StNicholas . ill i/^^lS^ li 1 38 T HE XE R .V E V ANCESTOR. [November, OLLIES DREAMS. By Eudora M. Stone Bumstead. Our Ollie went to his bed With tears just back of his eyes, And a pain, because, as his sister said,He was overly fond of dreamed the dreadfullest dreams —As dreadful as they could be; For a big, big piece of pie, it seems,Is a bad, bad thing for tea. He dreamed of a terrible snow That fell from an inky sky,And every flake that the winds did blow Was big as a pumpkin pie ! All in a heap t was laid, While the rude winds laughed in oh, the deep, deep drift that it m
StNicholas . ill i/^^lS^ li 1 38 T HE XE R .V E V ANCESTOR. [November, OLLIES DREAMS. By Eudora M. Stone Bumstead. Our Ollie went to his bed With tears just back of his eyes, And a pain, because, as his sister said,He was overly fond of dreamed the dreadfullest dreams —As dreadful as they could be; For a big, big piece of pie, it seems,Is a bad, bad thing for tea. He dreamed of a terrible snow That fell from an inky sky,And every flake that the winds did blow Was big as a pumpkin pie ! All in a heap t was laid, While the rude winds laughed in oh, the deep, deep drift that it made Was a sad, sad thing to see ! Then he thought the Summer was dead. And Winter would always stay;That an iceberg ledge was his only bed. And a glacier his home by day. And the Sun, too late he rose. And he went to bed too a long, long icicle hung from the nose Of the cold, cold Man-in-the-moon. He turned to his sister; oh. How lonely and sad he feltWhen he found she was made of ice and snow Whic
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