THE LITTLE FROSTY PAINTER
There’s a little frosty painter
Who soon will come around
To put a silver edging on
The grasses on the ground,
Upon the window pane he’ll paint
A fairy landscape, strange and quaint,
And some cold morning you’ll awake
To find he’s frosted Mother’s cake.
Now can you guess who this little frosty painter is? Why, it’s Jack Frost, the son of King Winter.
“Ha, ha,” crowed the Weathercock on the Big Red Barn. “Jack Frost is here, for I can see the silver frost upon the grass in the Sunny Meadow,” and then that gilded rooster turned his head to the North and blew on his gilt toes to keep them warm.
Pretty soon Old Sic’em walked out of his little dog house and shook himself. “Bow wow,” he said, “it’s a chilly morning.”
“Cock-a-doodle-do,” said Cocky Doodle, and then Henny Penny cackled loudly:
“I’ve laid an egg so white and clean
’Twould grace a breakfast for a queen.
But if a little girl should beg
The farmer for my pretty egg,
I’d tell him quick to let her go
And take my egg as white as snow.”
As the little hen finished her song, she noticed Little Jack Rabbit by the Old Rail Fence.
“Helloa, Mrs. Henny Penny,” he said. “I like your song. If I see any poor little girl I’ll tell her!” and then the little rabbit hopped away, for he just couldn’t stay a moment in one place, let me tell you. He wanted to be on the hop, skip and jump all the time, just like lots of little boys and girls I know.
Well, by and by, after a while, he saw Old Professor Jim Crow scratching his head with his claw.
“What’s the matter?” asked the little rabbit.
“I can’t make out something I’ve written in my little Black Book,” answered the old black bird, and he scratched his head again and looked dreadfully perplexed, which means worse than worried, you know.
“Let me look,” said Little Jack Rabbit. And when the old blackbird had flown down from his pine tree, the little bunny leaned over his shoulder, and read: “Oh, oh, oh, Squirreltown!”
“Why, that’s the Squirrel Brothers telephone number,” he laughed. “So it is,” said Professor Jim Crow. “I’m so glad you told me! Let’s call them up!”
“‘One, three, five, Chestnut Hill!’
Keep on ringing, Central, till
Some one answers, ‘Hello! who
Is calling up my Bungaloo!’
“But if no one says a word;
Not a twitter from a bird,
Nor a chatter comes your way,
Call again another day.”