Rachel Lyman Field


You never know with a doorbell

Who may be ringing it—

It may be Great-Aunt Cynthia

To spend the day and knit;

It may be a peddler with things to sell

(I'll buy some when I'm older),

Or the grocer's boy with his apron on

And a basket on his shoulder;

It may be the old umbrella-man

Giving his queer, cracked call,

Or a lady dressed in rustly silk,

With card-case and parasol.

Doorbells are like a magic game,

Or the grab-bag at a fair—

You never know when you hear one ring

Who may be waiting there!