And a dozen times a day
In they troop demanding bread--
Only buttered bread will do,
And that butter must be spread
Inches thick, with sugar, too;
And I never can say "No,
Pittypat and Tippytoe."

Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth,
For (I much regret to say)
Tippytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie, for shame; to quarrel so--
Pittypat and Tippytoe.

Oh, the thousand worrying things
Every day recurrent brings;
Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a wee complaint to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life seems one vain fleeting show
To Pittypat and Tippytoe.

And when day is at an end
There are little duds to mend;
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shoes great holes reveal,
Little hose but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe and heel;
Who but _you_ could work such woe,
Pittypat and Tippytoe?

But when comes this thought to me
"Some there are who childless be,"
Stealing to their little beds,
With a love I cannot speak,
Tenderly I stroke their heads--
Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.
God help those who do not know
A Pittypat and Tippytoe.

On the floor and down the hall,
Rudely smutched upon the wall,
There are proofs of every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought;
And upon my heart you'd find
Just such trade marks, if you sought;
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe.

--_Eugene Field._

[8] From "Love Songs of Childhood." Copyright, 1894, by
Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers,
Chas. Scribner's & Sons.

RED RIDING-HOOD.[9]

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,
Ridged o'er with many a drifty heap;
The wind that through the pine trees sung
The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung;
While through the window, frosty-starred,
Against the sunset purple barr'd,
We saw the somber crow flit by,
The hawks gray flock along the sky,
The crested blue-jay flitting swift,
The squirrel poising on the drift,
Erect, alert, his broad gray tail,
Set to the north wind like a sail.

It came to pass, our little lass,
With flattened face against the glass,
And eyes in which the tender dew
Of pity shone, stood gazing through
The narrow space her rosy l