Whene’er you see one tiny cloud
Alone in all the sky,
Just watch him close, and note his pranks
As he goes skipping by.
He’s slipped beneath the watchful eye
Of the cloud-despatching elf,
And tickled to death because he’s got
The whole sky to himself!
Those little fleecy clouds are made
By pretty Fairy girls,
Who love to have them soft and white,
And fringe their edge with curls.
Then, some are like huge balls of wool,
Or sheets of drifting snow,
That stretch before the Moon at night,
Who sets them all aglow.
Then there’s the frightful thunder-clouds!
The Fairy men make those
In a monstrous foundry, where the Wind
A thousand forges blows.
They fill these clouds with dynamite,
And the little Fairy boys
Explode them during thunder-storms
With a fearful flash and noise.
