiver and she began to shake, She began to wonder and she began to cry, "Lawk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I: "But if it be I, as I do hope it be, I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me; If it be I, he'll wag his little tail, And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail!" Home went the little woman all in the dark, POLLY. GEORGE MACDONALD. BROWN eyes, straight nose; Torn books, spoilt toys; Little rages, obvious arts; Falling down off chairs; When it's time to go to bed, Folded hands, saying prayers, Understands not nor cares Thinks it odd, smiles away; Fast asleep, as you see, THE LOST DOLL. CHARLES KINGSLEY. I ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, But I lost my poor little doll, dears, I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, BABY BYE. THEODORE TILTON. BABY bye, Let us watch him, you and I. How he crawls Up the walls, Yet he never falls! I believe with six such legs There he goes On his toes, Tickling baby's nose. Spots of red Dot his head; Rainbows on his back are spread; That small speck Is his neck; See him nod and beck. I can show you, if you choose, Made of hairs; These he always wears. Black and brown Is his gown; He can wear it upside down; It is laced Round his waist; I admire his taste. Yet though tight his clothes are made, He will lose them, I'm afraid, If to-night He gets sight Of the candle-light. In the sun Webs are spun; What if he gets into one? When it rains He complains On the window-panes. Tongue to talk have you and I; God has given the little fly So he sings With his buzzing wings. He can eat Bread and meat; There's his mouth between his feet. On his back Is a pack Like a pedler's sack. Does the baby understand? Then the fly shall kiss her hand; Put a crumb On her thumb, Maybe he will come. Catch him? No, Let him go, Never hurt an insect so; But no doubt He flies out Just to gad about. Now you see his wings of silk Fie, oh fie, Foolish fly! How will he get dry? All wet flies Twist their thighs |