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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,
Up got the little dog, and he began to bark;
He began to bark, so she began to cry,
“ Lawk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I!”

POLLY.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

Brown eyes, straight nose;
Dirt pies, rumpled clothes.
Torn books, spoilt toys;
Arch looks, unlike a boy's;

Little rages, obvious arts;
(Three her age is), cakes, tarts;

Falling down off chairs;
Breaking crown down stairs ;
Catching flies on the pane;
Deep sighs — cause not plain;
Bribing you with kisses
For a few farthing blisses.
Wide-a-wake; as you hear,
“Mercy's sake, quiet, dear!”
New shoes, new frock;
Vague views of what is o'clock
When it's time to go to bed,
And scorn sublime for what is said.

Folded hands, saying prayers,
Understands not nor cares
Thinks it odd, smiles away;
Yet may God hear her pray!
Fast asleep, as you see,
Heaven keep my girl for me!

THE LOST DOLL.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

I ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears,

The prettiest doll in the world ; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,

And her hair was so charmingly curled.

But I lost my poor little doll, dears,

As I played on the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears,

But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,

As I played on the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,

For her paint is all washed away. And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,

And her hair's not the least bit curled ; Yet for old time's sake, she is still, dears,

The prettiest doll in the world.

BABY BYE.

THEODORE TILTON.

BABY bye,
Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.

How he crawls
Up the walls,

Yet he never falls !
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.

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,
Where to look to find his shoes,

Three small pairs,
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

No such things,
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
Drabbled in the baby's milk;

Fie, oh fie,
Foolish fly!
How will he get dry ?

All wet flies
Twist their thighs

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