LITTLE BOY LOST.
A little boy is sitting crying on the footpath.
The milkman comes along,  calling,
" Milk-o! Milk-o! "
Milkman: Hallo, Sonny, what's the matter?
Boy: I'm lost. Boo-hoo!
Milkman: Lost, are you? Well, let's see
if we can find you. What's your name?
Boy: Timmy.
Milkman: Timmy what?
Boy: Timmy nothing.
Milkman: That's a funny name. I never
heard of anyone called Nothing.
Boy: I'm not Timmy Nothing; I'm
Timmy.
Milkman: Oh, I see; but what's your
dad's name?
Boy: Daddy.
Milkman: Well, that's not much help.
Where do you live?
Boy: In a house with a face on the door.
Milkman: A face on the door! What street is it in?
Boy: There's a lamp-post there. Boo-hoo, I want my mummy.
Milkman: What else is in that street?
Boy: There's a bit of white paper by the gate where the pussy-cat lives.
Milkman: What kind of pussy-cat?
Boy: Red, and it scratches. I don't like it.
Milkman: What's the name of the lady where the pussy-cat lives?
Boy: It hasn't got a lady. Oh dear, I want my daddy.
Milkman: How old are you?
Boy: I don't know. About a hundred and fifty-three.
The milkman laughs, and along comes the baker with a basket of bread.
Baker: Hallo, Milko. Hallo, Sonny. What are you crying for?
Milkman: He's lost.
Boy: Boo-hoo, I want my Polly; I want my daddy!
Baker: Well, stop crying and tell us where your daddy lives.
 Milkman: He says he lives in a house with a face on the door. That's all I can get out of him. 
Baker: How old is he, do you think?
Milkman: He says he's about a hundred and fifty-three.
Baker: Now look here, old man, if you're a hundred and fifty-three, you're too old to cry. Tell us 
how you came here.
Boy: I came in an aeroplane. I live in a house with a face on the door.
Baker: Don't be silly. There are no aeroplanes here. You must have run away from home.
Boy: Boo-hoo, I want my mummy. I want my doggie. I want my Polly. I WANT MY DADDY. I WANT MY DINNER.
The postman comes along, with a bag full of letters, pushing his bicycle.
Postman: Now then, now then, what's all this about?
Baker: This little boy's lost. He says he's called Timmy.
Milkman: He says he's a hundred and fifty-three, and he wants his Polly, his mummy, his daddy, and 
his doggie.
Baker: He's crying for his dinner.
Milkman: He says he lives in a street with a lamp-post and a piece of white paper by the pussy-cat's 
gate.
Baker: He says he lives in a house with a face on the door.
Postman: A house with a face on the door ? Why, I know where that is. It's only just round the 
corner. It's the only house in the town with a letter-box like that.
Boy: Boo-hoo, the face opens its mouth when you put the letters in.
Postman: That's right, Timmy. You know all about it, don't you? Now, you stop crying, and I'll take 
you home on my bicycle. Or shall I put him in the bag with my letters,
Milko? Then I could pop him in to his mummy through that big mouth. Couldn't I, Baker?
The postman sits the little boy on his bicycle, and wheels him home to his mother; and the milkman 
and the baker go home to dinner. They will, no doubt, tell their children
all about the little lost boy who lives in a house with a face on the door.
---Dramatized from "Little Boy Lost" (Anonymous), in "The Youngest Omnibus." (Nelson.)
 

