The Funny Kittens

A is for Alice a-dressing the Queen.

B is for Borogoves, mimsy and lean.

C is the Cheshire Cat, wearing a grin.

D is the Duchess who had a sharp chin.

E is the Eaglet who barred out long words.

F, the Flamingo, the queerest of birds.

G is the Gryphon, loquacious and gay.

H, Humpty Dumpty in gorgeous array.

I is for Insects with curious names.

J is the Jabberwock burbling with flames.

K is the King who was whizzed through the air.

L is the Lobster who sugared his hair.

M, the Mock Turtle, whose tears freely flowed.

N is for Nobody seen on the road.

O is for Oysters who trotted so quick.

P is the Puppy who played with a stick.

Q is the Queen who ran very fast.

R is the Rabbit who blew a great blast.

S is the Sheep, on her knitting intent.

T, Tweedledum, with his noisy lament.

U is the Unicorn, valiant in feud.

V is the Violet, saucy and rude.

W, the Walrus, addicted to chat.

X, Executioner, seeking the cat.

Y is the Youth Father William surveyed.

Z is the Zigzag the mouse’s tail made.The Funny KittensOnce there were some silly kittens,And they knitted woolly mittensTo bestow upon the freezing Hottentots.But the Hottentots refused them,Saying that they never used themUnless crocheted of red with yellow spots.So the silly little kittensTook their blue and white striped mittensTo a Bear who lived within a hollow tree;The Bear responded sadly,“I would wear your mittens gladly,But I fear they are too gay for such as me.”Then the kittens, almost weeping,Came to where a Cow lay sleeping,And they woke her with this piteous request,“Won’t you wear our mittens furry?”Said the Cow, “My dears, don’t worry;I will put them on as soon as I am dressed.”Then the Cow put on her bonnetWith a wreath of roses on it,And a beautiful mantilla fringed with white;And she donned the pretty mittens,While the silly little kittensClapped their paws in admiration at the sight.The Strike of the Fireworks’Twas the night before the Fourth of July, the people slept serene;The fireworks were stored in the old town hall that stood on the village green.The steeple clock tolled the midnight hour, and at its final stroke,The fire in the queer old-fashioned stove lifted its voice and spoke;“The earth and air have naught to do, the water, too, may play,And only fire is made to work on Independence Day.“I won’t stand such injustice! It’s wrong, beyond a doubt,And I shall take my holiday. Good-by, I’m going out!”Up spoke a Roman candle then, “The principle is right!Suppose we strike, and all agree we will not work to-night!”“My stars!” said a small sky-rocket. “What an awful time there’ll be,When the whole town comes together to-night, the great display to see!”“Let them come,” said a saucy pinwheel, “yes, let them come if they like,As a delegate I’ll announce to them that the fireworks are going to strike!”“My friends,” said a small cap-pistol, “this movement is all wrong,—Gunpowder, noise, and fireworks to Fourth of July belong.My great ancestral musket made Independence Day,I frown on your whole conspiracy, and you are wrong, I say!”And so they talked and they argued, some for and some against,—And they progressed no further than they were when they commenced.Until in a burst of eloquence a queer little piece of punkArose in his place and said, “I think we ought to show some spunk.And I for one have decided, although I am no shirk,That to-day is a legal holiday and not even fire should work.“And I am of some importance,”—here he gave a pretentious cough,“For without my assistance none of you could very well be put off.”“You are right,” said the Roman candle, “and I think we are all agreedTo strike for our rights and our liberty. Hurrah! we shall succeed!”The dissenters cried with one accord, “Our objections we withdraw.Hurrah, hurrah for the fireworks’ strike!” and they cried again, “Hurrah!”Then a match piped up with a tiny voice, “Your splendid scheme I like.I agree with all your principles and so I, too, will strike!”Suiting the action to the word, the silly little dunceClambered down from his matchsafe and excitedly struck at once.He lost his head, and he ran around among the fireworks dry,And he cried, “Hurrah for the fireworks’ strike! Hurrah for the Fourth of July!”With his waving flame he lit the punk—a firecracker caught a spark,—Then rockets and wheels and bombs went off—no longer the place was dark!The explosions made a fearful noise, the flames leaped high and higher,The village folk awoke and cried, “The town hall is on fire!”So the strike of the fireworks ended in a wonderful displayOf pyrotechnic grandeur on Independence Day!The Arch ArmadilloThere once was an arch ArmadilloWho built him a hut ’neath a willow;He hadn’t a bedSo he rested his headOn a young Porcupine for a pillow.A Dream LessonOnce there was a little boy who wouldn’t go to bed,When they hinted at the subject he would only shake his head,When they asked him his intentions, he informed them pretty straightThat he wouldn’t go to bed at all, and Nursey needn’t wait.As their arguments grew stronger, and their attitude more strict,I grieve to say that naughty boy just yelled and screamed and kicked.And he made up awful faces, and he told them up and downThat he wouldn’t go to bed for all the nurses in the town.Then Nursey lost her patience, and although it wasn’t right,Retorted that for all she cared he might sit up all night.He approved of this arrangement, and he danced a jig for joy,And turned a somersault with glee; hewasa naughty boy.And so they all went off to bed and left him sitting there,Right in the corner by the fire in Grandpa’s big armchair.He read his books and played his games,—he even sang a songAnd thought how lovely it would be to sit up all night long.But soon his games grew stupid, and his puzzleswouldn’t work;He drew himself up stiffly with a sudden little jerk,And he said, “I am not sleepy, and I love toplay alone—And—I—think—” the rest was mumbled ina drowsy monotone.He leaned back on the cushions like that nighthe had the croup;His head began to wobble and his eyes beganto droop;He closed them for a minute, just to see howit would seem,And straightway he was sound asleep, and dreamed this awful dream!He thought he saw a garden filled with flowers and roses gay,A great big gardener with a hoe came walking down his way;“Ah, ha!” exclaimed the gardener, as he clutched him by the head,“Here’s a fine specimen I’ve found; I’ll plant him in this bed!”He held the boy in one big hand, unheeding how he cried,And with the other dug a hole enormous, deep, and wide.He jammed the little fellow in, and said in gruffest tone,“This is the bed for naughty boys who won’t go to their own.”And then the dirt was shovelled in,—it covered up his toes,His ankles, knees, and waist and arms, and higher yet it rose.For still the gardener shovelled on, not noticing his cries;It came up to his chin and mouth—it almost reached his eyes;Just then he gathered all his strength and gave an awful scream,And woke himself, and put an end to that terrific dream.And he said, as Nursey tucked him up and bade him snugly rest,“When I am planted in a bed, I like my own the best.”The RivalsTwo well-built men, neither giant nor dwarf,Were Monsieur Elims and Mynheer Nworf.They lived in a town not far away,And spent their time in work and play.Now Monsieur Elims was loved by all—By rich and poor, by great and small.And Mynheer Nworf remarked one day,“Brother, explain to me, I pray,Why no one likes me as well as you,No matter what I may say or do.I have stores of knowledge packed in my head;I am learned and wise and very well read;I can dance, I can sing, I’m extremely polite;I am worth a large fortune all in my own right.But still,—and this question has caused me much thought,—While I am neglected, you’re everywhere sought.”Monsieur Elims replied: “My dear sir, that is true,But you see, I am I, and you see, you are you.If I receive praises and you receive blame,’Tis doubtless because each lives up to his name.”You’ll find his defence rather puzzling, I fear;But read their names backward—the meaning is clear.The New Cup“I’ve a lovely new cup from Uncle John,”Said Dorothy; “only see—It has beautiful golden letters on,And they spell ‘Remember Me.’”