'Neighbor Phinney had a turnip,
And it grew behind the barn;
And it grew and it grew, an'
And it ne'er did any harm.
'And it grew, and it grew,
As, until it could grow no better,
Then Farmer Phinney took it up
And put it in his cellar.
'And it lay, and it lay,
Until it began to rot;
And his daughter Sarah took it up,
And put it in a pot.
'And it boiled, and it boiled,
As long as it was able;
And his daughter Mary took it up,
And put it on the table.
'Then Farmer Phinney and his wife,
When they sat down to dine,
They ate, and they ate,
And they thought that turnip fine.'"
"There, isn't that a nice story, mamma?"
Mamma, feeling a tremendous distance between that story and the last one, concludes that it is time to give the boy his morning bath, and kiss his little tongue into quiet for a few minutes.
