Part 194 (2/2)

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!

_Charles Henry Webb._

THE COMICAL GIRL

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 strange 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 circ.u.mstance 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.

_M. Pelham._

BUNCHES OF GRAPES

”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 b.u.mpety ride in a waggon of hay For me,” says Jane.

_Walter Ramal._

XVI

IMMORTAL STANZAS

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