“Oho!” laughed Fred. “Why, Dorothy dear,They put that on mugs and plates:I’ve studied jography ’most a year,And I know the names of the States.And when you see that anywhere,—At least, since this fuss with Spain,—It’s the President who puts it there,And it means ‘Remember the Maine’!”A Photographic FailureMr. Hezekiah HinkleSaw a patient PeriwinkleWith a kodak, sitting idly by a rill.Feeling a desire awakenFor to have his picture taken,Mr. Hezekiah Hinkle stood stock-still.Mr. Hezekiah HinkleFelt his brow begin to wrinkle,And his pose assume a sad and solemn style;But the Periwinkle trusted,As the focus he adjusted,That his customer would kindly try to smile.Mr. Hezekiah HinkleFelt his eyes begin to twinkle,And his mouth took on a broad and open grin;Said the Periwinkle, sadly,“If you stretch your jaw so madly,I fear perhaps that I shall tumble in.”Mr. Hezekiah HinkleFelt his hair begin to crinkle,As it rose up on his forehead in affright;Though his comrade spoke so mildly,Mr. Hinkle wondered wildly,How he could escape this dire and awful plight.Mr. Hezekiah HinkleSaid, “I fear it’s going to sprinkle,And really for a storm I’m not prepared.”Then without a further warningHe politely said, “Good morning,”And the patient Periwinkle stood and stared.Christmas GiftsTen Christmas presents standing in a line;Robert took the bicycle, then there were nine.Nine Christmas presents ranged in order straight;Bob took the steam engine, then there were eight.Eight Christmas presents—and one came from Devon;Robbie took the jackknife, then there were seven.Seven Christmas presents direct from St. Nick’s;Bobby took the candy box, then there were six.Six Christmas presents, one of them alive;Rob took the puppy dog, then there were five.Five Christmas presents yet on the floor;Bobbin took the soldier cap, then there were four.Four Christmas presents underneath the tree;Bobbet took the writing desk, then there were three.Three Christmas presents still in full view;Robin took the checker board, then there were two.Two Christmas presents, promising fun,Bobbles took the picture book, then there was one.One Christmas present—and now the list is done;Bobbinet took the sled, and then there were none.And the same happy child received every toy,So many nicknames had one little boy.Young AmericaWee Willie sat a-thinking,And he shook his curly head.Around him on the nursery floorHis treasures lay outspread.Firecrackers and torpedoes,Trumpet and flag and drum,Rockets and pinwheels and paper caps,For Fourth of July had come.“But it makes me sort o’ sorry,”Wee Willie said with a sigh,“To think of those poor little English boysWithout any Fourth of July.”A Bicycle built for TwoThere was an ambitious young eelWho determined to ride on a wheel;But try as he might,He couldn’t ride right,In spite of his ardor and zeal.If he sat on the saddle to rideHis tail only pedalled one side;And I’m sure you’ll admitThat an eelcouldn’tsitOn a bicycle saddle astride.Or if he hung over the top,He could go, but he never could stop;For of course it is clearHe had no way to steer,And under the wheel he would flop.His neighbor, observing the fun,Said, “I think that the thing can be done,If you’ll listen to me,You’ll quickly agreeThat two heads are better than one.“And this is my project, old chap,Around our two waists I will wrapThis beautiful beltOf bottle-green feltAnd fasten it firm with a strap.”This done, with a dignified mienThe two squirmed up on the machine,And rode gayly away,Or at least, so they say,Who witnessed the wonderful scene.Dorothy’s OpinionMamma has bought a calendar,And every single pageHas pictures on of little girls’Most just about my age.And when she bought it yesterday,Down at the big bazaar,She said, “What lovely little girls,How true to life they are.”But I don’t think they’re true to life,And I’ll just tell you why;They never have a rumpled frockOr ribbon bow awry.And though they play with cats and dogs,And rabbits and white mice,And sail their boats and fly their kites,They always look so nice.And I am sure no little girlThat everIhave seen,Could play with dogs or sail a boatAnd keep her frock so clean.The Roll of Roly Poly RoyOnce on a time a lad I knew—His sister called him Bubby;His cheeks were red, his eyes were blue,And he was plump and chubby.Indeed, he was so stout a boy,Some called him Roly Poly Roy;They called him thatFor he was fatAnd very plump and chubby.He caused his father grief profound,And made his mother worry,Because he’d roll along the groundWhen he was in a hurry.For as he couldn’t see his toes,He often tumbled on his nose;So, on the whole,’Twas best to rollWhen he was in a hurry.“Get up!” the people urged, but heReplied, “There’s no use talking;I roll around because, you see,It’s easier than walking.”And though it looked extremely drollTo see the lad lie down and roll,It was, forsooth,For that fat youthFar easier than walking.One day he thought he’d try to ride;Alas, he was so bulky,He tumbled off the other side,Which made him rather sulky.He heard his comrades jeer and scoff,Again he tried and tumbled off,And when he fellThey’d shout and yell—Of course it made him sulky.Just out of town there was a placeWith rolling ground and hilly,And here Roy started for a raceWith Dick and Tom and Willy.You’ll know of course before you’re toldThat Roy just laid him down and rolled;And so, you see,He easilyBeat Dick and Tom and Willy.That day two giants came alongFrom Huncamunca Valley,Seeking some tenpins good and strongFor their new bowling alley.They reached the hilly sort of placeJust as our hero won the race;“Look at him roll!”They said. “He’ll bowlOn our new bowling alley.“The other boys are squarely built;For tenpins they’ll do finely!No matter if a few get kilt,”And then they smiled benignly.Quickly they kidnapped ten small boys,All howling with a fearful noise;They took them all,And Roy for ball,And then they smiled benignly.They hurried to their home and thenBegan their barbarous bowling.They set in rows the children tenAnd then set Roy a-rolling.But as the giants were strong and great,They shot poor Roy at such a rate,And with such might,That out of sightPoor Roy was set a-rolling.He rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled,But soon, his fears dispelling,With happiness he did beholdHe’d safely reached his dwelling.Secure and safe from further harms,His mother caught him in her arms,And said with joy,“My darling boy,You’ve safely reached your dwelling.”Now rolling seems to him to beMore dangerous than walking.And Roly Poly Roy you’ll seeAlong the sidewalks stalking.He’ll always have a certain fearThat giants may be lurking near,And so he’ll goWith motion slowAlong the sidewalk stalking.My BarometerMy little maid with golden hairComes each morning for a kiss;And I know the day will be fine and fairWhen Polly looks like this.Or I know the clouds will frown and lower,The skies will be dull and gray,And perhaps there’ll be a passing shower,When Polly looks this way.But a violent storm of rain or snowI can prognosticate,For the sign will never fail, I know,When this is Polly’s pate.The Butter Betty BoughtBetty Botta bought some butter;“But,” said she, “this butter’s bitter!If I put it in my batterIt will make my batter bitter.But a bit o’ better butterWill but make my batter better.”Then she bought a bit o’ butterBetter than the bitter butter,Made her bitter batter better.So ’twas better Betty BottaBought a bit o’ better butter.A MarvelAn old astronomer there wasWho lived up in a tower,Named Ptolemy CopernicusFlammarion McGower.He said: “I can prognosticateWith estimates correct;And when the skies I contemplate,I know what to expect.When dark’ning clouds obscure my sight,I think perhaps ’twill rain;And when the stars are shining bright,I know ’tis clear again.”And then abstractedly he scannedThe heavens, hour by hour,Old Ptolemy CopernicusFlammarion McGower.An Alphabet ZooAwas an apt Alligator,Who wanted to be a head-waiter;He said, “I opineIn that field I could shine,Because I am such a good skater.”Bwas a beggarly Bear,Who carefully curled his front hair;He said, “I would buyA red-spotted tie,—But I haven’t a penny to spare.”Cwas a cool Chimpanzee,Who went to an afternoon tea.When they said, “Will you takeA caraway cake?”He greedily took twenty-three!Dwas a diligent Doe,In summer she shovelled the snow;In the spring and the fallShe did nothing at all,And in winter the grass she would mow.Ewas an erudite Ermine,Who tried very hard to determineIf heshouldearn a cent,How it ought to be spent,And decided to purchase a sermon.Fwas a fussy Flamingo,Who remarked to his family, “By jingo!I think I would goTo that animal show,But they all talk such barbarous lingo.”Gwas a giddy Gazelle,Who never could learn how to spell;But she managed to passTo the head of her class,Because she did fractions so well.Hwas a haughty young Hawk,Who affected society talk;But when introducedAt a large chicken roostHe excitedly screamed out, “Oh, Lawk!”Iwas an idle Iguana,Who lived upon curried banana;With tears he’d protestThat he never could restTill he learned to sing “Eileen Alanna.”Jwas a jimp Jaguar,Who purchased a Spanish guitar;He played popular airsAtfêtesand at fairs,And down at the Fancy Bazaar.Kwas a kind Kangaroo,Whose bonnet was always askew;So they asked her to waitWhile they put it on straightAnd fastened it firmly with glue.Lwas a lachrymose Leopard,Who ate up twelve sheep and a shepherd,But the real reason whyHe continued to cryWas his food was so lavishly peppered.Mwas a mischievous Marten,Who went to the Free Kindergarten;When they asked him to platA gay-colored mat,He tackled the job like a Spartan.Nwas a naughty Nylghau,Who wandered too near a buzz saw.It cut off his toes,And the shrieks that aroseFilled all of the neighbors with awe.Owas an ossified Oyster,Who decided to enter a cloister.He could not return,So continued to yearnFor his home in the sea, which was moister.Pwas a poor old Poll Parrot,Who had nothing to eat but a carrot,And nothing to wearBut a wig of red hair,And nowhere to live but a garret.Qwas a querulous QuabWho at every trifle would sob;He said, “I detestTo wear a plaid vest,And I hate to eat corn from the cob!”Rwas a rollicking Ram,Attired in an old pillow sham.When asked if he’d callAt the masquerade ball,He said, “I’ll go just as I am.”Swas a shy Salamander,Who slept on a sunny veranda.She calmly reposed,But, alas! while she dozedThey caught her and killed her and canned her.Twas a tidy young Tapir,Who went out to bring in the paper;And when he came backHe made no muddy track,For he wiped his feet clean on the scraper.Uwas a young Unicorn,The bravest that ever was born.They bought him a boatAnd they set him afloat,And straightway he sailed for Cape Horn.Vwas a vigorous Vulture,Who taught animals physical culture;When a pupil dropped dead,The kind teacher said,“You needn’t consider sepulture.”Wwas a wild Worm,All day he did nothing but squirm.They sent him to school,But he broke every rule,And left at the end of the term.Xwas a Xiphias brave,Who lived on the crest of the wave.To each fish he would say,“Good day, sir, good day!”And then a polite bow he gave.Ywas a young Yellowhammer,Who raised a ridiculous clamor;And he chattered untilAn owl said, “Keep still!I’m trying to study my grammar.”Zwas a zealous old Zibet,Toboggans he tried to prohibit.If any one triedTo take a sly slide,He ordered him hanged on a gibbet.Found WantingThere lived a wondrous sculptor once, a genius in his way,Named Phidias Praxiteles Canova Merryday.He sat within his studio and said, “I really mustBegin a Rhodian anaglyptic ceroplastic bust.