When Polly goes into the parlor to play,
She never minds what the little notes say,
Nor peeps at a music-book;
"I play by ear," says the little dear
(When some of us think the music's queer),
"So why should I need to look?"
When Polly goes into the kitchen to cook,
She never looks at a cookery-book,
Nor a sign of a recipe;
It's a dot of this and a dab of that,
And a twirl of the wrist and a pinch and a pat—
"I cook by hand," says she.
THE MONTH OF MAY
It comes just after April,
And right before 'tis June;
And every bird that's singing
Has this same lovely tune:
You needn't ask your mother
To let you go and play;
The very breezes whisper,
"You may! You may! You may!"
There are no frosts to freeze you,
And no fierce winds to blow;
But winds that seem like kisses,
So soft and sweet and slow;
The lovely sun is shining
'Most every single day.
Of course you may go out, dears—
It is the month of "May"!
THE BIRTHDAY
Bring the birthday-marker!
That's the way to show
How much I've been growing
Since a year ago.
All my last year's dresses
Are too short for me;
This one—with the tucks out—
Only to my knee!