By Carolyn Wells.
Alackaday! and woe is me!
I’m broken past repair, you see;
My day is o’er; and, banished, I
With worn-out toys must be laid by.
Mine is a sad and sorry plight;
My wooden heart is broken quite.
I’m broken past repair, you see;
My day is o’er; and, banished, I
With worn-out toys must be laid by.
Mine is a sad and sorry plight;
My wooden heart is broken quite.
Yet some dear memories have power
To cheer me in this dreadful hour:
I cannot he entirely sad,
Remembering those I have made glad,—
Thinking how often my gay wiles
Brought to the children merry smiles.
To cheer me in this dreadful hour:
I cannot he entirely sad,
Remembering those I have made glad,—
Thinking how often my gay wiles
Brought to the children merry smiles.
Why, when I ’d turn a somersault,
Or high above my stick I ’d vault,
The baby crowed with lively squeals,
And Bobby’s laughter rang in peals;
And when I ’d spring or jump or climb,
Dorothy chuckled every time!
Or high above my stick I ’d vault,
The baby crowed with lively squeals,
And Bobby’s laughter rang in peals;
And when I ’d spring or jump or climb,
Dorothy chuckled every time!
And so, though I can’t do a trick,—
Though I can't even climb my stick,
And nobody with me will play,
And soon I must be thrown away,—
It cheers my broken heart of wood
To know that I have done some good.
Though I can't even climb my stick,
And nobody with me will play,
And soon I must be thrown away,—
It cheers my broken heart of wood
To know that I have done some good.
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