No Book Can Be Appreciated Until It

No Book Can Be Appreciated Until It Has Been Slept With And Dreamed Over.

But I, When I Undress Me Each Night, Upon My Knees Will Ask The Lord To Bless Me With Apple-pie And Cheese.

I'd Like A Stocking Made For A Giant, And A Meeting House Full Of Toys, Then I'd Go Out In A Happy Hunt For The Poor Little Girls And Boys; Up The Street And Down The Street, And Across And Over The Town, I'd Search And Find Them Everyone, Before The Sun Went Down.

What Smells So? Has Somebody Been Burning A Rag, Or Is There A Dead Mule In The Back Yard? No, The Man Is Smoking A Five-cent Cigar.

How Gracious Those Dews Of Solace That Over My Senses Fall At The Clink Of The Ice In The Pitcher The Boy Brings Up The Hall.