“Couldn’t you make some for me?  I’m very fond of poetrys,” proposed Miss Celia, seeing that this prattle amused the children.

“I guess I couldn’t make any now; I made some coming along.  I will say it to you.”

And, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half said, half sung the following poem:[B]

     “Sweet are the flowers of life,
      Swept o’er my happy days at home;
      Sweet are the flowers of life
      When I was a little child.

     “Sweet are the flowers of life
      That I spent with my father at home;
      Sweet are the flowers of life
      When children played about the house.

     “Sweet are the flowers of life
      When the lamps are lighted at night;
      Sweet are the flowers of life
      When the flowers of summer bloomed.

     “Sweet are the flowers of life
      Dead with the snows of winter;
      Sweet are the flowers of life
      When the days of spring come on.

[Footnote B:  These lines were actually composed by a six-year-old child.]

“That’s all of that one.  I made another one when I digged after the turtle.  I will say that.  It is a very pretty one,” observed the poet with charming candor, and, taking a long breath, he tuned his little lyre afresh: 

     “Sweet, sweet days are passing
      O’er my happy home,
      Passing on swift wings through the valley of life. 
      Cold are the days when winter comes again. 
      When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,
      Sweet were the days on the rivulet’s green brink;
      Sweet were the days when I read my father’s books;
      Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing.”

“Bless the baby! where did he get all that?” exclaimed Miss Celia, amazed, while the children giggled as Tennyson, Jr., took a bite at the turtle instead of the half-eaten cake, and then, to prevent further mistakes, crammed the unhappy creature into a diminutive pocket in the most business-like way imaginable.

“It comes out of my head.  I make lots of them,” began the imperturbable one, yielding more and more to the social influences of the hour.

“Here are the peacocks coming to be fed,” interrupted Bab, as the handsome birds appeared with their splendid plumage glittering in the sun.

Young Barlow rose to admire, but his thirst for knowledge was not yet quenched, and he was about to request a song from Juno and Jupiter, when old Jack, pining for society, put his head over the garden wall with a tremendous bray.

This unexpected sound startled the inquiring stranger half out of his wits; for a moment the stout legs staggered and the solemn countenance lost its composure, as he whispered, with an astonished air: 

“Is that the way peacocks scream?”

The children were in fits of laughter, and Miss Celia could hardly make herself heard as she answered, merrily: