“Say the kickshaw verse for me, Mr. David, please, and after that the ‘Nine Little Goblins,’ and after that a little bit of ‘Tentoleena.’”
It was very pleasant there in the shop. The perfume of summer was about us, and bird-song and bee-humming and the mellow sound of the brook blended into a delicate wood symphony. I looked out upon the swift-running, sparkling, clear river. To dip boyishly in it was my sudden desire. The leafy green of the banks was likewise inviting. Across the river the grey-blue meadows stretched away to meet the purple foot hills. I hung halfway out of the window and recited the tuneful little rhyme for Joey:
“Oh, the tiny little kickshaw that Mither sent tae me,
’Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree,
Wi’ denty flavorin’s o’ spice an’ musky rosemarie,
The tiny little kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
Oh I love the tiny kickshaw, and I smack my lips wi’ glee,
Aye mickle do I love the taste o’ sic a luxourie,
But maist I love the lovin’ hands that could the giftie gie
O’ the tiny little kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.”