Four Little Books

Four little books all tattered and torn
Bear four little friendly names;
Four little toys in the old worn drawer
Bring thoughts of childhood games.
Just four little treasures, each laid away,
At the end of a school’s long happy day
Till more little children shall come to play
And romp in the selfsame games.

For kitty has grown to womanhood,
Grown sweeter her childhood face;
A tender nurse, a faithful wife;
A life we are proud to trace.
Now daily she cares for the little child:
Another kitty both gentle and mild
Just a loving breeze in the March days wild-,
Two kits in the selfsame place.

Ernie or Woggy is still the same,
Always a big-hearted boy;
The freckles are gone, but his happy face
Still beams with a shining joy.
Big-hearted, free-hearted, now grown a man,
In a home, his own, with a nursery plan;
Showing the traits that a gentleman can:
Still Ernie, our dear big boy.

Buster the boy with the straight black hair
Is in his own home to-day;
He laughs and jokes and he teases still
In the same old Buster way.
He’s generous too, as he used to be;
The freckles brown on his nose I can see;
How I’d love a romp down the road, just we,
And a ball with which to play.

Betty, the youngest of all the four,
Sits thinking of four boys and girls,
As she bites her pencil, pushes back,
Two bothersome golden curls.
Alas, we are far from the dear old home,
Where we used to long for a timely roam;
And the two are gone who would beckon come
To the grown up boys and girls.

Four little books all tattered and torn
Bring memories of other years;
Four little toys make the eyes grow dim
And fill with memory tears;
But the world has given the best to each;
They pluck the blossoms within their reach
As the dear old world its lessons still teach
Making richer the coming years.

– Circa 1939

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