HENRY BESTON QUOTE:

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.

Who Wants to be a Millionaire? By Rebecca Stone

Six little numbers is all it would take.

Oh what a difference those six numbers would make.

Why, I would give up my job and live like a queen

and visit the places that I've never seen.

I would buy a big house with its own swimming pool,

party all night and act like a fool,

I would wear the best clothes money could buy,

buy my own plane and learn how to fly.

I would do all the things that I've never done

like ski in the snow and bask in the sun.

I would wear diamond rings that sparkle and shine

I could do as I pleased, the choice would be mine.

hey...... but wait a minute

What of my friends if I left them behind?

If I travelled the world, no better I'd find

and if I gave up work, yes I'd sure miss the mob,

so it's better, I think to hold on to my job.

I don't need a big house, why I'd feel out of place

and whatever would I do with that extra space.

To buy expensive clothes would just be a crime

where would I wear them? I'm at work all the time!

To fly my own plane with flashing lights?

Who am I kidding, I can't even stand heights.

I would probably pass out and make such a fuss

so I think I'll stick to the number 8 bus.

As for skiing, I guess I'm a little too old.

If there's one thing I hate it's the freezing cold.

So skiing is out, let's forget the peaks.

Why, if I broke a leg I'd be off work for weeks.

So why do I need to win lots of money,

to sit down and count it, that would be funny.

I should be grateful for the things I have got

and accept that I'm poor and that's my lot.

hey......but wait a minute

I work all the week and that's a right pain

and the day I get off it pours down with rain.

I have lots of mates and their problems they share

by the end of the day I could pull out my hair.

It's all work and no play, every day is the same

by the end of the week you forget your own name.

You have the boss on your back and targets to meet.

You're standing all day and get corns on your feet.

Money is tight and the larder is bare,

my flat is so cramped I could never share.

I relax for a while, help is on its way.

At the end of the month I at least get my pay.

"I can't take anymore" I always blubber,

The money's almost gone, I soon discover.

So weighing things up I seem to find

yet once again I've changed my mind.

well...................

Friends come and go and life's a real bitch,

so lord let me be stone filthy rich.

Just send me six numbers its easy for you

just five and the bonus ball please... that will do!

Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--

We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!

"But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville--great Casey has struck out.

Verse For a Certain Dog by Dorothy Parker

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,

Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.

All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.

(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)

You look about, and all you see is fair;

This mighty globe was made for you alone.

Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.

(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;

High in young pride you hold your noble head,

Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.

(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)

Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,

Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,

Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.

(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

"Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed.

You wear your joy of living like a crown.

Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.

(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!)

You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend.

Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,

You ask but leave to follow to the end.

(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)

THE HIGHWAYMAN by Alfred Noyes

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding--

Riding--riding--

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;

He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!

And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--

His rapier hilt a-twinkle--

His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--

Bess, the landlord's daughter--

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter--

The landlord's black-eyed daughter;

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.

Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand

As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,

Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight

(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),

And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,

The redcoat troops came marching--

Marching--marching--

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;

There was Death at every window,

And Hell at one dark window,

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!

They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,

"Look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;

Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,

For the road lay bare in the moonlight,

Blank and bare in the moonlight,

And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding--

Riding--riding--

The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight--

Her musket shattered the moonlight--

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!

Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat

When they shot him down in the highway,

Down like a dog in the highway,

And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,

The highwayman comes riding--

Riding--riding--

The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--

Bess, the landlord's daughter--

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

THIS IS A FISHERCAT - MAKES TURKEYS VERY NERVOUS

WILD TURKEYS HANGING OUT

JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS by Eugene Field

Father calls me William, sister calls me Will,

Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill!

Mighty glad I ain't a girl-ruther be a boy,

Without them sashes, curls, an' things, that's worn by Fauntleroy!

Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake-

Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache!

'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me,

But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;

First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at!

Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide,

'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride!

But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,

He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,

An' then I laff an' hollar, "Oh, ye never teched me!"

But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,

I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,

As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle,

Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!

But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West Show,

Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd Know

That Buff'lo Bill an' cow-boys is good enough for me!

Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still,

His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"

The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become

Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!

But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz,

That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"

But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me

When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys,

Was made, they say, for proper kids, an' not for naughty boys:

So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's,

An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes;

Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men,

An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again;

But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree,

Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

OPOSSUM AND BABIES

THE SNOW THAT NEVER DRIFTS by Emily Dickinson

The Snow that never drifts-
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now-

So thorough in the tree
At night beneath the star
That it was February's Foot
Experience would swear-

Like Winter as a Face
We stern and former knew
Repaired of all but Loneliness
By Nature's Alibit-

Were every storm so spice
The Value could not be-
We buy with contrast--Pang is good
As near as memory--

SNOW FLAKES by Emily Dickinson

Snow flakes.

I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town,
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down.
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig,
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!

PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE by Eugene Field

All day long they come and go-
Pittypat and Tippytoe;
Footprints up and down the hall,
Playthings scattered on the floor,
Finger-marks along the wall,
Tell-tale smudges on the door-
By these presents you shall know
Pittypat and Tippytoe.

How they riot at their play!
And a dozen times a day
In they troop, demanding bread-
Only buttered bread will do,
And that butter must be spread
Inches thick with sugar too!
And I never can say, "No,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!"

Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
For (I much regret to say)
Tippytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie, for shame! to quarrel so-
Pittypat and Tippytoe!

Oh, the thousand worrying things
Every day recurrent brings!
Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a wee complaint to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life seems one vain, fleeting show
To Pittypat and Tippytoe!

And when day is at an end,
There are little duds to mend:
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shoes great holes reveal,
Little hose, but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
Who but you could work such woe,
Pittypat and Tippytoe?

But when comes this thought to me:
"Some there are that childless be,"
Stealing to their little beds,
With a love I cannot speak,
Tenderly I stroke their heads-
Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.
God help those who do not know
A Pittypat and Tippytoe!

Oh the floor and down the hall,
Rudely smutched upon the wall,
There are proofs in every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought,
And upon my heart you'd find
Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!

THE NEW COW by August Derleth

The new cow came through the gate,

And her calf came after, a little late.

No longer willing to be led,

The calf went on ahead,

While she stood to look around

Over the hills and lower ground

Stood shyly, defiantly there,

Smelling flower-fragrant air,

And gazed toward the old cows

Grouped on the way before.

Knowing not how she might stay

Among them, stranger still,

She hesitated yet, now they had turned

At the foot of the hill

And seemed to wait for her at the gate,

To wait for her who was strange and thin,

Til she came on,

And they opened their ranks

To take her in.

THE COW by Robert Louis Stevenson

The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.
She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;
And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.

TO A LITTLE BROOK by Eugene Field

You're not so big as you were then,

O little brook!-

I mean those hazy summers when

We boys roamed, full of awe, beside

Your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide,

And wondered if it could be true

That there were bigger brooks than you,

O mighty brook, O peerless brook!

All up and down this reedy place

Where lives the brook,

We angled for the furtive dace;

The redwing-blackbird did his best

To make us think he'd build his nest

Hard by the stream, when, like as not,

He'd hung it in a secret spot

Far from the brook, the telltale brook!

And often, when the noontime heat

Parboiled the brook,

We'd draw our boots and swing our feet

Upon the waves that, in their play,

Would tag us last and scoot away;

And mother never seemed to know

What burnt our legs and chapped them so-

But father guessed it was the brook!

And Fido-how he loved to swim

The cooling brook,

Whenever we'd throw sticks for him;

And how we boys did wish that we

Could only swim as good as he-

Why, Daniel Webster never was

Recipient of such great applause

As Fido, battling with the brook!

But once-O most unhappy day

For you, my brook!-

Came Cousin Sam along that way;

And, having lived a spell out West,

Where creeks aren't counted much at best,

He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,

But, with superb indifference, stept

Across that brook-our mighty brook!

Why do you scamper on your way,

You little brook,

When I come back to you to-day?

Is it because you flee the grass

That lunges at you as you pass,

As if, in playful mood, it would

Tickle the truant if it could,

You chuckling brook-you saucy brook?

Or is it you no longer know-

You fickle brook-

The honest friend of long ago?

The years that kept us twain apart

Have changed my face, but not my heart-

Many and sore those years, and yet

I fancied you could not forget

That happy time, my playmate brook!

Oh, sing again in artless glee,

My little brook,

The song you used to sing for me-

The song that's lingered in my ears

So soothingly these many years;

My grief shall be forgotten when

I hear your tranquil voice again

And that sweet song, dear little brook!

I LOVE SUPPERTIME

ALONE AT LAST

YOU NEVER CALL, YOU NEVER WRITE

THIS IS MY LETTER TO THE WORLD by Emily Dickinson

This is my letter to the world,

That never wrote to me, -

The simple news that Nature told,

With tender majesty.

Her message is committed

To hands I cannot see;

For love of her, sweet countrymen,

Judge tenderly of me!

FAIRY POEMS

IN FAIRYLAND by Joyce Kilmer

The fairy poet takes a sheet

Of moonbeam, silver white;

His ink is dew from daisies sweet,

His pen a point of light.

My love I know is fairer far

Than his, (though she is fair,)

And we should dwell where fairies are-

For I could praise her there.

I'D LOVE TO BE A FAIRY'S CHILD by Robert Graves

Children born of fairy stock

Never need for shirt or frock,

Never want for food or fire,

Always get their heart's desire:

Jingle pockets full of gold,

Marry when they're seven years old.

Every fairy child may keep

Two strong ponies and ten sheep;

All have houses, each his own,

Built of brick or granite stone;

They live on cheeries, they run wild-

I'd love to be a fairy's child.