“My customers demand them, their fame rings near and far,But then, alas, the trouble is, I don’t know what they are.Though I could carve a Venus or a Belvedere with ease,My wondrous skill is lacking when it comes to carving these.“I cast and cut and chisel, I model and I mould,I copy poses picturesque from studies new and old;In marble, bronze, and potter’s clay, in wax and wood and stoneI carve the old-time statues with improvements of my own.“I have Apollo on a horse, Minerva on a wheel,Hercules going fishing with his basket and his creel.A Mercury on roller-skates, Diana with a hat,And Venus playing tennis with Achilles at the bat.“Yet these my customers pass by, and ask with interest keen,For things with long and tiresome names,—I don’t knowwhat they mean.And so I let my hammers hang, and let my chisels rust,For I cannot do an anaglyptic ceroplastic bust.”A Tragic Tale of TeaThe Beetle was blind, and the Bat was blinder,And they went to take tea with the Scissors-grinder.The Scissors-grinder had gone awayAcross the ocean to spend the day;But he’d tied his bell to the grapevine swing.The Bat and the Beetle heard it ring,And neither the Beetle nor Bat could seeWhy no one offered them any tea.So, polite and patient, they’re waiting yetFor the cup of tea they expect to get.The Erratic RatThere was a ridiculous RatWho was awfully puffy and fat.“I’ll carry,” he said,“This plate on my head,’Twill answer in place of a hat.”And then he remarked with a frown,“I suppose that I must have a gown;I’ll make me a kiltOf this old crazy-quilt,To wear when I’m going to town.“And of course, though the weather is warm,It may be there’ll come up a storm;An umbrella I’ll makeOf a caraway cake,It’ll match with my whole uniform.And I’ll carry a bottle of inkIn case I should wish for a drink;And this flat-iron so sweetI’ll take with me to eat,And now I am ready, I think.”The Two FriendsA Spider and a Centipede went out to take a walk;The Centipede said frankly, “I will listen while you talk,But I may appear distracted, or assume a vacant stare,Because to keep my feet in step requires my constant care.”Said the Spider: “I appreciate your most peculiar case,And your feet must be quite handy when you want to run a race;But though you gain in some ways, in some other ways you lose;And, of course, my friend, you must be quite extravagant in shoes.”“Ah! yes. Ah! yes,” a heavy sigh escaped the Centipede;“And I have other trials, too;—my life is hard indeed!Why, sometimes when I’m very tired, a long, long time it takesTo ascertain with certainty which foot it is that aches.“And when I go to dancing-class on Saturdays at three,I find the First Position very difficult for me.Though I put my best foot foremost, and good time I try to keep,To my chagrin, I often find a foot or two asleep.Athletics I attempted, but, alas! I must admitThat every exercise I tried I put my foot in it.I think I’ll join a foot-ball team,—as many friends suggest,—Before I’ve one foot in the grave and gout in all the rest.But now I’ll say good-morning; for, my friend, I have to stopTo get my boots blacked neatly at this little boot-black’s shop;And, as you may imagine, it will keep me here some time,But, what is worse, I’ll have to pay him many a hard-earned dime.”The Spider said good-morning, and pursued his way alone,And as he went he murmured, in a thoughtful undertone:“I’m a happy little Spider, and I’m very glad indeed,That I was born an octoped and not a centipede!”The Smiling SharkThere was an old Shark with a smileSo broad you could see it a mile.He said to his friends,As he sewed up the ends,“It was really too wide for the style.”The Mercury’s PlaintI don’t know why I’m slandered so,If I go high,—if I go low,—There’s always some one who will say,“Just see that mercury to-day!”And whether toward the top I crawlOr down toward zero I may fall,They always fret, and say that IAm far too low or far too high.Although I try with all my might,I never seem to strike it right.Now I admit it seems to meThey show great inconsistency.ButtheyimplyIam to blame;Of course that makes my anger flame,And in a fiery fit of piqueI stay at ninety for a week.Or sometimes in a dull despair,I give them just a frigid stare;And as upon their taunts I thinkMy spirits down to zero sink.Mine is indeed a hopeless case;To strive to please the human race!The Pirate PoodleOnce there was a Pirate Poodle,And he sailed the briny seasFrom the land of Yankee DoodleSouthward to the Caribbees.He would boast with tales outlandish,Of his valor and renown;And his cutlass he would brandishWith a fearful pirate frown.So ferocious was his mannerAll his crew looked on, aghast;And his fearful pirate bannerFloated from his pirate mast.He reiterated proudlyNaught had power to make him quail;Yet when thunder roaredtooloudlyHe would turn a trifle pale.And he turned a little palerWhen there came a sudden squall;For this funny little sailorWas ridiculously small.And whene’er a storm portendedHe’d betake himself below.So much fear and courage blendedDid a pirate ever show?An Old LovePriscilla, Auntie’s promised meA brand-new Paris doll;And though I love you, yet you seeI cannot keep you all.Nursey declares I really mustThrow one of you away;And you’re the oldest, so I trustYou will not care to stay.You’ve lost an arm, your dress is torn,Your wig is all awry;Priscilla, you are so forlorn,We’ll have to say good-by.And yet—oh, don’t! my dolly dear,Don’tlook so sad, I pray!You precious dolly, come right here,Youshan’tbe thrown away!You’re ragged, yes, and lame and blind,You’re really but a wreck;But, dear Priscilla, never mind,Ido not care a speck.Your eyes do nicely when they’re shut,And I can mend the rest;Well—p’raps I’ll love the new one—butI’ll always loveyoubest.Bobby’s PocketOur Bobby is a little boy, of six years old, or so;And every kind of rubbish in his pocket he will stow.One day he thought he’d empty it (so he again could stock it);And here’s an alphabet of what was found in Bobby’s pocket.Awas a rosy Apple, with some bites out, here and there;Bwas a bouncing rubber Ball that bounded in the air.Cwas a crispy crusty Cake with citron on the top;Dwas a dancing Donkey that could jump around and hop.Ewas a little robin’s Egg, all speckled blue and brown;Fwas a fluffy Feather that was white and soft as down.Gwas a lively Grasshopper, whose legs and wings were green;Hwas a grimy Handkerchief that once perhaps was clean.Iwas a plaster Image that had lost its plaster head;Jwas a jolly Jumping-Jack all painted blue and red.Kwas a keen and shining Knife, ’twould cut the toughest bark;Lwas a little wooden Lion, strayed out of Noah’s Ark.Mwas a Marble, large and round, with colors bright and clear;Nwas a bent and rusty Nail, of little use, I fear.Owas a tiny Oil-can, which was always upside down;Pwas a Penny Bob had saved to spend some day in town.Qwas a Quilted ear-tab, which had lost its velvet mate;Rwas a Ring with a glassy gem of wondrous size and weight.Swas a String, a piece of Soap, a Stone, a Sponge, a Stick;Twas a lump of Taffy, exceeding soft and thick.U, an Umbrella-handle, of silver-mounted horn;Vwas a comic Valentine, a little creased and worn.Wwas some sticky Wax, lovely to pinch and mould;Xwas an old Xpress receipt, worn out in every fold.Ywas a lot of Yellow Yarn, all bunched up like a mop;Zwas a jagged piece of Zinc, found in a plumber’s shop.All these are Bob’s possessions; he loves every single thing;And owning all these treasures he’s as happy as a King!The InstructiphoneThere was a youthful genius once, a boy of thirteen years,Named Cyrus Franklin Edison Lavoisier De Squeers.To study he was not inclined, for fun he had a bent;But there was just one article he wanted to invent.“It’s a sort of a contraption which will work itself,” he said,“And, without studying, will put my lessons in my head.”He thought and puzzled o’er his plan, he worked with might and mainTo utilize the wondrous schemes within his fertile brain:Until at last the thing was done, and to his friends said he:“It is the wonder of the age! Success I can foresee!My great invention is complete, and—’tis no idle vaunt—I’m sure that my Instructiphone will fill a long-felt want.