And yet—oh, don’t! my dolly dear,
Don’t look so sad, I pray!
You precious dolly, come right here,
You shan’t be thrown away!
You’re ragged, yes, and lame and blind,
You’re really but a wreck;
But, dear Priscilla, never mind,
I do not care a speck.
Your eyes do nicely when they’re shut,
And I can mend the rest;
Well—p’raps I’ll love the new one—but
I’ll always love you best.
Bobby’s Pocket
Our Bobby is a little boy, of six years old, or so;
And every kind of rubbish in his pocket he will stow.
One day he thought he’d empty it (so he again could stock it);
And here’s an alphabet of what was found in Bobby’s pocket.
A was a rosy Apple, with some bites out, here and there;
B was a bouncing rubber Ball that bounded in the air.
C was a crispy crusty Cake with citron on the top;
D was a dancing Donkey that could jump around and hop.
E was a little robin’s Egg, all speckled blue and brown;
F was a fluffy Feather that was white and soft as down.