Nanny's Play

Our Nanny helped her mother

In many a childish way,--

She picked up chips to feed the fire,

And "played that it was play."



She loved the hens and chickens

And fed them day by day,

And dubbed them each with quaintest name,

And this was always play.



She hunted through the big barn

For hens' nests in the hay,

And etched the eggs right carefully,

And this again was play.



She donned her mother's dust-cap

And danced about so gay,

And planned how she would house-keep,

And this was "truly play."







With basin full of water

She scrubbed the door one day,

And splashed about till mother dear

Must work instead of play.







With brush and broom a-sweeping

She fluttered like a fay;

The broken cup soon told her

'Twas anything but play.







She romped around the hay-field

And shook the new-mown hay,

And with her baby-rake she gleaned

The meadow for her play.



She ran to pick the berries

That ripened by the way,

And with her basket full to brim

This was the best of play.



So many things, so many,

Far more than I can say,

Our Nanny in her childhood

Has "played that it was play."