THE FAT LITTLE PURSE
On Saturdays, after the baby
Is bathed, fed, and sleeping serene,
Arranges the household routine.
And leaves the young limb with his nurse,
And with her the fat little purse.
To the rendezvous spot where we meet,
She avoids the most windowy street!
To her comrade for better and worse
Last bit, here's the fat little purse."
She has hidden what must not be spent:
Katie's wages, and milkman, and rent;
She is gleeful and prompt to disburse—
Can come from her fat little purse!
But either by giving or buying,
The little purse does not stay fat—
Perhaps it's a "pert little hat."
By pleasures so quaint and diverse,
To see such a thin little purse.
Is that which is done by our wives:
They add twos and twos and make fives;
The secret of thrift, it is terse:
In her little, fat little purse.
Perhaps it's a ragged child crying
THE REFLECTION
(To N. B. D.)
I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face,
Nor touched her hand;
I understand.
Her smile, her tint;
I have true hint.
Her mirror true;
All gentle too.
Each mood and whim,
She speaks through him!
Or dark or fair—
I see her there!