Upon a stairway built of brick

A pleasant-featured clock

From time to time would murmur "Tick"

And vary it with "Tock":

Although no great intelligence

There lay in either word,

They were not meant to give offence

To anyone who heard.

Within the pantry of the house,

Among some piles of cheese,

There dwelt an irritable mouse,

Extremely hard to please:

His appetite was most immense.

Each day he ate a wedge

Of Stilton cheese. In consequence

His nerves were all on edge.

With ill-concealed impatience he,

Upon his morning walk,

Had heard the clock unceasingly,

Monotonously talk,

Until his rage burst every bound.

He gave a fretful shout:

"Well, sakes alive! It's time I found

What all this talk's about."

With all the admirable skill

That marks the rodent race

The mouse ran up the clock, until

He'd crept behind the face,

And then, with words that no one ought

To use, and scornful squeals,

He cried aloud: "Just what I thought!

Great oaf, you're full of wheels!"

The timepiece sternly said: "Have done!"

And through the silent house

It struck emphatically one.

(But that one was the mouse!)

To earth the prowling rodent fell,

In terror for his life,

And turned to flee, but, sad to tell,

There stood the farmer's wife.

She did not faint, she did not quail,

She did not cry out: "Scat!"

She simply took him by the tail

And gave him to the cat,

And, with a stern, triumphant look,

She watched him clawed and cleft,

And with some blotting paper took

Up all that there was left.

The moral: In a farmer's home

Run down his herds, his flocks,

Run down his crops, run down his loam,

But when it comes to clocks,

Pray leave them ticking every one

In peace upon their shelves:

When running down is to be done

The clocks run down themselves.

Conveniently near to where

Young Simple Simon dwelt

There was to be a county fair,

And Simple Simon felt

That to the fair he ought to go

In all his Sunday clothes, and so,

Determined to behold the show,

He put them on and went.

(One-half his clothes was borrowed and the other half was lent.)

He heard afar the cheerful sound

Of horns that people blew,

Saw wooden horses swing around

A circle, two and two,

Beheld balloons arise, and if

He scented with a gentle sniff

The smells of pies, what is the dif-

Ference to me or you?

(You cannot say my verse is false, because I know it's true.)

As Simple Simon nearer came

To these attractive smells,

Avoiding every little game

Men played with walnut shells,

He felt a sudden longing rise.

The sparkle in his eager eyes

Betrayed the fact he yearned for pies:

The eye the secret tells.

('Tis known the pie of county fairs all other pies excels.)

So when he saw upon the road,

Some fifty feet away,

A pieman, Simple Simon strode

Toward him, shouting: "Hey!

What kinds?" as lordly as a prince.

The pieman said: "I've pumpkin, quince,

Blueberry, lemon, peach, and mince:"

And, showing his array,

He added: "Won't you try one, sir? They're very nice to-day."

Now Simon's taste was most profuse,

And so, by way of start,

He ate two cakes, a Charlotte Russe,

Six buns, the better part

Of one big gingerbread, a pair

Of lady-fingers, an eclair,

And ten assorted pies, and there,

His hand upon his heart,

He paused to choose between an apple dumpling and a tart.

Observing that upon his tray

His goods were growing few,

The pieman cried: "I beg to say

That patrons such as you

One does not meet in many a moon.

Pray, won't you try this macaroon?"

But soon suspicious, changed his tune,

Continuing: "What is due

I beg respectfully to add's a dollar twenty-two."

Then Simple Simon put a curb

Upon his appetite,

And turning with an air superb