Clever Class Poem
Up Learning’s ladder, round by round
We’ve climbed with many a fall;
But, through the toil, companionship
Has made amends for all.
Now from our giddy heights we glance,
With calm thoughts and serene,
Once more at those we leave today—
Our class of sweet sixteen.
I want to take you with me through
The ranks of our small crowd;
And, if you’ll listen carefully,
You’ll know why we are proud.
Grace, as our goodly president
Has served her second year;
In singing, speaking, poetry,
She stands without a peer.
Blanche is the sunshine of our class,
She drives dull care away
Her laughing eyes, her smiling face,
Have gladdened many a day.
Alice, the calm, the dignified,
I know we’ll ne’er forget;
Her views are wide—but, best of all,
She is the teacher’s pet.
Lena excels in whispering.
Few are the notes she writes;
She studies hard throughout the day,
For pleasure, saves her nights.
Belle was the star in physics class,
She always knew the laws
And when she failed to know a thing,
She always had a cause.
Anna has graced our piano stool,
And mingled tunes with laughter;
Ah, well, one can be young but once,
The frowns may come hereafter.
Ruth is a clever, pretty girl,
So everyone remarks,
Yet lives in constant danger—what?
The danger of her “Sparks.”
Will is the pride of all the girls,
The slave of every teacher,
When someone wants a window closed,
She calls on “Jube,” poor creature.
Clayt is the lad who’s in to win,
He is the teachers’ boy,
And though at times his face is sad,
His heart is full of “Joy.”
Gertie has made a record proud,
She seldom failed in class,
She studied hard these last four years
And well deserved to pass.
Bertha, the singer of our class,
How diligent she’s been!
She did her share of whispering,
But then that’s not a sin.
Bess is the class historian,
That office, well, she’ll fill.
She’s “Sortore” set in all her ways,
And has an iron “Will.”
Lawrence is the one who thinks
He’s been our comrade long;
His fav’rite stone, an “Opal” bright
He’s blest with an “Arm strong.”
Sweet Genevieve has worked and toiled,
Her honor’s justly won,
And every teacher in our school
Will say her work’s well “Dunn.”
And now there’s only one remains,
He should have come before;
His name is John, his hopes all lie
In a corner grocery store.
And now, I’ve mentioned everyone,
I hope no one feels slighted,
But if one does, let him approach,
His wrong will soon be righted.
At last your poet ends his lay,
He’s nothing more to tell,
But leaves the class of nineteen-one
With blessing and farewell.
In the Wake of the News1
Opening Chorus
Goodbye, everybody; goodbye, Jimmy Cal;
Goodbye, William Gleason; goodbye, Doc, old pal;
Sully, Matty, Harry, and Morrie, goodbye, goodbye.
Sure hope you all will feel sorry the same as I.
Goodbye, good old Edward; goodbye, little Ray;
Goodbye, all you White Sox—I quit gadding today.
[Encore]
Goodbye, Johnny Evers; goodbye, Lurid Lew;
Goodbye, Charley Williams; goodbye, Lower Two;
Schulte, Heine, Jimmy, and Larry, goodbye, goodbye.
P’rhaps you’ll look me up when you tarry awhile in Chi.
Goodbye, clams and swordfish; goodbye, Gay White Way;
Goodbye, joys of Brooklyn—I quit gadding today.
A Split Century
Half a C, half a C,
Half a C, sundered,
Cut from the other half,
Half a big hundred.
Forward the Cub Brigade!
“Charge at the umps!” they said,
But Zim in silence stood.
O you big hundred!
Past the Great Zim the pill
Whistled. “Strike three,” said Bill,
And the Great Heine knew
William had blundered;
His not to make reply,
His not to query why,
’Though ’twas outside and high.
Silence is golden, Zim.
O you big hundred!
Players to right of him,
Players to left of him,
Players in front of him
Hollered and thundered,
Bellowing like a calf
At the whole umpire staff,
But Heine’s jaws are locked,
Earning the other half
Of the big hundred.
Monday
A friend of mine, who reads the Wake (a friend he sure must be)
Had me to dine a week ago last Sunday,
And after we had dined awhile, the friend inquired of me:
“Why is the Wake so very short on Monday?”
I told him, and I’ll tell you, too—’twas thus my boss did speak:
“Each week, to rest your brain, we’ll give you one day.
We really can’t expect a man to keep a Wake all week,
So just send in a verse or two for Monday.”
And, yielding to the boss, which is the proper thing to do,
I set aside each Sunday as a fun day.
And Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—all the whole week through—
I wonder wotinel to write for Monday.
Heine’s Soliloquy
The C or not the C, that is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler for the dough to suffer
Mistakes and errors of outrageous umpires,
Or to cut loose against a band of robbers,
And, by protesting, lose it? To kick—to beef—
To beef!—perchance to scream: “Ah, there, you dub,
You ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻!!!”
But that sharp flow of breath, what would it cost,
A sloughing off of these one hundred bucks,
Must give me pause—there’s the respect
That makes dumb agony of two long weeks;
For who would bear the crazy work of Klem,
Cy Rigler’s slips, the raw mistakes of Quigley,
The guesses wild of Orth and Hank O’Day.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a few cuss words! Who would Brennan bear,
Or shut up under Eason’s worst offense,
But for the dread of dropping all that dough,
Of losing all those togs, deprived of which
No guy is really swell!—Yes, I’ll keep still.
Thus money does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native Bronix disposition
Is stifled by a bunch of filthy luc;
And ravings of my own fantastic sort
Are all unheard, though my long silence does
Disgrace the name of Heine.
Just Now—
Their game is
Famous
For its
Witless
Blunders;
Those runless,
Wonless,
Catchless,
Matchless,
Stopless,
Copless,
Useless,
Mooseless,
Spitless,
Hitless
Wonders
Come On, You Roseate Day!
When you’ve penned an especially bright bit of verse,
It’s good for one day in the year;
When you’ve made a neat hit or an epigram terse,
In only one sheet ’twill appear.
No matter how bright be the stuff that you write
About organized ball and its quarrels,
Don’t stop, trip, or shirk, but keep up the good work,
For you never can rest on your laurels.
When strenuous rhyming bedews your pale brow,
And you’ve gained an effect really snappy,
Don’t think, “That’ll hold ’em a while, and so now
I’ll rest up a bit and be happy.”
For when you do well, you have to excel
Your own lyrics and sonnets and chorals;
So keep on with the dance, O you Anatole France,
For you never can rest on your laurels.
Keep the engine a-going, the furnace keep hot,
With plenty of pepper and spice.
For you see that’s the kind of a job you have got—
Oh, I say, this is beaucoup advice!
But don’t get too good, or really you would
Revolutionize all baseball morals.
Ah, well, you should fret, for some day, you bet,
Some roseate day in the far, far away,
[Funereal? No, for I don’t mean it so],
You’ll take a long rest on your laurels.
To the New One
Some people think it is a shame
That Barbara is not your name.
Well, let them worry if they will;
Between us two, I’m glad you’re Phil.
If you were Barbara, I know
You’d cost your dad a lot more dough,
And when you maried, it would be
Like last night’s second round—on me.
And who’d expect a girl to fix
The furnace, or get up at six
And, in the well known early dawn,
Hoe garden or massage the lawn?
I guess it’s tough on you, old head
For some day you must earn your bread.
You’ll have to work, you’ll have to save,
And, worst of all, you’ll have to shave.
You’ll have to take some licking, too,
For Brother John will pick on you.
But p’rhaps you’ll grow to look like dad,
So cheer up, kid, life’s not so bad.
West Town Storm
I wonder if there’s anything
That I, tonight, can rhyme about.
It’s ’most too late to write of spring
And—Wait a bit; the lights are out.
Now naught to do but watch the flash
Of lightning, listen to the rain.
And tremble at the thunder’s crash
And—Wait a bit; they’re on again.
Where was I headed at the time
The darkness came? O, yes, I know;
I sought a subject for a rhyme.
Well—Wait a minute; there they go.
I wonder if my meter keeps
Right on when current’s on the bum.
Or if it, through the darkness, sleeps
And—Wait a minute; here they come.
Why didn’t you stay out all night,
False lights? For now ideas have fled.
I’ll wager, though, you’ll burn all right.
Yea, steadily, when I’m in bed.
This Afternoon
O shivering creatures
Down there in the bleachers,
And fans in the cold concrete stand,
You’ve willfully chosen
To come and get frozen,
While I must be here or get canned.
You leave when you care to,
While I must prepare to
Remain to the end, I suppose.
I’ll perish, I fear me,
But one thought will cheer me:
That I didn’t pay to be froze.
Baseball—A Sport
Players who jump for the dough,
Bandits and crooks, ev’ry one.
Baseball’s a pleasure, you know.
Players should play for the fun.
Magnates don’t care for the mon’.
They can’t be tempted with gold.
