Katydids And The Moon

I.     Summer evenings, when it's warm,     In the yard we sit and swing:     And it's better than a farm,     Watching how the fireflies swarm,     Listening to the crickets sing,     And the katydids that cry,     "Katy did n't! Katy did!"     In the trees and flowers hid.     So I ask my father, "Why?     What's the thing she did n't do?"     For he told me that he knew:     "Katy did n't like to worry;     But she did so like to talk;     Gossip of herself and talk;     Katy did n't like to hurry;     But she did so like to walk;     Saunter by herself and walk.     How is that now for a story?" II.     And one night when it was fine,     And the moon peeped through the trees;     And the scented jessamine vine     Swung its blossoms in the breeze,     Full of sleeping honeybees:     "That's Old Sister Moon," he said.     "She's a perfect simpleton;     Scared to death of Old Man Sun:     All day long she hides her head."     And I asked my father why,     And he made me this reply:     "Sister Moon's old eyes are weary;     Her old eyes are very weak;     Poor and old and worn and weak:     And the old Sun, with his cheery     Looks, just makes them leak and leak,     Like an old can leak and leak.     That's the reason why, my dearie."