Young America by Carolyn Wells

Wee Willie sat a-thinking,
And he shook his curly head.
Around him on the nursery floor
His treasures lay outspread.

Firecrackers and torpedoes,
Trumpet and flag and drum,
Rockets and pinwheels and paper caps,
For Fourth of July had come.

“But it makes me sort o’ sorry,”
Wee Willie said with a sigh,
“To think of those poor little English boys
Without any Fourth of July.”

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