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.