My umbrella's the pony, if any— None ride on Mamma's parasol: I'm supposed to have always the penny For bonbons, and beggars, and all.
My room is the one where they clatter- Am I reading, or writing, what matter! My knee is the one for a trot,
My foot is the stirrup for Dot. If his fractions get into a snarl Who straightens the tangles for Karl? Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine, And tries to bound flimsy old Spain? Why,
That the youngsters are ingrates don't say. I think they love me-in a way-
As one does the old clock on the stair,— Any curious, cumbrous affair
That one's used to having about, And would feel rather lonely without. I think that they love me, I say, In a sort of a tolerant way;
But it's plain that Papa
Isn't Little Mamma.
Thus when twilight comes stealing anear, When things in the firelight look queer; And shadows the playroom enwrap, They never climb into my lap
And toy with my head, smooth and bare, As they do with Mamma's shining hair; Nor feel round my throat and my chin
For dimples to put fingers in;
Nor lock my neck in a loving vise,
And say they're "mousies "-that's mice
And will nibble my ears,
Will nibble and bite
With their little mice-teeth, so sharp and so white,
If I do not kiss them this very minute- Don't-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it- Dear little Papa! ·
That's what they say and do to Mamma.
If, mildly hinting, I quietly say that Kissing's a game that more can play at, They turn up at once those innocent eyes, And I suddenly learn to my great surprise That my face has "prickles "-
My moustache tickles.
If, storming their camp, I seize a pert shaver, And take as a right what was asked as a favor, It is, "Oh, Papa,
How horrid you are
You taste exactly like a cigar!"
But though the rebels protest and pout, And make a pretence of driving me out, I hold, after all, the main redoubt,- Not by force of arms nor the force of will, But the power of love, which is mightier still. And very deep in their hearts, I know, Under the saucy and petulant "Oh," The doubtful "Yes," or the naughty "No," They love Papa.
And down in the heart that no one sees, Where I hold my feasts and my jubilees, I know that I would not abate one jot Of the love that is held by my little Dot Or my great big boy for their little Mamma, Though out in the cold it crowded Papa.
I would not abate it the tiniest whit, And I am not jealous the least little bit; For I'll tell you a secret: Come, my dears, And I'll whisper it-right-into-your-ears- I, too, love Mamma, Little Mamma!
THERE was a child, as I have been told, Who when she was young didn't look very old. Another thing, too, some people have said, At the top of her body there grew out a head; And what perhaps might make some people stare Her little bald pate was all covered with hair. Another strange thing which made gossipers talk, Was that she often attempted to walk.
And then, do you know, she occasioned much fun By moving so fast as sometimes to run.
Nay, indeed, I have heard that some people say She often would smile and often would play. And what is a fact, though it seems very odd, She had monstrous dislike to the feel of a rod.
This strange little child sometimes hungry would be
And then she delighted her victuals to see.
Even drink she would swallow, and though strangs it appears
Whenever she listened it was with her ears.
With her eyes she could see, and strange to relate
Her peepers were placed in front of her pate. There, too, was her mouth and also her nose, And on her two feet were placed her ten toes. Her teeth, I've been told, were fixed in her gums, And beside having fingers she also had thumbs. A droll child she therefore most surely must be, For not being blind she was able to see. One circumstance more had slipped from my mind Which is when not cross she always was kind. And, strangest of any that yet I have said, She every night went to sleep on her bed. And, what may occasion you no small surprise, When napping, she always shut close up her eyes.
"BUNCHES of grapes," says Timothy, "Pomegrantes pink," says Elaine;
"A junket of cream and a cranberry tart "For me," says Jane.
"Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy, "Primroses pale," says Elaine; "A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me," says Jane.
"Chariots of gold," says Timothy, "Silvery wings," says Elaine;
"A bumpety ride in a waggon of hay
For me," says Jane.
I NEVER saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.
THERE was a young lady of Niger Who smiled as she rode on a Tiger; They came back from the ride With the lady inside,
And the smile on the face of the Tiger.
To see the Kaiser's epitaph
Would make a weeping willow laugh.
SAID Opie Read to E. P. Roe, "How do you like Gaboriau?" "I like him very much indeed!”
Said E. P. Roe to Opie Read.
Julian Street and James Montgomery Flagg.
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