I can’t say that I’m pleased with his pink and red looks,
Although I wanted to show him my books,
He wouldn’t look my way, how hard I would try;
He’d pucker his face up and cry and cry.
But mammy says he’ll be as big as me
Some day, but somehow I cannot see;
I’m almost a man now, I’m nearly three
On my next birthday in January.
I thought when I prayed for a sister that I
Would have a playmate, not one that would cry;
And one who’d be out in the garden to play
With me, the whole of the livelong day.
I guess I must wait till he really grows,
And gets big like me—heaven only knows,
I’ll just call up central, and tell her that we
Have a boy at our house—not big like me.
And I know she’ll be glad, for I called her up
Sometime ago—I said, please don’t stop,
But telephone to heaven, my number fifty-seven,
To send me a sister to earth from heaven.
But I can’t understand that I ever was small
Like this little fellow, with cap, gown and all;
I’ll show him my marbles, my hoop and my sled,
And I’ll call him Albert, while you call him Fred.
A Fair Young Bride.
There’s none more beautiful or fair
Than this pure maiden standing there,
In her bridal robes, as light as air,
With orange blossoms in her hair.
How rich the scarlet of her lips,
Like the glory that the angel sips;
The contour of her lovely face,
Within the folds of priceless lace.
How glossy the masses of golden hair,
Divinely beautiful at the altar there;
And her wondrous deep brown eyes—
Surely she hails from Paradise.