Part 17 (1/2)

Now for the s.h.i.+rt, my Baby oh!

Soft and warm, and as white as snow.

Puffy white petticoats, fluffy white gown; Why, what a great ball of thistle-down!

Last come the curls, my Baby oh!

Soft as silver they fall and flow.

Now toss him up and carry him down, The bonniest Baby in Boston town!

LITTLE BLACK MONKEY.

Little black Monkey sat up in a tree, Little black Monkey he grinned at me; He put out his paw for a cocoanut, And he dropped it down on my occiput.

The occiput is a part, you know, Of the head which does on my shoulders grow; And it's very unpleasant to have it hit, Especially when there's no hair on it.

I took up my gun, and I said, ”Now, why, Little black Monkey, should you not die?

I'll hit you soon in a vital part!

It may be your head, or it may be your heart.”

I steadied my gun, and I aimed it true; The trigger it snapped and the bullet it flew; But just where it went to I cannot tell, For I never _could_ find where that bullet fell.

Little black Monkey still sat in the tree, And placidly, wickedly grinned at me.

I took up my gun and I walked away, And postponed his death till another day.

JIPPY AND JIMMY.

Jippy and Jimmy were two little dogs.

They went to sail on some floating logs; The logs rolled over, the dogs rolled in, And they got very wet, for their clothes were thin.

Jippy and Jimmy crept out again.

They said, ”The river is full of rain!”

They said, ”The water is far from dry!

Ki-hi! ki-hi! ki-_hi_-yi! ki-hi!”

Jippy and Jimmy went s.h.i.+vering home.

They said, ”On the river no more we'll roam; And we won't go to sail until we learn how, Bow-wow! bow-wow! bow-_wow_-wow! bow-wow!”

MASTER JACK'S SONG.

[_Written after spending the Christmas Holidays at Grandmamma's._]

You may talk about your groves, Where you wander with your loves.

You may talk about your moonlit waves that fall and flow.

Something fairer far than these I can show you, if you please.

'Tis the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

_Chorus._ Where the jam-pots grow!