Five little white heads peeped out of the mould,
When the dew was damp and the night was cold;
And they crowded their way through the soil with pride;
"Hurrah! We are going to be mushrooms!" they cried.
But the sun came up, and the sun shone down,
And the little white heads were withered and brown;
Long were their faces, their pride had a fall—
They were nothing but toadstools, after all.