“Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four-and-twenty blackbirds,
Baked within a pie.
When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing.
Wasn’t that a dainty dish
To set before the King?”
Uncle Wiggily stood still. He thought for a moment.
“I wonder,” he said. “I wonder—four-and-twenty—blackbirds? Mother Goose didn’t say how many she was expecting, and these may be the very same ones. I guess I’ll go in and see about this.”