Since Pa put in the radio we have a lot of fun,
We hustle to my room upstairs as soon as supper's done
And Pa he tinkers with the discs to get it loud and clear,
Then says: "Wait just a minute now, there's nothing yet to hear.
Oh, now it's coming! Silence there! Now don't you move a thing.
Say Ma, this is a marvelous age—a lady's going to sing!"
Then Ma she listens for awhile, as pleased as she can be
And when I want to hear it, too, she says, "Don't bother me!
Your turn comes next and sister's, too; don't jump around that way,
I want to hear the orchestra—it's just begun to play.
I wish you children wouldn't fuss, I'm sure I cannot hear
While you are trying all the time to snatch it from my ear."
Then Pa takes up the thing awhile and says: "Oh, that's just great!
A man is telling stories now. You kids will have to wait.
It's wonderful to think his voice is floating in the air
And people sitting in their homes can hear it everywhere—
All right, all right! It's your turn now. Perhaps this man will teach
You youngsters how you should behave. A parson's going to preach."
Pa put that radio in for me—at least he told me so,
But if it's really mine or not, is something I don't know,
'Coz Pa he wants it all himself, to hear the funny things,
An' Ma must hear the concerts through when some great artist sings,
But when the parson starts to talk on Selfishness an' Sin,
Pa says: "Now it has come the time for you to listen in."
The Yellow Dog
It was a little yellow dog, a wistful thing to see,
A homely, skinny, battered pup, as dirty as could be;
His ribs were showing through his hide, his coat was thick with mud,
And yet the way he wagged his tail completely captured Bud.
He had been kicked from door to door and stoned upon his way,
"Begone!" was all he'd ever heard, 'twas all that folks would say;
And yet this miserable cur, forever doomed to roam,
Struck up a comradeship with Bud, who proudly brought him home.
I've never seen so poor a dog in all my stretch of years,
The burrs were thick upon his tail and thick upon his ears;
He'd had to fight his way through life and carried many a scar,
But still Bud brought him home and cried: "Say, can I keep him, Ma?"
I think the homeless terrier knows that age is harsh and stern,
And from the shabby things of life in scorn is quick to turn;
And when some scrubby yellow dog needs sympathy and joy,
He's certain of a friend in need, if he can find a boy.