NOTHING TO DO.

I HAVE sailed my boat and spun my top, And handled my last new ball; I trundled my hoop till I had to stop, And I swung till got a fall; I tumbled my books all out of the shelves, And hunted the pictures through; I’ve flung them where they may sort themselves, And now—I have nothing to do. The tower of Babel I built of blocks Came down with a crash to the floor; My train of cars ran over the rocks— I’ll warrant they’ll run no more; I have raced with Grip till I’m out of breath; My slate is broken in two, So I can’t draw monkeys. I’m tired to death Because I have nothing to do. I can see where the boys have gone to fish; They bothered me, too, to go, But for fun like that I hadn’t a wish, For I think it’s mighty “slow” To sit all day at the end of a rod For the sake of a minnow or two, Or to land, at the farthest, an eel on the sod: I’d rather have nothing to do. Maria has gone to the woods for flowers, And Lucy and Rose are away After berries. I’m sure they’ve been out for hours; I wonder what makes them stay? Ned wanted to saddle Brunette for me, But riding is nothing new; “I was thinking you’d relish a canter,” said he, “Because you have nothing to do.” I wish I was poor Jim Foster’s son, For he seems so happy and gay, When his wood is chopped and his work all done, With his little half hour of play; He neither has books nor top nor ball, Yet he’s singing the whole day through; But then he is never tired at all Because he has nothing to do.