For the same little hat that he wore in the ark;
For fashions may vary with people and clime,
But dandelions wear the same hats all the time.
“What’s o’clock?” and he paused while he counted the fuzz
That had crept through his locks, as old age always does;
Then he settled himself to pluck out the old feathers,
That had done so much service in all kinds of weathers.
Rather frowsy he looked, getting into his hat,
But he knew that the rain would take care of all that,
If he only were up; so he pulled on his boots,