To A City-Park Squirrel
Dear little exile from woodlands dear,
How can you keep your wilderness grace,
How can you bound so merrily here,
Shut in this narrow and formal place?
Still your fancies are forest-free,
Still as gallant you swing and glide
From dusty tree to skeleton tree
As once you roamed through the woodlands wide.
Surely you must, on a witching night,
Flee from the prisoning haunts of men,
Over the housetops take your flight,
And bathe yourself in the woods again!
by Author Unknown
Dear little exile from woodlands dear,
How can you keep your wilderness grace,
How can you bound so merrily here,
Shut in this narrow and formal place?
Still your fancies are forest-free,
Still as gallant you swing and glide
From dusty tree to skeleton tree
As once you roamed through the woodlands wide.
Surely you must, on a witching night,
Flee from the prisoning haunts of men,
Over the housetops take your flight,
And bathe yourself in the woods again!
by Author Unknown
This Little Bunny
This little bunny has two pink eyes.
This little bunny is very wise.
This little bunny is soft as silk.
This little bunny is white as milk.
This little bunny nibbles away
At cabbages and carrots the livelong day!
by Author Unknown
This little bunny has two pink eyes.
This little bunny is very wise.
This little bunny is soft as silk.
This little bunny is white as milk.
This little bunny nibbles away
At cabbages and carrots the livelong day!
by Author Unknown
A Dog’s Life
Yours a dog’s life, do you moan?
Courage, brother! cease to groan.
Many men, as on they jog,
Live much worse than any dog.
Yours a dog’s life? Then, my boy,
It’s a life crammed full of joy! -
Merry breezes, meadows fair,
Birds and brooks and sunny air.
Dogs? why, dogs are never sad!
See them capering like mad!
See them frisk their jolly way
Through the livelong laughing day!
Dog’s life? Then you’ll never rust.
Dog’s life? Then you’ll hope and trust;
Then you’ll say in jaunty glee,
“Bones have been, and bones will be.”
Cheery, active, trusting, true, -
There’s a canine goal for you!
Live a dog’s life, if you can:
You will be the better man!
by Author Unknown
Yours a dog’s life, do you moan?
Courage, brother! cease to groan.
Many men, as on they jog,
Live much worse than any dog.
Yours a dog’s life? Then, my boy,
It’s a life crammed full of joy! -
Merry breezes, meadows fair,
Birds and brooks and sunny air.
Dogs? why, dogs are never sad!
See them capering like mad!
See them frisk their jolly way
Through the livelong laughing day!
Dog’s life? Then you’ll never rust.
Dog’s life? Then you’ll hope and trust;
Then you’ll say in jaunty glee,
“Bones have been, and bones will be.”
Cheery, active, trusting, true, -
There’s a canine goal for you!
Live a dog’s life, if you can:
You will be the better man!
by Author Unknown
The Frog
Have you ever wished when fretting
’Bout the chilly air of spring,
When the days are longer getting
And the frogs begin to sing,
Have you ever wished that you could
Just change places with the frog -
Let him shoulder all your trouble
And then leave you on the log,
In the middle of the mill-pond,
Nothing in the world to do?
Have you wished you could change places,
You be frog and frog be you?
He don’t fret ‘bout rainy weather;
If the sun shines he don’t cry;
He just takes it all together;
Happy wet and happy dry.
by William Henry Dawson
Have you ever wished when fretting
’Bout the chilly air of spring,
When the days are longer getting
And the frogs begin to sing,
Have you ever wished that you could
Just change places with the frog -
Let him shoulder all your trouble
And then leave you on the log,
In the middle of the mill-pond,
Nothing in the world to do?
Have you wished you could change places,
You be frog and frog be you?
He don’t fret ‘bout rainy weather;
If the sun shines he don’t cry;
He just takes it all together;
Happy wet and happy dry.
by William Henry Dawson
The Nest
The nest is round and the nest is small,
Dear little circle enclosing all,
All of the joy in the wide world’s bound,
Though the nest is small and the nest round.
The nest is fashioned of common things,
Leaves and grasses and twigs and strings,
Yet never a palace so lordly fine
As the palace fashioned of leaves and twine.