“The action is quite simple—I will try to make it clear:This funnel-shaped receiver I apply to my left ear;Then in this hopper I will put whate’er I wish to learn—A page of history or of Greek,—and then this crank I’ll turn.“The topic goes into this tube, a sort of phonographWhich acts directly on my mind,—itdoes, you needn’t laugh!I do not have to think at all, for, as I pull this chain,My wonderful machine transmits the knowledge to my brain.”The plan was good, the works were fine, and yet there was a flaw;When Cyrus turned the crank around, the neighbors watched with awe.He confidently pulled the chain with motion quick and deft;The knowledge entered his right ear—and came out at his left.He tried again,—a page of Greek; he tried a theme occult,—A message and an errand,—every time the same result!Then Cyrus knew that somehow his machine had missed its aim;For though the works ran smoothly it was always just the same.No matter what the book might be, or what it was about,It would go in at one ear,—at the other ’twould come out!So in his laboratory, baffled Cyrus sitting lone,Strives to correct the sad defect in his Instructiphone.But it is my opinion, there’s no fault in the machine:The trouble is that Cyrus is like other boys I’ve seen.The Lay of the Lady LorraineThe Lady Lorraine was sweet and fair;The Lady Lorraine was young;She had wonderful eyes and glorious hair,And a voice of a cadence rich and rare;Oh, she was a lady beyond compare—By all were her praises sung,Till valley and plainTook up the refrain,And rang with the praise of the Lady Lorraine.And besides all charms of form and face,There were other attractions about Her Grace;Besides her delicate, lily-white hands,She had rolling acres and broad, rich lands;Besides her patrician coat of arms,She had far-reaching forests and fertile farms;And of many an ancient and wide domainThe beautiful lady was châtelaine.So of course at her doorThere were suitors galore;They came by the dozen, and came by the score.They came in droves, and they came in hordes,Titled nobility,—princes, lords,Dukes and marquises, viscounts and peers,Ambassadors, marshals, grandees, grenadiers,Barons and baronets, earls, and esquires,Illustrious sons of illustrious sires:But ’twas ever in vainThey sought to attainThe heart and the hand of the Lady Lorraine.And day after dayThey turned sadly away;For the Lady Lorraine continued to say,Decidedly, certainly, stubbornly, “Nay!”She cared not for wreaths of laurel or bay,Their titles or rent rolls or uniforms gay,Their medals or ribbons or gaudy display,Their splendid equipment, demeanor, or bearing;She observed not their manners, nor what they were wearing;Their marvellous exploits for her had no charms:Their prowess in tourney, their valor at arms;Their wondrous achievements of brawn or of brain,—All, all were as naught to the Lady Lorraine.To each suitor she’d say, with her hand on her heart,“Sir, I ask of you only that you will depart.”In vain they entreated, they begged and they plead,They coaxed and besought, and they sullenly saidThat she was hard-hearted, unfeeling, and cruel.They challenged each other to many a duel;They scowled and they scolded, they sulked and they sighed,But they could not win Lady Lorraine for a bride.Now the reason for this, as you may have divined,Was because in her maidenly heart was enshrinedThe image of one who was just to her mind:Who was loving and kind,To whose faults she was blind,—The lord of her heart, and the love of her life,To whom she had promised to be a fond wife.Her Highness was happy, for even now heWas hastening to her across the blue sea.He had written to say he was then on the way,And would greet his fair lady on Christmas day.’Twas Christmas eve. In the old oak hallPreparations were made for the Christmas ball.Gay garlands were hung from ceiling and wall;The Yule log was laid, the tables arrayed,And the Lady Lorraine and her whole cavalcade,From the pompous old steward to the scullery-maid,Were all in a fluster,Excitement and bluster,And everything shone with a marvellous lustre.Such savory viands the larders presented;Such wondrous confections the bakers invented:Such pasties and cates of eccentric design;Such sparkling decanters of rarest old wine;And ready at hand was the great wassail-bowl,And the jolly old boar’s head, with lemon, so droll.The nook for musicians was carefully planned,And carols and glees would be played by the band.At last all was ready. The workmen were done;And awaiting the jollity, mirth, and frivolity,The games and the dancing, the feasting and fun,The old hall was empty,—save only for one,—The Lady Lorraine, who surveyed it with pride,And said, “It is worthy of Lord Cecil’s bride!”Then a bright smile illumined her happy young face,Her roguish eyes twinkled, and gayly Her GraceCrossed the old polished floor with a step light and quick,And her high slipper heels went clickety-click.She looked cautiously round,—she was all by herself;Like a mischievous elf,She took from a shelfA mistletoe spray with its berries like pearls;Then tossing her head and shaking her curls,In a manner half daring and yet half afraid,The madcap maid, with a smile that betrayedExpectant thoughts of her lover dear,Fastened the spray to the chandelier.Then in a merry, fanciful mood,Inspired by the time and the solitude,The Lady Lorraine,In whimsical vein,Said, “On Christmas eve, ’neath this mistletoe bough,I’ll solemnly make an immutable vow.”With a glance at the portraits that hung on the wall,She said, “I adjure ye to witness, all:I vow by the names that I’ve long revered,—By my great-great-grandfather’s great gray beard,By my father’s sword, by my uncle’s hat,By my spinster aunt’s Angora cat,By my ancient grandame’s buckled shoes,By my uncle Gregory’s marvellous brews,By Sir Sydney’s wig,And his ruff so big,—Indeed, by his whole preposterous rig,—By the scutcheon and crest, and all the restOf the signs of my house, I vow this vow:That whoever beneath this mistletoe boughShall first kiss me, he—none but he—My partner for life shall henceforth be.”She had scarcely ceased when she heard a sound.She looked around,And, startled, foundFrom the old oak chimney place it came.For there, as if in an old oak frame,A figure quaint, yet familiar too,Met her astonished, bewildered view.Of aspect merry, yet something weird,With kind blue eyes and a long white beard,Fur-trimmed cloak, and a peakèd cap,Rosy cheeks,—a jolly old chap;And, though surprised, she recognizedSt. Nicholas, dear to her childhood days,And she met his smile with a welcome gaze.The jolly old man beheld Her Grace,With her laughing eyes and her winsome face;He couldn’t resist her,—Indeed, who could?—And he heartily kissed herWhere she stood!And exultingly cried, “I heard your vow;And Lady Lorraine shall bemybride now!”The lady trembled, as in a daze;With a startled gaze of blank amaze,She looked at the figure who stood by her sideAnd audaciously claimed her for his bride.Then she bowed her headAnd the color fledFrom the cheeks that his kiss had flushed rosy red.Her heart was filled with a sad despairAs she thought of her lover, Lord Cecil Clare,And his dire dismayWhen on Christmas dayHe should ride up gayly in brave array,And find his sweetheart stolen away.But the honor and pride of her race were at stake;And for conscience’ sakeShe dared not breakHer solemn vow, though her heart might ache.To be true to her word, her sire had taught her,And she was a loyal, obedient daughter.She appealed to the portraits of squires and dames,Who looked sternly down from their gilded frames;But they seemed to say, “There must ne’er be brokenA promise or vow a Lorraine has spoken.”With stifled sighs, and with tears in her eyes,Though she tried to assume a cheerful guise,She turned to the suitor who stood apart,Awaiting the gift of her hand and heart;And she said with a gentle, dignified air:“My heart belongs to Lord Cecil Clare;But my fatal vow,Though I rue it now,I dare not break. So, at your command,I fulfil it! On you I bestow my hand.”“O noble lady!” her suitor cried,“’Twas only a merry test I tried.Full well I knewThat your heart was true.Behold your lover, my bonny bride!I assumed this guise for a Christmas joke.”And as he spoke,He threw off his cloak,He flung to the floor his peakèd hood,And a gallant knight before her stood!He doffed his wig and his long white beard;All signs of St. Nicholas disappeared;And smiling there, in the firelight’s glare,Was the gay and noble Lord Cecil Clare!The lady marvelled—a glad surpriseBetokened itself in her lovely eyes;And with her merriment quite restored,She said, “You are welcome home, my lord;And I’m thankful, now,That I kept my vow.”Lord Cecil raised her hand to his lips,And gallantly kissed her finger tips;While the squires and damesLooked down from their frames,And “Bless you, my children!” they seemed to say.Then the band appeared, and began to play;The guests arrived, and without delayThe fun commenced, and the old oak hallNever had known such a Christmas ball!The feast was spread,And the dance was ledBy the knight and the lady, and every one said,With a shout that rent the midnight air,“Long live Lord Cecil and Lady Clare!”

