Henry, a thirty inch tall, faceless puppet stands in the corner. A sad little fellow. My grandchildren want to know what Henry did to get in trouble. On the spot, I have to come up with a reason.
Well here is my yarn spun, as usual, on the fly and on the spot.
HENRY’S BREAD DOUGH
Papa, why is Henry in the corner?
He looks like a repenting mourner.
Standing there, face against the wall;
All forsaken down the hall.
. . . Listen children! Stretch and hear my voice;
Henry had a chance but made his choice.
A mischievous boy I dare say,
Loves to get in trouble instead of play.
Mama was fixin’ to bake some bread;
Come Henry and watch, she proudly said.
Eager and all eyes was our little boy.
Showing no interest in another toy.
. . . To make a loaf––he did one time;
Out of mud it was . . . it was just fine.
This was real, oh boy! He was happy so,
Couldn’t wait to put his fingers in the dough.
Mama stirred, rolled and pounded.
While Henry in a chair was grounded.
He was careful just to watch
And sternly warned not to touch.
. . . The dough was ready now to rest,
This really challenged Henry to the test.
With a clean cloth the lump was covered,
But Henry’s plans were soon discovered.
On his hands he was no longer sitting,
He began to do what was only fitting.
His little fingers slowly did the walking
While Mama on the phone was talking.
. . . Behind the cloth he fingered every inch,
Soon he grabbed a good sized pinch.
Under the table––hidden by the door,
With a little lump he was now on the floor.
The soft dough he worked and squeezed
Until bubbles from his fingers sneezed.
He rolled little worms and long ones too,
Three skinny ones for him and one for you.
. . . He stuck them under the table like Christmas tinsel,
Soft and limp spaghetti, some longer than a pencil.
His fingers were now sticky and the floor a mess.
Should he pinch off more dough . . . or stop and confess?
On the floor his socks were stuck,
As in a puddle of yucky muck.
His sticky fingers left their track,
Up the chair and around the back.
. . . The evidence he could no longer hide,
To his Mama he must confide.
To play with dough so soft and sticky,
Was great fun, but staying clean––oh so tricky!
Again our Henry lived his dreams,
How wonderful to him it seems.
Back to the corner he must go,
No more playing with real dough.
. . . To clean the mess made Mama sad,
But her heart was wonderfully glad.
That boy is just a stuffed rag doll,
She wished he was real . . . that is all.
Listen-up!
Henry’s Mom and Dad they dream as well,
It’s a secret and I should not tell.
. . . Papa . . . you must give us a little clue,
Just between us kids and you!
. . . Bend your ear and I’ll tell you softly . . .
Their wish is mighty high and lofty.
. . . Every night they pray to God above,
To send a baby of their own to love.
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