The Redbreast loves the blooming bough— The Bluebird loves it same as he;— And as they sit and sing there now, So do I sing to thee— Only, dear heart, unlike the birds, I do not climb a tree To sing— I do not climb a tree. When o’er this page, in happy years to come, Thou jokest on these lines and on my name, Doubt not my love and say, “Though he lies dumb, He’s lying, just the same!” THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN The Little Mock-man on the Stairs— He mocks the lady’s horse ’at rares At bi-sickles an’ things,— He mocks the mens ’at rides ’em, too; An’ mocks the Movers, drivin’ through. An’ hollers, “Here’s the way _you_ do With them-air hitchin’-strings!” “Ho! ho!” he’ll say, Ole Settlers’ Day, When they’re all jogglin’ by,— “You look like _this_,” He’ll say, an’ twis’ His mouth an’ squint his eye An’ ’tend-like _he_ wuz beat the bass Drum at both ends—an’ toots an’ blares Ole dinner-horn an’ puffs his face— The Little Mock-man on the Stairs! The Little Mock-man on the Stairs Mocks all the peoples all he cares ’At passes up an’ down! He mocks the chickens round the door, An’ mocks the girl ’at scrubs the floor, An’ mocks the rich, an’ mocks the pore, An’ ever’thing in town! “Ho! ho!” says he, To you er me; An’ ef we turns an’ looks, He’s all cross-eyed An’ mouth all wide Like Giunts is, in books.— “Ho! ho!” he yells, “look here at _me_,” An’ rolls his fat eyes roun’ an’ glares,— “_You_ look like _this_!” he says, says he— The Little Mock-man on the Stairs! _The Little Mock—_ _The Little Mock—_ _The Little Mock-man on the Stairs,_ _He mocks the music-box an’ clock,_ _An’ roller-sofy an’ the chairs;_ _He mocks his Pa, an’ specs he wears;_ _He mocks the man ’at picks the pears_ _An’ plums an’ peaches on the shares;_ _He mocks the monkeys an’ the bears_ _On picture-bills, an’ rips an’ tears_ _’Em down,—an’ mocks ist all he cares,_ _An’ EVER’body EVER’wheres!_ SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME In the golden noon-shine, Or in the pink of dawn; In the silver moonshine, Or when the moon is gone; Open eyes, or drowsy lids, ’Wake or ’most asleep, I can hear the katydids,— “Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!” Only in the winter-time Do they ever stop, In the chip-and-splinter-time, When the backlogs pop,— Then it is, the kettle-lids, While the sparkles leap, Lisp like the katydids,— “Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!” HOME-MADE RIDDLES—ALL BUT THE ANSWERS I No one ever saw it Till I dug it from the ground; I found it when I lost it, And lost it when I found: I washed it, and dressed it, And buried it once more— Dug it up, and loved it then Better than before. I was paid for finding it— I don’t know why or how,— But I lost, found, and kept it, And haven’t got it now. II