( 9)

Blow, Wind, Blow !

LOW, wind, blow ! May you steadily blow,
And go, mill, go! May the money-tree grow,
For we’re in want of siller. For I’m to marry the miller !

Serre

 
 
   

dl ii Willi
a in |

Ml i |

Hh

     
  

    
  
 

      

   

 

Rumty-idy-1aity.
T) UMTY-IDY-IDITY, won't there be a row!
The boys have blacked the master’s face and he is waking now.