Z is the Zigzag the mouse’s tail made.

Once there were some silly kittens,And they knitted woolly mittensTo bestow upon the freezing Hottentots.But the Hottentots refused them,Saying that they never used themUnless crocheted of red with yellow spots.

So the silly little kittensTook their blue and white striped mittensTo a Bear who lived within a hollow tree;The Bear responded sadly,“I would wear your mittens gladly,But I fear they are too gay for such as me.”

Then the kittens, almost weeping,Came to where a Cow lay sleeping,And they woke her with this piteous request,“Won’t you wear our mittens furry?”Said the Cow, “My dears, don’t worry;I will put them on as soon as I am dressed.”

Then the Cow put on her bonnetWith a wreath of roses on it,And a beautiful mantilla fringed with white;And she donned the pretty mittens,While the silly little kittensClapped their paws in admiration at the sight.

’Twas the night before the Fourth of July, the people slept serene;The fireworks were stored in the old town hall that stood on the village green.The steeple clock tolled the midnight hour, and at its final stroke,The fire in the queer old-fashioned stove lifted its voice and spoke;“The earth and air have naught to do, the water, too, may play,And only fire is made to work on Independence Day.

“I won’t stand such injustice! It’s wrong, beyond a doubt,And I shall take my holiday. Good-by, I’m going out!”Up spoke a Roman candle then, “The principle is right!Suppose we strike, and all agree we will not work to-night!”“My stars!” said a small sky-rocket. “What an awful time there’ll be,When the whole town comes together to-night, the great display to see!”

“Let them come,” said a saucy pinwheel, “yes, let them come if they like,As a delegate I’ll announce to them that the fireworks are going to strike!”“My friends,” said a small cap-pistol, “this movement is all wrong,—Gunpowder, noise, and fireworks to Fourth of July belong.My great ancestral musket made Independence Day,I frown on your whole conspiracy, and you are wrong, I say!”

And so they talked and they argued, some for and some against,—And they progressed no further than they were when they commenced.Until in a burst of eloquence a queer little piece of punkArose in his place and said, “I think we ought to show some spunk.And I for one have decided, although I am no shirk,That to-day is a legal holiday and not even fire should work.

“And I am of some importance,”—here he gave a pretentious cough,“For without my assistance none of you could very well be put off.”“You are right,” said the Roman candle, “and I think we are all agreedTo strike for our rights and our liberty. Hurrah! we shall succeed!”The dissenters cried with one accord, “Our objections we withdraw.Hurrah, hurrah for the fireworks’ strike!” and they cried again, “Hurrah!”

Then a match piped up with a tiny voice, “Your splendid scheme I like.I agree with all your principles and so I, too, will strike!”Suiting the action to the word, the silly little dunceClambered down from his matchsafe and excitedly struck at once.He lost his head, and he ran around among the fireworks dry,And he cried, “Hurrah for the fireworks’ strike! Hurrah for the Fourth of July!”

With his waving flame he lit the punk—a firecracker caught a spark,—Then rockets and wheels and bombs went off—no longer the place was dark!The explosions made a fearful noise, the flames leaped high and higher,The village folk awoke and cried, “The town hall is on fire!”So the strike of the fireworks ended in a wonderful displayOf pyrotechnic grandeur on Independence Day!

There once was an arch ArmadilloWho built him a hut ’neath a willow;He hadn’t a bedSo he rested his headOn a young Porcupine for a pillow.

Once there was a little boy who wouldn’t go to bed,When they hinted at the subject he would only shake his head,When they asked him his intentions, he informed them pretty straightThat he wouldn’t go to bed at all, and Nursey needn’t wait.

As their arguments grew stronger, and their attitude more strict,I grieve to say that naughty boy just yelled and screamed and kicked.And he made up awful faces, and he told them up and downThat he wouldn’t go to bed for all the nurses in the town.

Then Nursey lost her patience, and although it wasn’t right,Retorted that for all she cared he might sit up all night.He approved of this arrangement, and he danced a jig for joy,And turned a somersault with glee; hewasa naughty boy.

And so they all went off to bed and left him sitting there,Right in the corner by the fire in Grandpa’s big armchair.He read his books and played his games,—he even sang a songAnd thought how lovely it would be to sit up all night long.

But soon his games grew stupid, and his puzzleswouldn’t work;He drew himself up stiffly with a sudden little jerk,And he said, “I am not sleepy, and I love toplay alone—And—I—think—” the rest was mumbled ina drowsy monotone.

He leaned back on the cushions like that nighthe had the croup;His head began to wobble and his eyes beganto droop;He closed them for a minute, just to see howit would seem,And straightway he was sound asleep, and dreamed this awful dream!

He thought he saw a garden filled with flowers and roses gay,A great big gardener with a hoe came walking down his way;“Ah, ha!” exclaimed the gardener, as he clutched him by the head,“Here’s a fine specimen I’ve found; I’ll plant him in this bed!”

He held the boy in one big hand, unheeding how he cried,And with the other dug a hole enormous, deep, and wide.He jammed the little fellow in, and said in gruffest tone,“This is the bed for naughty boys who won’t go to their own.”

And then the dirt was shovelled in,—it covered up his toes,His ankles, knees, and waist and arms, and higher yet it rose.For still the gardener shovelled on, not noticing his cries;It came up to his chin and mouth—it almost reached his eyes;

Just then he gathered all his strength and gave an awful scream,And woke himself, and put an end to that terrific dream.And he said, as Nursey tucked him up and bade him snugly rest,“When I am planted in a bed, I like my own the best.”

Two well-built men, neither giant nor dwarf,Were Monsieur Elims and Mynheer Nworf.They lived in a town not far away,And spent their time in work and play.Now Monsieur Elims was loved by all—By rich and poor, by great and small.And Mynheer Nworf remarked one day,“Brother, explain to me, I pray,Why no one likes me as well as you,No matter what I may say or do.I have stores of knowledge packed in my head;I am learned and wise and very well read;I can dance, I can sing, I’m extremely polite;I am worth a large fortune all in my own right.But still,—and this question has caused me much thought,—While I am neglected, you’re everywhere sought.”Monsieur Elims replied: “My dear sir, that is true,But you see, I am I, and you see, you are you.If I receive praises and you receive blame,’Tis doubtless because each lives up to his name.”

You’ll find his defence rather puzzling, I fear;But read their names backward—the meaning is clear.

“I’ve a lovely new cup from Uncle John,”Said Dorothy; “only see—It has beautiful golden letters on,And they spell ‘Remember Me.’”

“Oho!” laughed Fred. “Why, Dorothy dear,They put that on mugs and plates:I’ve studied jography ’most a year,And I know the names of the States.

And when you see that anywhere,—At least, since this fuss with Spain,—It’s the President who puts it there,And it means ‘Remember the Maine’!”

Mr. Hezekiah HinkleSaw a patient PeriwinkleWith a kodak, sitting idly by a rill.Feeling a desire awakenFor to have his picture taken,Mr. Hezekiah Hinkle stood stock-still.

Mr. Hezekiah HinkleFelt his brow begin to wrinkle,And his pose assume a sad and solemn style;But the Periwinkle trusted,As the focus he adjusted,That his customer would kindly try to smile.

Mr. Hezekiah HinkleFelt his eyes begin to twinkle,And his mouth took on a broad and open grin;Said the Periwinkle, sadly,“If you stretch your jaw so madly,I fear perhaps that I shall tumble in.”

Mr. Hezekiah HinkleFelt his hair begin to crinkle,As it rose up on his forehead in affright;Though his comrade spoke so mildly,Mr. Hinkle wondered wildly,How he could escape this dire and awful plight.

Mr. Hezekiah HinkleSaid, “I fear it’s going to sprinkle,And really for a storm I’m not prepared.”Then without a further warningHe politely said, “Good morning,”And the patient Periwinkle stood and stared.

Ten Christmas presents standing in a line;Robert took the bicycle, then there were nine.Nine Christmas presents ranged in order straight;Bob took the steam engine, then there were eight.Eight Christmas presents—and one came from Devon;Robbie took the jackknife, then there were seven.Seven Christmas presents direct from St. Nick’s;Bobby took the candy box, then there were six.Six Christmas presents, one of them alive;Rob took the puppy dog, then there were five.Five Christmas presents yet on the floor;Bobbin took the soldier cap, then there were four.Four Christmas presents underneath the tree;Bobbet took the writing desk, then there were three.Three Christmas presents still in full view;Robin took the checker board, then there were two.Two Christmas presents, promising fun,Bobbles took the picture book, then there was one.One Christmas present—and now the list is done;Bobbinet took the sled, and then there were none.And the same happy child received every toy,So many nicknames had one little boy.

