THE GARDEN GATE

Early and late, early and late, Little Boy swings on the garden gate. “It isn’t a gate; it’s a motor car! I’m travelling fast and I’m travelling far. I toot my horn and I turn my wheel, And nobody knows how grand I feel!” Early and late, early and late, Little Boy swings on the garden gate. “It isn’t a gate; it’s a great big ship! I’m off to the Pole on a ’sploring trip. I’ll ride a white bear, holding on by his hair, And I’ll hurry him up with a whaleskin whip.” Early and late, early and late, Little Boy swings on the garden gate.

“It isn’t a gate; it’s a big balloon! I’m going to sail till I reach the moon. I’ll play with the Man as hard as I can, And I’ll stir up the stars with a great horn spoon.” Early and late, early and late, Little Boy swings on the garden gate. “It isn’t a gate; it’s—” off runs he, His mother is calling, “Come in to tea!” It’s a wonderful gate, but it just isn’t able To turn itself into a supper-table.