Boohoo, boohoo, boohoo, boohoo!
My mother says I can't take Sue
And Grace and Maud and Clarabel
And Ruth and Beth and sweet Estelle,
Unless I pack them with our things.
Oh dear! oh dear! my heart it wrings
To put them in that hot, dark place,
With paper wrapped around each face.
I'm sure they all would suffocate
Or meet some other dreadful fate.
I'd gladly take them on my arm
And keep them safe from every harm,
But mother says that that won't do;
She draws the line at more than two.
I'd like to know what she would say
To sending me packed in a tray.
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
THE QUARREL
The Wooden Dog and the China Cat
Face to face in the doll-house sat,
And they picked a quarrel that grew and grew,
Because they had nothing else to do.
Said the dog, "I really would like to hear
Why you never stir nor frisk nor purr,
But sit like a mummy there."
Up spoke in a temper the china puss,
Glad of an opening for a fuss:
"Dear Mr. Puppy, I can't recall
That I ever heard you bark at all.
Your bark is a wooden bark, 'tis true,
But as to that," said the China Cat,
"My mew is a china mew."
So they bristled and quarreled, more and more,
Till the baby came creeping across the floor.
He took the cat by his whiskers frail,
He grasped the dog by his wooden tail,
And banged them together—and after that
Left them, a wiser Wooden Dog
And a sadder China Cat.
Now, children, just between you and me,
Don't you think in the future they will agree?
NANCY BYRD TURNER.