Part 194 (1/2)

(Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John!

Toss the light ball--bestride the stick-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,-- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above!)

_Thomas Hood._

LITTLE MAMMA

Why is it the children don't love me As they do Mamma?

That they put her ever above me-- ”Little Mamma?”

I'm sure I do all that I can do, What more can a rather big man do, Who can't be Mamma-- Little Mamma?

Any game that the tyrants suggest, ”Logomachy,”--which I detest,-- Doll-babies, hop-scotch, or baseball, I'm always on hand at the call.

When Noah and the others embark, I'm the elephant saved in the ark.

I creep, and I climb, and I crawl-- By turns am the animals all.

For the show on the stair I'm always the bear, Chimpanzee, camel, or kangaroo.

It is never, ”Mamma,-- _Little_ Mamma,-- Won't _you_?”

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 Ma.s.sachusetts and Maine, And tries to bound flimsy old Spain?

Why, It is _I_, Papa,-- Not Little Mamma!

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, c.u.mbrous 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 ”p.r.i.c.kles”-- 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,”