Mother Truth's Melodies Part 7

NINE little chick-a-dees,--one without a mate,-- A Sparrow-hawk caught _one_, then there were but EIGHT.

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EIGHT little chick-a dees, by a 'possum driven,-- He caught _one_ and slaughtered it, then there were but SEVEN.

SEVEN little chick-a-dees hopping round the ricks,-- A Weasel came and captured _one_, then there were but six.

SIX little chick-a-dees watching Rover dive,-- He sprang ash.o.r.e and seized _one_, then there were but FIVE.

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FIVE little chick-a-dees pecking at the door, Kitty-cat caught _one_, then there were but FOUR.

FOUR little chick-a-dees full of birdy glee, _One_ was tangled in a net, then there were but THREE.

THREE little chick-a-dees dabbling in the dew, A stone fell and crushed _one_, then there were but TWO.

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TWO little chick-a-dees peeping just for fun, A hungry Kite caught _one_, then there was but ONE.

ONE little chick-a-dee, mourning all alone, Flew away to find a mate, and then there was NONE,

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_HEIGH-HO, DAISIES AND b.u.t.tER-CUPS_.

HEIGH-HO, daisies and b.u.t.ter-cups Grow in the meadows for children to gather; But cattle will shun them, And farmers will burn them, Because in their fields they are only a bother.

Heigh-ho, red-top and clover-bloom, Filling the air with their sweetness and beauty, Will yield without measure, Their wealth of rich treasure, Rewarding the farmer for doing his duty.

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_THE PONY_.

Once 2 is 2, Here's a pony for you;

Two 2s are 4, But be careful the more,--

THREE 2s are 6, For perhaps pony kicks;

FOUR 2s are 8, And if so we must wait,

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FIVE 2s are 10, Till he's trained by the men;--

Six 2s are 12, Before trusting ourselves,

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SEVEN 2s are 14, To ride him out sporting;

EIGHT 2s are 16, But we can be fixing

NINE 2s are 18, His food while we're waiting;

TEN 2s are 20, Oh, yes, give him plenty,--

ELEVEN 2s are 22, For then he will be gentle to--

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TWELVE 2s are 24, Us who feed and pet him more.

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_BABY'S RECKONING_.

One little head, Ah! but what does it hold?

No matter,--it's worth its whole weight in pure gold.

Two big brown eyes, soft with Heaven's own dew; No diamonds so precious, so sparkling, so true.

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Three cunning dimples, one deep in her chin, And one in each cheek--Ah! they're just twin and twin.

Four little fingers to clutch mamma's hair, But sweeter than honeycomb, even when there.

Five, we may call it, with little Tom Thumb, And that fist in her mouth is as sweet as a plum.

Six wonderful pearls her bright coral lips hide, And the Kohinoor's nothing these pure pearls beside.

Seven brown wavelets are ever in motion, And silken floss to them is naught, to our notion.

Eight little giggles run over with glee-- And more if you call them, so merry is she.

Nine songs, (they're Greek tho' to all but mamma), Make us think she is destined, an Opera Star.