Old Brother Higgins built a shelf
for the family bible to rest itself
lest a sticky finger or grimy thumb
might injure the delicate pages some.
He cautioned his children to touch it not
and it rested there with never a blot
though the Higgins tribe were a troublesome lot.
His neighbor, Miggins, built a shelf
“Come children,” he said, “and help yourself.”
His book is old and ragged and worn,
with some of the choicest pages torn,
where children have fingered and thumbed and read.
But of the Miggins tribe I’ve heard it said,
each carries a bible in his head.