A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land—
      Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
      A snug little berth in that ship I demand
      That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away
      Where the Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day
      And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand;
      You take of that fruit as much as you list,
      For colic's a nuisance that doesn't exist!
      So cuddle me and cuddle me fast,
      And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
      For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast—
      Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!

      The Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day!
      Heigh-ho for Winkyway land!
      And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I've heard people say)
      Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand—
      And that is a trick I would fain understand!
      Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day!
      And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night—
      A bottle of milk that is creamy and white!
      So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast,
      And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
      For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast—
      Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!

      Of mornings, bright and early,
      When the lark is on the wing
      And the robin in the maple
      Hops from her nest to sing,
      From yonder cheery chamber
      Cometh a mellow coo—
      'T is the sweet, persuasive treble
      Of my little Googly-Goo!

      The sunbeams hear his music,
      And they seek his little bed,
      And they dance their prettiest dances
      Round his golden curly head:
      Schottisches, galops, minuets,
      Gavottes and waltzes, too,
      Dance they unto the music
      Of my googling Googly-Goo.

      My heart—my heart it leapeth
      To hear that treble tone;
      What music like thy music,
      My darling and mine own!
      And patiently—yes, cheerfully
      I toil the long day through—
      My labor seemeth lightened
      By the song of Googly-Goo!

      I may not see his antics,
      Nor kiss his dimpled cheek:
      I may not smooth the tresses
      The sunbeams love to seek;
      It mattereth not—the echo
      Of his sweet, persuasive coo
      Recurreth to remind me
      Of my little Googly-Goo.

      And when I come at evening,
      I stand without the door
      And patiently I listen
      For that dear sound once more;
      And oftentimes I wonder,
      "Oh, God! what should I do
      If any ill should happen
      To my little Googly-Goo!"

      Then in affright I call him—
      I hear his gleeful shouts!
      Begone, ye dread forebodings—
      Begone, ye killing doubts!
      For, with my arms about him,
      My heart warms through and through
      With the oogling and the googling
      Of my little Googly-Goo!

      Speakin' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce
      Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice.
      Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose
      From his predisposition to chronic repose;
      But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat—
      Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet!

      Mos' dorgs hez some forte—like huntin' an' such,
      But the sports o' the field didn't bother him much;
      Wuz just a plain dorg, an' contented to be
      On peaceable terms with the neighbors an' me;
      Used to fiddle an' squirm, and grunt "Oh, how nice!"
      When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce!

      He wuz long in the bar'l, like a fyce oughter be;
      His color wuz yaller as ever you see;
      His tail, curlin' upward, wuz long, loose, an' slim—
      When he didn't wag it, why, the tail it wagged him!
      His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pup
      Wuz as tall settin' down as he wuz standin' up!

      He'd lie by the stove of a night an' regret
      The various vittles an' things he had et;
      When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along,
      He'd lift up his voice in significant song—
      You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space
      In that bosom o' his'n to hold so much bass!

      Of daytimes he'd sneak to the road an' lie down,
      An' tackle the country dorgs comin' to town;
      By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe,
      For what he took hold of he never let go!
      An' a dude that come courtin' our girl left a slice
      Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce!

      He wuz good to us kids—when we pulled at his fur
      Or twisted his tail he would never demur;
      He seemed to enjoy all our play an' our chaff,
      For his tongue 'u'd hang out an' he'd laff an' he'd laff;
      An' once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice,
      He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce!

      We all hev our choice, an' you, like the rest,
      Allow that the dorg which you've got is the best;
      I wouldn't give much for the boy 'at grows up
      With no friendship subsistin' 'tween him an' a pup!
      When a fellow gits old—I tell you it's nice
      To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce!

      To think of the springtime 'way back in St. Joe—
      Of the peach-trees abloom an' the daisies ablow;
      To think of the play in the medder an' grove,
      When little legs wrassled an' little han's strove;
      To think of the loyalty, valor, an' truth
      Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth!

      Little Miss Brag has much to say
      To the rich little lady from over the way
      And the rich little lady puts out a lip
      As she looks at her own white, dainty slip,
      And wishes that she could wear a gown
      As pretty as gingham of faded brown!
      For little Miss Brag she lays much stress
      On the privileges of a gingham dress—
          "Aha,
           Oho!"

