"When little 'Pollus Morton he's A-go' to speak a piece, w'y, nen The Teacher smiles an' says 'at she's Most proud, of all her little men An' women in her school--'cause 'Poll He allus speaks the best of all. An' nen she'll pat him on the cheek, An' hold her finger up at you _Before_ he speak'; an' _when_ he speak' It's ist some piece _she_ learn' him to! 'Cause he's her favorite.... An' she Ain't pop'lar as she _ust_ to be! When 'Pollus Morton speaks, w'y, nen Ist all the other childern knows They're smart as him an' smart-again!-- Ef they _can't_ speak an' got fine clo'es, Their Parunts loves 'em more 'n 'Poll- Us Morton, Teacher, speech, an' all! * * * * * EVENSONG Lay away the story,-- Though the theme is sweet, There's a lack of something yet, Leaves it incomplete:-- There's a nameless yearning-- Strangely undefined-- For a story sweeter still Than the written kind. Therefore read no longer-- I've no heart to hear But just something you make up, O my mother dear.-- With your arms around me, Hold me, folded-eyed,-- Only let your voice go on-- I'll be satisfied. * * * * * [Illustration: "THEREFORE READ NO LONGER."] * * * * * [Illustration: The TWINS] "IGO AND AGO" We're The Twins from Aunt Marinn's, Igo and Ago. When Dad comes, the show begins!-- Iram, coram, dago. Dad he says he named us two Igo and Ago For a poem he always knew, Iram, coram, dago. _Then_ he was a braw Scotchman-- Igo and Ago.-- _Now_ he's Scotch-Amer-i-can. Iram, coram, dago. "Hey!" he cries, and pats his knee, "Igo and Ago, My twin bairnies, ride wi' me-- Iram, coram, dago!" [Illustration] "Here," he laughs, "ye've each a leg, Igo and Ago, Gleg as Tam O'Shanter's 'Meg'! Iram, coram, dago!" Then we mount, with shrieks of mirth-- Igo and Ago,-- The two gladdest twins on earth! Iram, coram, dago. Wade and Silas-Walker cry,-- "Igo and Ago-- Annie's kissin' 'em 'good-bye'!"-- Iram, coram, dago. Aunty waves us fond farewells.-- "Igo and Ago," Granny pipes, "tak care yersels!" Iram, coram, dago. * * * * * THE LITTLE LADY O The Little Lady's dainty As the picture in a book, And her hands are creamy-whiter Than the water-lilies look; Her laugh's the undrown'd music Of the maddest meadow-brook.-- Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady! Her eyes are blue and dewy As the glimmering Summer-dawn,-- Her face is like the eglantine Before the dew is gone; And were that honied mouth of hers A bee's to feast upon, He'd be a bee bewildered, Little Lady!