Ha! ha! ha! what little scheming

Rascals we were then, my laddie!—

Knock off apples just half-dreaming

Ripeness, stain the stems that had a

Fresh look with some dirt—divine in

Innocence!—then run to mother,

Each one chuckling to the other,

“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

Tell her then we’d found them lying

On the ground (we had, too!) asking