Wee Willie sat a-thinking,And he shook his curly head.Around him on the nursery floorHis treasures lay outspread.

Firecrackers and torpedoes,Trumpet and flag and drum,Rockets and pinwheels and paper caps,For Fourth of July had come.

“But it makes me sort o’ sorry,”Wee Willie said with a sigh,“To think of those poor little English boysWithout any Fourth of July.”

There was an ambitious young eelWho determined to ride on a wheel;But try as he might,He couldn’t ride right,In spite of his ardor and zeal.

If he sat on the saddle to rideHis tail only pedalled one side;And I’m sure you’ll admitThat an eelcouldn’tsitOn a bicycle saddle astride.

Or if he hung over the top,He could go, but he never could stop;For of course it is clearHe had no way to steer,And under the wheel he would flop.

His neighbor, observing the fun,Said, “I think that the thing can be done,If you’ll listen to me,You’ll quickly agreeThat two heads are better than one.

“And this is my project, old chap,Around our two waists I will wrapThis beautiful beltOf bottle-green feltAnd fasten it firm with a strap.”

This done, with a dignified mienThe two squirmed up on the machine,And rode gayly away,Or at least, so they say,Who witnessed the wonderful scene.

Mamma has bought a calendar,And every single pageHas pictures on of little girls’Most just about my age.

And when she bought it yesterday,Down at the big bazaar,She said, “What lovely little girls,How true to life they are.”

But I don’t think they’re true to life,And I’ll just tell you why;They never have a rumpled frockOr ribbon bow awry.

And though they play with cats and dogs,And rabbits and white mice,And sail their boats and fly their kites,They always look so nice.

And I am sure no little girlThat everIhave seen,Could play with dogs or sail a boatAnd keep her frock so clean.

Once on a time a lad I knew—His sister called him Bubby;His cheeks were red, his eyes were blue,And he was plump and chubby.Indeed, he was so stout a boy,Some called him Roly Poly Roy;They called him thatFor he was fatAnd very plump and chubby.

He caused his father grief profound,And made his mother worry,Because he’d roll along the groundWhen he was in a hurry.For as he couldn’t see his toes,He often tumbled on his nose;So, on the whole,’Twas best to rollWhen he was in a hurry.

“Get up!” the people urged, but heReplied, “There’s no use talking;I roll around because, you see,It’s easier than walking.”And though it looked extremely drollTo see the lad lie down and roll,It was, forsooth,For that fat youthFar easier than walking.

One day he thought he’d try to ride;Alas, he was so bulky,He tumbled off the other side,Which made him rather sulky.He heard his comrades jeer and scoff,Again he tried and tumbled off,And when he fellThey’d shout and yell—Of course it made him sulky.

Just out of town there was a placeWith rolling ground and hilly,And here Roy started for a raceWith Dick and Tom and Willy.You’ll know of course before you’re toldThat Roy just laid him down and rolled;And so, you see,He easilyBeat Dick and Tom and Willy.

That day two giants came alongFrom Huncamunca Valley,Seeking some tenpins good and strongFor their new bowling alley.They reached the hilly sort of placeJust as our hero won the race;“Look at him roll!”They said. “He’ll bowlOn our new bowling alley.

“The other boys are squarely built;For tenpins they’ll do finely!No matter if a few get kilt,”And then they smiled benignly.Quickly they kidnapped ten small boys,All howling with a fearful noise;They took them all,And Roy for ball,And then they smiled benignly.

They hurried to their home and thenBegan their barbarous bowling.They set in rows the children tenAnd then set Roy a-rolling.But as the giants were strong and great,They shot poor Roy at such a rate,And with such might,That out of sightPoor Roy was set a-rolling.

He rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled,But soon, his fears dispelling,With happiness he did beholdHe’d safely reached his dwelling.Secure and safe from further harms,His mother caught him in her arms,And said with joy,“My darling boy,You’ve safely reached your dwelling.”

Now rolling seems to him to beMore dangerous than walking.And Roly Poly Roy you’ll seeAlong the sidewalks stalking.He’ll always have a certain fearThat giants may be lurking near,And so he’ll goWith motion slowAlong the sidewalk stalking.

My little maid with golden hairComes each morning for a kiss;And I know the day will be fine and fairWhen Polly looks like this.

Or I know the clouds will frown and lower,The skies will be dull and gray,And perhaps there’ll be a passing shower,When Polly looks this way.

But a violent storm of rain or snowI can prognosticate,For the sign will never fail, I know,When this is Polly’s pate.

Betty Botta bought some butter;“But,” said she, “this butter’s bitter!If I put it in my batterIt will make my batter bitter.But a bit o’ better butterWill but make my batter better.”Then she bought a bit o’ butterBetter than the bitter butter,Made her bitter batter better.So ’twas better Betty BottaBought a bit o’ better butter.

An old astronomer there wasWho lived up in a tower,Named Ptolemy CopernicusFlammarion McGower.He said: “I can prognosticateWith estimates correct;And when the skies I contemplate,I know what to expect.When dark’ning clouds obscure my sight,I think perhaps ’twill rain;And when the stars are shining bright,I know ’tis clear again.”And then abstractedly he scannedThe heavens, hour by hour,Old Ptolemy CopernicusFlammarion McGower.

Awas an apt Alligator,Who wanted to be a head-waiter;He said, “I opineIn that field I could shine,Because I am such a good skater.”

Bwas a beggarly Bear,Who carefully curled his front hair;He said, “I would buyA red-spotted tie,—But I haven’t a penny to spare.”

Cwas a cool Chimpanzee,Who went to an afternoon tea.When they said, “Will you takeA caraway cake?”He greedily took twenty-three!

Dwas a diligent Doe,In summer she shovelled the snow;In the spring and the fallShe did nothing at all,And in winter the grass she would mow.

Ewas an erudite Ermine,Who tried very hard to determineIf heshouldearn a cent,How it ought to be spent,And decided to purchase a sermon.

Fwas a fussy Flamingo,Who remarked to his family, “By jingo!I think I would goTo that animal show,But they all talk such barbarous lingo.”

Gwas a giddy Gazelle,Who never could learn how to spell;But she managed to passTo the head of her class,Because she did fractions so well.

Hwas a haughty young Hawk,Who affected society talk;But when introducedAt a large chicken roostHe excitedly screamed out, “Oh, Lawk!”

Iwas an idle Iguana,Who lived upon curried banana;With tears he’d protestThat he never could restTill he learned to sing “Eileen Alanna.”

Jwas a jimp Jaguar,Who purchased a Spanish guitar;He played popular airsAtfêtesand at fairs,And down at the Fancy Bazaar.

Kwas a kind Kangaroo,Whose bonnet was always askew;So they asked her to waitWhile they put it on straightAnd fastened it firmly with glue.

Lwas a lachrymose Leopard,Who ate up twelve sheep and a shepherd,But the real reason whyHe continued to cryWas his food was so lavishly peppered.

Mwas a mischievous Marten,Who went to the Free Kindergarten;When they asked him to platA gay-colored mat,He tackled the job like a Spartan.

Nwas a naughty Nylghau,Who wandered too near a buzz saw.It cut off his toes,And the shrieks that aroseFilled all of the neighbors with awe.

Owas an ossified Oyster,Who decided to enter a cloister.He could not return,So continued to yearnFor his home in the sea, which was moister.

Pwas a poor old Poll Parrot,Who had nothing to eat but a carrot,And nothing to wearBut a wig of red hair,And nowhere to live but a garret.

Qwas a querulous QuabWho at every trifle would sob;He said, “I detestTo wear a plaid vest,And I hate to eat corn from the cob!”

Rwas a rollicking Ram,Attired in an old pillow sham.When asked if he’d callAt the masquerade ball,He said, “I’ll go just as I am.”

Swas a shy Salamander,Who slept on a sunny veranda.She calmly reposed,But, alas! while she dozedThey caught her and killed her and canned her.

Twas a tidy young Tapir,Who went out to bring in the paper;And when he came backHe made no muddy track,For he wiped his feet clean on the scraper.

Uwas a young Unicorn,The bravest that ever was born.They bought him a boatAnd they set him afloat,And straightway he sailed for Cape Horn.

Vwas a vigorous Vulture,Who taught animals physical culture;When a pupil dropped dead,The kind teacher said,“You needn’t consider sepulture.”

Wwas a wild Worm,All day he did nothing but squirm.They sent him to school,But he broke every rule,And left at the end of the term.

Xwas a Xiphias brave,Who lived on the crest of the wave.To each fish he would say,“Good day, sir, good day!”And then a polite bow he gave.

