The dinner done, the lamp is lit,
And in its mellow glow we sit
And talk of matters, grave and gay,
That went to make another day.
Comes Little One, a book in hand,
With this request—nay, this command—
(For who’d gainsay the little sprite):
“Please—will you read to me to-night?”
Read to you, Little One? Why, yes.
What shall it be to-night? You guess