Why do they like the house so high,
With such a little of the ground?
And do you think they ever see
The Moon before it's old and round?
Why won't I like to play there, too?—
With all the funny things to eat,
And all the carts with little bells,
And dancing-music in the street?
And if I can't, then why do they
Stay out, the whole of evening?—
Why do they always seem to have
Just Not-Enough of everything?
Why don't you come?—Why can't I go?
It isn't Fair!—What makes it so?—
If they don't like it? Don't you know?
Why do you always never know?
Chestnut Stands
wonder why you feel, somehow,
It's wrong to leave a Chestnut stand,
With all so much of what you want
In both your pockets and your hand.
I always have to turn around;—
It sounds so hurt—I don't see why—
That little high-up crying sound
I don't remember by and by.
There is not anything so good
As Chestnuts (when they're hot) can be.
It must be fun to count them out,
With One for You and One for Me;
And yet it stays so doleful there,
—For all the People going by,—
And breathing frosty on the air,
Like something trying not to cry.
—It Isn't something I was Told!—
I know it's small and scared and thin.—
It's like when both your hands are cold,
And Pockets you can't put them in!
—Like something happened long ago;
—Like feeling Homesick,—yes, and Shy;
Like being Sorry,—when you know
You won't remember, by and by.