Spelling queer, and Woodcut quaint.

Angel, demon, prince, and saint,

Much alike in face and air;

Houses tipping here and there,

Lion, palm-tree, hermit's cell,

And much more I need not tell.

Then they all attentive wait,

While the story I relate,

And, before the half is told,

I forget that I am old!

But one age there seems to be

For the little ones and me.

What though all be new and strange,

Little children never change;

All is shifting day by day,—

Worse or better, who can say?

Much we lose, and much we learn,

But the children still return,

As the flowers do, every year;

Just as innocent and dear

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