Mud Pies

 Mud Pies

Under the apple tree, spreading and thick,
Happy with only a pan and a stick,
On the soft grass in the shadow that lies,
Our little Fanny is making mud pies.

On her brown apron and bright, drooping head,
Showers of pink and white blossoms are shed;
Tied to a branch that seems just meant for that,
Dances and flutters her little straw hat.

Dash, full of joy in the bright summer day,
Zealously chases the robins away,
Barks at the squirrels, or snaps at the flies,
All the while Fanny is making the pies.

Sunshine and soft Summer breezes astir,
While she is busy, are busy with her;
Cheeks rosy glowing, and bright sparkling eyes
Bring they to Fanny, while making mud pies.

Dollies and playthings are all laid away,
Not to come out till the next rainy day;
Under the blue of those sweet Summer skies,
Nothing's so pleasant as making mud pies.

Gravely she stirs, with a serious look,
Making believe she's a true pastry cook;
Sundry brown splashes on forehead and eyes
Show that our Fanny is making mud pies.

But all of the soil of her innocent play
Clean soap and water will soon wash away;
Many a pleasure in daintier guise
Might leave darker traces than Fanny's mud pies.