"Konrad!" cried his mamma dear,
"I 'll go out, but you stay here,
Try how pretty you can be
Till I come again," said she.
"Docile be, and good and mild,
Pray don't suck your thumb, my child,
For if you do, the tailor 'll come
And bring his shears and snip your thumb
From off your hand as clear and clean
As if of paper it had been."
Before she'd turned the corner south,
He'd got his thumbkin in his mouth!