ing,
Like the rattle of a drum.
Come a whirling, come a swirling;
For in spring or in the summer,
In the autumn or the winter
I'm the rumty, tumty, tummer
That rejoices in the seasons as they come.

Well, when Mr. Rabbit got through everybody sat still for a minute, till
Mr. Dog called out for somebody to come and unwind him so he could get
his breath again. Then they all commenced to laugh and shout and pound
on the table. And Mr. Rabbit coughed and looked pleased and said it was
easy enough to do when you knew how.

[Illustration: LOOKED FOOLISH AND SWALLOWED TWO OR THREE TIMES.]

Then Mr. 'Possum, who was next on the program, said he hoped they'd let
him off this time because he could only think of four lines, and that he
was a better hand at the dinner table than he was at poetry, anyway. But
they wouldn't do it, so he got up and looked foolish and swallowed two
or three times before he could get started.

WHAT I LOVE.

BY A. PUFFINGTON 'POSSUM.

I love the fragrant chicken pie
That blooms in early spring;
I love a chicken stew or fry,
Or any old thing.

Mr. 'Possum's poem was short, but it went right to the spot, and the way
they applauded almost made Jack Rabbit jealous. He said that it was
'most too true to be good poetry, but that it was good for a first
effort, and that being short helped it. Then Mr. Robin spoke his piece:

MOTHER AND ME.

BY C. ROBIN.

When the bud breaks out on the maple bough
Mother and me we build our nest--
A twig from the yard and a wisp from the mow
And four blue eggs 'neath the mother breast.
Up in the tree, mother and me,
Happy and blithe and contented are we.

When the daisies fall and the roses die,
An empty nest in the boughs to swing--
Four young robins that learn to fly
And a sweet adieu till another spring.
Then up in the tree, mother and me,
Happy once more and contented we'll be.

The applause wasn't so loud after Mr. Robin's poem, but they all said it
was very pretty, and Mr. 'Possum even wiped his eyes with his
handkerchief, because it made him remember something sad. Mr. Rabbit
said that it ought to be "Mother and I," but that it didn't make much
difference, he supposed, about grammar, so long as it rhymed and sounded
nice. Then Mr. Crow got up.

JUST NOTHING.

BY J. CROW.

While others may sing of the pleasures of spring,
Or winter or summer or fall,
I'll sing not of