With laughter the Dandelion shook—
"It passes a printed book;
It's as good as a play, I declare,
But it's cost me half my back hair!"
The Dog he made another essay,
It really and truly was very plucky—
But "third times," you know, are not always lucky—
And this time he ran away!
Hedge-Plants.
Then the Hedge-plants every one
Rustled together, "What fun! what fun!
The battle is done,
The victory won.
Dear Hedge-pig, pray come out of the Sun."
The Hedge-pig put forth his snout,
He sniffed hither and thither and peeped about;
Then he tucked up his prickly clothes,
And trotted away on his tender toes
To where the hedge-bottom is cool and deep,
Had a slug for supper, and went to sleep.
His leafy bed-clothes cuddled his chin,
And all the Hedge-plants tucked him in.
But the hairs and the tears that we shed
Never can be recalled;
And when he too went off, in hysterics, to bed,
DANDELION was bald.
MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW.
Brother Bill.
To have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed;
We don't give it up, for Mother says the harder things are, the harder you must try till you succeed.
Still, our birthdays are different; we want so many things, and choosing your own pudding, and even half-holidays are treats;
But what can you do for people who always order the dinner, and never have lessons, and don't even like sweets?
I know Mother does not. Baby put a big red comfit in her mouth, and I saw her take it out again on the sly;
I don't believe she even enjoys going a-gypseying, for she gets neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry.
And how can you boil the kettle if you're not near the brook? But it's the last time she shall go there,
I told her so; I said, "What's the good of having five sons, except to mount guard over you, you Queen of all Mothers that ever were?"
But she's not easy to manage, and she shams sometimes, and shamming is a thing I can't bear.
She shammed about the red comfit, when she didn't think Baby could see her;
And (because they're the only things we can think of for birthday presents for her) she shams wearing out a needle-book and a pin-cushion every year.
The only things we can think of for Father are paper-cutters; but there's no sham about his wearing them out;
He would always lose them, long before his next birthday, if Mother did not keep finding them lying about.
Last year's paper-cutter was as big as a sword (not as big as Father's sword, but as big as a wooden one, like ours),
And he left it behind in a railway-carriage, when he'd had it just thirty-six hours;
So we knew he was ready for another. It was Mother's birthday that bothered us so;