creating. All things considered, I think we might be spared this particular autumnal outcry till it can be reported that the condition of affairs is mending. I have, myself, no doubt that the present transition state might easily be made to merge in something at least as good as any domestic service ever yet known.
SWING SONG.
As my little Johnny sat,
With the feathers in his hat
All a-blow,
On the wing,
All a-blow—
Through the shifting light and shade
By the birchen branches made,
To and fro
Swang the swing,
To and fro.
If your thought, my bonny lad,
For a penny may be had,
Let me know,
Out with it,
Let me know—
Darling boy, with dreaming eyes,
Looking so exceeding wise,
To and fro
As you flit,
To and fro.
Oh, Papa, I haven’t any
Thoughts at all, to earn a penny,
To and fro
As I fly,
To and fro.
If it wasn’t so absurd,
I do wish I was a bird,
And could go
Through the sky,
Like a crow.
