The Jingle Book - Carolyn Wells

A tutor who tooted the flute
Tried to teach two young tooters to toot.
Said the two to the tutor,
Is it harder to toot, or
To tutor two tooters to toot?

A kitten went a-walking
One morning in July,
And idly fell a-talking
With a great big butterfly.

The kittens tone was airy,
The butterfly would scoff;
When there came along a fairy
Who whisked his wings right off.

And thenfor it is written
Fairies can do such things
Upon the startled kitten
She stuck the yellow wings.

The kitten felt a quiver,
She rose into the air,
Then flew down to the river
To view her image there.

With fear her heart was smitten,
And she began to cry,
Am I a butter-kitten?
Or just a kitten-fly?

Oh! the King of Kanoodledum
And the King of Kanoodledee,
They went to sea
In a jigamaree
A full-rigged jigamaree.

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

And one king couldnt swim
And the other, he couldnt, too;
So they had to float,
While their empty boat
Danced away oer 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!

Pollys patchworkoh, 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 Pollys finger bled.
Strange such pretty, dainty blocks
Bits of Pollys 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!

Were going to have the mostest fun!
Its going to be a club;
And no one can belong to it
But Dot and me and Bub.

We thought wed have a Reading Club,
But couldnt 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 wed better not;
Cause none of us knows how to sew
Not me nor Bub nor Dot.

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

There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,
Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.
Hed written treatises and themes till, For a change, he said,
I think Ill write a childrens book before I go to bed.

He pulled down all his musty tomes in Latin and in Greek;
Consulted cyclopædias and manuscripts antique,
Essays in Anthropology, studies in counterpoise
For these, he said, are useful lore for little girls and boys.
He scribbled hard, and scribbled fast, he burned the midnight oil,
And when he reached The End he felt rewarded for his toil;
He said, This charming Childrens Book is greatly to my credit.
And now hes sorely puzzled that no child has ever read it.

Little Bo-Peep, will you be mine?
I want you for my Valentine.
You are my choice of all the girls,
With your blushing cheeks and your fluttering curls,
With your ribbons gay and your kirtle neat,
None other is so fair and sweet.
Little Bo-Peep, lets run away,
And marry each other on Midsummer Day;
And ever to you Ill be fond and true,

One day wee Willie and his dog
Sprawled on the nursery floor.
He had a florists catalogue,
And turned the pages oer,

Till all at once he gave a spring,
Hurrah! he cried with joy;
Mamma, heres just the very thing
To give your little boy!

For when we fellows go to school,
We lose our things, you know;
And in that little vestibule
They do get mixed up so.

And as you often say you cant
Take care of em for me,
Why dont you buy a rubber plant,
And an umbrella tree?

There once was a corpulent carp
Who wanted to play on a harp,
But to his chagrin
So short was his fin
That he couldnt reach up to C sharp.

Twas long ago,a year or so,
In a barnyard by the sea,
That an old hen lived whom you may know
By the name of Fiddle-de-dee.
She scratched around in the sand all day,
For a lively old hen was she.

And then do you know, it happened this way
In that barnyard by the sea;
A great wise owl came down one day,
And hooted at Fiddle-de-dee,
Just hooted at Fiddle-de-dee.
And he cried, Hi! Hi! old hen, I say!
Youre provincial, it seems to me!

Why, what do you mean? cried the old red hen,
As mad as hops was she.
Oh, Ive been round among great men,
In the world where the great men be.
And none of them scratch with their claws like you,
They write with a quill like me.

Now very few people could get ahead
Of that old hen, Fiddle-de-dee.
She went and hunted the posy-bed,
And returned in triumphant glee.
And ever since then, that little red hen,
She writes with a jonquil pen, quil pen,
She writes with a jonquil pen.