At first, she 'd tickle Timmy's toes Or roughly smite his baby cheek-- And now she 'd rudely tweak his nose And other petty vengeance wreak; And then, with hobnails in her shoes And her two horrid eyes aflame, The mare proceeded to amuse Herself by prancing o'er his frame--- First to his throbbing brow, and then Back to his little feet again.
At last, fantastic, wild, and weird, And clad in garments ghastly grim, A scowling hoodoo band appeared And joined in worrying little Tim. Each member of this hoodoo horde Surrounded Tim with fierce ado And with long, cruel gimlets bored His aching system through and through, And while they labored all night long The nightmare neighed a dismal song.
Next morning, looking pale and wild, Poor little Tim emerged from bed-- "Good gracious! what can ail the child!" His agitated mother said. "We live to learn," responded he, "And I have lived to learn to take Plain bread and butter for my tea, And never, never, jelly-cake! For when my hulk with pastry teems, I must _expect_ unpleasant dreams!"
"Now you can imagine this ballad impressed the child fairies very deeply," continued the little shoe. "Whenever the gran'ma fairy sang it, the little fairies expressed great surprise that boys and girls ever should think of eating things which occasioned so much trouble. So the night was spent in singing and dancing, and our master would sleep as sweetly as you please. At last the lark--what a beautiful bird she is--would flutter against the window panes, and give the fairies warning in these words:
The eastern sky is streaked with red, The weary night is done, And from his distant ocean bed Rolls up the morning sun. The dew, like tiny silver beads Bespread o'er velvet green, Is scattered on the wakeful meads By angel hands unseen. "Good-morrow, robin in the trees!" The star-eyed daisy cries; "Good-morrow," sings the morning breeze Unto the ruddy skies; "Good-morrow, every living thing!" Kind Nature seems to say, And all her works devoutly sing A hymn to birth of day, So, haste, without delay, Haste, fairy friends, on silver wing, And to your homes away!
"But the fairies could never leave little master so unceremoniously. Before betaking themselves to their pretty homes under the rocks near the brook, they would address a parting song to his eyes, and this song they called a matin invocation: