I am Little-Oh-Dear.
This is my garden.

My papa made this garden for me.
Is it not a beautiful garden?

There are many kinds of flowers in it.
Some are white flowers.

Some flowers are blue.
Others are yellow.

Some are red, and some are violet.
I have roses, pansies, and lilies.
I love my garden.

When I come into this garden, the flowers all nod their heads to me. I love the bird that sings in the tree.

The bird's song is, "I love

"I love you—

I love you, Little-Oh-Dear!"

68

THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE

Play that my knee was a calico mare
Saddled and bridled for Bumpville;
Leap to the back of this steed, if you dare,
And gallop away to Bumpville!

I hope you'll be sure to sit fast in your seat,
For this calico mare is prodigiously fleet,
And many adventures you're likely to meet
As you journey along to Bumpville.

This calico mare both gallops and trots
While whisking you off to Bumpville;
She paces, she shies, and she stumbles, in spots,
In the tortuous road to Bumpville;

And sometimes this strangely mercurial steed
Will suddenly stop and refuse to proceed,,
Which, all will admit, is vexatious indeed,
When one is en route to Bumpville!

She's scared of the cars when the engine goes "Toot!"

Down by the crossing at Bumpville;

You'd better look out for that treacherous brute Bearing you off to Bumpville!

With a snort she rears up on her hindermost heels, And executes jigs and Virginia reels—

Words fail to explain how embarrassed one feels Dancing so wildly to Bumpville!

It's bumpytybump and it's jiggytyjog,

Journeying on to Bumpville;

It's over the hilltop and down through the bog You ride on your way to Bumpville;

It's rattletybang over boulder and stump,

There are rivers to ford, there are fences to jump, And the corduroy road it goes bumpytybump, Mile after mile to Bumpville!

Perhaps you'll observe it's no easy thing

Making the journey to Bumpville,

So I think, on the whole, it were prudent to bring An end to this ride to Bumpville;

For, though she has uttered no protest or plaint, The calico mare must be blowing and faintWhat's more to the point, I'm blowed if I ain't! So play we have got to Bumpville!

This is the way we go to Bumpville.
Did you ever ride to Bumpville?

The road to Bumpville is a rough road.

It goes over fences and stumps.
It goes up hill and down hill.
What do you think of my horse?
The horse is mother's knee.

The reins are mother's arms.
Sometimes I ride very fast.

Sometimes the horse stops still and will not go. But when the engine says "Toot," the horse rears and jumps.

She prances and dances and tosses her head, until I almost tumble off.

Then she gallops and trots, bumpytybump, jiggityjog, until we get to Bumpville.

NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT

The mill goes toiling slowly around

With steady and solemn creak,

And my little one hears in the kindly sound
The voice of the old mill speak.

While round and round those big white wings
Grimly and ghostlike creep,