Nose to window, Still as a mouse, Watching grampa "Bank the house." Out of the barrow he shovels the tan, And he piles and packs it as hard as he can "All about the house's feet,"...
A miller had a daughter, And lovely, too, she was; Her step was light, her smile was bright, Her eyes were gray as glass. (So Chaucer loved to write of eyes In which that nameless azure lies...
The little brown owl sits up in the Tree, And if you look well His big eyes you may see. He says Whit a whoo, when the night grows dark, And he hears the dogs and the little foxes bark.
Knit, knit, knit, knit! See old white-capped Pussy sit, Fairly gray with worry and care, In her little straight-backed rocking-chair? Knit, knit, knit, Till she is tired of it! ...
Ah, very, very poor was she-- Old Dame Pig, with her children three! Robust, beautiful little ones Were those three sons, Each wearing always, without fail, A little fanciful knot in his tail. ...
Whisk!--away in the sun His little flying feet Scamper as softly fleet As ever the rabbits run. He is gone like a flash, and then In a breath is back again.