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Page 38—Boy Land
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That Nice Boy "Nice child—very nice child," observed an old gentleman, crossing to the other side of the car and addressing the mother of the boy who had just hit him in the eye with a wad of paper. "How old are you, my son?" "None of your business," replied the youngster, taking aim at another passenger. "Fine boy," smiled the old man, as the parent regarded her offspring with pride. "A remarkably fine boy. What is your name, my son?" "Puddin' Tame!" shouted the youngster, with a giggle at his own wit. "I thought so," continued the old man, pleasantly. "If you had given me three guesses at it, that would have been the first one I would have struck on. Now, Puddin', you can blow those things pretty straight, can't you?" "You bet!" squealed the boy, delighted at the compliment. "See me take that old fellow over there!" "No, no!" exclaimed the old gentleman, hastily. "Try it on the old woman I was sitting with. She has boys of her own, and she won't mind." "Can't you hit the lady for the gentleman, Johnny?" asked the fond parent. Johnny cleverly landed the pellet on the end of the old woman's nose. But she did mind it, and rising in her wrath soared down on the small boy like a hawk. She put him over the line, reversed him, ran him backwards, till he didn't know which end of him was front, and finally dropped him into the lap of the scared mother, with a benediction whereof the purport was that she'd be back in a moment to skin him alive. "She didn't seem to like it, Puddin'," smiled the old gentleman, softly. "She's a perfect stranger to me; but I understand she is the matron of an Orphans' Home, and I thought she would like a little fun; but I was mistaken." And the old man smiled sweetly as he went back to his seat. He was sorry for the poor little boy, but he couldn't help it. |
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A Wicked Boy Of all the small boys in our town That Jones boy was the worst, And if the "bad man" came around He'd take that Jones boy first. One day he slipped away from home And went out for a skate Down on a deep and dangerous pond Beyond the garden gate. His mother missed him after a while, And thought he'd gone to skate; And running to the fatal pond, She found she was too late. For there, upon the cruel ice, Beyond an air-hole wide, She saw his pretty little hat, And a mitten by it's side. He was her boy, and all the love That fills a mother's heart Came forth in tears and sobs and moans Beyond the strength of art. She called the neighbours quick to come, They scraped along the ground; Beneath the water and the ice— The boy could no be found. At last their search was given up Until a thaw should come; The mother's sobs began afresh, Her sorrow was not dumb. They turned to leave the fatal pool, A voice came clear and free— "Hallo! If you want Frankie Jones, You'll find him up this tree." And so it was—the mother's tears Were changed to smiles of joy; But gracious heaven, how she spanked Her darling, fair-haired boy! L'Envoi |
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Cooley's Boy The boy not only preys on my melon-patch and fruit trees, and upon those of my neighbours, but he has an extraordinary aptitude for creating a disturbance in whatever spot he happens to be. Only last Sunday he caused such a terrible commotion in church that the services had to be suspended for several minutes until he could be removed. The interior of the edifice was painted and varnished recently, and I suppose one of the workers must have left a clot of varnish upon the back of Cooley's pew, which is directly across the aisle from mine. Cooley's boy was the only representative of the family at church upon that day, and he amused himself during the earlier portions of the service by kneeling upon the seat and communing with Dr. Jones' boy, who occupied the pew immediately in the rear. Sometimes, when young Cooley would resume a proper position, Jones's boy would stir him up afresh by slyly pulling his hair, whereupon Cooley would wheel about and menace Jones with his fist in a manner which betrayed utter indifference to the proprieties of the place and the occasion, as well as the presence of the congregation. When Cooley finally sank into a condition of repose, he placed his head, most unfortunately, directly against the lump of undried varnish, while he amused himself by reading the commandments and the other scriptural texts upon the wall behind the pulpit. In a few moments he attempted to move, but the varnish had mingled with his hair, and it held him securely. After making one or two desperate but ineffectual efforts to release himself, he became very angry; and supposing that Jones's boy was holding him, he shouted: "Leg go o' my hair! Leg go o' my hair, I tell you!" The clergyman paused just as he was entering upon consideration of "secondly," and the congregation looked around in amazement, in time to perceive young Cooley, with his head against the back of the pew, aiming dreadful blows over his shoulder with his fist at some unseen person behind him. And with every thrust he exclaimed: "I'll smash yer nose after church! I'll go for you, Bill Jones, when I ketch you alone! Leg go o' my hair, I tell you, or I'll knock the stuffin' out o' yer," etc, etc. Meanwhile, Jones's boy sat up at the very end of his pew, far away from Cooley, and looked as solemn as if the sermon had made a deep impression upon him. Max Adeler |
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