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 chldren to touch it not,
And it rests there still with never a blot . . .
And the Higgins tribe are a careless lot.
His neighbor, Miggins, built a shelf.
“Come, children,” he said, “and help yourself.”
Now 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 Miggins’ children I’ve heard it said
That each carries a Bible in his head.