CATCHING FAIRIES by William Cory

They're sleeping beneath the roses;

Oh! kiss them before they rise,

And tickle their tiny noses,

And sprinkle the dew on their eyes.

Make haste, make haste;

The fairies are caught;

Make haste.

We'll put them in silver cages,

And send them full-dress'd to court,

And maids of honor and pages

Shall turn the poor things to sport.

Be quick, be quick;

Be quicker than thought;

Be quick.

Their scarves shall be pennons for lancers,

We'll tie up our flowers with their curls,

Their plumes will make fans for dancers,

Their tears shall be set with pearls.

Be wise, be wise;

Make the most of the prize;

Be wise.

They'll scatter sweet scents by winking,

With sparks from under their feet;

They'll save us the trouble of thinking,

Their voices will sound so sweet.

Oh stay, oh stay:

They're up and away:

Oh stay!

LILY PUFFIN by me

Lily Puffin sat on a rock,
Looking out to sea.
Her red feet stuck out
On both sides,
Her wings flapped happily.

"I am a Puffin bird," she said,
"But I strongly disagree;
That I must fly, just cause I can,
When walking pleases me."

"My red feet stretch from heel to toe.
They take me where I want to go!
And I much prefer to use them.
Than let my wings do all the work,
Carrying me here and there,
Over seas and trees and cows,
What are feet for, anyhow?"

"This year when all my Puffin chums
Fly off to warmer lands and suns;
I'll click my heels and stretch my toes,
And WALK there, following my nose."

Well, this just would not do, y0u see.
Lily Puffin's friends did not agree!

SILLY LILY! SILLY LILY!

She CAN'T fly!

That's why she says that walking is better.
She's afraid to fly, but we won't let her
Think that she can walk instead.

Birds are made to fly and glide
Up in the clouds where they can hide.
Inside and outside and upside and downside,
Behind and in back and in front of again.
What a disgrace not to be
A proud flying Puffin!

"Oh Lily!" said Hortense, her Puffin bird friend.
"Oh please Lily don't ever say that again!
That you won't fly up in the sky like we do,
Your feet were not meant to walk in a shoe.
Or go on a trip such as you want to do."

"Why, just think, Lily," Hortense began,
"If you walk all the way like you think that you can.
All the dangers that wait for a Puffin bird who,
Wants to walk on the land with red feet, like you do."

"There are creatures that eat little Puffins, and then;
There are creatures who are even bigger than them!
There are creatures who sneak through
The dark woods at night,
They can gobble you up with just one big bite!
And then there won't be a trace left of you,
If you try to do what birds shouldn't do!"

"Oh hush Hortense, really! You're being quite silly!
And to show you how wrong you all can be,
I'll fly around so you can see,
That I CAN fly, just like a bird,
Although I think that it's absurd.
Flying is silly and foolish to me,
I take my red feet and my walking
Quite seriously!"

And with that, up up in the sky Lily flew,
Until only two red feet were in view.
Around and around, she did her best trick,
She flew to the sun and then gave a kick.
And down Lily came, with a slight bow.
All the other birds yelled
"See Lily, see how,
Much more fun to fly than to walk on the ground?"

But Lily just listened to them with a frown.

"Don't you see that just cause I can do such a thing,
Doesn't mean that it makes me happily sing.
Because I don't have to
Walk or run,
I just WANT to do it, because it's such FUN!"

"Nothing you say will change my mind.
Tomorrow I'm leaving, who knows what I'll find!
Don't try to change my mind, cause it's made.
I'll be there before you, lying out in the shade
Of the old brown rock by the sea by the shore,
Thinking about my adventures galore!
Now not another word about
Silly flying flight!
I need my rest, walking is hard,
So good night!"

WELL!!

Would Lily Puffin make it?
Would Lily Puffin win?
Would something eat her on the way,
Or would she live another day?

No one seemed to think she could,
Except for Lily, she KNEW she would!

Next morning all the Puffins hid
Behind the rock where Lily lived.
To watch her leave her summer home
To follow the shore to a warmer dome.

She kicked her heels and bent her toes,
She combed her feathers and blew her nose.
She put her suitcase under her wing,
She turned and looked without saying a thing.
And waved farewell to her friend Hortense,
Who cried in the corner with sad intense.

"Now I am ready to walk all the way,
But before I leave I want to say:
I know you think that I'm a nut
Because I love to walk and strut.
But remember this, ANY bird can fly,
But none can do the same as I."

Will she do it?
Will she win?
Will Lily be there to greet her friends?

At the end of their journey
They rushed up to see
If Lily was there by the rock, by the sea.

They looked and looked, oh could it be?
Yes, yes, two red feet sticking out of the sea!
It was Lily, yes Lily, she had done what she said,
And oh, what adventures that she had led!
But now she is busy, too busy to talk,
She is teaching her Puffin friends how to walk!

Someday if you see lots of Puffins stroll by
All in a line with their heads held up high,
Go over and talk to Lily a bit,
She'll be glad to tell you about her trip!