Very often in the evening,
Shortly after tea,
Father, when he’s read the paper,
Takes me on his knee.

There I fix myself “quite comfy,”
In his arms so strong,
While he makes up lovely stories
As he goes along.

Mother near us with her sewing,
Rocking to and fro,
Smiles and listens to the stories,
Likes them too, I know.

And I’m sure that she is thinking,
What perhaps you’ve guessed,
That the stories Father tells us
Are the very best.