I tied a kerchief round her neck

66

"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"

Why don't you know?" she smiling, said,
And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name;
My eyes astonished met it;
"For," said the little one, "you see
I might sometimes forget it:
And so I wear a little thing

That tells you all about it;
For mother says she's very sure

I should get lost without it."

Eliza Sproat Turner.

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS

I HAF von funny leedle poy,

Vot comes schust to mine knee;

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As efer you dit see.

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:

But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs
Und eferyding dot's oudt;

He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,

To make der schticks to beat it mit-
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

A Parental Ode to My Son
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?

Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vere dere plaze goes vrom her lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse.

How gan I all dose dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
But ven he vas aschleep in ped

So guiet as a mouse,

I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding,

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

941

Charles Follen Adams.

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop,-first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-
(Good Heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!-that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest! (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!)

Little Mamma

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!)

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.

943

Thomas Hood.

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 Massachusetts 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, cumbrous 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 shining 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,