On the Tree Top Part 2

Bless us, and save us! What's here?

Pop!

At a bound, A tiny brown creature, grotesque in his grace, Is sitting before us, and was.h.i.+ng his face With his little fat paws overlapping; Where does he hail from? Where?

Why, _there_, Underground, From a nook just as cosey, And tranquil, and dozy, As e'er wooed to Sybarite napping (But none ever caught _him_ a-napping).

Don't you see his burrow so quaint and queer?

II.

Gone! like the flash of a gun!

This oddest of chaps, Mercurial, Disappears Head and ears!

Then, sly as a fox, Swift as Jack in his box, Pops up boldly again!

What does he mean by thus frisking about, Now up and now down, and now in and now out, And all done quicker than winking?

What does it mean? Why, 'tis plain--fun!

Only Fun! or, perhaps, The pert little rascal's been drinking?-- There's a cider-press yonder all say on the run!

III.

Capture him! no, we won't do it, Or, be sure in due time we would rue it!

IV.

Such a piece of perpetual motion, Full of bother And pother, Would make paralytic old Bridget A Fidget.

So you see (to _my_ notion), Better leave our downy Diminutive browny Alone, near his "diggings;"

Ever free to pursue, Rush round, and renew His loved vaulting Unhalting, His whirling, And curling, And twirling, And swirling, And his ways, on the whole So unsteady!

'Pon my soul, Having gazed Quite amazed, On each wonderful antic And summersault frantic, For just a bare minute, My head, it feels whizzy; My eyesight's grown dizzy; And both legs, unstable As a ghost's tipping table, Seem waltzing, already!

V.

Capture him! no we won't do it, Or, in less than _no_ time, _how_ we'd rue it!

[Color Plate:]

Hippity hop To the barber's shop To buy a stick of candy.

BABY'S TROTTING SONG

[Transcriber's Note: The bracketed text was written vertically as part of each accompanying ill.u.s.tration.]

[Daintily]

Come, see how the ladies ride, All so pretty, all so gay, In their beauty, in their pride, Down Broadway; Prancing horses silver shod, All so pretty, all so gay; Princely feathers bend and nod, Down Broadway.

[Roughly]

Jiggety-jog, jiggety-jog, Over the mountain, through the bog-- That's the way the farmers go, Hear the news and see the show; Pumpkins round strapped on behind, Eggs in baskets, too, you'll find, Soon to change for calico-- That's the way the farmers go.

[Tea-Bell Accompaniment]

Bells a-jingle, fingers tingle, Ditto toes, likewise nose.

The wind doth blow, And all the snow Around doth scatter; Our teeth they chatter, But that's no matter-- The song rings clear With a Happy New Year, And never a mutter, As we fly in our cutter.

[Trot to Boston]

Jingle, jar, horse car, Leave you near, or take you far.

Take a seat upon my lap, Cling on, swing on by the strap; Here a stop, and there a start-- Let me off, I'll take a cart!

[Boisterously]

Sword and pistols by their side, And that's the way the officers ride!

Boots stretched out like a letter V, we belong to the cavalry!

Over the hurdles after the hounds, tirra-la! the hunting-horn sounds-- Dashaway, slashaway, reckless and fast!

Crashaway, smashaway, tumbled at last!

JOHN S. CROW.

All alone in the field Stands John S. Crow; And a curious sight is he, With his head of tow, And a hat pulled low On a face that you never see.

His clothes are ragged And horrid and old, The worst that ever were worn; They're covered with mold, And in each fold A terrible rent is torn.

They once were new And spick and span, As nice as clothes could be; For though John hardly can Be called a man, They were made for men you see.

That old blue coat, With a double breast And a bra.s.s b.u.t.ton here and there, Was grandfather's best, And matches the vest-- The one Uncle Phil used to wear.

The trousers are short; They belonged to Bob Before he had got his growth; But John's no sn.o.b, And, unlike Bob, Cuts his legs to the length of his cloth.

The boots are a mystery: How and where John got such a shabby lot, Such a shocking pair, I do declare Though he may know, I do not.

But the hat that he wears Is the worst of all; I wonder that John keeps it on.

It once was tall, But now it is small-- Like a closed accordeon.