Yes, we live down in the orchard,
Under an apple tree;
We’ve got a palace down there,
Little Padoy and me.
We built it of sticks and timbers
The carpenters threw away.
We worked at it hard, I tell you;
It took us a whole long day.
There’s a door (without any hinges),
And a window (without any blind),
And a chimney (it’s built of pebbles,
And it smokes—but never mind).
And the roof (it’s a little leaky),
We tried to make it look—
With straw laid smooth—like the houses
I found in my picture book.
There’s a stairway made of corn-cobs,
And parlor and kitchen and hall,
And sofas and chairs and tables,
And a looking-glass on the wall;
And in the kitchen a cupboard
With real dishes on the shelves;
Mother, she gave them to us,
But the rest we made ourselves.
Oh, just come along now, won’t you?
It’s only a little way.
I want to show you our palace—
How old am I, did you say?
I’ll be six years old next summer,
And my wife she’s going on four;
There she is, waiting for me—
There by our palace door.
Padoy, see, we’ve got company,
Now you must be polite
And say “Good morning” pretty,
And “Won’t you sit down?” That’s right.
And here’s the dinner ready—
Biscuit and sauce and tea.
The tea it’s water and sugar,
And as sweet as sweet can be;
And the biscuits—Padoy, she makes ’em:
She mixes water and flour,
And sets it to rise in the sunshine
For almost a half an hour;
And then she kneads it and kneads it
Into tiny cakes of dough,
And it’s fun to play ball with ’em,
Before they’re baked, you know.
Say, now, won’t you have some?
Only one! Why, look here.
There’s lots more where these come from,
Ain’t there, Padoy, my dear?
You’d like to look at my garden?
Oh, yes, it’s right out there;
Somehow it doesn’t do well,
In spite of all my care.
The wind it blew down my bean-vine,
My radish it never grew,
The bugs they eat up my cabbage,
And my turnip and cucumber too.
(Padoy, run wash the dishes).
I wouldn’t have her know,
But I tore up the tomato
Trying my bran-new hoe.
Ever quarrel? Why, no, I guess not.
Sometimes she won’t play fair,
And once I got out of patience,
And bit her and pulled her hair.
But she cried so hard, I tell you
I was sorry as could be;
And, well, I—I—I kissed her,
And we made up, you see.
Candy! Oh, my! Padoy,
Just look here, will you, then?
Going? Well, to-morrow
Come and see us again.
“I’ll be six years old next summer,
And my wife she’s going on four.”—Page 236.