THE SICK CHILD
BY THE HONOURABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS
A weakness seizes on my mind—I would more pudding take;
But all in vain—I feel—I feel—my little head will ache.
Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am,
And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant-jam.
I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore
That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more,
Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me,
In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.
It may be so—I cannot tell—I yet may do without;
They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about.
I long to cut that potted beef—to taste that apple-pie;
I long—I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.
I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much;
Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch!
Susan, oh! Susan ring the bell, and call for mother, dear.
My brain swims round—I feel it all—mother, your child is queer!
Alix (aged five, to parent who has been trying to inspire her with loyal sentiments). And was the Queen weally named after me?
A Toothsome Morsel.—Distracted Nurse. "Gracious, children, what are you doing?"
Children. "Oh, we've put the meat cover on grandpa's head to keep the flies off him!"
"Drat the boy! What have you got that string tied on that fowl's leg for?"
"'Tain't our fowl, muvver!"
Snooks (who fancies himself very much). "What's she crying for?"
Arabella. "It's all right, sir. She was frightened. When she saw you she thought it was a man!"
