And the boy they belong to, I guess, was away. At least, we all thought he must be; For all through the house they could hear us at play, But he never came up there to see. And we would pile everything back up with care And ask Uncle Bill when we’d go If the boy they belong to would know we’d been there, But he just sort of smiled and said no.
Our Uncle Bill’s attic is half full of toys, Some old ones and some almost new; He’s got things up there for most all kinds of boys From ten years old clear down to two. And often when we boys go up there to play We ask Uncle Bill when we go If the boy they belong to will be back that day, And he smiles sort of sad and says no.
Serious-minded little maid, Wondering and half afraid, Half inclined to speak with me, Half disposed to let me be; Hesitating yet, and shy, Half a twinkle in your eye, Half in doubt and half in fear, Staying neither far nor near.
How I wonder what you see With those eyes that question me; What the instinct bids you know If I may be friend or foe; Fawnlike, full of grace and sweet, Ready with fast-flying feet In the orchard’s deepest shade To find cover, little maid.
Grave and curious little lass, Like a wild bird in the grass, Still intently watching me, With your wings half spread, to see If my smile bodes good or ill, Willing to make friends and still Undecided if to stay Here and near or fly away.
Serious-minded little maid, When, with smiles and unafraid, O’er the lawn you come to me, Stranger to you though I be, When your curious eyes have tried Soul with mine and, satisfied, Looked still into mine and smiled, Blessed am I, little child.
Blessed am I to be just Worthy of your childish trust, More than conqueror of kings When the wild bird of your wings Bids you fly not forth but see Something tender, kind, in me; Oh, the gladness you have laid At my heart’s gate, little maid!
There’s a hole in his hat with the hair sticking through, And a toe that peeps out from a hole in his shoe; There’s a patch in his trousers, a darn in his hose, And a freckle that tilts on the bridge of his nose; But oh, in his heart there’s the glimmer and shine Of a sun that I wish could be shining in mine.
There’s a smudge on his face that is dusty and dark, But a song in his heart like the song of a lark; There’s a rent in his coat where the lining shows through, But the whistle he tunes to the wild bird is true; And, oh, in his heart, with a sparkle like wine, Is a gladness I wish could be sparkling in mine.