Old Brother Higgins built a shelf,
For the family bible to rest itself,
Lest a sticky finger or grimy thumb,
Might injure the delicate pages some.

He cautioned his children to touch it not,
And it rested there with never a blot,
Though the Higgins tribe were,
A troublesome lot.

His neighbor, Miggins, built a shelf,
"Come children," he said, "and help yourself."
His book is old and ragged and worn,
With some of the choicest pages torn,

Where children have fingered,
And thumbed and read.
But of the Miggins tribe,
I've heard it said,
Each carries a bible in his head.
Author: Unknown