The house had never an architect,
No pother of plans to discuss and select,
But Love was the builder and Love was the plan,
And Love was the competent artisan,
No lease was signed by these happy folk,
No rent was required by their Landlord Oak,
All at no charges and all of the best, -
The world’s biggest bargain is surely a nest.
by Author Unknown
The nest is round and the nest is small,
Dear little circle enclosing all,
All of the joy in the wide world’s bound,
Though the nest is small and the nest round.
The nest is fashioned of common things,
Leaves and grasses and twigs and strings,
Yet never a palace so lordly fine
As the palace fashioned of leaves and twine.
The house had never an architect,
No pother of plans to discuss and select,
But Love was the builder and Love was the plan,
And Love was the competent artisan,
No lease was signed by these happy folk,
No rent was required by their Landlord Oak,
All at no charges and all of the best, -
The world’s biggest bargain is surely a nest.
by Author Unknown
A Household Pet
He was named ‘Bushy’ on account of his tail; no Squirrel, I am sure, ever had a finer one. He lived in a cage at first, but the door was always left open, so that Bushy did not feel he was a captive at all. He took great pleasure in running up the lace curtains of the drawing-room windows, upon the cornices of which he spent a great deal of his time, always taking his nuts up there to eat. At length he concluded to give up his cage and live up there altogether. He would build a nest, but where to find the twigs, wool, and feathers for it sorely puzzled Mr. Squirrel.
One day he scampered up to the top of the house, and in the attic found some cast-off finery of the housemaid. It was hard work for the little fellow to carry a night-cap, or an old pocket handkerchief, or an old stocking in his mouth down two sets of stairs, but it was the best material he could find, and Bushy was determined to build a nest. As well as he could, he jumped from one step to another all the way, with his mouth full, at one time a yard or more of ribbon streaming behind him. In this his feet got entangled, tumbling him over and over, so he stopped and with his fore-paws neatly packed it into his mouth before going further. Sometimes, after all his hard work, Bushy would find the dining-room door closed, so he would have to sit outside very patiently till it was opened. The moment he was admitted, up the curtain he would climb with his material, often dropping it two or three times before reaching the top. It was a very wide, old-fashioned cornice, with a great space behind, and here the nest was built. The old caps, ribbons, and odds and ends were woven into a very large, long-shaped nest, lined with bits of the dining-room door-mat on which he had been so often compelled to wait. At last all was finished, and Bushy moved up into his new house, never again sleeping in his cage. During the day he would descend for his food, which he carried up to his house to eat, then down again to frisk and play about. I am sure Bushy’s master was very glad he left the cage door open, for how could the little fellow have shown such intelligence, or been happy, cooped up behind wires all day long?
by Author Unknown: as published in “Birds and All Nature,” (August 1898), Volume IV, Number 2
He was named ‘Bushy’ on account of his tail; no Squirrel, I am sure, ever had a finer one. He lived in a cage at first, but the door was always left open, so that Bushy did not feel he was a captive at all. He took great pleasure in running up the lace curtains of the drawing-room windows, upon the cornices of which he spent a great deal of his time, always taking his nuts up there to eat. At length he concluded to give up his cage and live up there altogether. He would build a nest, but where to find the twigs, wool, and feathers for it sorely puzzled Mr. Squirrel.
One day he scampered up to the top of the house, and in the attic found some cast-off finery of the housemaid. It was hard work for the little fellow to carry a night-cap, or an old pocket handkerchief, or an old stocking in his mouth down two sets of stairs, but it was the best material he could find, and Bushy was determined to build a nest. As well as he could, he jumped from one step to another all the way, with his mouth full, at one time a yard or more of ribbon streaming behind him. In this his feet got entangled, tumbling him over and over, so he stopped and with his fore-paws neatly packed it into his mouth before going further. Sometimes, after all his hard work, Bushy would find the dining-room door closed, so he would have to sit outside very patiently till it was opened. The moment he was admitted, up the curtain he would climb with his material, often dropping it two or three times before reaching the top. It was a very wide, old-fashioned cornice, with a great space behind, and here the nest was built. The old caps, ribbons, and odds and ends were woven into a very large, long-shaped nest, lined with bits of the dining-room door-mat on which he had been so often compelled to wait. At last all was finished, and Bushy moved up into his new house, never again sleeping in his cage. During the day he would descend for his food, which he carried up to his house to eat, then down again to frisk and play about. I am sure Bushy’s master was very glad he left the cage door open, for how could the little fellow have shown such intelligence, or been happy, cooped up behind wires all day long?
by Author Unknown: as published in “Birds and All Nature,” (August 1898), Volume IV, Number 2
The Brown Thrush
There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.
