A hop, a skip, and a gambol,
A run, a tumble, a scramble,
An up-and-a-going,
A laughing-and-crowing,
A weal-and-a-woe-ing,--
Yes, a race for a ball
Or a toy we may call,
This race that is human,--
For child, man, or woman,
Tis one and the same,
A mysterious game
That is played by us all,
And we each get a fall;
And so many it may be
That forever a baby
We feel in the race
For a name and a place.
OUR KENNETH.
Written for our pet, as indicative of what he
should be
but
is not
.
Know ye our little black-eyed boy?
His name is Kenney Stone;
Now listen, for he always speaks
In such a gentle tone.
He never says "I will!" "I wi'n't!"
He's never rough nor rude,
But always bows with, "Thank you; please;"
And tries to be so good.
Our Kenneth never kicks nor strikes,
Nor makes an ugly face;
He never slides down banisters,
Nor puts things out of place.
He never says a naughty word,
Nor tells a big, big story!
O, no, nor even a little one,
To make us all so sorry.