Riley Child-Rhymes | Page 9

says: Ef I don't_, w'y, I don't
know _beans!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!--
Out on the margin of Moonshine Land,
Tickle me, Love, in these
Lonesome Ribs!
Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand,

Writing his name with his tail in the sand,
And swiping it out with his
oogerish hand;
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?
Tickle me, Love, in these
Lonesome Ribs!
Or what is the sound that the Whing-Whang

seeks?--
Crouching low by the winding creeks
And holding his
breath for weeks and weeks!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome
Ribs!
Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, Love, in these
Lonesome Ribs!
'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings

And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;
And she sits and as sadly and
softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,--
Tickle
me, Dear,
Tickle me here,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
WAITIN' FER THE CAT TO DIE
[Illustration: Waitin' Fer The Cat to Die--Title]
Lawzy! don't I rickollect
That-'air old swing in the lane!
Right and
proper, I expect,
Old times can't come back again;
But I want to
state, ef they
Could come back, and I could say
What my pick 'ud
be, i jing!
I'd say, Gimme the old swing
'Nunder the old locus'-trees

On the old place, ef you please!--
Danglin' there with half-shet eye,

Waitin' fer the cat to die!
I'd say, Gimme the old gang
Of barefooted, hungry, lean,
Ornry
boys you want to hang
When you're growed up twic't as mean!
The
old gyarden-patch, the old
Truants, and the stuff we stol'd!
The old
stompin'-groun', where we
Wore the grass off, wild and free
As the
swoop of the old swing,
Where we ust to climb and cling,
And twist
roun', and fight, and lie--
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
'Pears like I 'most allus could
Swing the highest of the crowd--
Jes
sail up there tel I stood
Downside-up, and screech out loud,--
Ketch
my breath, and jes drap back

Fer to let the old swing slack,
Yit my
tow-head dippin' still
In the green boughs, and the chill
Up my
backbone taperin' down,
With my shadder on the ground'
Slow and

slower trailin' by--
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
[Illustration: Barefooted, hungry, lean, ornry boys]
Now my daughter's little Jane's
Got a kind o' baby-swing
On the
porch, so's when it rains
She kin play there--little thing!
And I'd
limped out t'other day
With my old cheer this-a-way,
Swingin' her
and rockin' too,
Thinkin' how _I_ ust to do
At her age, when
suddently,
"Hey, Gran'pap!" she says to me,
"Why you rock so
slow?" ... Says I,
"Waitin' fer the cat to die!"
[Illustration: Why you rock so slow?]
NAUGHTY CLAUDE
[Illustration: Naughty Claude]
When Little Claude was naughty wunst
At dinner-time, an' said
He
won't say "Thank you" to his Ma,
She maked him go to bed
An' stay
two hours an' not git up,--
So when the clock struck Two,
Nen
Claude says,--"Thank you, Mr. Clock,
I'm much obleeged to you!"
THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN
[Illustration: The South Wind and The Sun--Title]
O the South Wind and the Sun
How each loved the other one--
Full
of fancy--full of folly--
Full of jollity and fun!
How they romped and ran about,
Like two
boys when school is out,
With glowing face, and lisping lip,
Low laugh, and lifted shout!
And the South Wind--he was dressed
With a ribbon round his breast

That floated, flapped and fluttered

In a riotous unrest;
And a drapery of mist,
From the shoulder and
the wrist
Flowing backward with the motion
Of the waving hand he kissed.
And the Sun had on a crown
Wrought of gilded thistledown,
And a
scarf of velvet vapor,
And a raveled-rainbow gown;
And his tinsel-tangled hair,
Tossed
and lost upon the air,
With glossier and flossier
Than any anywhere.
And the South Wind's eyes were two
Little dancing drops of dew,

As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips,
And blew and blew and blew!
And the Sun's--like diamond-stone,

Brighter yet than ever known,
As he knit his brows and held his
breath,
And shone and shone and shone!
And this pair of merry fays
Wandered through the summer days;

Arm-in-arm they went together
Over heights of morning haze--
Over slanting slopes of lawn
They
went on and on and on,
Where the daisies looked like star-tracks
Trailing up and down the dawn.
And where'er they found the top
Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop,

They chucked it underneath the chin
And praised the lavish crop,
Till it lifted with the pride
Of the heads
it grew beside,
And then the South Wind and the Sun
Went onward satisfied.

Over meadow-lands they tripped,
Where the dandelions dipped
In
crimson foam of clover bloom
And dripped and dripped and dripped!
And they clinched the
bumble-stings,
Gauming honey on their wings,
And bundling them
in lily-bells,
With maudlin murmurings.
And the humming-bird, that hung
Like a jewel up among
The tilted
honeysuckle horns,
They mesmerized and swung
In the palpitating air,
Drowsed with
odors strange and rare,
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away,
And left him hanging there.
And they braided blades of grass
Where the truant had to pass;
And
they wriggled through the rushes
And the reeds of the morass,
Where they danced, in rapture sweet,

O'er