The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBib Ballads

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBib BalladsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Bib BalladsAuthor: Ring LardnerIllustrator: Fontaine FoxRelease date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #25961]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BIB BALLADS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Bib BalladsAuthor: Ring LardnerIllustrator: Fontaine FoxRelease date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #25961]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)

Title: Bib Ballads

Author: Ring LardnerIllustrator: Fontaine Fox

Author: Ring Lardner

Illustrator: Fontaine Fox

Release date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #25961]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BIB BALLADS ***

GOOD-BY BILLA VISIT FROM YOUNG GLOOMAN APPRECIATIVE AUDIENCEDISCIPLINEINEXPENSIVE GUESTSHIS SENSE OF HUMORSPEECH ECONOMYWELCOME TO SPRINGTASTERIDDLESHESITATIONHIS WONDERFUL CHOO-CHOOSCOUSINLY AFFECTIONMY BABY'S GARDENDECISION REVERSEDTHE GROCERY MAN AND THE BEARCOMING HOMEHIS IMAGINATIONHIS MEMORYCONFESSIONHIS LADY FRIENDDECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCETHE ETERNAL GREETINGGUESS AGAINNEARLY A SINECURETHE HECKUSESHIS FAVORITE ROLETHE PATHS OF RASHNESSTHE NEW PLAYTHING

FOREWORDDear Parents:—Don't imagine, please,It's in a boastful spiritI fashion verses such as these;That's not the truth or near it.A hundred or a thousand, yes,A million kids there may beWho aren't one iota lessAttractive than this baby.I'll venture that your household hasAs valuable a treasureAs mine, but mine I know, and asFor yours, I've not that pleasure.And that is why my book's aboutJust one, O Dads and Mothers;But babes are babes, and mine, no doubt,Is very much like others.THE AUTHOR

Dear Parents:—Don't imagine, please,It's in a boastful spiritI fashion verses such as these;That's not the truth or near it.A hundred or a thousand, yes,A million kids there may beWho aren't one iota lessAttractive than this baby.I'll venture that your household hasAs valuable a treasureAs mine, but mine I know, and asFor yours, I've not that pleasure.And that is why my book's aboutJust one, O Dads and Mothers;But babes are babes, and mine, no doubt,Is very much like others.THE AUTHOR

GOOD-BY BILLDollar Bill, that I've held so tightEver since payday, a week ago,Shall I purchase with you tonightA 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 good-by;There on the floor is the Reason Why.

Dollar Bill, that I've held so tightEver since payday, a week ago,Shall I purchase with you tonightA 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 good-by;There on the floor is the Reason Why.

A VISIT FROM YOUNG GLOOMThere'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 fortnightAnd 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 theywereready, he screamed.He went to bed growling, got up again howlingAnd quarreled and snarled as he dreamed.He's gone, and the child we are fond ofIs back, just as nice as of old.But I hope to be in some port EuropeanThe next time he has a bad cold.

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 fortnightAnd 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 theywereready, he screamed.He went to bed growling, got up again howlingAnd quarreled and snarled as he dreamed.He's gone, and the child we are fond ofIs back, just as nice as of old.But I hope to be in some port EuropeanThe next time he has a bad cold.

AN APPRECIATIVE AUDIENCEMy son, I wish that it were halfAs easy to extract a laughFrom grown-ups as from thee.Then I'd go on the stage, my boy,While Richard Carle and Eddie FoyBurned up with jealousy.I wouldn't have to rack my brainOr lie awake all night in vainPursuit of brand new jokes;Nor fear my lines were heard with groansOf pain and sympathetic moansFrom 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.

My son, I wish that it were halfAs easy to extract a laughFrom grown-ups as from thee.Then I'd go on the stage, my boy,While Richard Carle and Eddie FoyBurned up with jealousy.I wouldn't have to rack my brainOr lie awake all night in vainPursuit of brand new jokes;Nor fear my lines were heard with groansOf pain and sympathetic moansFrom 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.

DISCIPLINEHe 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 fruitHe 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."

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 fruitHe 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 GUESTSI wonder how 'twould make you feel,My fellow food providers,To have as guests at ev'ry mealThree—count 'em, three—outsiders.Well, that's the case with me, but stillI don't complain or holler,For, strange to say, the groc'ry billHas 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.

I wonder how 'twould make you feel,My fellow food providers,To have as guests at ev'ry mealThree—count 'em, three—outsiders.Well, that's the case with me, but stillI don't complain or holler,For, strange to say, the groc'ry billHas 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 HUMORPerhaps in some respects it's trueThat you resemble dad;To be informed I look like youWould never make me mad.But one thing I am sure of, son,You have a different lineOf humor, your idea of funIs not a bit like mine.You drop my slippers in the sinkAnd leave them there to soak.That's very laughable, you thinkBut I can't see the jokeYou take my hat outdoors with youAnd 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 hardTo force one-half a smile.No, kid, I fear your funny stuff,Though funny it may be,Is not quite delicate enoughTo make a hit with me.

