The little tricks that charm us so?
You’re not quite old enough to know
How cute he is; to realize
How clever for a child his size.
I’m sure you can’t appreciate
The things that make us think him great.
And yet you love your Cousin Paull.
Is it because he’s twice as small
As you, just right for you to maul?
Because he won’t fight back, or bawl?
Because when he is pushed he’ll fall?
And, where most kids would howl and squall,
He takes it, nor puts in a call
For mother? Am I warm at all?
Is this why you love Cousin Paull?
My Baby’s Garden
My baby has a garden,
“Planted” four days ago,
And nearly half his waking hours
He spends among his precious flowers
With sprinkling can and hoe.
My baby has a garden,
And Oh, how proud he is
When, yielding to his pleading, we
Lay work aside and go to see
This masterpiece of his!
Behold my baby’s garden,
Close by a rubbish pile!
Look at the sprinkling can and hoe
And flowers; then tell me if you know
Whether to sigh or smile.
The flowers in baby’s garden,
Flat on the ground they lie,
Two hyacinths, a withered pair,
Plucked from the pile of rubbish, where
They had been left to die.
The flowers in baby’s garden,
“Planted” four days ago,
Grow every hour a sadder sight,
Weaker and sicklier, in spite
Of sprinkling can and hoe.
Decision Reversed
When I mixed with the shoppers and fought in vain
To get what I sought, in the Christmas rush;
When they stood on my toes in the crowded train,
Or dented my ribs in the sidewalk crush,
I dropped my manners and snarled and swore,
And thought: “It’s a bothersome, beastly bore!”
But when, at the Christmas dawn, they brought
My kid to the room where his things were piled,
And when, from my vantage point, I caught
The look on his face, I murmured: “Child,
Your dad was a fool when he snarled and swore,
And called it a bothersome, beastly bore.”
The Grocery Man and the Bear
He was weary of all of his usual joys;
His books and his blocks made him tired,
And so did his games and mechanical toys,
And the songs he had always admired;
So I told him a story, a story so new
It had never been heard anywhere;
A tale disconnected, unlikely, untrue,
Called The Grocery Man and the Bear.
I didn’t think much of the story despite
The fact ’twas a child of my brain.
And I never dreamt, when I told it that night,
That I’d have to tell it again;
I never imagined ’twould make such a hit
With the audience of one that was there
That for hours at a time he would quietly sit
Through The Grocery Man and the Bear.
To all other stories, this one is preferred;
It’s the season’s best seller by far,
And out at our house it’s as frequently heard
As cuss-words in Mexico are.
When choo-choos and horses and picture books fail,
He’ll remain, quite content, in his chair,
While I tell o’er and o’er the incredible tale
Of The Grocery Man and the Bear.
Coming Home
Prepare for noise, you quiet walls!
You floors, get set for heavy falls!
Frail dishes, hide away!
Get ready for some scratches, stairs!
Clean table linen, say your prayers!
The kid comes home today!
For three long weeks you’ve been, O House,
As noiseless as the well-known mouse,
As silent as the tomb.
And you’ve stayed neat, with none on hand
To track your floors with mud and sand,
To muss your ev’ry room.
The ideal place for work you’ve been,
But soon a Bedlam once again,
A mess, a wreck. But say,
I wonder will it make us mad.
No, House, I’ll bet we both are glad
The kid comes home today.
His Imagination
One thing that’s yours, my little child
Your poor old dad is simply wild
To own. It’s not a book or toy;
It’s your imagination, boy.
If I possessed it, what a time
I’d have, nor need to spend a dime!
I wish that I could get astride
A broom, and have a horse to ride;
Or climb into the swing, and be
A sailor on the deep blue sea,
Or b’lieve a chair a choo-choo train,
Bound anywhere and back again.
If I could ride as fast and far
On ship or horse, in train or car,
As you, at small expense or none,
If I could have one-half your fun
And do the things that you do, free,
I’d give them back my salary.
His Memory
Besides my little son’s imagination,
Another thing he has appeals to me
And agitates my envious admiration—
It’s his accommodating memory.
An instant after some unlucky stumble
Has floored him and induced a howl of pain,
He’s clean forgotten all about his tumble
And violently sets out to romp again.
But if, when I leave home, I say that maybe
I’ll get him something nice while I’m away,
It’s very safe to bet that Mr. Baby
Will not forget, though I be gone all day.
Ah, would I might lose sight of things unpleasant:
The bills I owe; the work I haven’t done.
And only think of future joys and present,
Like the approaching payday, and my son.
Confession
A sleuth like Pinkerton or Burns
Is told that there has been a crime.
He runs down clues and leads, and learns
Who did the deed, in course of time.
It’s just the other way with me:
The first thing I am sure of is
The criminal’s identity,
And then I learn what crime was his.
When Son comes up with hanging head
And smiles a certain kind of smile,
When he’s affectionate instead
Of playful; when he stalls awhile
And starts to speak and stops again,
Or, squirming like a mouse that’s caught,
Asserts, “I am a good boy,” then
I look to see what harm’s been wrought.
His Lady Friend
Who is Sylvia? What is she
That early every morning
You desert your family
And rush to see her, scorning
Your once cherished ma and me?
Are her playthings such a treat?
I will steal ’em from her;
Better that than not to meet
My son and heir all summer,
Save when he comes home to eat.
Or is she herself the one
And only real attraction?
Has your little heart begun
To get that sort of action?
Better wait a few years, son.
Declaration of Independence
“Myself!” It means that you don’t care
To