      The rich little lady from over the way
      Has beautiful dolls in vast array;
      Yet she envies the raggedy home-made doll
      She hears our little Miss Brag extol.
      For the raggedy doll can fear no hurt
      From wet, or heat, or tumble, or dirt!
      Her nose is inked, and her mouth is, too,
      And one eye's black and the other's blue—
          "Aha,
           Oho!"

      The rich little lady goes out to ride
      With footmen standing up outside,
      Yet wishes that, sometimes, after dark
      Her father would trundle her in the park;—
      That, sometimes, her mother would sing the things
      Little Miss Brag says her mother sings
      When through the attic window streams
      The moonlight full of golden dreams—
          "Aha,
           Oho!"

      Yes, little Miss Brag has much to say
      To the rich little lady from over the way;
      And yet who knows but from her heart
      Often the bitter sighs upstart—
      Uprise to lose their burn and sting
      In the grace of the tongue that loves to sing
      Praise of the treasures all its own!
      So I've come to love that treble tone—
          "Aha,
           Oho!"

      The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song
      To my dear little boy at play—
      Merrily singeth all day long,
      As it spinneth and spinneth away.
      And my dear little boy
      He laugheth with joy
      When he heareth the monotone
      Of that busy thing
      That loveth to sing
      The song that is all its own.

      Hold fast the string and wind it tight,
      That the song be loud and clear;
      Now hurl the top with all your might
      Upon the banquette here;
      And straight from the string
      The joyous thing
      Boundeth and spinneth along,
      And it whirrs and it chirrs
      And it birrs and it purrs
      Ever its pretty song.

      Will ever my dear little boy grow old,
      As some have grown before?
      Will ever his heart feel faint and cold,
      When he heareth the songs of yore?
      Will ever this toy
      Of my dear little boy,
      When the years have worn away,
      Sing sad and low
      Of the long ago,
      As it singeth to me to-day?

      When the busy day is done,
      And my weary little one
      Rocketh gently to and fro;
      When the night winds softly blow,
      And the crickets in the glen
      Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
      When upon the haunted green
      Fairies dance around their queen—
      Then from yonder misty skies
      Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

      Through the murk and mist and gloam
      To our quiet, cozy home,
      Where to singing, sweet and low,
      Rocks a cradle to and fro;
      Where the clock's dull monotone
      Telleth of the day that's done;
      Where the moonbeams hover o'er
      Playthings sleeping on the floor—
      Where my weary wee one lies
      Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

      Cometh like a fleeting ghost
      From some distant eerie coast;
      Never footfall can you hear
      As that spirit fareth near—
      Never whisper, never word
      From that shadow-queen is heard.
      In ethereal raiment dight,
      From the realm of fay and sprite
      In the depth of yonder skies
      Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

      Layeth she her hands upon
      My dear weary little one,
      And those white hands overspread
      Like a veil the curly head,
      Seem to fondle and caress
      Every little silken tress;
      Then she smooths the eyelids down
      Over those two eyes of brown—
      In such soothing, tender wise
      Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

      Dearest, feel upon your brow
      That caressing magic now;
      For the crickets in the glen
      Chirp and chirp and chirp again,
      While upon the haunted green
      Fairies dance around their queen,
      And the moonbeams hover o'er
      Playthings sleeping on the floor—
      Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies
      Cometh Lady Button-Eyes!

      Play that my knee was a calico mare
      Saddled and bridled for Bumpville;
      Leap to the back of this steed, if you dare,
      And gallop away to Bumpville!
      I hope you'll be sure to sit fast in your seat,
      For this calico mare is prodigiously fleet,
      And many adventures you're likely to meet
      As you journey along to Bumpville.

      This calico mare both gallops and trots
      While whisking you off to Bumpville;
      She paces, she shies, and she stumbles, in spots,
      In the tortuous road to Bumpville;
      And sometimes this strangely mercurial steed
      Will suddenly stop and refuse to proceed,
      Which, all will admit, is vexatious indeed,
      When one is en route to Bumpville!

      She's scared of the cars when the engine goes "Toot!"
      Down by the crossing at Bumpville;
      You'd better look out for that treacherous brute
      Bearing you off to Bumpville!
      With a snort she rears up on her hindermost heels,
      And executes jigs and Virginia reels—
      Words fail to explain how embarrassed one feels
      Dancing so wildly to Bumpville!

