Yes! yes! my child, he made them all—­
  Flowers, mountains, plants and tree;
No man so great, no child so small,
  That from his eye can flee.

[Illustration]

THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS.

Put up thy work, dear mother;
  Dear mother, come with me,
For I’ve found within the garden
  The beautiful sweet-pea!

And rows of stately hollyhocks
  Down by the garden-wall,
All yellow, white and crimson,
  So many-hued and tall!

And bending on their stalks, mother,
  Are roses white and red;

[Illustration:  “Put up thy work, dear Mother.”]

And pale-stemmed balsams all a-blow,
  On every garden-bed.

Put up thy work, I pray thee,
  And come out, mother dear! 
We used to buy these flowers,
  But they are growing here!

O, mother! little Amy
  Would have loved these flowers to see;
Dost remember how we tried to get
  For her a pink sweet-pea?

Dost remember how she loved
  Those rose-leaves pale and sere? 
I wish she had but lived to see
  The lovely roses here!

Put up thy work, dear mother,
  And wipe those tears away! 
And come into the garden
  Before ’tis set of day!

[Illustration]

ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE

One, two,
Buckle my shoe;
Three, four,
Shut the door;
Five, six,
Pick up sticks;
Seven, eight,
Lay them straight;
Nine, ten,
A good fat hen;
Eleven, twelve,
Who will delve? 
Thirteen, fourteen,
Maids a courting;
Fifteen, sixteen,
Maids a kissing;
Seventeen, eighteen,
Maids a waiting;
Nineteen, twenty,
My stomach’s empty.

[Illustration]

WASHING AND DRESSING.

Ah! why will my dear little girl be so cross,
  And cry, and look sulky and pout? 
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss;
  I can’t even kiss her without.

You say you don’t like to be washed and be drest,
  But would you be dirty and foul? 
Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast,
  And clear your sweet face from its scowl.

If the water is cold, and the comb hurts your head,
  And the soap has got into your eye,

[Illustration]

Will the water grow warmer for all that you’ve said? 
  And what good will it do you to cry?

It is not to tease you, and hurt you, my sweet,
  But only for kindness and care,
That I wash you and dress you, and make you look neat,
  And comb out your tanglesome hair.

I don’t mind the trouble, if you would not cry,
  But pay me for all with a kiss;
That’s right, take the towel and wipe your wet eye;
  I thought you’d be good after this.