UEER little baby,
O Frolicsome child,
Gift of the fairies —

How the dame smiled!
He, but a day old,

Striving to walk,
Calling for breakfast —

Hear the mite talk!

 

 

Tom Thumo.

Wife of the farmer,
Married for years,
Mourns ’cause she’s childless,
Often in tears ;
Watches at fairy-rings
(At night they come),
Wished for a babe, though
Small as her thumb.
B