      It's bumpytybump and it's jiggytyjog,
      Journeying on to Bumpville
      It's over the hilltop and down through the bog
      You ride on your way to Bumpville;
      It's rattletybang over boulder and stump,
      There are rivers to ford, there are fences to jump,
      And the corduroy road it goes bumpytybump,
      Mile after mile to bumpville!

      Perhaps you'll observe it's no easy thing
      Making the journey to Bumpville,
      So I think, on the whole, it were prudent to bring
      An end to this ride to Bumpville;
      For, though she has uttered no protest or plaint,
      The calico mare must be blowing and faint—
      What's more to the point, I'm blowed if I ain't!
      So play we have got to Bumpville!

      I looked in the brook and saw a face—
      Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
      There were rushes and willows in that place,
      And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
      And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
      As a child doth run in heedless play,
      And as it ran I heard it say:
      "Hasten with me
      To the roistering sea
      That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"

      I look in the brook and see a face—
      Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
      The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
      And the willows I knew when a child was I.
      And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
      As ever it stealeth on its way—
      Solemnly now, and not in play:
      "Oh, come with me
      To the slumbrous sea
      That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"

      Heigh-ho, but the years go by—
      I would to God that a child were I!

      It's June ag'in, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy
      That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy;
      For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen,
      Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' green";
      Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and ants,
      An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to meetin' pants.
      It's June ag'in, an' with it all what happiness is mine—
      There's goin' to be a picnic, an' I'm goin' to jine!

      One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained!
      (But grampa says that that's the way "baptizo" is explained.)
      And once I jined the 'Piscopils an' had a heap o' fun—
      But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyteriun!
      They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges, an' pies,
      That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes!
      Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriuns give yer is so fine
      That when they have a picnic, you bet I'm goin' to jine!

      But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me,
      For they're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.;
      Why should a liberal universalist like me object
      To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect?
      However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be,
      Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me!
      So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine,
      They're goin' to give a picnic, and I'm goin' to jine!

      Shuffle-shoon and Amber-Locks
      Sit together, building blocks;
      Shuffle-Shoon is old and gray,
      Amber-Locks a little child,
      But together at their play
      Age and Youth are reconciled,
      And with sympathetic glee
      Build their castles fair to see.

      "When I grow to be a man"
      (So the wee one's prattle ran),
      "I shall build a castle so—
      With a gateway broad and grand;
      Here a pretty vine shall grow,
      There a soldier guard shall stand;
      And the tower shall be so high,
      Folks will wonder, by and by!"

      Shuffle-Shoon quoth: "Yes, I know;
      Thus I builded long ago!
      Here a gate and there a wall,
      Here a window, there a door;
      Here a steeple wondrous tall
      Riseth ever more and more!
      But the years have leveled low
      What I builded long ago!"

      So they gossip at their play,
      Heedless of the fleeting day;
      One speaks of the Long Ago
      Where his dead hopes buried lie;
      One with chubby cheeks aglow
      Prattleth of the By and By;
      Side by side, they build their blocks—
      Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks.

      Come, my little one, with me!
      There are wondrous sights to see
      As the evening shadows fall;
      In your pretty cap and gown,
      Don't detain
      The Shut-Eye train—
      "Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth,
      "Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth,
      And we hear the warning call:
      "All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!"

      Over hill and over plain
      Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train!
      Through the blue where bloom the stars
      And the Mother Moon looks down
      We'll away
      To land of Fay—
      Oh, the sights that we shall see there!
      Come, my little one, with me there—
      'T is a goodly train of cars—
      All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!

      Swifter than a wild bird's flight,
      Through the realms of fleecy light
      We shall speed and speed away!
      Let the Night in envy frown—
      What care we
      How wroth she be!
      To the Balow-land above us,
      To the Balow-folk who love us,
      Let us hasten while we may—
      All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!

      Shut-Eye Town is passing fair—
      Golden dreams await us there;
      We shall dream those dreams, my dear,
      Till the Mother Moon goes down—
      See unfold
      Delights untold!
      And in those mysterious places
      We shall see beloved faces
      And beloved voices hear
      In the grace of Shut-Eye Town.

      Heavy are your eyes, my sweet,
      Weary are your little feet—
      Nestle closer up to me
      In your pretty cap and gown;
      Don't detain
      The Shut-Eye train!
      "Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth,
      "Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth
      Oh, the sights that we shall see!
      All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!

      See, what a wonderful garden is here,
      Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!
      Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown—
      Search ye the country and hunt ye the town
      And never ye'll meet with a garden so queer
      As this one I've made for my Little-Oh-Dear!

