The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 194 : (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!(He'll climb upon the ta

(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,"

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