T was a Turtle, of wealth,
  Who went round with particular stealth,—­
    “Why,” said he, “I’m afraid
    Of being waylaid
  When I even walk out for my health!”

  U was a Unicorn curious,
  With one horn, of a growth so luxurious,
    He could level and stab it—­
    If you didn’t grab it—­
  Clean through you, he was so blamed furious!

  V was a vagabond Vulture
  Who said:  “I don’t want to insult yer,
    But when you intrude
    Where in lone solitude
  I’m a-preyin’, you’re no man o’ culture!”

  W was a wild Woodchuck,
  And you can just bet that he could “chuck”
    He’d eat raw potatoes,
    Green corn, and tomatoes,
  And tree roots, and call it all “good chuck!”

  X was a kind of X-cuse
  Of a some-sort-o’-thing that got loose
    Before we could name it,
    And cage it, and tame it,
  And bring it in general use.

  Y is the Yellowbird,—­bright
  As a petrified lump of star-light,
    Or a handful of lightning-
    Bugs, squeezed in the tight’ning
  Pink fist of a boy, at night.

  Z is the Zebra, of course!—­
  A kind of a clown-of-a-horse,—­
    Each other despising,
    Yet neither devising
  A way to obtain a divorce!

  & here is the famous—­what-is-it? 
  Walk up, Master Billy, and quiz it: 
    You’ve seen the rest of ’em—­
    Ain’t this the best of ’em,
  Right at the end of your visit?

At last Billy is sent off to bed.  It is the prudent mandate of the old folks:  But so lothfully the poor child goes, Bob’s heart goes, too.—­Yes, Bob himself, to keep the little fellow company awhile, and, up there under the old rafters, in the pleasant gloom, lull him to famous dreams with fairy tales.  And it is during this brief absence that the youngest Mills girl gives us a surprise.  She will read a poem, she says, written by a very dear friend of hers who, fortunately for us, is not present to prevent her.  We guard door and window as she reads.  Doc says she will not listen; but she does listen, and cries, too—­out of pure vexation, she asserts.  The rest of us, however, cry just because of the apparent honesty of the poem of—­

BEAUTIFUL HANDS.

  O your hands—­they are strangely fair! 
  Fair—­for the jewels that sparkle there,—­
  Fair—­for the witchery of the spell
  That ivory keys alone can tell;
  But when their delicate touches rest
  Here in my own do I love them best,
  As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans
  My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

  Marvelous—­wonderful—­beautiful hands! 
  They can coax roses to bloom in the strands
  Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine,
  Under mysterious touches of thine,
  Into such knots as entangle the soul,
  And fetter the heart under such a control
  As only the strength of my love understands—­
  My passionate love for your beautiful hands.