      Marigolds white and buttercups blue,
      Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew,
      The cactus that trails over trellis and wall,
      Roses and pansies and violets—all
      Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer
      When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear.

      And up at the top of that lavender-tree
      A silver-bird singeth as only can she;
      For, ever and only, she singeth the song
      "I love you—I love you!" the happy day long;—
      Then the echo—the echo that smiteth me here!
      "I love you, I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!

      The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly—
      But what careth my little precious, or I?
      From her pathway of flowers that in spring time upstart
      She walketh the tenderer way in my heart
      And, oh, it is always the summer-time here
      With that song of "I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!

      Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse—
      Perhaps you have seen him before;
      Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept
      Through the moonlight that floats on the floor.
      For it's only at night, when the stars twinkle bright,
      That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh
      And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane,
      Is up on his heels and away!
      The Moon in the sky,
      As he gallopeth by,
      Cries: "Oh! what a marvelous sight!"
      And the Stars in dismay
      Hide their faces away
      In the lap of old Grandmother Night.

      It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse
      Speedeth ever and ever away—
      Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains,
      Over streamlets that sing at their play;
      And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he,
      While the ships they go sailing below,
      And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast
      Adjudge him some portent of woe.
      "What ho there!" they cry,
      As he flourishes by
      With a whisk of his beautiful tail;
      And the fish in the sea
      Are as scared as can be,
      From the nautilus up to the whale!

      And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those faraway lands
      You little folk dream of at night—
      Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow,
      And corn-fields with popcorn are white;
      And the beasts in the wood are ever so good
      To children who visit them there—
      What glory astride of a lion to ride,
      Or to wrestle around with a bear!
      The monkeys, they say:
      "Come on, let us play,"
      And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees:
      While the parrots, that cling
      To the peanut-vines, sing
      Or converse with comparative ease!

      Off! scamper to bed—you shall ride him tonight!
      For, as soon as you've fallen asleep,
      With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away
      Over forest and hillside and deep!
      But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear
      In those beautiful lands over there,
      Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his faraway course
      With the wee one consigned to his care.
      Then grandma will cry
      In amazement: "Oh, my!"
      And she'll think it could never be so;
      And only we two
      Shall know it is true—
      You and I, little precious! shall know!

      Swing high and swing low
      While the breezes they blow—
      It's off for a sailor thy father would go;
      And it's here in the harbor, in sight of the sea,
      He hath left his wee babe with my song and with me:
      "Swing high and swing low
      While the breezes they blow!"

      Swing high and swing low
      While the breezes they blow—
      It's oh for the waiting as weary days go!
      And it's oh for the heartache that smiteth me when
      I sing my song over and over again:
      "Swing high and swing low
      While the breezes they blow!"

      "Swing high and swing low "—
      The sea singeth so,
      And it waileth anon in its ebb and its flow;
      And a sleeper sleeps on to that song of the sea
      Nor recketh he ever of mine or of me!
      "Swing high and swing low
      While the breezes they blow—
      'T was off for a sailor thy father would go!"

      Up in the attic where I slept
      When I was a boy, a little boy,
      In through the lattice the moonlight crept,
      Bringing a tide of dreams that swept
      Over the low, red trundle-bed,
      Bathing the tangled curly head,
      While moonbeams played at hide-and-seek
      With the dimples on the sun-browned cheek—
      When I was a boy, a little boy!

      And, oh! the dreams—the dreams I dreamed!
      When I was a boy, a little boy!
      For the grace that through the lattice streamed
      Over my folded eyelids seemed
      To have the gift of prophecy,
      And to bring me glimpses of times to be
      When manhood's clarion seemed to call—
      Ah! that was the sweetest dream of all,
      When I was a boy, a little boy!

      I'd like to sleep where I used to sleep
      When I was a boy, a little boy!
      For in at the lattice the moon would peep,
      Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep
      The crosses and griefs of the years away
      From the heart that is weary and faint to-day;
      And those dreams should give me back again
      A peace I have never known since then—
      When I was a boy, a little boy!

      Play that you are mother dear,
      And play that papa is your beau;
      Play that we sit in the corner here,
      Just as we used to, long ago.
      Playing so, we lovers two
      Are just as happy as we can be,
      And I'll say "I love you" to you,
      And you say "I love you" to me!
      "I love you" we both shall say,
      All in earnest and all in play.

