THE CUDDLE-DE-WEES
Our hen has a troop of cuddle-de-wees
That follow her round, all day;
And some are yellow, and some are black,
And one is a spotless gray;
And at evening time, when the sunset light
Glows red between the trees
Our hen selects a sheltered place
And calls to her cuddle-de-wees;
“Cuddle-de-wees, cuddle-de-wees,
The dew’s on the meadow, the night’s on the breeze,
And the herd bells ring; come under my wing
And snuggle to sleep, while the crickets sing;
To the world, a stupid old hen am I;
To you I’m a refuge, warm and dry,
And safe with a feathery peace: so rest,
For young little fowl this place is the best.”
And there in the shadow, beneath the trees,
They run to her gladly, the cuddle-de-wees.
THE HIGHEST HILL IN HAPPY TOWN
The highest hill in Happytown—I climbed it just today,
A little wind went with me, like a comrade, all the way.
I’d longed to journey to the place, and when the glad day came,
I told myself that Happytown should be the village name.
We chose the pleasant river road that leads along the fields,
And what a wealth of clover-sweet the wind across it yields!
We drove through little Singing Woods, we passed another place,
But all the time ’twas Happytown toward which I turned my face.