Ywas a young Yellowhammer,Who raised a ridiculous clamor;And he chattered untilAn owl said, “Keep still!I’m trying to study my grammar.”

Zwas a zealous old Zibet,Toboggans he tried to prohibit.If any one triedTo take a sly slide,He ordered him hanged on a gibbet.

There lived a wondrous sculptor once, a genius in his way,Named Phidias Praxiteles Canova Merryday.He sat within his studio and said, “I really mustBegin a Rhodian anaglyptic ceroplastic bust.“My customers demand them, their fame rings near and far,But then, alas, the trouble is, I don’t know what they are.Though I could carve a Venus or a Belvedere with ease,My wondrous skill is lacking when it comes to carving these.“I cast and cut and chisel, I model and I mould,I copy poses picturesque from studies new and old;In marble, bronze, and potter’s clay, in wax and wood and stoneI carve the old-time statues with improvements of my own.

There lived a wondrous sculptor once, a genius in his way,Named Phidias Praxiteles Canova Merryday.He sat within his studio and said, “I really mustBegin a Rhodian anaglyptic ceroplastic bust.

“My customers demand them, their fame rings near and far,But then, alas, the trouble is, I don’t know what they are.Though I could carve a Venus or a Belvedere with ease,My wondrous skill is lacking when it comes to carving these.

“I cast and cut and chisel, I model and I mould,I copy poses picturesque from studies new and old;In marble, bronze, and potter’s clay, in wax and wood and stoneI carve the old-time statues with improvements of my own.

“I have Apollo on a horse, Minerva on a wheel,Hercules going fishing with his basket and his creel.A Mercury on roller-skates, Diana with a hat,And Venus playing tennis with Achilles at the bat.

“Yet these my customers pass by, and ask with interest keen,For things with long and tiresome names,—I don’t knowwhat they mean.And so I let my hammers hang, and let my chisels rust,For I cannot do an anaglyptic ceroplastic bust.”

The Beetle was blind, and the Bat was blinder,And they went to take tea with the Scissors-grinder.The Scissors-grinder had gone awayAcross the ocean to spend the day;But he’d tied his bell to the grapevine swing.The Bat and the Beetle heard it ring,And neither the Beetle nor Bat could seeWhy no one offered them any tea.So, polite and patient, they’re waiting yetFor the cup of tea they expect to get.

There was a ridiculous RatWho was awfully puffy and fat.“I’ll carry,” he said,“This plate on my head,’Twill answer in place of a hat.”

And then he remarked with a frown,“I suppose that I must have a gown;I’ll make me a kiltOf this old crazy-quilt,To wear when I’m going to town.

“And of course, though the weather is warm,It may be there’ll come up a storm;An umbrella I’ll makeOf a caraway cake,It’ll match with my whole uniform.

And I’ll carry a bottle of inkIn case I should wish for a drink;And this flat-iron so sweetI’ll take with me to eat,And now I am ready, I think.”

A Spider and a Centipede went out to take a walk;The Centipede said frankly, “I will listen while you talk,But I may appear distracted, or assume a vacant stare,Because to keep my feet in step requires my constant care.”

Said the Spider: “I appreciate your most peculiar case,And your feet must be quite handy when you want to run a race;But though you gain in some ways, in some other ways you lose;And, of course, my friend, you must be quite extravagant in shoes.”

“Ah! yes. Ah! yes,” a heavy sigh escaped the Centipede;“And I have other trials, too;—my life is hard indeed!Why, sometimes when I’m very tired, a long, long time it takesTo ascertain with certainty which foot it is that aches.

“And when I go to dancing-class on Saturdays at three,I find the First Position very difficult for me.Though I put my best foot foremost, and good time I try to keep,To my chagrin, I often find a foot or two asleep.

Athletics I attempted, but, alas! I must admitThat every exercise I tried I put my foot in it.I think I’ll join a foot-ball team,—as many friends suggest,—Before I’ve one foot in the grave and gout in all the rest.

But now I’ll say good-morning; for, my friend, I have to stopTo get my boots blacked neatly at this little boot-black’s shop;And, as you may imagine, it will keep me here some time,But, what is worse, I’ll have to pay him many a hard-earned dime.”

The Spider said good-morning, and pursued his way alone,And as he went he murmured, in a thoughtful undertone:“I’m a happy little Spider, and I’m very glad indeed,That I was born an octoped and not a centipede!”

There was an old Shark with a smileSo broad you could see it a mile.He said to his friends,As he sewed up the ends,“It was really too wide for the style.”

I don’t know why I’m slandered so,If I go high,—if I go low,—There’s always some one who will say,“Just see that mercury to-day!”And whether toward the top I crawlOr down toward zero I may fall,They always fret, and say that IAm far too low or far too high.Although I try with all my might,I never seem to strike it right.Now I admit it seems to meThey show great inconsistency.ButtheyimplyIam to blame;Of course that makes my anger flame,And in a fiery fit of piqueI stay at ninety for a week.Or sometimes in a dull despair,I give them just a frigid stare;And as upon their taunts I thinkMy spirits down to zero sink.Mine is indeed a hopeless case;To strive to please the human race!

Once there was a Pirate Poodle,And he sailed the briny seasFrom the land of Yankee DoodleSouthward to the Caribbees.

He would boast with tales outlandish,Of his valor and renown;And his cutlass he would brandishWith a fearful pirate frown.

So ferocious was his mannerAll his crew looked on, aghast;And his fearful pirate bannerFloated from his pirate mast.

He reiterated proudlyNaught had power to make him quail;Yet when thunder roaredtooloudlyHe would turn a trifle pale.

And he turned a little palerWhen there came a sudden squall;For this funny little sailorWas ridiculously small.

And whene’er a storm portendedHe’d betake himself below.So much fear and courage blendedDid a pirate ever show?

Priscilla, Auntie’s promised meA brand-new Paris doll;And though I love you, yet you seeI cannot keep you all.

Nursey declares I really mustThrow one of you away;And you’re the oldest, so I trustYou will not care to stay.

You’ve lost an arm, your dress is torn,Your wig is all awry;Priscilla, you are so forlorn,We’ll have to say good-by.

And yet—oh, don’t! my dolly dear,Don’tlook so sad, I pray!You precious dolly, come right here,Youshan’tbe thrown away!

You’re ragged, yes, and lame and blind,You’re really but a wreck;But, dear Priscilla, never mind,Ido not care a speck.

Your eyes do nicely when they’re shut,And I can mend the rest;Well—p’raps I’ll love the new one—butI’ll always loveyoubest.

Our Bobby is a little boy, of six years old, or so;And every kind of rubbish in his pocket he will stow.

One day he thought he’d empty it (so he again could stock it);And here’s an alphabet of what was found in Bobby’s pocket.

Awas a rosy Apple, with some bites out, here and there;Bwas a bouncing rubber Ball that bounded in the air.

Cwas a crispy crusty Cake with citron on the top;Dwas a dancing Donkey that could jump around and hop.

Ewas a little robin’s Egg, all speckled blue and brown;Fwas a fluffy Feather that was white and soft as down.

Gwas a lively Grasshopper, whose legs and wings were green;Hwas a grimy Handkerchief that once perhaps was clean.

Iwas a plaster Image that had lost its plaster head;Jwas a jolly Jumping-Jack all painted blue and red.

Kwas a keen and shining Knife, ’twould cut the toughest bark;Lwas a little wooden Lion, strayed out of Noah’s Ark.

Mwas a Marble, large and round, with colors bright and clear;Nwas a bent and rusty Nail, of little use, I fear.

Owas a tiny Oil-can, which was always upside down;Pwas a Penny Bob had saved to spend some day in town.

Qwas a Quilted ear-tab, which had lost its velvet mate;Rwas a Ring with a glassy gem of wondrous size and weight.

Swas a String, a piece of Soap, a Stone, a Sponge, a Stick;Twas a lump of Taffy, exceeding soft and thick.

U, an Umbrella-handle, of silver-mounted horn;Vwas a comic Valentine, a little creased and worn.

Wwas some sticky Wax, lovely to pinch and mould;Xwas an old Xpress receipt, worn out in every fold.

Ywas a lot of Yellow Yarn, all bunched up like a mop;Zwas a jagged piece of Zinc, found in a plumber’s shop.

All these are Bob’s possessions; he loves every single thing;And owning all these treasures he’s as happy as a King!

There was a youthful genius once, a boy of thirteen years,Named Cyrus Franklin Edison Lavoisier De Squeers.To study he was not inclined, for fun he had a bent;But there was just one article he wanted to invent.

“It’s a sort of a contraption which will work itself,” he said,“And, without studying, will put my lessons in my head.”He thought and puzzled o’er his plan, he worked with might and mainTo utilize the wondrous schemes within his fertile brain:

Until at last the thing was done, and to his friends said he:“It is the wonder of the age! Success I can foresee!My great invention is complete, and—’tis no idle vaunt—I’m sure that my Instructiphone will fill a long-felt want.

