T.H. Smith
Tom Henry Smith I long have known
Although he really is a hermit—
At least, Tom Henry lives alone,
And that's what people always term it.
Tom Henry never is annoyed
By fashion's change. He wears a collar
Constructed out of celluloid.
His hats ne'er cost above a dollar.
Tom loves about his room to mess,
And cook a sausage at the fireplace.
It doesn't serve to help his dress—
Grease spatters over the entire place.
Tom Henry likes to read a book,
And writes a little for the papers,
But scarcely ever leaves his nook,
And takes no part in social capers.
Now Tom has penned a book himself.
I hope he'll never feel compunctions!
Its title is—it's on my shelf—
"Pink Teas and Other Social Functions."
Ruth Jones
I've found the Joneses pleasant folk—
I've watched them all their children fetch up.
Jones loves to have a quiet smoke—
She's famous for tomato catchup.
Ruth is their eldest—now fifteen,
A tallish girl with pleasing features.
Each school-day morn she can be seen
As she trips by to meet her teachers.
A serious-minded miss, you'd say,
Not given much to school-girl follies.
She still sometimes will slip away
To spend a half-hour with her dollies.