HER OWN WAY
When Polly goes into the parlor to play,
She never minds what the little notes say,
Nor peeps at a music-book;
"I play by ear," says the little dear
(When some of us think the music's queer),
"So why should I need to look?"
When Polly goes into the kitchen to cook,
She never looks at a cookery-book,
Nor a sign of a recipe;
It's a dot of this and a dab of that,
And a twirl of the wrist and a pinch and a pat—
"I cook by hand," says she.