I left him in his prison cell two minutes, just about,
And, penitent, he smiled at me when I did let him out.
But when he got another look at the forbidden fruit
He gave a yell that they could hear in Jacksonville or Butte.
“Cut out that noise!” I barked again. “Cut out that foghorn stuff!
Perhaps I didn’t leave you in your prison long enough.
“You want your dad to keep you jailed all afternoon, I guess.”
He smiled at me and answered his equivalent for “yes.”
Inexpensive Guests
I wonder how ’twould make you feel,
My fellow food providers,
To have as guests at ev’ry meal
Three—count ’em, three—outsiders.
Well, that’s the case with me, but still
I don’t complain or holler,
For, strange to say, the groc’ry bill
Has not gone up a dollar.
These guests of ours, to make it brief,
Can’t really chew or swallow;
They’re merely dolls, called Indian Chief,
And Funny Man, and Rollo.
His Sense of Humor
Perhaps in some respects it’s true
That you resemble dad;
To be informed I look like you
Would never make me mad.
But one thing I am sure of, son,
You have a different line
Of humor, your idea of fun
Is not a bit like mine.
You drop my slippers in the sink
And leave them there to soak.
That’s very laughable, you think
But I can’t see the joke
You take my hat outdoors with you
And fill it full of earth;
You seem to think that’s witty, too,
But I’m not moved to mirth.
You open up the chicken-yard;
Its inmates run a mile;
You giggle, but I find it hard
To force one-half a smile.
No, kid, I fear your funny stuff,
Though funny it may be,
Is not quite delicate enough
To make a hit with me.
Speech Economy
Since he began to talk and sing,
I’ve learned one interesting thing—
The value of a verb is small;
In fact, it has no worth at all.
Why waste the breath required to say,
“While toddling through the park today,
I saw a bird up in a tree,”
When “Twee, pahk, birt,” does splendidly?
Why should one say, “Please pass the bread,”
When “Ba-ba me” is easier said?
And why “I’m starved. Have supper quick,”
When “lunch!” yelled loudly, does the trick?
Why “I’ve been riding on a train,”
When “Bye-bye, Choo-choo” makes it plain?
“Let words be few,” the poet saith,
So leave out words and save your breath.
Welcome to Spring
Spring, you are welcome, for you are the friend of
Fathers of all little girlies and chaps.
Spring, you are welcome, for you mean the end of
Bundling them up in their cold-weather wraps.
Breathes there a parent of masculine gender,
One whose young hopeful is seven or less,
Who never has cursed the designer and vender
Of juvenile-out-of-doors-winter-time dress?
Leggings and overcoat, rubbers that squeeze on,
Mittens and sweater a trifle too small;
Not in the lot is one thing you can ease on,
One that’s affixed with no trouble at all.
Spring, you are welcome, thrice welcome to father;
Not for your flowers and birds, I’m afraid,
As much as your promised relief from the bother
Of bundling the kid for the daily parade.
Taste
I can’t understand why you pass up the toys
That Santa considered just right for small boys;
I can’t understand why you turn up your nose
At dogs, hobbyhorses, and treasures like those,
And play a whole hour, sometimes longer than that,
With a thing as prosaic as daddy’s old hat.
The tables and shelves have been loaded for you
With volumes of pictures—they’re pretty ones, too—
Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother Goose
Repines in a corner and feels like the deuce,
While you, on the floor, quite contentedly look
At page after page of the telephone book.
Riddles
If it’s fun to take books from the bookcase,
If you really believe it’s worth while
To carry them out to the kitchen
And build them all up in a pile,
Why isn’t it just as agreeable then
To carry them back to the bookcase again?
If it’s fun to make marks with a pencil
In books that one cares for a heap;
To tear out the pages from volumes
One likes and is anxious to keep,
Why isn’t it pleasure to put on the hummer
A magazine read and discarded last summer?
Hesitation
I’ve orders to waken you from your nap,
And orders are orders, my little chap.
But I hate to do it, because it seems
A shame to break in on your blissful dreams.
I’ve sat and watched you a long, long while,
And not since I came have you ceased to smile.
So it strikes me as wrong to arouse you, boy,
From sleep that’s so plainly a sleep of joy.
’Twill make a big diff’rence tonight, of course,
But p’rhaps you are riding a real live horse;
In dreams, it’s a pleasant and harmless sport,
So why should I cruelly cut it short?
Maybe you have for your very own
A piece of pie or an ice cream cone;
If that’s your amusement, why end it quick?
Dream-food can’t possibly make you sick.
Orders are orders and I’m afraid
It’s trouble for me if they’re disobeyed.
But I’ll bet if the boss could see you, son,
She’d put off the duty, as I have done.
His Wonderful Choo-Choos
When I see his wonderful choo-choo trains,
Which he daily builds with infinite pains,
Whose cars are a crazy and curious lot—
A doll, a picture, a pepper pot,
A hat, a pillow, a horse, a book,
A pote, a mintie, a button hook,
A bag of tobacco, a piece of string,
A pair of wubbas, a bodkin ring,
A deck of twos and a paper box,
A brush, a comb and a lot of blocks—
When I first gaze on his wonderful trains,
Which he daily builds with infinite pains,
I laugh, and I think to myself, “O gee!
Was ever a child as cute as he?”
But when he’s gone to his cozy nest,
From the toil of his strenuous day to rest,
And when I gaze on his trains once more,
Where they lie, abandoned, across the floor,
And when the terrible task I face
Of putting each “Pullman” back in its place,
I groan a little, and think, “O gee!
Was ever a child as mean as he?”
Cousinly Affection
Why do you love your Cousin Paull?
For his sweet face, his smile, and
