Summer evenings, when it's warm,
In the yard we sit and swing:
And it's better than a farm,
Watching how the fireflies swarm,
Listening to the crickets sing,
And the katydids that cry,
'Katy did n't! Katy did!'
In the trees and flowers hid.
So I ask my father, 'Why?
What's the thing she did n't do?'
For he told me that he knew:
'Katy did n't like to worry;
But she did so like to talk;
Gossip of herself and talk;
Katy did n't like to hurry;
But she did so like to walk;
Saunter by herself and walk.
How is that now for a story?'

II.

And one night when it was fine,
And the moon peeped through the trees;
And the scented jessamine vine
Swung its blossoms in the breeze,
Full of sleeping honeybees:
'That's Old Sister Moon,' he said.
'She's a perfect simpleton;
Scared to death of Old Man Sun:
All day long she hides her head.'
And I asked my father why,
And he made me this reply:
'Sister Moon's old eyes are weary;
Her old eyes are very weak;
Poor and old and worn and weak:
And the old Sun, with his cheery
Looks, just makes them leak and leak,
Like an old can leak and leak.
That's the reason why, my dearie.'