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!


This poem is in the public domain.