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Poem	Half-Past-Six and I were talking In a very grown-up way; We had got so tired with running That we did not want to play. "How do babies come, I wonder," He said, looking at the sky, "Does God mix the things together An' just make it-like a pie?" I was really not quite certain, But it sounded very nice; It was all that we could think of, Besides a book said "sugar and spice." Half-Past-Six said--He's so clever-- Cleverer than me, I mean... "I suppose God makes the black ones When the saucepan isn't clean."
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