Oft when the house lay silent in the heat My thoughts would be so full of you, my sweet, That dreaming half--I seemed to hear once more Your little fingers fluttering at the door, The pitter patter of your childish feet In joyous rhythm cross the echoing floor. Then small, soft hands would nestle into mine, And warm soft arms around my neck would twine, As soft and warm the dream child on my knees, Cuddling so close in clear young voice would tease And tease and tease in mimicked glad young whine For "Just one little story if you please." So half in jest and half in earnest, too, Mostly I think to dream my dreaming true, I'd conjure up long tales of lands afar And days gone by that yet remembered are; Shaping my stories with this end in view To gain the verdict "Tell some more, Mamma." For I was happy when I had beguiled Into my life the spirit of a child. Thus one by one the weary hours flew And page by page a little volume grew, So--that my dreams with truth be reconciled, Take it, my darling, it was writ for you.
Long years have sped since that poor book was penned. None read the pages. Therefore at the end Of this world's life I dedicate to two Small boys--her sons--whose question'ng eyes of blue Tell me that dreams of childhood never end _This_ book. So take it boys--'twas writ for you.