I wis’ ’et I tould det it onct;
I’d frow it all about,
En knock it—so! En slap it—so!
En shake its sawdust out;
En ’en w’en ’ey saw how it looked
I dess know ’ey’d all be
Ez dlad ez tould be ’ess t’ have
One little dirl—like me!
A CHILD’S ALMANAC
MY Mamma says ’at w’en it rains
’Ey’re washin’ Heaven’s window-panes
An’ careless angels ’ist do fill
’Eir pails too full an’ ’atway spill
Some water down on us. ’At’s w’y
It rains some days w’en maybe I
Would like to play. An’ ’en she says
It’s ’ist ’em angels’ carelessness
’At makes ’em raindrops fall ’at way
At picnics an’ on circus day.
My Mamma says ’at w’en it snows
’Ey’re angels pickin’ geese, she knows,
An’ ’stead o’ usin’ ’em t’ stuff
’Eir pillow cases, ’ey ’ist puff
An’ blow an’ don’t clear up ’eir muss
Till all ’em feathers fall on us.
An’ she says ’ey ’ist pick ’atway
’Cuz ’ey want geese f’r Tris’mus day,
An’ ’at’s w’y ’ere’s ’e mostes’ snow
Right close t’ Tris’mus time, you know.
My Mamma says w’en wind ’ist roars
An’ blows, ’at’s w’en ’e angels snores,
But w’en it lightnings, she says, w’y,
’Ey’re scratchin’ matches on ’e sky.
An’ w’en it rumbles ’bove our heads
’Ey’re movin’ furniture an’ beds
Up ’ere, an’ cleanin’ house an’ shakes
’Eir moth balls out an’ ’at’s w’at makes
It hail. An’ weather, she ’ist ’clares
Is ’ist w’at angels does upstairs.
THE LOSER
THE sun withheld its light that day; that night the stars were dim;
The portent of the earth and sky was ominous for him;
There was no gladness in the world; the fields held no delight;
The day of all his joys dissolved and melted into night;
He rubbed his pitching arms and felt the muscles rise and fall;
He wondered what the cruel fate that lost the game of ball;
He wandered idly by the brook, forsaken and alone,
To be a hero nevermore, unsung, unwept, unknown.
’Twas only yesterday he was the idol of the team!
Those cheers and loud hurrahs he heard—could they have been a dream?
They called him Tim the Tiger then! Small boys by scores he saw
To bear his glove, his coat, his shoes, with gratitude and awe.
With joy they saw his arm laid bare—that mighty arm and brown
That wound itself about his head and mowed the batsmen down;
And when he went upon the field, the mighty cheer for him
Showed how their hopes of victory were all bound up in Tim!
It was but yesterday he bore the laurels on his brow,
But who, alas! is there so low to do him honor now?
His heart swells, bursting in his chest; the heart so bruised and sore;
Could he but go back on the field and pitch that game once more!
The tears fall from his eyes like rain, the hot and angry tears,
No sorrow has he known like this in all his fifteen years;
How will he meet the Tigers now? How look intothe eyes
Of those who staked their all on him and saw him lose the prize?
To school he walks secluded ways where once with pride he strode,
With awestruck youngsters all about, the middle of the road;
Far from the madding crowd he stands upon the playground there
His honors fallen like the leaves in Autumn’s frosty air;
A humble Tiger is he now, and small boys pass him by
With cruel sneers where once he heard the cheers ring shrill and high;
And Reddy Blake, the Cyclone Curve, is pitcher forthe team,
While he’s but the somnambulist of a quick-vanished dream!