Des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip; But _don't you show yo' rabbit lip_. An' don't you have a word ter say, No mo'n ter pass de time o' day. An' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs, Des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares, An' ax 'im is he seen a jack-- An' dat 'll put 'im off de track. Now, ef you'll foller dis advice, Instid o' bein' et wid rice, Ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage, You'll live ter die of nachel age. 'Sh! hush! What's dat? Was dat a gun? _Don't_ trimble so. An' _don't you run_! Come, set heah on de lorg wid me-- Hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee. _Don't_ run, _I say_. Tut--tut! He's gorn. _Right 'cross de road_, as sho's you born! Slam bang! I know'd he'd ketch a shot! Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot! MAY BE SO MAY BE SO September butterflies flew thick O'er flower-bed and clover-rick, When little Miss Penelope, Who watched them from grandfather's knee, Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?" And, "Where do flowers go to when they die?" For questions hard as hard can be I recommend Penelope. But grandpa had a playful way Of dodging things too hard to say, By giving fantasies instead Of serious answers, so he said, "Whenever a tired old flower must die, Its soul mounts in a butterfly; Just now a dozen snow-wings sped From out that white petunia bed; "And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure, A dozen shrivelled cups or more; Each pansy folds her purple cloth, And soars aloft in velvet moth. "So when tired sunflower doffs her cap Of yellow frills to take a nap, 'Tis but that this surrender brings Her soul's release on golden wings." "But _is this so_? It ought to be," Said little Miss Penelope; "Because I'm _sure_, dear grandpa, _you_ Would only tell the thing that's _true_. "Are all the butterflies that fly Real angels of the flowers that die?" Grandfather's eyes looked far away, As if he scarce knew what to say. "Dear little Blossom," stroking now The golden hair upon her brow, "I can't--exactly--say--I--know--it; I only heard it from a poet. "And poets' eyes see wondrous things. Great mysteries of flowers and wings, And marvels of the earth and sea And sky, they tell us constantly. "But we can never prove them right, Because we lack their finer sight; And they, lest we should think them wrong, Weave their strange stories into song "_So beautiful_, so _seeming-true_, So confidently stated too, That we, not knowing yes or no, Can only _hope they may be so_." "But, grandpapa, no tale should close With _ifs_ or _buts_ or _may-be-sos_; So let us play we're poets, too, And then we'll _know_ that this is true." THE END THE WORKS OF WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES. 12mo, Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $1 50. MY LITERARY PASSIONS. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.