Perhaps in some respects it's trueThat you resemble dad;To be informed I look like youWould never make me mad.But one thing I am sure of, son,You have a different lineOf humor, your idea of funIs not a bit like mine.You drop my slippers in the sinkAnd leave them there to soak.That's very laughable, you thinkBut I can't see the jokeYou take my hat outdoors with youAnd 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 hardTo force one-half a smile.No, kid, I fear your funny stuff,Though funny it may be,Is not quite delicate enoughTo make a hit with me.

SPEECH ECONOMYSince 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 "By-by, Choo-choo" makes it plain?"Let words be few," the poet saith,So leave out words and save your breath.

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 "By-by, Choo-choo" makes it plain?"Let words be few," the poet saith,So leave out words and save your breath.

WELCOME TO SPRINGSpring, you are welcome, for you are the friend ofFathers of all little girlies and chaps.Spring, you are welcome, for you mean the end ofBundling 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 venderOf 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 botherOf bundling the kid for the daily parade.

Spring, you are welcome, for you are the friend ofFathers of all little girlies and chaps.Spring, you are welcome, for you mean the end ofBundling 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 venderOf 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 botherOf bundling the kid for the daily parade.

TASTEI can't understand why you pass up the toysThat Santa considered just right for small boys;I can't understand why you turn up your noseAt dogs, hobby-horses, 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 youWith volumes of pictures—they're pretty ones, too—Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother GooseRepines in a corner and feels like the deuce,While you, on the floor, quite contentedly lookAt page after page of the telephone book.

I can't understand why you pass up the toysThat Santa considered just right for small boys;I can't understand why you turn up your noseAt dogs, hobby-horses, 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 youWith volumes of pictures—they're pretty ones, too—Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother GooseRepines in a corner and feels like the deuce,While you, on the floor, quite contentedly lookAt page after page of the telephone book.

RIDDLESIf it's fun to take books from the bookcase,If you really believe it's worth whileTo carry them out to the kitchenAnd build them all up in a pile,Why isn't it just as agreeable thenTo carry them back to the bookcase again?If it's fun to make marks with a pencilIn books that one cares for a heap;To tear out the pages from volumesOne likes and is anxious to keep,Why isn't it pleasure to put on the hummerA magazine read and discarded last summer?

If it's fun to take books from the bookcase,If you really believe it's worth whileTo carry them out to the kitchenAnd build them all up in a pile,Why isn't it just as agreeable thenTo carry them back to the bookcase again?If it's fun to make marks with a pencilIn books that one cares for a heap;To tear out the pages from volumesOne likes and is anxious to keep,Why isn't it pleasure to put on the hummerA magazine read and discarded last summer?

HESITATIONI've orders to waken you from your nap,And orders are orders, my little chap.But I hate to do it, because it seemsA 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 ownA 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 afraidIt'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.

I've orders to waken you from your nap,And orders are orders, my little chap.But I hate to do it, because it seemsA 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 ownA 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 afraidIt'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-CHOOSWhen 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 faceOf putting each "Pullman" back in its place,I groan a little, and think, "O gee!Was ever a child as mean as he?"GLOSSARYBodkin—A napkinMintie—A mitten.Pote—A pencil.Twos—Cards.

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 faceOf putting each "Pullman" back in its place,I groan a little, and think, "O gee!Was ever a child as mean as he?"

GLOSSARYBodkin—A napkinMintie—A mitten.Pote—A pencil.Twos—Cards.

GLOSSARY

Bodkin—A napkinMintie—A mitten.Pote—A pencil.Twos—Cards.

COUSINLY AFFECTIONWhy do you love your Cousin Paull?For his sweet face, his smile, and allThe little tricks that charm us so?You're not quite old enough to knowHow cute he is; to realizeHow clever for a child his size.I'm sure you can't appreciateThe things that make us think him great.And yet you love your Cousin Paull.Is it because he's twice as smallAs 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 callFor mother? Am I warm at all?Is this why you love Cousin Paull?

Why do you love your Cousin Paull?For his sweet face, his smile, and allThe little tricks that charm us so?You're not quite old enough to knowHow cute he is; to realizeHow clever for a child his size.I'm sure you can't appreciateThe things that make us think him great.And yet you love your Cousin Paull.Is it because he's twice as smallAs 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 callFor mother? Am I warm at all?Is this why you love Cousin Paull?

