A HAPPY PAIR.“Contented wi’ little and cantie wi’ mair.”
“Contented wi’ little and cantie wi’ mair.”
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 timbersThe 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 housesI 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 cupboardWith 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 politeAnd 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 sunshineFor almost a half an hour;And then she kneads it and kneads itInto 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 haveherknow,But I tore up the tomatoTrying 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 youI 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-morrowCome and see us again.
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 timbersThe 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 housesI 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 cupboardWith 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 politeAnd 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 sunshineFor almost a half an hour;And then she kneads it and kneads itInto 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 haveherknow,But I tore up the tomatoTrying 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 youI 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-morrowCome and see us again.
Yes, we live down in the orchard,Under an apple tree;We’ve got a palace down there,Little Padoy and me.
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 timbersThe carpenters threw away.We worked at it hard, I tell you;It took us a whole long day.
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).
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 housesI found in my picture book.
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;
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 cupboardWith real dishes on the shelves;Mother, she gave them to us,But the rest we made ourselves.
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?
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.
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 politeAnd say “Good morning” pretty,And “Won’t you sit down?” That’s right.
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 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 sunshineFor almost a half an hour;
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 itInto tiny cakes of dough,And it’s fun to play ball with ’em,Before they’re baked, you know.
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?
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.
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.
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 haveherknow,But I tore up the tomatoTrying my bran-new hoe.
(Padoy, run wash the dishes).
I wouldn’t haveherknow,
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.
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 youI was sorry as could be;And, well, I—I—I kissed her,And we made up, you see.
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-morrowCome and see us again.
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.
“I’ll be six years old next summer,And my wife she’s going on four.”—Page 236.
“I’ll be six years old next summer,And my wife she’s going on four.”—Page 236.
“I’ll be six years old next summer,And my wife she’s going on four.”—Page 236.
“I’ll be six years old next summer,
And my wife she’s going on four.”—Page 236.