“He’s singing to me! He’s singing to me!”
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
Don’t you hear? Don’t you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,
I’m as happy as happy can be!”
And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?
Don’t meddle! Don’t touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I’m glad! Now I’m free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me.”
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
But long it won’t be,
Don’t you know? Don’t you see?
Unless we’re as good as can be.”
by Lucy Larcom
Lucy Larcom was born on 5 March 1824 in Beverly, Massachusetts, United States of America. She became a schoolteacher, a writer, and a poet. Lucy Larcom passed on at 69 years of age on 17 April 1893 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.
There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.
“He’s singing to me! He’s singing to me!”
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
Don’t you hear? Don’t you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,
I’m as happy as happy can be!”
And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?
Don’t meddle! Don’t touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I’m glad! Now I’m free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me.”
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
But long it won’t be,
Don’t you know? Don’t you see?
Unless we’re as good as can be.”
by Lucy Larcom
Lucy Larcom was born on 5 March 1824 in Beverly, Massachusetts, United States of America. She became a schoolteacher, a writer, and a poet. Lucy Larcom passed on at 69 years of age on 17 April 1893 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.
That’s What You Call Nature’s Wonders
The following is a conversation between two mountain men wandering around the coastal forests of Oregon, United States of America, in the 1850’s.
The queerest thing he told me was about an animal I had never heard of, that he called a “camelopard.” (He was reminded of it by a piece of driftwood that looked like a piece of driftwood.)
“That’s a beast that lives in Africa,” he said, “and it’s the funniest thing you ever saw.”
“You never been in Africa, Thomas, why do you keep on talking about Africa?”
“If you ain’t interested in learning about things, just say so. I saw this in a book in Saint Louis. You want to hear about it or no?”
“I expect I’m going to.”
“This here beast has got spots like a leopard, and a body like a camel and legs about eight feet long and a neck about ten feet long like a snake, only it’s stiff. They can’t bend it.”
“That ain’t possible, Thomas. Allow a couple feet for the body and that makes him twenty feet tall.”
He nodded firmly. “That’s it. I saw a picture of it. Twenty feet, I guess the big ones are maybe thirty feet or better up there. And that’s ain’t the funniest neither. Them beasts don’t sleep, because they can’t bend their legs to sit down or nothing. Everything’s stiff on ’em. They just wander around all the time. How do you like that?”
“You’re making it all up, Thomas. You do that all the time.”
“And they got horns on them, just little bitty horns. It was a English book,” he added, just to clinch the argument. “They made it in England, with pictures and everything.”
“Well, if they can’t sit down, and their neck’s so stiff, just tell me how they get something to eat. Tell me that, will you, Thomas? What do they eat?”
“Maybe they don’t eat, neither. Maybe that’s the only animal in the world that don’t eat, you ever think of that?”
That was so unreasonable even he could see. “Everything eats,” I told him, sure of my ground. “You eat, I eat, and your weird African beasts eat.”
He thought it over for a long time, and I could see I had him worried.
“I remember,” he said finally. “They eat each other’s heads, I remember now.”
“Thomas, listen, where do you get such stupid ideas?”
“That ain’t stupid, Ben, that’s logic. That’s all there is to eat way up there, is their own heads. That’s what they got them little horns for, to protect themselves from each other. Otherwise, they’d all die from having their heads eat off.”
“Well, I’ll tell you if somebody was trying to eat my head off, I’d want a big pair of horns.”
