And the other, no more could he;
So they both upset
And they both got wet,
As wet as wet could be.

[Illustration]

And one king couldn't swim
And the other, he couldn't, too;
So they had to float,
While their empty boat
Danced away o'er the sea so blue.

Then the King of Kanoodledum
He turned a trifle pale,
And so did he
Of Kanoodledee,
But they saw a passing sail!

And one king screamed like fun
And the other king screeched like mad,
And a boat was lowered
And took them aboard;
And, my! but those kings were glad!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

A Day Dream

Polly's patchwork--oh, dear me!--
Truly is a sight to see.
Rumpled, crumpled, soiled, and frayed--
Will the quilt be ever made?
See the stitches yawning wide--
Can it be that Polly _tried_?

Some are right and some are wrong,
Some too short and some too long,
Some too loose and some too tight;
Grimy smudges on the white,
And a tiny spot of red,
Where poor Polly's finger bled.
Strange such pretty, dainty blocks--
Bits of Polly's summer frocks--
Should have proved so hard to sew,
And the cause of so much woe!

One day it was _very_ hot,
And the thread got in a knot,
Drew the seam up in a heap--
Polly calmly fell asleep.
Then she had a lovely dream;
Straight and even was the seam,
Pure and spotless was the white;
All the blocks were finished quite--
Each joined to another one.
Lo, behold! the quilt was done,--
Lined and quilted,--and it seemed
To cover Polly as she dreamed!

Our Club

We're going to have the mostest fun!
It's going to be a club;
And no one can belong to it
But Dot and me and Bub.

[Illustration]

We thought we'd have a Reading Club,
But couldn't 'cause, you see,
Not one of us knows how to read--
Not Dot nor Bub nor me.

And then we said a Sewing Club,
But thought we'd better not;
'Cause none of us knows how to sew--
Not me nor Bub nor Dot.

And so it's just a Playing Club,
We play till time for tea;
And, oh, we have the bestest times!
Just Dot and Bub and me.

Puzzled

There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,
Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.
He'd written treatises and themes till, "For a change," he said,
"I think I'll write a children's book before I go to bed."

[Illustration]

He pulled down all his musty tomes in Latin and in G