SONG OF THE MOTHER WHOSE CHILDREN ARE FOND OF DRAWING.

Oh, could I find the forest Where the pencil-trees grow! Oh, might I see their stately stems All standing in a row! I'd hie me to their grateful shade; In deep, in deepest bliss; For then I need not hourly hear A chorus such as this: Chorus. Oh, lend me a pencil, please, Mamma! Oh, draw me some houses and trees, Mamma! Oh, make me a floppy Great poppy to copy, And a horsey that prances and gees, Mamma! The branches of the pencil-tree Are pointed every one; Ay! each one has a glancing point That glitters in the sun. The leaves are leaves of paper white, All fluttering in the breeze; Ah! could I pluck one rustling bough, I'd silence cries like these: Chorus. Oh, lend me a pencil, do, Mamma! I've got mine all stuck in the glue, Mamma! Oh, make me a pretty Big barn and a city, And a cow and a steam-engine too, Mamma! The fruit upon the pencil-tree Hangs ripening in the sun, In clusters bright of pocket-knives,— Three blades to every one. Ah! might I pluck one shining fruit, And plant it by my door, The pleading cries, the longing sighs, Would trouble me no more. Chorus. Oh, sharpen a pencil for me, Mamma! 'Cause Johnny and Baby have three, Mamma! And this isn't fine! And Hal sat down on mine! So do it bee-yu-ti-ful-lee, Mamma!