THE SAILOR BOY.

I knew a little youngster Who would a sailor be; He did not care for top or ball, For marbles, kites, or trinkets small,— He did not care for these at all, For he would go to sea. The things he really cared for Were queer things such as these: Odd knots of rope, and bits of string, A marline-spike, a hammock ring, India ink, or anything That might a sailor please. He liked to read of voyages, And navigators’ lore. “And I can tell you how,” he said, “To make a splice or a ‘Turk’s head,’ To hold the reel, or heave the lead, And—oh! a great deal more.” And if perchance you missed him, When others were at play, You’d find him stowed in some odd nook, Off cruising in his sailor book With Frobisher or Captain Cook, In regions far away. He has not gone from home as yet, To ship before the mast; But only wait and you shall see— Sailors are made from such as he; I’m very sure that he will be An Admiral at last.

“Hi! Yi! What’s the matter with you?” “My! My! There’s a frog in my shoe! I just took ’em off to paddle, you know, In the beautiful lake where the pond lilies grow, And when I turned ’round, that frog, don’t you see? Sat up in my shoe and made faces at me. My! My! Oh, what shall I do?” “BLUP!” said the frog—and jumped out of the shoe.