In My Nursery Part 27

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis nine o'clock, And time to go to school; Don't loiter 'mid the b.u.t.tercups, Or by the wayside pool.

"Ding dong! tick tock! 'tis two o'clock.

The dinner's getting cold; You'd better hurry down, you child, Or your mamma will scold.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis six o'clock.

You've had the afternoon To play and romp, so now come in; Your tea'll be ready soon.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis nine o'clock.

To bed, to bed, my dear!

Sleep sound, until I waken you, When day is shining clear."

So through the night and through the day, My busy little clock, He talks and talks and talks away, With ceaseless "tick" and "tock."

But warning others on his shelf, All earnest as he stands, He never thinks to warn himself; He'll _never_ wash his hands.

MY UNCLE JEHOSHAPHAT.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat had a pig,-- A pig of high degree; And he always wore a brown scratch wig, Most beautiful for to see.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat loved this pig, And the piggywig he loved him; And they both jumped into the lake one day, To see which best could swim.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat he swam up, And the piggywig he swam down; And so they both did win the prize, Which the same was a velvet gown.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat wore one half, And the piggywig wore the other; And they both rode to town on the brindled calf, To carry it home to its mother.

ROSY POSY.

There was a little Rosy, And she had a little nosy; And she made a little posy, All pink and white and green.

And she said, "Little nosy, Will you smell my little posy?

For of all the flowers that growsy, Such sweet ones ne'er were seen."

So she took the little posy, And she put it to her nosy, On her little face so rosy, The flowers for to smell; And which of them was Rosy, And which of them was nosy, And which of them was posy, You really could not tell!

[Ill.u.s.tration: MY WALLPAPER. ]

SICK-ROOM FANCIES.

I.

MY WALL-PAPER.

The paper roses, blue and red, That climbing go about my bed, All up and down my chamber wall, A-quarrelling one day did fall; And as with half-shut eyes I lay, 'Twas thus I heard the roses say:

"You vulgar creature!" cried the Red, "I wonder you dare raise your head, Much less go flaunting here and there With such a proud and perky air.

I am a rose indeed; but _you_!

Who ever heard of roses blue?

Your sense of truth, Ma'am, must be small, To call yourself a rose at all."

The Blue Rose proudly raised her head; "Your humble servant, Ma'am!" she said.

"My family, I own, is far From being such as you, Ma'am, are.

We blossomed lately in the sky, A fairy plucked us, floating by, And flung us down to earth, that we Might show what roses _ought_ to be.

So, while we still adorn the earth, Our hue attests our skyey birth."

Just then _my_ Rose came through the room; And in her hand, in wondrous bloom, A lovely snow-white bud she bore, With diamond dew-drops sprinkled o'er.

She laid it in my hand, and "See,"

She said, "how fair a rose may be!"

The paper roses, Blues and Reds, For shame hung down their silly heads.

I watched them, laughing, as I lay, But not another word said they.

II.

MY j.a.pANESE FAN.

I have a friend, a little friend, Who lives upon a fan; Perhaps he is a woman, Perhaps she is a man.

His clothes they are so very queer, So _very_ queer, in sooth, I sometimes call him "lovely maid,"

And sometimes "gentle youth."

Her hair is combed up straight and smooth Above his pretty face.

His looks are full of friendliness; Her att.i.tude, of grace.

And every morning when I wake, And every evening too, She greets me with his pleasant smile, And friendly "How-d'ye-do?"

She wonders why I lie in bed; He thinks my wisest plan Would be to come and live with her Upon a paper fan.

But that, alas! can never be; And so I never can Know whether he's a woman, Or whether she's a man.

MARJORIE'S KNITTING.

In the chimney-corner our Marjorie sits, Softly singing the while she knits.

The fire-light, flickering here and there, Plays on her face and her shining hair;

And glimmering bright in the fitful glow, Backward and forward her needles go,-- Backward and forward, swift and true,-- And hark! the needles are singing too.