ll me your name, my little maid--
I can't find you without it."
"My name is Shiny-eyes," she said.
"Yes, but your last?" She shook her head.
"Up to my house they never said
A single 'fing about it!"

"But, Dear," I said, "what _is_ your name?"
"Why, di'n't you hear me told you?
Dust Shiny-eyes!" A bright thought came.
"Yes, when you're good; but when they blame
You, little one--it's not the same
When mother has to scold you?"

"My mother never scolds!" she moans,
A little blush ensuing;
"'Cept when I've been a-frowing stones,
And then she says (the culprit owns),
'Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,
What _has_ you been a-doing!'"

THE GAME OF GOING-TO-BED

Says father, when the lamps are lit,
"Now just five minutes you may sit
Down-stairs, and then away you go
To play a little game I know!"

He gives a kiss and pulls a curl:
"Let's play you were my little girl,
And play you jump up on my back,
And play we run!" And clackity-clack,

We both go laughing up the stair!
(If I should fuss he'd say "No fair!")
And then he says, "Night, Sleepyhead."
It's fun, the game of Going-to-Bed.

[Illustration: The Game of Going-to-Bed]

THE BALL

Close cuddled in my own two hands,
My big round ball with yellow bands!
They've filled my playroom up with toys--
Dolls, horses, things to make a noise,
Engines that clatter on a track,
And tip-carts that let down the back;
Arks, just like Noah's, with two and two
Of every animal he knew;
Whole rows of houses built of blocks,
A mouse that squeaks, a doll that talks,
But when the Sleepy Man comes by
And I'm too tired to want to try
To think of anything at all,
Here's my old, dear old, rubber ball.

Close cuddled in my own two hands,
My big round ball with yellow bands.

[Illustration: The Ball]

A VOYAGE

She rowed 'way out on the Daisy Sea,
with a really-truly oar,
Out of a really-truly boat, and what
could you ask for more?
Her sea and her boat were make-believe,
but the daisy waves dashed high,
And 'twas pleasant to know if the boat
went down that her frock would still be dry.

She rowed 'way out on the Daisy Sea, with
a really-truly oar,
Past the perilous garden gate where the
fierce white breakers roar,
Past the rocks where the mermaids sing as
they comb their golden hair,