The Jingle Book

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 bonnet
With a wreath of roses on it,
And a beautiful mantilla fringed with white;
And she donned the pretty mittens,
While the silly little kittens
Clapped 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 punk
Arose 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 agreed
To 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 dunce
Clambered 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 display
Of pyrotechnic grandeur on Independence Day!

The Arch Armadillo

There once was an arch Armadillo
Who built him a hut ’neath a willow;
He hadn’t a bed
So he rested his head
On a young Porcupine for a pillow.

A Dream Lesson

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 straight
That 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 down
That 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; he was a 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 song
And thought how lovely it would be to sit up all night long.

But soon his games grew stupid, and his puzzles
wouldn’t work;
He drew himself up stiffly with a sudden little jerk,
And he said, “I am not sleepy, and I love to
play alone—
And—I—think—” the rest was mumbled in