And it was Sunday everywhere,

And Father pinned a rose on me

And said he guessed he'd better take

Me down to see Miss Kate-Marie.

And when I went it all turned out

To be a Sunday school, and there

Miss Kate-Marie was very good

And let me stand beside her chair.

Her hat was made of yellow lace;

Her dress was very soft and thin,

And when she talked her little tongue

Was always wriggling out and in.

I liked to smell my pretty rose;

I liked to feel her silky dress.

She held a very little book

And asked the things for us to guess.

She asked about Who-made-y-God,

And never seemed to fuss or frown;

I liked to watch her little tongue

And see it wriggle up and down.

The woodpecker pecked out a little round hole

And made him a house in the telephone pole.

One day when I watched he poked out his head,

And he had on a hood and a collar of red.

When the streams of rain pour out of the sky,

And the sparkles of lightning go flashing by,

And the big, big wheels of thunder roll,

He can snuggle back in the telephone pole.

O little one away so far,

You cannot hear me when I sing.

You cannot tell me what you are,

I cannot tell you anything.

All through the garden I went and went,

And I walked in under the butterbean tent.

The poles leaned up like a good tepee

And made a nice little house for me.

I had a hard brown clod for a seat,

And all outside was a cool green street.

A little green worm and a butterfly

And a cricket-like thing that could hop went by.

Hidden away there were flocks and flocks

Of bugs that could go like little clocks.

Such a good day it was when I spent

A long, long while in the butterbean tent.

Our brother Clarence goes to school.

He has a slate and a blue school-bag.

He has a book and a copybook

And a scholar's companion and a little slate rag.

He knows a boy named Joe B. Kirk,

And he learns about c-a-t cat,

And how to play one-two-sky-blue,

And how to make a football out of a hat.

We climb up on the fence and gate

And watch until he's small and dim,

Far up the street, and he looks back

To see if we keep on watching him.

On Sunday morning, then he comes

To church, and everybody smells

The blacking and the toilet soap

And camphor balls from Mr. Wells.

He wears his whiskers in a bunch,

And wears his glasses on his head.

I mustn't call him Old Man Wells—

No matter—that's what Father said.

And when the little blacking smells

And camphor balls and soap begin,

I do not have to look to know

That Mr. Wells is coming in.

Our brother says that Will was born

The very day that Dickie came;

When one is four the other is,

And all their birthdays are the same.

Their coats and waists are just alike;

They have their hats together, too.

They sleep together in one bed,

And Will can put on Dickie's shoe.

But they are not the same at all;

Two different boys they have to be,

For Dick can play in Mother's room

When Will is climbing in a tree.

Or maybe Will is on the porch

To cry because he stubbed his toe,

And Dick is laughing by the gate

And watching ants go in a row.

The church has pieces jutting out

Where corners of the walls begin.

I have one for my little house,

And I can feel myself go in.

I feel myself go in the bricks,

And I can see myself in there.

I'm always waiting all alone,

I'm sitting on a little chair.

And I am sitting very still,

And I am waiting on and on

For something that is never there,

For something that is gone.

A little light is going by,

Is going up to see the sky,

A little light with wings.

I never could have thought of it,

To have a little bug all lit

And made to go on wings.

When I was making myself a game

Up in the garden, a little rain came.

It fell down quick in a sort of rush,

And I crawled back under the snowball bush.

I could hear the big drops hit the ground

And see little puddles of dust fly round.

A chicken came till the rain was gone;

He had just a very few feathers on.

He shivered a little under his skin,

And then he shut his eyeballs in.

Even after the rain had begun to hush

It kept on raining up in the bush.

One big flat drop came sliding down,

And a ladybug that was red and brown

Was up on a little stem waiting there,

And I got some rain in my hair.

On Sunday when I go to church

I wear my dress that's trimmed with lace.

I sit beside my mother and

Am very quiet in my place.

When Dr. Brown is reading hymns

To make the people want to sing,

Or when he preaches loud and makes

The shivery bells begin to ring,

I watch the little pulpit house—

It isn't very tall or wide—

And then I wonder all about

The little ones that live inside.

When Dr. Brown has preached enough,

And when he is about to stop,

He stands behind the little house

And shuts the Bible on the top.

I wonder if they sit inside,

And if they cook and walk up stairs.

I wonder if they have a cat

And say some kind of little prayers.

I wonder if they're ever scared

Because the bedroom lamp goes out,

And what their little dreams are like

And what they wonder all