To kill by the dozen little quail, quail, quail—
To kill by the dozen little quail.”
At this the puppy grinned,
Like a mischief-making fiend,
As he whined: “You cannot come it upon me, me, me.
You would have me lie around
In a back-yard, like a hound,
And become a paradise for the flea, flea, flea—
And become a paradise for the flea.”
When the toil of day had flown,