THE SWEET-TOOTH

Taking a turn after tea

Through orchards of Mirabelea,

Where clusters of yellow and red

Dangled and glowed overhead,

Who should I see

But old Timothy,

Hale and hearty as hearty could be —

Timothy under a crab-apple tree.

His blue eyes twinkling at me,

Munching and crunching with glee,

And wagging his wicked old head,

“I've still got a sweet-tooth,” he said.

“A hundred and three

Come January,

I've one tooth left in my head,” said he —

Timothy under the crab-apple tree.