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And, though he never could explain,
I don't mind telling you
That in that box he had been lain
By those who made him, limb and brain,
And stitched his eyes on, too.
It's odd, you'll think, they joined his toes
And gave him such a head and nose.
But there on the broad countryside
Was he, a homeless lad.
Another might have sat and cried,
But Edward, no. "Whate'er betide,
If work is to be had,
I'll take," thought he, "what Fortune brings
And live in hopes of better things."
A farmhouse stood not far away,
So first there Edward tried,
And was engaged to herd by day
And night the farmer's sheep, which stray,
Whene'er they can, and hide.
And so a paper Edward bought
And sat and watched and read and thought.
