Little baby blossoms,
Dress in white and pink,
Holding cups of honey
For the bees to drink;
But Mother's little blossom
Has eyes, and nose, and chin,
With the sweetest little dimple
To tuck the kisses in!
Every baby blossom
Swinging gaily there
Grows into an apple,
Or perhaps a pear;
But Mother's little blossom,
Deny it if you can,
Will wear a coat and trousers,
And grow into a man!
Aunty's Album
When Aunty says that I may look
Inside her precious album-book
I have to sit upon a chair
And take it on my lap with care!
There's Uncle John Josiah Brown
(He has a frame all blue and brown);
He wears a tie all long and wide,
And whiskers growing on each side!
There's Great-Aunt Henrietta too
(Her frame is pink and green and blue),
Her curls hang down beneath her cap,
And you should see her satin lap!
There's Grandpapa, with snow-white hair,
And Grandmamma upon a chair;
There are three cousins, if you please,
With hands put stiffly on their knees.
There's Mummy in the queerest hat,
And Daddy looking very fat;
There's Aunty Bess and Uncle Jim—
It's really very good of him!
But quite the queerest thing I see
Is somebody they say is me!
A horrid little stuck-up girl,
With hair done up in one big curl!
Says Aunty softly in my ear,
"Be careful of the album, dear."
And then she puts it right away,
Until I come another day.