They’re in the game for the fun—
That’s why Collins was sold
The Youngest One Breaks In
Sound triumphal music!
Give three rousing cheers!
Shout the joyful tidings
In everybody’s ears!
Write it on the fences
In white and purple chalk!
Sing it from the housetop;
Brother Jim can talk!
Sentences? Of course not.
Don’t be so absurd.
So far he has uttered
Just a single word.
And the word? It’s “Daddy.”
Foxy boy is Jim;
If ’twere not, would daddy
Give this space to him.
I, when first I heard it,
Numskull that I am,
Thought that it was “Przemysl”;
Either that or “Damn.”
But of course it’s “Daddy,”
For it’s spoken when
Daddy’s here or going
Or coming back again.
Let the warring nations
War, if war they must;
Let the market weaken;
Let the banks go bust;
Let the cars quit running;
Let the people walk.
What care we for trifles?
Brother Jim can talk!
To the Man Higher Up
Sometimes I write my stuff at home
And bring it down with me.
When that’s the case, the stuff is good
As stuff of mine could be.
At other times I have to come
Before it’s off my mind,
And try to do it at the desk
To which I’ve been assigned.
And when, before the stuff is writ,
Downtown I have to come,
The stuff as maybe you have guessed,
Is very, very bum.
O Mr. Boss, you’d rather have
The good stuff, I presume.
If that is so, I pray you, sir,
Give me a Private Room
To the Latest
I love you, New Arrival;
I love you, No. 3.
That’s why I won’t allow them
To name you after me.
Make you the butt of wheezes
Such as I’m subjected to;
No, kid, I won’t allow them
To wish my name on you.
Help Wanted
I have no objection to washing your face
And putting your playthings back in their place,
And fixing your fruit and potatoes and bread
And reading you stories when you are in bed.
It’s not a bad job, being nursemaid to you
And most of my duties I cheerfully do,
But I’ll certainly welcome relief from the task
Of answering all of the questions you ask.
The Eternal Question
If I grow old before my day,
If, in a night, my hair turns gray,
’Twill be from answering when you say
“What for?”
If I have softening of the brain,
If I’m adjudged unsound, insane,
’Twill be from trying to explain
“What for?”
So, youngster, if ’tis your desire
To have a loony, senile sire,
Simply continue to inquire:
“What for?”
Exit Madge
Madge has moved back to the city,
With her year and a half of good cheer.
The neighborhood sighs, the neighborhood cries;
The neighborhood’s dismal and drear.
Madge has moved back to the city,
And left a young lover behind,
Who, mourning her loss, is excessively cross,
And very unwilling to mind.
Madge has moved back to the city,
With her smile and her curls and her fun.
And to make matters worse, she has taken her nurse,
Who took such good care of our son.
A Mysterious Antipathy
He’s a dear little thing, is No. 3,
Dear to his mother and dear to me,
While his older brother’s idea of bliss
Is to give him a gentle hug and kiss.
But the one ambition of Brother Jim
Appears to be to demolish him.
All that he does is eat and cry;
He wouldn’t and couldn’t harm a fly.
There’s nothing about him that might inspire
A brother’s aversion, a brother’s ire.
Nevertheless, his Brother Jim
Would give one eye for a slap at him.
He lacks attainments; he’s shy on looks,
Compared with his brothers, he has no books,
He has no games, and he has no toys
To make him the envy of other boys.
But the fact remains that his Brother Jim
Is looking for chances to wallop him.
Parting
I’ve got to leave my little ones
And journey through far eastern lands.
I’ve got to leave my three small sons
And trust their care to other hands.
Boys, will you miss me when I go?
Will you be wretched while your dear
Papa is absent from you? No,
You’ll get along all right, I fear.
First Aid
A rhyming dictionary is
A handy little thing.
My uncle, though, got tired of his
And passed it on to Ring.
So now, when hard up for a rhyme
And when I need one quick,
I save a lot of precious time
By looking up the Dic.
When I must rhyme with some tough word—
We’ll say, for instance, “twelve”—
’Tis then I grab my Dicky bird
And find “delve,” “helve,” and “shelve.”
Or if, as often is the case,
I want to rhyme with “babe,”
By looking in the proper place,
I run on “astrolabe.”
It happens every week or so
That I must rhyme with “doge.”
My book advises me to go
And utlize “gamboge.”
And when I seek a running mate,
A word to pair with “gulch,”
I do not have to hesitate;
I’m tipped right off to “mulch.”
