THE PASSING OF THE CRADLE.
[According to a report which recently appeared in a daily paper, cradles for infants are becoming a thing of the past.]
Snug retreat for mother's treasure,
Shall I pine as I repeat
Rumour's strange report, which says you're
Virtually obsolete?
Shall these lips a doleful lyric
Proffer at your ghostly bier,
Or compose a panegyric
Moistened with a minstrel's tear?
Me the theme leaves too unshaken,
Though "some" father more or less;
Better 'twere if undertaken
By my wife (a poetess);
And, if I be asked, Why vainly
Occupy, then, so much space?
My concern, I'll say, is mainly
With the woman in the case.
For, when she and you shall sever
(Though 'tis early yet to crow),
Your departure may for ever
Lay her proudest triumph low;
Yes, while men (I'm much afraid) 'll
Round her fingers still be twirled,
If her hand can't rock a cradle
It may cease to boss the world.
Commercial Candour.
"Irate Householders, why be swindled in a clumsy manner? Fetch your second-hand clothing to me and be done in the most approved style."—Daily Paper.
"More Literary Heredity.
Fresh literary fame seems to be pending for the Maurice Hewlett family circle.
Mr. Robin Richards, the son-in-law of the famous novelist, is about to appeal to fiction readers with his first novel."—Daily Paper.
No more of the old-fashioned Darwin and Galton nonsense about fathers and children.