“How do you remember all your songs?” he asked.
“I just make them up,” replied Lady Love, with a smile:
“Happiness is in the heart,
Singing all the day.
Nothing’s dull when one is glad—
Work seems just like play.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the little bunny boy, “I think you could write wonderful fairy stories.”
“Maybe!” answered Lady Love, with a wistful smile, as she ironed her little son’s blouse, “but I’ve only time to dream them. Perhaps some day we’ll find time, you and I, to fill a book with songs of our little white bungalow.”
Just then a knock came at the kitchen door. There stood the Yellow Dog Tramp, his old straw hat over one ear and a little tin can in his hand—I beg your pardon, I mean paw.
“Won’t you fill my old tin cup with coffee till it’s brimming up?” asked the good old Bow-Wow in poetry. You see, he had lived in the woods where the birds sing and the leaves rustle and had turned into a dog poet without knowing it.