“Sure, but if they could protect themselves too good, then they’d all starve to death. It works out just right. That’s what you call nature’s wonders.”
by Don Berry: “To Build a Ship” (1963), pages 66 and 67
The following is a conversation between two mountain men wandering around the coastal forests of Oregon, United States of America, in the 1850’s.
The queerest thing he told me was about an animal I had never heard of, that he called a “camelopard.” (He was reminded of it by a piece of driftwood that looked like a piece of driftwood.)
“That’s a beast that lives in Africa,” he said, “and it’s the funniest thing you ever saw.”
“You never been in Africa, Thomas, why do you keep on talking about Africa?”
“If you ain’t interested in learning about things, just say so. I saw this in a book in Saint Louis. You want to hear about it or no?”
“I expect I’m going to.”
“This here beast has got spots like a leopard, and a body like a camel and legs about eight feet long and a neck about ten feet long like a snake, only it’s stiff. They can’t bend it.”
“That ain’t possible, Thomas. Allow a couple feet for the body and that makes him twenty feet tall.”
He nodded firmly. “That’s it. I saw a picture of it. Twenty feet, I guess the big ones are maybe thirty feet or better up there. And that’s ain’t the funniest neither. Them beasts don’t sleep, because they can’t bend their legs to sit down or nothing. Everything’s stiff on ’em. They just wander around all the time. How do you like that?”
“You’re making it all up, Thomas. You do that all the time.”
“And they got horns on them, just little bitty horns. It was a English book,” he added, just to clinch the argument. “They made it in England, with pictures and everything.”
“Well, if they can’t sit down, and their neck’s so stiff, just tell me how they get something to eat. Tell me that, will you, Thomas? What do they eat?”
“Maybe they don’t eat, neither. Maybe that’s the only animal in the world that don’t eat, you ever think of that?”
That was so unreasonable even he could see. “Everything eats,” I told him, sure of my ground. “You eat, I eat, and your weird African beasts eat.”
He thought it over for a long time, and I could see I had him worried.
“I remember,” he said finally. “They eat each other’s heads, I remember now.”
“Thomas, listen, where do you get such stupid ideas?”
“That ain’t stupid, Ben, that’s logic. That’s all there is to eat way up there, is their own heads. That’s what they got them little horns for, to protect themselves from each other. Otherwise, they’d all die from having their heads eat off.”
“Well, I’ll tell you if somebody was trying to eat my head off, I’d want a big pair of horns.”
“Sure, but if they could protect themselves too good, then they’d all starve to death. It works out just right. That’s what you call nature’s wonders.”
by Don Berry: “To Build a Ship” (1963), pages 66 and 67
The Tale of Peter Rabbit
Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were - Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-Tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sandbank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.
“Now, my dears,” said old Mrs. Rabbit, one morning, “you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.”
“Now run along, and don’t get into mischief. I am going out.”
Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella and went through the wood to the baker’s. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.
Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries.
But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’s garden, and squeezed under the gate!
First he ate some lettuces and some French beans, and then he ate some radishes; and then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.
But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!
Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, “Stop, thief!”
Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.
After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.
Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.
Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter, but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him; and rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.
Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the tool-shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.
Presently Peter sneezed - “Kerty-schoo!” Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, and tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.
Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can.
After a time he began to wander about, going lippity-lippity - not very fast, and looking all around.
He found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.
An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.
Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some goldfish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.
He went back toward the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe - scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scratch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But, presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned toward Peter, and beyond him was the gate!
Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes.
Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden.
Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scarecrow to frighten the blackbirds.
Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree.
He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes.
His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!
I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.
His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter!
“One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time.”
But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.
by Beatrix Potter: as published in Hamilton Wright Mabie, Edward Everett Hale, and William Byron Forbush, editors: “Childhood’s Favorites and Fairy Stories: The Young Folks Treasury” (1927)
Helen Beatrix Potter was born on 28 July 1866 in Kensington, London, England. She became a writer, an illustrator, a naturalist, a farmer, and a conservationist. She is known for her 30 books, including 23 children’s storybooks that feature animals, such as “The Tale of Peter Rabbit,” which celebrates country life. Helen Beatrix Potter passed on at 77 years of age on 22 December 1943 in Near Sawrey, Lancashire, England.
Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were - Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-Tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sandbank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.
“Now, my dears,” said old Mrs. Rabbit, one morning, “you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.”
“Now run along, and don’t get into mischief. I am going out.”
Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella and went through the wood to the baker’s. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.
Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries.
But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’s garden, and squeezed under the gate!
First he ate some lettuces and some French beans, and then he ate some radishes; and then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.
But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!
Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, “Stop, thief!”
Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.
After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.
Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.
Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter, but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him; and rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.
Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the tool-shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.
Presently Peter sneezed - “Kerty-schoo!” Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, and tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.
Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can.
After a time he began to wander about, going lippity-lippity - not very fast, and looking all around.
He found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.
An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.
Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some goldfish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.
He went back toward the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe - scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scratch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But, presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned toward Peter, and beyond him was the gate!
Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes.
Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden.
Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scarecrow to frighten the blackbirds.
Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree.
He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes.
His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!
I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.
His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter!
“One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time.”
But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.
by Beatrix Potter: as published in Hamilton Wright Mabie, Edward Everett Hale, and William Byron Forbush, editors: “Childhood’s Favorites and Fairy Stories: The Young Folks Treasury” (1927)
Helen Beatrix Potter was born on 28 July 1866 in Kensington, London, England. She became a writer, an illustrator, a naturalist, a farmer, and a conservationist. She is known for her 30 books, including 23 children’s storybooks that feature animals, such as “The Tale of Peter Rabbit,” which celebrates country life. Helen Beatrix Potter passed on at 77 years of age on 22 December 1943 in Near Sawrey, Lancashire, England.
The Little Brown Bunny
A little brown bunny,
He lived in a hill,
In a cozy warm hole
That was roomy until
He grew bigger and bouncier,
Never was still,
No, no - he never was still.
“Now, look,” said his mother
One cold sunny day,
“I know you’ll keep warm
If you go out to play;
You just fidget and fidget
And get in my way,
Yes, yes - you get in my way.”
The little brown bunny
came out of his hole,
And he skipped
And he hopped,
And he went for a stroll,
’til he came to a molehill,
And there was a mole,
Yes, yes - a sleepy old mole.
The little brown bunny
Hopped merrily round,
While the sleepy old mole
He sat up on his mound,
And clapped with his slippers
A tappety sound,
Yes, yes - a tappety sound.
The little brown bunny
Said, “Why do you wink?”
The sleepy old mole said,
“My eyes seem to blink,
but moles sleep so long
that they really can’t think,
No, no - they really can’t think.”
The little brown bunny
Went back to his hole,
And he said, “I will often
come out for a stroll,
And I’ll dance
if you’ll clap for me
kind Mr. Mole?”
“Yes, yes” -
said the sleepy old mole
“I’ll clap and I’ll clap,”
Said the sleepy old mole.
by Author Unknown
Moral of the story: You need to work out those fidgets, so go outside and play!
A little brown bunny,
He lived in a hill,
In a cozy warm hole
That was roomy until
He grew bigger and bouncier,
Never was still,
No, no - he never was still.
“Now, look,” said his mother
One cold sunny day,
“I know you’ll keep warm
If you go out to play;
You just fidget and fidget
And get in my way,
Yes, yes - you get in my way.”
The little brown bunny
came out of his hole,
And he skipped
And he hopped,
And he went for a stroll,
’til he came to a molehill,
And there was a mole,
Yes, yes - a sleepy old mole.
The little brown bunny
Hopped merrily round,
While the sleepy old mole
He sat up on his mound,
And clapped with his slippers
A tappety sound,
Yes, yes - a tappety sound.
The little brown bunny
Said, “Why do you wink?”
The sleepy old mole said,
“My eyes seem to blink,
but moles sleep so long
that they really can’t think,
No, no - they really can’t think.”
The little brown bunny
Went back to his hole,
And he said, “I will often
come out for a stroll,
And I’ll dance
if you’ll clap for me
kind Mr. Mole?”
“Yes, yes” -
said the sleepy old mole
“I’ll clap and I’ll clap,”
Said the sleepy old mole.
by Author Unknown
Moral of the story: You need to work out those fidgets, so go outside and play!
