by Anna C. Ayer
The man in the moon looked down on the field
Where the golden pumpkin lay,
He winked at him and he blinked at him
In the funniest kind of way.
The pumpkin was yellow and fat and round
And as funny as he could be,
But strange was his case for he had no face
So he couldn’t smile back, you see.
But on All Hallowe’en, when the moon looked down
From the sky, through the shadows dim,
The pumpkin fat on a gate-post sat,
And saucily laughed at him.