Babbie, dear, I feel concern
For your literary turn;
You've not come to three years, yet
You know all your alphabet.

You see letters everywhere—
In the carpet, in the chair:
“There's a Y,” and “There's a P,”
Here an O, and there a T.

Can it be, you little sprite,
That some day you, too, will write?
Mercy, Babbie! I must find
Some distraction for your mind.