Or when it’s necessary to
Wind up a line with “shalt,”
I find what p’rhaps is known to you,
There’s such a thing as “alt.”
Or when I cannot think offhand
Of playmates for “cartouch,”
I look into my booklet and
Am introduced to “smooch.”
My rhyming Dic’s a hit with me;
It really is a gem,
Containing all the words there be
And all the rhymes for them.
But what my book neglects to tell,
The thing my book leaves out,
Is whattheell and whotheell
To write my rhymes about.
Obituary
My eyes are very misty
As I pen these lines to Christy;
O, my heart is full of heaviness today.
May the flowers ne’er wither, Matty,
On your grave at Cincinnati
Which you’ve chosen for your final fadeaway.
Today’s Results
This is another Saturday
And many different teams will play.
It is my duty to predict
Which teams will win and which get licked;
And also for to prophesy
One single, solitary tie.
It looks to me as if the best
Two teams in this here middle west
Would give the Springfield fans a treat
When Wittenberg and Earlham meet,
And that school looks beat to me
Which turned out Birch, the referee.
East Lansing bugs will see the game
Between the Ags and Notre Dame
’Twill be a battle, but I am
Obliged to favor Notre Dame.
However, I’ll remain quite calm
If M.A.C. beats Notre Dame.
The Purple boys must step a few
To win their conflict with Purdue,
Which hasn’t had much luck of late
And by this time is desperate.
I think Ohio State’s fast pace
Will be a lot too fast for Case.
The Gophers will surprise this scribe
If they don’t trim the Badger tribe,
But they’ve surprised this scribe before,
And perhaps they’ll shock this scribe once more.
I’ll back them, though, for one thin dime,
For class has got to tell some time.
I’m picking Stagg’s Maroons to tie
Macomber’s men—I won’t tell why.
But if they don’t, believe me, boy,
’Twill be no romp for Illinois.
The Wolverines will brace and down
The Quaker team from Quaker Town.
I think that W. and J.
Will soundly trounce Ock’s team today.
(Ock’s team, I might explain to thee,
Is really Washington and Lee.)
I believe that Amherst has a lot
On Frankie Abbott’s Alma Mat’.
I say Cornell is in a class
Above the rustic Ags from Mass.,
And that the Harvard gang’s defense
Will stop the boys from Providence,
And that a Tiger’s toe will do
Some fatal damage to the Blue.
And if the teams that I have picked
To win do one and all get licked;
If victories are scored by Penn,
Purdue and Yale and so forth; then
Be sure to pan me; do not fail,
I love to get a lot of mail.
Exalted Above His Fellows
Amelia Galli-Curci, I presume, is justly proud
Of the voice that wins the plaudits of Chicago’s opera crowd;
The kaiser, very likely, is as chesty as can be
When he thinks of those courageous Teuts who fight for Germany;
Chick glows at his successes in the ancient Scottish game;
The relatives of Willard thrill at the mention of his name;
Frazee swells up to think that he now owns the Boston Sox;
But John’s the proudest thing on earth since he got the chicken pox.
Successes in the market have no doubt made Lawson glad;
Ohio State is tickled pink about the year it had;
The friends of Col. Lowden must be overcome with joy
To realize that he is now the Gov. of Illinois;
It makes Chief Henley happy that he kept the lid down tight;
It cheers the Lake Shore drive to think it wasn’t robbed last night;
But no one’s joy can be as great by many city blocks
As my son John’s since he acquired a case of chicken pox.
Daddy’s beneath all notice, for no doctor calls on him;
A fig for Bill who isn’t ill! A sneer for healthy Jim!
Who’s read to when he’s asked to be? Who’s promptly waited on?
Who’s salved and pitied when he cries? No one but my son John.
If it would please me half as much to scratch and scratch and scratch,
I’d buy myself a germing net and see what I could catch.
If I could get one-third his fun from medicine and docs
I would not be a day without a case of chicken pox.
Valentines
To a Rewrite Man:
Reporters furnish you with plot,
With facts, with dates, with names, and if you
Turn out good stuff sometimes—Why not?
You lucky stiff, you!
To a Dramatic Critic:
You write stuff once a week or so,
And when it’s punk, why, you should worry.
One alibi will always go:
“I had to write it in a hurry.”
To a Bold Editorial Writer:
They read him and they cry: He’s not afraid,
This supergink, to call a spade a spade!
He says Jess Willard’s just a great big bluff!
Yea, brothers, but he doesn’t sign his stuff.
To a Lineman:
When the pile of A1 contributions is low,
And Babette is especially cunning,
He phones to the office, “Because of the snow,
The Northwestern trains aren’t running.”
