The pumpkins in the cornfield
Are as yellow as can be,
And the apples, red and golden,
Are hanging on the tree,
The grapes in purple clusters
Are swinging on the vine,
And the old crow’s nest is empty
Upon the lonely pine.

“Ha, ha,” shouted Little Jack Rabbit, as Billy Breeze blew across the Sunny Meadow, and, let me tell you, Billy Breeze was just a little bit chilly, this cool November morning.

“I wonder what I’ll do,” thought the little rabbit, and he wiggled his little pink nose sideways, and then off he went, clipperty clip, lipperty lip, and by and by he came to an old hollow stump. So he peeked in, and then, all of a sudden, a purring voice asked:

“What are you doing, Mr. Curious One?”

“Oh, I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” answered the little bunny. “I just wanted to see what was inside.”

“Well, I’ll show you,” answered the voice, and out popped a little black cat, with green eyes and a pink ribbon.

“Oh, it’s you, Miss Pussy,” laughed the little rabbit. “I’m glad it wasn’t a bear or a wildcat,” and he laughed some more and wiggled his little pink nose just for fun, you understand.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for mice,” answered the little black pussy.“Don’t you bother Timmy Meadowmouse,” said Little Jack Rabbit quickly; “he’s a friend of mine.”

And then, what do you suppose happened? Why, the Farmer’s dog came by, and away went the little rabbit, and up went Miss Pussy Cat’s back, and her tail grew so big that had she tried to get back into the hollow stump I guess she would have had to leave her tail behind her! But she didn’t. No sireemam. She just humped her back and meowed, and the Farmer’s dog kept right on after Little Jack Rabbit, but of course he never caught him.

Well, as soon as the little bunny was safe in the Shady Forest, he looked about him, and pretty soon, not so very long, he saw Professor Jim Crow with his little Black Book under his wing.“Read me something, won’t you please,” begged the little rabbit. So the old professor bird took out his book and turned over the pages until he came to “The early worm must look out for the bird.”

“Ha, ha,” laughed the little rabbit. “I must tell that to mother. She always tells it the other way ’round.” Then off he hopped, and the old black bird flew away to his tree in Kalamazoo. For that was the name of the little village where Professor Crow has his home, and where he taught in the grammar school arithmetic and the Golden Rule, and sometimes Latin and sometimes Greek, and anything else that a bird can speak. Goodness me, if my typewriter hasn’t made up this poetry all by itself. I wonder where it went to school.

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