HOW do you think they make the dew? The wise men tell, but they don't tell true; For they are so very, very wise They can't see straight out of both their eyes; And a drop of dew is a simple thing— Just a pearl that slips from a fairy's wing. How do you think they make the snow? The wise men tell, but they don't know— They are too wise to understand That every flake is made by hand, Yet of ninety million and seventy-three Each one is made quite differently. How do you think they make the rain? The wise men tell, but they don't explain That a rainstorm isn't a storm at all, But just the fairies playing ball— Now listen hard and you'll surely hear Them laugh and gurgle and call and cheer! And the frost—why, some wise folk insist That frost is merely a frozen mist; They are so wise that they cannot trace The wonderful weaving of fairy lace. But look at the windowpane, my dear, And you will see it as clear as clear. Now these are secrets—if you tell Be sure you look about you well To see that no wise men are near, For they would say "Ahem!" I fear, And if they said "Tut, tut!" that way, You'd be as wise and blind as they! |