To a Society Editor:
Says, girls, don’t you think it must be just immense?
Can you imagine a job that’s as pleasant
As witnessing all the big nuptial events
Without being stung for a present?
To a Reel Critic:
She pays no attention to riffraff like me.
She thinks she is awfully smart,
’Cause she once got a letter from Francis X. B.
And an autographed picture from Hart.
To a Sporting Editor:
Wherefore that broad, contented smile, adorning
The visage of the editor of spo’t?
He doesn’t have to wait until the morning
To see the Gumps and read what L⸺r wrote.
To a Cashier:
Every day I murmur: “Lord!
How I love that Mr. W⸺d!”
Honest, Al, I think you’re fine.
Won’t you be my Valentine?
The New Club Boss
Some folks undoubtedly will speak
Of William Veeck as William Veeck,
But those who wish to be correc’
Will speak of him as William Veeck.
Bib Ballads
Foreword
Dear Parents:—Don’t imagine, please,
It’s in a boastful spirit
I fashion verses such as these;
That’s not the truth or near it.
A hundred or a thousand, yes,
A million kids there may be
Who aren’t one iota less
Attractive than this baby.
I’ll venture that your household has
As valuable a treasure
As mine, but mine I know, and as
For yours, I’ve not that pleasure.
And that is why my book’s about
Just one, O Dads and Mothers;
But babes are babes, and mine, no doubt,
Is very much like others.
Goodbye Bill
Dollar Bill, that I’ve held so tight
Ever since payday, a week ago,
Shall I purchase with you tonight
A pair of seats at the vaudeville show?
(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:
“Look at his shoes! We must buy a pair.”)
Dollar Bill, from the wreckage saved,
Tell me, how shall I squander you?
Shall I be shined, shampooed and shaved,
Singed and trimmed ’round the edges, too?
(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:
“He hasn’t a romper that’s fit to wear.”)
Dollar Bill, that I cherished so,
Think of the cigarettes you’d buy,
Turkish ones, with a kick, you know;
Makin’s eventually tire a guy.
(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:
“Look at those stockings! Just one big tear!”)
Dollar Bill, it is time to part.
What do I care for a vaudeville show?
I’ll shave myself and look just as smart.
Makin’s aren’t so bad, you know.
Dollar Bill, we must say goodbye;
There on the floor is the Reason Why.
A Visit from Young Gloom
There’s been a young stranger at our house,
A baby whom nobody knew;
Who hated his brother, his father, his mother,
And made them aware of it, too.
He stayed with us nearly a fortnight
And carried a grouch all the while,
Nor promise nor present could make him look pleasant;
He hadn’t the power to smile.
He cried when he couldn’t have something;
He cried just as hard when he could;
Kind words by the earful but made him more tearful,
And scoldings did just as much good.
He stormed when his meals weren’t ready,
And when they were ready, he screamed.
He went to bed growling, got up again howling
And quarreled and snarled as he dreamed.
He’s gone, and the child we are fond of
Is back, just as nice as of old.
But I hope to be in some port European
The next time he has a bad cold.
An Appreciative Audience
My son, I wish that it were half
As easy to extract a laugh
From grown-ups as from thee.
Then I’d go on the stage, my boy,
While Richard Carle and Eddie Foy
Burned up with jealousy.
I wouldn’t have to rack my brain
Or lie awake all night in vain
Pursuit of brand new jokes;
Nor fear my lines were heard with groans
Of pain and sympathetic moans
From sympathetic folks.
I’d merely have to make a face,
Just twist a feature out of place,
And be the soul of wit;
Or bark, and then pretend to bite,
And, from the screams of wild delight,
Be sure I’d made a hit.
Discipline
He couldn’t have a doughnut, and it made him very mad;
He undertook to get revenge by screaming at his dad.
“Cut out that noise!” I ordered, and he gave another roar,
And so I put him in “the room” and shut and locked the door.
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 all
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 have me lift you in your chair;
That if I do, you’ll rage and tear.
“Myself!” It means you don’t require
Assistance from your willing sire
In eating; ’twill but rouse your ire.
“Myself!” It means when you are through
That you don’t want your daddy to
Unseat you, as he used to do.
Time was, and not so long ago,
When you were carried to and fro
And waited on, but now? No! No!
You’d rather fall and break your head,
Or fill your lap with cream and bread
Than be helped up or down, or fed.
Well, kid, I hope you’ll stay that way
And that there’ll never come a day
When you’re without the strength to say,
“Myself!”
