Two little children, five years old,
Marie the gentle and Charlie the bold.
Sweet and bright, and quaintly wise,
Angels both, in their mother's eyes.

But you, if you follow my verse, will see,
That they were as human as human can be,
And hadn't yet learned the maturer art
Of hiding the self of the finite heart.

One day they found, in their romp and play,
Two little rabbits, soft and gray.
Soft and gray, and just of a size,
As like each other as your two eyes.

All day long the children made love
To the dear little rabbits, their treasure trove.
They kissed and hugged them until the night
Brought to the coneys a glad respite.

But too much fondling doesn't agree
With a rabbit's nature, as we shall see.
For ere the light of another day
Had chased the shadows of night away,

One little pet had gone to the Shades,
Or, let us hope, to perennial glades,
Brighter and softer than any below,
A heaven where good little rabbits go.

The living and dead lay side by side,
And still as alike as before one died.
And it chanced that the children came singly to view
The pets they had dreamed of all the night through.

First came Charlie, and with sad surprise,
Beheld the dead with streaming eyes.
Howe'er, consolingly, he said,
"Poor Marie!  Her rabbit's dead!"

Then came Marie, and stood aghast,
And kissed and caressed it, but at last
Found voice to say, while her young heart bled
"I'm sorry for Charlie.  His rabbit's dead!"
 
 
 

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
And never as people do now,
Did he note the amount of the calorie count.
He ate it because it was chow.

He wasn't disturbed when at dinner he sat,
Devouring a roast or a pie,
To think it was lacking in granular fat,
Or a couple of vitamins shy.

He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
With never a worry, or fears
That his health might be hurt by some fancy desert,
And he lived over nine hundred years.
 
 
 

There once was a hermit who lived in a dell,
And this is no legend or myth that I tell,
The sire of my own sire did know him quite well,
The Hermit.

Now once every year, so the old story goes,
He went to the lake to wash body and clothes.
How the lake ever stood it God only knows,
And He won't tell.

One day as he stood there all dripping and wet
Two lovely young maidens, his shy vision met.
For it's true, at this love game he wasn't a vet,
So he blushed.

He grabbed up his hat from its place on the beach,
And covered whatever its broad brim would reach.
And called to the maids with a horrified screech,
Go Away!

But the maids only laughed at his horrible plight,
And begged him to show them the wonderful site.
But he only held onto his hat oh so tight,
To hide it.

Then came an inquisitive impudent gnat,
And sat where the hermit habitually sat.
To brush off the insect, he let go the hat.
Oh, horrors!

That's most of my story, but not quite yet all.
For the truth could be seen by the great and the small.
Though he let go the hat, the hat did not fall.
The miracle.
 
 
 

Said the lil' ol' red rooster,
"Gosh all hemlocks, things is tough!
Seems like worms is gittin' scarcer,
An' I cannot find enough!"

"What's become of all those fat ones
Is a mystery to me.
There were thousands through the wet spells.
But gee!  Now where can they be?"

The old black hen who heard him
Didn't grumble or complain.
She'd been through lots of dry spells
And she'd lived through lots of rain.

She flew down to the grindstone
To give her claws a whet,
And said, "I've never seen the time
There were no worms to get!"

She picked upon an undug spot.
The earth was hard and firm.
The little rooster jeered, "New ground?
That's no place for a worm!"

The old black hen spread her claws,
And dug both fast and free.
"I'll dig down to the worms", she said,
"If they won't come up to me!"

The little rooster spent his day,
(From habit, by the way,)
Where big fat worms had passed in squads,
Back in the rainy days.

When nightfall found him supperless,
He growled in accents rough,
"I'm hungry as a fowl can be!
Conditions sure are tough!"

The old black hen hopped to her perch,
And dropped her eyes to sleep,
And murmured in a drowsy tone,
"Young man, hear this and weep."

"I'm full of worms and happy,
For I dined both long and well.
The worms were there like always,
But I had to dig like — Hades!"

One time there was a little boy
Whose name was Robert Reese,
And every Friday afternoon
He had to speak a piece.

So many poems thus he learned
That soon he had a score
Of recitations in his head
And still kept learning more.

Now this is just what happened;
He was called upon one week,
And totally forgot the piece
He was about to speak!

His brain he cudgeled, but not a word
Remained within his head!
And so he spoke at random,
And this is what he said:

"My Beautiful, My Beautiful,
Who standeth proudly by,
It was the schooner Hesperus,
The mighty waves dashed high!

"Why is the forum crowded?
What means this stir in Rome?
Under the spreading chestnut tree,
There is no place like home!

"When Freedom from her mountain height
Cries 'Twinkle, little star',
Shoot if you must this old gray head,
King Henry of Navarre!

"Roll on, thou deep and dark blue
Castled crag of Drachenfels,
My name is Norval, of the Grampian Heights
Ring out, wild bells!

"If you're waking, call me early,
To be or not to be,
The curfew must not ring tonight!
Oh, woodman, spare that tree!

"On, Stanley, on!  Charge, Chester, charge
And let who will be clever.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
But I go on forever!"

For when a warrior's youth has fled,
And years have sapped his vim,
They quickly knock him in the head,
And put an end to him. 

And when a man gets old and gray,
And weak, and short of breath,
We simply take his job away,
And let him starve to death.

Under a toadstool crept a wee elf,
Out of the rain to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool fast asleep,
Sat a big dormouse, all in a heap.

Trembled the wee elf, frightened and yet
Fearing to fly away, lest he get wet.
To the next toadstool may be a mile.
Suddenly the wee elf smiled a wee smile.

He tugged 'til the toadstool toppled in two,
And holding it over him, gaily he flew.
Soon he was home again, dry as could be.
Soon woke the dormouse, "Good gracious me!"

"Where is my toadstool?"  loud he lamented.
And that is how umbrellas first were invented.

Oh, don't you remember a long time ago,
Two poor little babes, their names I don't know,
Went strolling away on a bright summers day
And were lost in the woods, I've heard people say.

And when it was night, so sad was their plight!
The sun had gone down and the stars gave no light.
They sobbed and they sighed, and most bitterly cried.
Poor babes in the woods, poor babes in the woods.

And when they were dead, the Robins so red
Brought strawberry leaves and over them spread,
And sang them a song the whole day long.
Poor babes in the woods, poor babes in the woods.