Page:Field Poems of Childhood.djvu/67

 Upon the waves that, in their play,

Would tag us last and scoot away;

And mother never seemed to know

What burnt our legs and chapped them so—

But father guessed it was the brook!

And Fido—how he loved to swim

The cooling brook,

Whenever we'd throw sticks for him;

And how we boys did wish that we

Could only swim as good as he—

Why, Daniel Webster never was

Recipient of such great applause

As Fido, battling with the brook!

But once—O most unhappy day

For you, my brook!—

Came Cousin Sam along that way;

And, having lived a spell out West,

Where creeks aren't counted much at best,

He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,

But, with superb indifference, stept

Across that brook—our mighty brook!

Why do you scamper on your way,

You little brook,

When I come back to you to-day?

Is it because you flee the grass

That lunges at you as you pass,