The Eternal Greeting
What is the welcoming word I hear
When I reach home at the close of day?
“Glad you are with us, daddy, dear?”
Something I’d like to hear you say?
No, it is this, invariably:
“Daddy, what have you got for me?”
“Deep affection,” I might reply;
What would it profit if I did?
I might answer: “The price to buy
Clothes and edibles for you, kid.”
You would repeat, insistently:
“Daddy, what have you got for me?”
Isn’t my Self enough for you?
Doesn’t my Presence satisfy?
No, that spelling would never do;
You want Presents, a new supply,
When you inquire so eagerly:
“Daddy, what have you got for me?”
’Twould be much nicer and cheaper, son,
If I were welcome without a toy,
But as I’m not, I must purchase one
And take my reward from your look of joy
When you open the bundle and cry: “O, see!
See what daddy has got for me!”
Guess Again
“I guess I’ll help you, daddy.”
And daddy can’t say “No;”
For if he did, ’twould wound you, kid,
And cause the tears to flow.
“I guess I’ll help you, daddy.”
And daddy says: “All right,”
And tries to do, ignoring you,
Whatever work’s in sight.
But what’s the use of trying?
As well be reconciled
To quit and play the game that may
Be pleasing to you, child.
To quit and play, or roughhouse,
Or read, as you elect;
For I’m afraid the guess you made
Was wholly incorrect.
Nearly a Sinecure
“I’m going to the office.”
So says my youngster, and
Gets on the train to take him there
(The train’s the sofa or a chair,
Whichever’s near at hand.)
“Now I am to the office.
I’m working now,” says he,
And just continues standing there
On that same lounge or that same chair,
As idle as can be.
Perhaps four seconds after
He first got on his train,
I see him getting off once more.
He steps or falls onto the floor
And says, “I’m home again.”
I don’t know what they pay him,
Nor where the office is.
The nature of the boy’s posish
I’ve never learned—but how I wish
I had that job of his!
The Heckuses
That may not be the proper way
To spell their name; I cannot say.
I’ve never seen ’em written out:
I’ve only heard ’em talked about.
They’re coming here tonight to dine,
So says that little son of mine.
But all last week, ’twas just the same;
They were to come, and never came.
And I’m just skeptical enough
To think they’re all a myth, a bluff;
Mere creatures of my youngster’s brain,
Whose coming he’ll await in vain.
And yet to him they’re very real.
They own a big black auto’bile.
They work downtown, and they’ll arrive
Out here at one-two-three-four-five.
The Heckuses are four all told.
There’s Mrs. H. who’s very old,
And Baby Heckus, and a lad
Named Tom, and Bill, the Heckus dad.
Beyond this point I can’t describe
The fascinating Heckus tribe.
I can but wonder how he came
To think of such a lovely name.
His Favorite Role
You could be president as well as not,
Since all you’d have to do is think you were,
With that imagination that you’ve got;
Or multimillionaire if you prefer,
Or you could be some famous football star,
Or Tyrus Cobb, admired by ev’ry fan;
Instead of that, you tell me that you are
The Garbage Man.
Why pick him out, when you can take your choice?
Is his so charming, nice, and sweet a role
That acting it should make you to rejoice
And be a source of comfort to your soul?
Is there some hidden happiness that he
Uncovers in his march from can to can
That you above all else should want to be
The Garbage Man?
The Paths of Rashness
Up to the sky the birdman flew
And looped some loops that were bold and new.
The people marvelled at nerve so great
And gasped or cheered as he tempted fate,
More daring each day than the day before,
Till the birdman fell and arose no more.
The bandit bragged of his daylight crimes
And said: “I’m the wonder of modern times.”
Bolder and bolder his thefts became,
And the people shook when they heard his name.
He boasted: “I’m one that they’ll never get.”
But he jollied himself into Joliet.
Well, son, I suppose you would be admired
For the valorous habit that you’ve acquired
Of rushing at each little girl you meet
And hugging her tight in the public street.
But the day will come, I have not a doubt,
When you’ll stagger home with an eye scratched out.
The New Plaything
I wonder what your thought will be
And what you’ll say and do, sir,
When you come home again and see
What Daddy’s got for you, sir.
I wonder if you’ll like it, boy,
Or turn away disgusted
(You’ve often scorned a nice, new toy
For one that’s old and busted.)
I wonder if you’ll laugh, or cry
And run in fright to mother,
Or just act bored to death, when I
Show you your brand new brother.