      Or, play that you are that other one
      That some time came, and went away;
      And play that the light of years agone
      Stole into my heart again to-day!
      Playing that you are the one I knew
      In the days that never again may be,
      I'll say "I love you" to you,"
      And you say "I love you" to me!
      "I love you!" my heart shall say
      To the ghost of the past come back to-day!

      Or, play that you sought this nestling-place
      For your own sweet self, with that dual guise
      Of your pretty mother in your face
      And the look of that other in your eyes!
      So the dear old loves shall live anew
      As I hold my darling on my knee,
      And I'll say "I love you" to you,
      And you say "I love you" to me!
      Oh, many a strange, true thing we say
      And do when we pretend to play!

      Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell
      I love her well.
      Yes, though she tramples on my heart
      And rends that bleeding thing apart;
      And though she rolls a scornful eye
      On doting me when I go by;
      And though she scouts at everything
      As tribute unto her I bring—
      Apple, banana, caramel—
      Haste, Cupid, to my love and tell,
      In spite of all, I love her well!

      And further say I have a sled
      Cushioned in blue and painted red!
      The groceryman has promised I
      Can "hitch" whenever he goes by—
      Go, tell her that, and, furthermore,
      Apprise my sweetheart that a score
      Of other little girls implore
      The boon of riding on that sled
      Painted and hitched, as aforesaid;—
      And tell her, Cupid, only she
      Shall ride upon that sled with me!
      Tell her this all, and further tell
      I love her well.

      Little All-Aloney's feet
      Pitter-patter in the hall,
      And his mother runs to meet
      And to kiss her toddling sweet,
      Ere perchance he fall.
      He is, oh, so weak and small!
      Yet what danger shall he fear
      When his mother hovereth near,
      And he hears her cheering call:
      "All-Aloney"?

      Little All-Aloney's face
      It is all aglow with glee,
      As around that romping-place
      At a terrifying pace
      Lungeth, plungeth he!
      And that hero seems to be
      All unconscious of our cheers—
      Only one dear voice he hears
      Calling reassuringly:
      "All-Aloney!"

      Though his legs bend with their load,
      Though his feet they seem so small
      That you cannot help forebode
      Some disastrous episode
      In that noisy hall,
      Neither threatening bump nor fall
      Little All-Aloney fears,
      But with sweet bravado steers
      Whither comes that cheery call:
      "All-Aloney!"

      Ah, that in the years to come,
      When he shares of Sorrow's store,—
      When his feet are chill and numb,
      When his cross is burdensome,
      And his heart is sore:
      Would that he could hear once more
      The gentle voice he used to hear—
      Divine with mother love and cheer—
      Calling from yonder spirit shore:
      "All, all alone!"

      I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice,
      An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!
      I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed,
      For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said,
      Mother tells me "Happy dreams!" and takes away the light,
      An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!

      Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door,
      Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor;
      Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round
      So softly an' so creepylike they never make a sound!
      Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white—
      But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!

      Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street,
      An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat,
      I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row,
      A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me—so!
      Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite—
      It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!

      Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death!
      Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath;
      An' I am, oh! so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then
      I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again!
      Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right
      When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!
      An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin,
      I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within;
      An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at 's big an' nice,
      I want to—but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice!
      No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight
      Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!

      When baby wakes of mornings,
      Then it's wake, ye people all!
      For another day
      Of song and play
      Has come at our darling's call!
      And, till she gets her dinner,
      She makes the welkin ring,
      And she won't keep still till she's had her fill—
      The cunnin' little thing!

      When baby goes a-walking,
      Oh, how her paddies fly!
      For that's the way
      The babies say
      To other folk "by-by";
      The trees bend down to kiss her,
      And the birds in rapture sing,
      As there she stands and waves her hands—
      The cunnin' little thing!

      When baby goes a-rocking
      In her bed at close of day,
      At hide-and-seek
      On her dainty cheek
      The dreams and the dimples play;
      Then it's sleep in the tender kisses
      The guardian angels bring
      From the Far Above to my sweetest love—
      You cunnin' little thing!

      The little French doll was a dear little doll
      Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses;
      Her eyes were of hue
      A most delicate blue
      And dark as the night were her tresses;
      Her dear little mouth was fluted and red,
      And this little French doll was so very well bred
      That whenever accosted her little mouth said
      "Mamma! mamma!"

