Weeny Wee Bear

Weeny Wee Bear.
115.3

NCE I told the baby boy ON a story-
Not a tale of ancient fame and glory.
Not of castles grim and battles gory.
Yet he loved it well;
Parted little lips drank in its treasure,
Shining little eyes poured out their
pleasure,
Bubbling laughter overflowed its measure,
As he heard me tell:

“Once there was an awful bear I knew,
Old He Bear,
And his wife was just as awful, too,
Old She Bear,
And they had a baby,
Much like you are, maybe,
Darling little baby
Wee Bear!”

Then I’d be the papa-bear and send him
To a corner where the sofa penned him. J
ust as though the angry bear had
denned him,

Hungry to the core,
Till in terror, only half pretended.
He would beg that “Papa-bear” be ended;
Then, up to my ready arms ascended.
“Tell me just once more

“‘Bout the little boy ‘at got in there
At He Bear’s,
En he went en set down in the chair
Of She Bear’s,
En he et the supper,
Et it up en upper,
Of the teeny, weeny
Wee Bear’s.”

What a foolish, droolish little ditty,
Neither quaintly wise, nor queerly witty,
Neither sprightly bright, nor neatly pretty,
Yet my heart is gray
With the longing once again to hold him,
Close within these aching arms to fold him,
Once again to tell him, as I told him,
In our childish play:

“Once there was an awful bear I knew,
Old He Bear,
And his wife was just as awful, too,
Old She Bear-”
Yet they miss their baby,
Much as I do, maybe,
Little teeny, weeny
Wee Bear.
EDMUND VANCE COOKE