“The action is quite simple—I will try to make it clear:This funnel-shaped receiver I apply to my left ear;Then in this hopper I will put whate’er I wish to learn—A page of history or of Greek,—and then this crank I’ll turn.

“The topic goes into this tube, a sort of phonographWhich acts directly on my mind,—itdoes, you needn’t laugh!I do not have to think at all, for, as I pull this chain,My wonderful machine transmits the knowledge to my brain.”

The plan was good, the works were fine, and yet there was a flaw;When Cyrus turned the crank around, the neighbors watched with awe.He confidently pulled the chain with motion quick and deft;The knowledge entered his right ear—and came out at his left.

He tried again,—a page of Greek; he tried a theme occult,—A message and an errand,—every time the same result!Then Cyrus knew that somehow his machine had missed its aim;For though the works ran smoothly it was always just the same.

No matter what the book might be, or what it was about,It would go in at one ear,—at the other ’twould come out!So in his laboratory, baffled Cyrus sitting lone,Strives to correct the sad defect in his Instructiphone.

But it is my opinion, there’s no fault in the machine:The trouble is that Cyrus is like other boys I’ve seen.

The Lady Lorraine was sweet and fair;The Lady Lorraine was young;She had wonderful eyes and glorious hair,And a voice of a cadence rich and rare;Oh, she was a lady beyond compare—By all were her praises sung,Till valley and plainTook up the refrain,And rang with the praise of the Lady Lorraine.

And besides all charms of form and face,There were other attractions about Her Grace;Besides her delicate, lily-white hands,She had rolling acres and broad, rich lands;Besides her patrician coat of arms,She had far-reaching forests and fertile farms;And of many an ancient and wide domainThe beautiful lady was châtelaine.So of course at her doorThere were suitors galore;They came by the dozen, and came by the score.

They came in droves, and they came in hordes,Titled nobility,—princes, lords,Dukes and marquises, viscounts and peers,Ambassadors, marshals, grandees, grenadiers,Barons and baronets, earls, and esquires,Illustrious sons of illustrious sires:But ’twas ever in vainThey sought to attainThe heart and the hand of the Lady Lorraine.And day after dayThey turned sadly away;For the Lady Lorraine continued to say,Decidedly, certainly, stubbornly, “Nay!”She cared not for wreaths of laurel or bay,Their titles or rent rolls or uniforms gay,Their medals or ribbons or gaudy display,Their splendid equipment, demeanor, or bearing;She observed not their manners, nor what they were wearing;Their marvellous exploits for her had no charms:Their prowess in tourney, their valor at arms;Their wondrous achievements of brawn or of brain,—All, all were as naught to the Lady Lorraine.To each suitor she’d say, with her hand on her heart,“Sir, I ask of you only that you will depart.”

In vain they entreated, they begged and they plead,They coaxed and besought, and they sullenly saidThat she was hard-hearted, unfeeling, and cruel.They challenged each other to many a duel;They scowled and they scolded, they sulked and they sighed,But they could not win Lady Lorraine for a bride.

Now the reason for this, as you may have divined,Was because in her maidenly heart was enshrinedThe image of one who was just to her mind:Who was loving and kind,To whose faults she was blind,—The lord of her heart, and the love of her life,To whom she had promised to be a fond wife.Her Highness was happy, for even now heWas hastening to her across the blue sea.He had written to say he was then on the way,And would greet his fair lady on Christmas day.

’Twas Christmas eve. In the old oak hallPreparations were made for the Christmas ball.Gay garlands were hung from ceiling and wall;The Yule log was laid, the tables arrayed,And the Lady Lorraine and her whole cavalcade,From the pompous old steward to the scullery-maid,Were all in a fluster,Excitement and bluster,And everything shone with a marvellous lustre.

Such savory viands the larders presented;Such wondrous confections the bakers invented:Such pasties and cates of eccentric design;Such sparkling decanters of rarest old wine;And ready at hand was the great wassail-bowl,And the jolly old boar’s head, with lemon, so droll.The nook for musicians was carefully planned,And carols and glees would be played by the band.

At last all was ready. The workmen were done;And awaiting the jollity, mirth, and frivolity,The games and the dancing, the feasting and fun,The old hall was empty,—save only for one,—The Lady Lorraine, who surveyed it with pride,And said, “It is worthy of Lord Cecil’s bride!”Then a bright smile illumined her happy young face,Her roguish eyes twinkled, and gayly Her GraceCrossed the old polished floor with a step light and quick,And her high slipper heels went clickety-click.She looked cautiously round,—she was all by herself;Like a mischievous elf,She took from a shelfA mistletoe spray with its berries like pearls;Then tossing her head and shaking her curls,In a manner half daring and yet half afraid,The madcap maid, with a smile that betrayedExpectant thoughts of her lover dear,Fastened the spray to the chandelier.

Then in a merry, fanciful mood,Inspired by the time and the solitude,The Lady Lorraine,In whimsical vein,Said, “On Christmas eve, ’neath this mistletoe bough,I’ll solemnly make an immutable vow.”With a glance at the portraits that hung on the wall,She said, “I adjure ye to witness, all:I vow by the names that I’ve long revered,—By my great-great-grandfather’s great gray beard,By my father’s sword, by my uncle’s hat,By my spinster aunt’s Angora cat,By my ancient grandame’s buckled shoes,By my uncle Gregory’s marvellous brews,By Sir Sydney’s wig,And his ruff so big,—Indeed, by his whole preposterous rig,—By the scutcheon and crest, and all the restOf the signs of my house, I vow this vow:That whoever beneath this mistletoe boughShall first kiss me, he—none but he—My partner for life shall henceforth be.”

She had scarcely ceased when she heard a sound.She looked around,And, startled, foundFrom the old oak chimney place it came.For there, as if in an old oak frame,A figure quaint, yet familiar too,Met her astonished, bewildered view.Of aspect merry, yet something weird,With kind blue eyes and a long white beard,Fur-trimmed cloak, and a peakèd cap,Rosy cheeks,—a jolly old chap;And, though surprised, she recognizedSt. Nicholas, dear to her childhood days,And she met his smile with a welcome gaze.

The jolly old man beheld Her Grace,With her laughing eyes and her winsome face;He couldn’t resist her,—Indeed, who could?—And he heartily kissed herWhere she stood!And exultingly cried, “I heard your vow;And Lady Lorraine shall bemybride now!”

The lady trembled, as in a daze;With a startled gaze of blank amaze,She looked at the figure who stood by her sideAnd audaciously claimed her for his bride.

Then she bowed her headAnd the color fledFrom the cheeks that his kiss had flushed rosy red.Her heart was filled with a sad despairAs she thought of her lover, Lord Cecil Clare,And his dire dismayWhen on Christmas dayHe should ride up gayly in brave array,And find his sweetheart stolen away.

But the honor and pride of her race were at stake;And for conscience’ sakeShe dared not breakHer solemn vow, though her heart might ache.To be true to her word, her sire had taught her,And she was a loyal, obedient daughter.She appealed to the portraits of squires and dames,Who looked sternly down from their gilded frames;But they seemed to say, “There must ne’er be brokenA promise or vow a Lorraine has spoken.”

With stifled sighs, and with tears in her eyes,Though she tried to assume a cheerful guise,She turned to the suitor who stood apart,Awaiting the gift of her hand and heart;And she said with a gentle, dignified air:“My heart belongs to Lord Cecil Clare;But my fatal vow,Though I rue it now,I dare not break. So, at your command,I fulfil it! On you I bestow my hand.”

“O noble lady!” her suitor cried,“’Twas only a merry test I tried.Full well I knewThat your heart was true.Behold your lover, my bonny bride!I assumed this guise for a Christmas joke.”And as he spoke,He threw off his cloak,He flung to the floor his peakèd hood,And a gallant knight before her stood!

He doffed his wig and his long white beard;All signs of St. Nicholas disappeared;And smiling there, in the firelight’s glare,Was the gay and noble Lord Cecil Clare!

The lady marvelled—a glad surpriseBetokened itself in her lovely eyes;And with her merriment quite restored,She said, “You are welcome home, my lord;And I’m thankful, now,That I kept my vow.”

Lord Cecil raised her hand to his lips,And gallantly kissed her finger tips;While the squires and damesLooked down from their frames,And “Bless you, my children!” they seemed to say.Then the band appeared, and began to play;The guests arrived, and without delayThe fun commenced, and the old oak hallNever had known such a Christmas ball!The feast was spread,And the dance was ledBy the knight and the lady, and every one said,With a shout that rent the midnight air,“Long live Lord Cecil and Lady Clare!”

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