Part 35 (2/2)

Well, anyway I'd find out all about it, 'way down there, And then I'd want to come up home, And I'd have so much to tell to You!

If I could dig holes like a rabbit, That's just what I would do.

ROSE STRONG HUBBELL

THE LITTLE G.o.d

Mother says there's a little G.o.d Lives in my garden.

I asked her--”In the tree?”-- I asked her--”In the fountain?”

And she said, yes, that she, Plain as plain could be, Everywhere could see The little G.o.d.

”What's he look like, mother?”

”Oh,” she said, ”like the flowers, Like the summer showers, Like the morning dew,-- Like you.”

She says he's everywhere In my garden--I can't see him there.

KATHARINE HOWARD

DAISIES

At evening when I go to bed I see the stars s.h.i.+ne overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadow of the Night.

And often while I'm dreaming so, Across the sky the Moon will go; It is a lady, sweet and fair, Who comes to gather daisies there.

For, when at morning I arise, There's not a star left in the skies; She's picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

THE ANXIOUS FARMER

It was awful long ago That I put those seeds around; And I guess I ought to know When I stuck 'em in the ground.

'Cause I noted down the day In a little diary book,-- It's gotten losted somewhere and I don't know where to look.

But I'm certain anyhow They've been planted most a week And it must be time by now For their little sprouts to peek.

They've been watered every day With a very speshul care, And once or twice I've dug 'em up to see if they were there.

I fixed the dirt in humps Just the way they said I should; And I crumbled all the lumps Just as finely as I could.

And I found a nangle-worm A-poking up his head,-- He maybe feeds on seeds and such, and so I squushed him dead.

A seed's so very small, And dirt all looks the same;-- How can they know at all The way they ought to aim?

And so I'm waiting round In case of any need; A farmer ought to do his best for every single seed!

BURGES JOHNSON

OVER THE GARDEN WALL

By the side of a wall in a garden gay, A little Rose-bush grew; In the first dear days of the month of May, Loved by the sun and dew.

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