MY BABY'S GARDENMy baby has a garden,"Planted" four days ago,And nearly half his waking hoursHe spends among his precious flowersWith sprinkling can and hoe.My baby has a garden,And Oh, how proud he isWhen, yielding to his pleading, weLay work aside and go to seeThis masterpiece of his!Behold my baby's garden,Close by a rubbish pile!Look at the sprinkling can and hoeAnd flowers; then tell me if you knowWhether 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, whereThey 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 spiteOf sprinkling can and hoe.

My baby has a garden,"Planted" four days ago,And nearly half his waking hoursHe spends among his precious flowersWith sprinkling can and hoe.My baby has a garden,And Oh, how proud he isWhen, yielding to his pleading, weLay work aside and go to seeThis masterpiece of his!Behold my baby's garden,Close by a rubbish pile!Look at the sprinkling can and hoeAnd flowers; then tell me if you knowWhether 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, whereThey 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 spiteOf sprinkling can and hoe.

DECISION REVERSEDWhen I mixed with the shoppers and fought in vainTo 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 broughtMy kid to the room where his things were piled,And when, from my vantage point, I caughtThe look on his face, I murmured: "Child,Your dad was a fool when he snarled and swore,And called it a bothersome, beastly bore."

When I mixed with the shoppers and fought in vainTo 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 broughtMy kid to the room where his things were piled,And when, from my vantage point, I caughtThe 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 BEARHe 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 newIt 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 despiteThe 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 hitWith the audience of one that was thereThat for hours at a time he would quietly sitThrough 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 heardAs 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 taleOf 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 newIt 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 despiteThe 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 hitWith the audience of one that was thereThat for hours at a time he would quietly sitThrough 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 heardAs 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 taleOf The Grocery Man and the Bear.

COMING HOMEPrepare 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 handTo 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 gladThe kid comes home today.

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 handTo 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 gladThe kid comes home today.

HIS IMAGINATIONOne thing that's yours, my little childYour poor old dad is simply wildTo own. It's not a book or toy;It's your imagination, boy.If I possessed it, what a timeI'd have, nor need to spend a dime!I wish that I could get astrideA broom, and have a horse to ride;Or climb into the swing, and beA 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 farOn ship or horse, in train or car,As you, at small expense or none,If I could have one-half your funAnd do the things that you do, free,I'd give them back my salary.

One thing that's yours, my little childYour poor old dad is simply wildTo own. It's not a book or toy;It's your imagination, boy.If I possessed it, what a timeI'd have, nor need to spend a dime!I wish that I could get astrideA broom, and have a horse to ride;Or climb into the swing, and beA 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 farOn ship or horse, in train or car,As you, at small expense or none,If I could have one-half your funAnd do the things that you do, free,I'd give them back my salary.

HIS MEMORYBesides my little son's imagination,Another thing he has appeals to meAnd agitates my envious admiration—It's his accommodating memory.An instant after some unlucky stumbleHas floored him and induced a howl of pain,He's clean forgotten all about his tumbleAnd violently sets out to romp again.But if, when I leave home, I say that maybeI'll get him something nice while I'm away,It's very safe to bet that Mr. BabyWill 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.

Besides my little son's imagination,Another thing he has appeals to meAnd agitates my envious admiration—It's his accommodating memory.An instant after some unlucky stumbleHas floored him and induced a howl of pain,He's clean forgotten all about his tumbleAnd violently sets out to romp again.But if, when I leave home, I say that maybeI'll get him something nice while I'm away,It's very safe to bet that Mr. BabyWill 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.

CONFESSIONA sleuth like Pinkerton or BurnsIs told that there has been a crime.He runs down clues and leads, and learnsWho did the deed, in course of time.It's just the other way with me:The first thing I am sure of isThe criminal's identity,And then I learn what crime was his.When Son comes up with hanging headAnd smiles a certain kind of smile,When he's affectionate insteadOf playful; when he stalls awhileAnd starts to speak and stops again,Or, squirming like a mouse that's caught,Asserts, "I am a GOOD boy," thenI look to see what harm's been wrought.

A sleuth like Pinkerton or BurnsIs told that there has been a crime.He runs down clues and leads, and learnsWho did the deed, in course of time.It's just the other way with me:The first thing I am sure of isThe criminal's identity,And then I learn what crime was his.When Son comes up with hanging headAnd smiles a certain kind of smile,When he's affectionate insteadOf playful; when he stalls awhileAnd starts to speak and stops again,Or, squirming like a mouse that's caught,Asserts, "I am a GOOD boy," thenI look to see what harm's been wrought.

HIS LADY FRIENDWho is Sylvia? What is sheThat early every morningYou desert your familyAnd rush to see her, scorningYour once cherished ma and me?Are her playthings such a treat?I will steal 'em from her;Better that than not to meetMy son and heir all summer,Save when he comes home to eat.Or is she herself the oneAnd only real attraction?Has your little heart begunTo get that sort of action?Better wait a few years, son.