      The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg,
      Had once been a handsome young fellow;
      But now he appeared
      Rather frowzy and bleared
      In his torn regimentals of yellow;
      Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay
      In the little toy cart near the window one day
      And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say:
      "Mamma! mamma!"

      He listened so long and he listened so hard
      That anon he grew ever so tender,
      For it's everywhere known
      That the feminine tone
      Gets away with all masculine gender!
      He up and he wooed her with soldierly zest
      But all she'd reply to the love he professed
      Were these plaintive words (which perhaps you have guessed):
      "Mamma! mamma!"

      Her mother—a sweet little lady of five—
      Vouchsafed her parental protection,
      And although stockinet
      Wasn't blue-blooded, yet
      She really could make no objection!
      So soldier and dolly were wedded one day,
      And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way,
      I'm sure that I heard a wee baby voice say:
      "Mamma! mamma!"

      When thou dost eat from off this plate,
      I charge thee be thou temperate;
      Unto thine elders at the board
      Do thou sweet reverence accord;
      And, though to dignity inclined,
      Unto the serving-folk be kind;
      Be ever mindful of the poor,
      Nor turn them hungry from the door;
      And unto God, for health and food
      And all that in thy life is good,
      Give thou thy heart in gratitude.

      Fisherman Jim lived on the hill
      With his bonnie wife an' his little boys;
      'T wuz "Blow, ye winds, as blow ye will—
      Naught we reck of your cold and noise!"
      For happy and warm were he an' his,
      And he dandled his kids upon his knee
      To the song of the sea.

      Fisherman Jim would sail all day,
      But, when come night, upon the sands
      His little kids ran from their play,
      Callin' to him an' wavin' their hands;
      Though the wind was fresh and the sea was high,
      He'd hear'em—you bet—above the roar
      Of the waves on the shore!

      Once Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay
      As the sun went down in a cloudy sky,
      And never a kid saw he at play,
      And he listened in vain for the welcoming cry.
      In his little house he learned it all,
      And he clinched his hands and he bowed his head—
      "The fever!" they said.

      'T wuz a pitiful time for Fisherman Jim,
      With them darlin's a-dyin' afore his eyes,
      A-stretchin' their wee hands out to him
      An' a-breakin' his heart with the old-time cries
      He had heerd so often upon the sands;
      For they thought they wuz helpin' his boat ashore—
      Till they spoke no more.

      But Fisherman Jim lived on and on,
      Castin' his nets an' sailin' the sea;
      As a man will live when his heart is gone,
      Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly,
      Till once in those years they come an' said:
      "Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick—
      Go to him, quick!"

      Then Fisherman Jim says he to me:
      "It's a long, long cruise-you understand—
      But over beyont the ragin' sea
      I kin see my boys on the shinin' sand
      Waitin' to help this ol' hulk ashore,
      Just as they used to—ah, mate, you know!—
      In the long ago."

      No, sir! he wuzn't afeard to die;
      For all night long he seemed to see
      His little boys of the days gone by,
      An' to hear sweet voices forgot by me!
      An' just as the mornin' sun come up—
      "They're holdin' me by the hands!" he cried,
      An' so he died.

      There once was a bird that lived up in a tree,
      And all he could whistle was "Fiddle-dee-dee"—
      A very provoking, unmusical song
      For one to be whistling the summer day long!
      Yet always contented and busy was he
      With that vocal recurrence of "Fiddle-dee-dee."

      Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four,
      That weird iteration repented him sore;
      "I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun,
      For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done
      That shall presently rid all creation and me
      Of that ominous bird and his 'Fiddle-dee-dee'!"

      Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son
      His awfully truculent little red gun;
      The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin,
      The "bang" it came out where the bullet went in—
      The right kind of weapon I think you'll agree
      For slaying all fowl that go "Fiddle-dee-dee"!

      The brave little soldier quoth never a word,
      But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird;
      And, while that vain creature provokingly sang,
      The gun it went off with a terrible bang!
      Then loud laughed the youth—"By my Bottle," cried he,
      "I've put a quietus on 'Fiddle-dee-dee'!"

      Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: "My son,
      Right well have you wrought with your little red gun!
      Hereafter no evil at all need I fear,
      With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!"
      She kissed the dear boy.
      (The bird in the tree
      Continued to whistle his "Fiddle-dee-dee")