Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.

'A bumpity ride in a wagon of hay'

'What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.

'Bunches of grapes,' says Timothy; 'Pomegranates pink,' says Elaine; 'A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me,' says Jane.