Who is Sylvia? What is sheThat early every morningYou desert your familyAnd rush to see her, scorningYour once cherished ma and me?Are her playthings such a treat?I will steal 'em from her;Better that than not to meetMy son and heir all summer,Save when he comes home to eat.Or is she herself the oneAnd only real attraction?Has your little heart begunTo get that sort of action?Better wait a few years, son.

DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE"MYSELF!" It means that you don't careTo have me lift you in your chair;That if I do, you'll rage and tear."MYSELF!" It means you don't requireAssistance from your willing sireIn eating; 'twill but rouse your ire."MYSELF!" It means when you are throughThat you don't want your daddy toUnseat you, as he used to do.Time was, and not so long ago,When you were carried to and froAnd waited on, but now? No! No!You'd rather fall and break your head,Or fill your lap with cream and breadThan be helped up or down, or fed.Well, kid, I hope you'll stay that wayAnd that there'll never come a dayWhen you're without the strength to say,"MYSELF!"

"MYSELF!" It means that you don't careTo have me lift you in your chair;That if I do, you'll rage and tear."MYSELF!" It means you don't requireAssistance from your willing sireIn eating; 'twill but rouse your ire."MYSELF!" It means when you are throughThat you don't want your daddy toUnseat you, as he used to do.Time was, and not so long ago,When you were carried to and froAnd waited on, but now? No! No!You'd rather fall and break your head,Or fill your lap with cream and breadThan be helped up or down, or fed.Well, kid, I hope you'll stay that wayAnd that there'll never come a dayWhen you're without the strength to say,"MYSELF!"

THE ETERNAL GREETINGWhat is the welcoming word I hearWhen 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 buyClothes 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 oneAnd take my reward from your look of joyWhen you open the bundle and cry: "O, see!See what daddy has got for me!"

What is the welcoming word I hearWhen 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 buyClothes 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 oneAnd take my reward from your look of joyWhen 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 reconciledTo quit and play the game that mayBe pleasing to you, child.To quit and play, or roughhouse,Or read, as you elect;For I'm afraid the guess you madeWas wholly incorrect.

"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 reconciledTo quit and play the game that mayBe pleasing to you, child.To quit and play, or roughhouse,Or read, as you elect;For I'm afraid the guess you madeWas wholly incorrect.

NEARLY A SINECURE"I'm going to the office."So says my youngster, andGets 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 thereOn that same lounge or that same chair,As idle as can be.Perhaps four seconds afterHe first got on his train,I see him getting off once more.He steps or falls onto the floorAnd says, "I'm home again."I don't know what they pay him,Nor where the office is.The nature of the boy's posishI've never learned—but how I wishI had that job of his!

"I'm going to the office."So says my youngster, andGets 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 thereOn that same lounge or that same chair,As idle as can be.Perhaps four seconds afterHe first got on his train,I see him getting off once more.He steps or falls onto the floorAnd says, "I'm home again."I don't know what they pay him,Nor where the office is.The nature of the boy's posishI've never learned—but how I wishI had that job of his!

THE HECKUSESThat may not be the proper wayTo 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 enoughTo 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 arriveOut 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 ladNamed Tom, and Bill, the Heckus dad.Beyond this point I can't describeThe fascinating Heckus tribe.I can but wonder how he cameTo think of such a lovely name.

That may not be the proper wayTo 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 enoughTo 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 arriveOut 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 ladNamed Tom, and Bill, the Heckus dad.Beyond this point I can't describeThe fascinating Heckus tribe.I can but wonder how he cameTo think of such a lovely name.

HIS FAVORITE ROLEYou 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 areThe Garbage Man.Why pick him out, when you can take your choice?Is his so charming, nice, and sweet a roleThat acting it should make you to rejoiceAnd be a source of comfort to your soul?Is there some hidden happiness that heUncovers in his march from can to canThat you above all else should want to beThe Garbage Man?

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 areThe Garbage Man.Why pick him out, when you can take your choice?Is his so charming, nice, and sweet a roleThat acting it should make you to rejoiceAnd be a source of comfort to your soul?Is there some hidden happiness that heUncovers in his march from can to canThat you above all else should want to beThe Garbage Man?

THE PATHS OF RASHNESSUp to the sky the birdman flewAnd looped some loops that were bold and new.The people marvelled at nerve so greatAnd 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 crimesAnd 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 admiredFor the valorous habit that you've acquiredOf rushing at each little girl you meetAnd 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.

Up to the sky the birdman flewAnd looped some loops that were bold and new.The people marvelled at nerve so greatAnd 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 crimesAnd 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 admiredFor the valorous habit that you've acquiredOf rushing at each little girl you meetAnd 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.

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