TWO children once sat in the twilight gray
Playing a tune in a comical way;
They both pressed a comb to their rosy red lips,
And little they cared for tickles and slips,
For wheezings, and paper that always would fall,
For oh! such loud music, or no note at all.
'Twas sweet to their ears, as fondly they heard
This musical strain coming forth, word for word:
"_W-h-h-wome, w-h-h-wome, szzzeeet, zhhweet zome,
Bheet wev zo hhumble, therzzz nho blazzze liew zhhome!_"
Now they are grown, and sing in the choir
Of their own village church with the beautiful spire;
So sweet are her notes, so perfect her skill,
Not a bird of the air but might envy her trill,
Not a wind of the night but right gladly would know
How to make his rich music so plaintive and low.
Together their voices in harmony blend,
And steep all their days in a joy without end;
And yet in their hearts they have always confessed
That lovely duet long ago was the best,
When they tingled their lips at the musical comb,
And told all the world there was "zno blaizzz liew zhome."
[Illustration]
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