yo' little cotton tail,
An' den, 'fo' you could twis' yo' phiz,
Dey'd _reconnize_ you _who you is_;

An' fo' you'd sca'cely bat yo' eye,
Dey'd have you skun an' in a pie,
Or maybe roasted on a coal,
Widout one thought about yo' soul.

So better teck ole Ephe's advice,
Des rig yo'se'f out slick an' nice,
An' tie yo' ears down, like I said,
An' hide yo' tail an' lif' yo' head.

[Illustration: "'WELL, ONE MO' RABBIT FUR DE POT'"]

An' when you balumps on yo' foots,
It wouldn't hurt ter put on boots.
Den walk _straight up_, like Mr. Man,
An' when he offer you 'is han',

Des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip;
But _don't you show yo' rabbit lip_.
An' don't you have a word ter say,
No mo'n ter pass de time o' day.

An' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs,
Des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares,
An' ax 'im is he seen a jack--
An' dat 'll put 'im off de track.

Now, ef you'll foller dis advice,
Instid o' bein' et wid rice,
Ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage,
You'll live ter die of nachel age.

'Sh! hush! What's dat? Was dat a gun?
_Don't_ trimble so. An' _don't you run_!
Come, set heah on de lorg wid me--
Hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee.

_Don't_ run, _I say_. Tut--tut! He's gorn.
_Right 'cross de road_, as sho's you born!
Slam bang! I know'd he'd ketch a shot!
Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot!

MAY BE SO

MAY BE SO

September butterflies flew thick
O'er flower-bed and clover-rick,
When little Miss Penelope,
Who watched them from grandfather's knee,

Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?"
And, "Where do flowers go to when they die?"
For questions hard as hard can be
I recommend Penelope.

But grandpa had a playful way
Of dodging things too hard to say,
By giving fantasies instead
Of serious answers, so he said,

"Whenever a tired old flower must die,
Its soul mounts in a butterfly;
Just now a dozen snow-wings sped
From out that white petunia bed;

"And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure,
A dozen shrivelled cups or more;
Each pansy folds her purple cloth,
And soars aloft in velvet moth.

"So when tired sunflower doffs her cap
Of yellow frills to take a nap,
'Tis but that this surrender brings
Her soul's release on golden wings."

"But _is this so_? It ought to be,"
Said little Miss Penelope;