Says Bobby to Mother:
“I’ll be good as I can.”
“I know you will, Bobby;
You’re Mother’s little man.”
BUT—
His mother then takes every match from the box;
The door of the pantry securely she locks;
Puts the hammer and tacks, and the scissors and ink
In the best hiding places of which she can think
And wonders at last, as her hat she pins on,
What mischief her Bobby will do while she’s gone!
AN OLD SONG—“THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!”
When people ask me where I live,
I hate to have to go and give
A name like Smithville, plain.
I’d rather say:—“Sir, if you please,
My home is in the Hebrides,”
Or, “High up in the Pyrenees,”
Or, “At Gibraltar, Spain.”
“Constantinople,” too, sounds fine,
And “Drachenfels-upon-the-Rhine,”
And “Madagascar,” too;
And “Yokohama” sounds so great,
And “Hindustan” is just first-rate;
I rather like even “Bering Strait,”
And “Cuzco” in Peru.
And yet, I would not be at night,
Alone upon the “Isle of Wight,”
Or on the “Zuyder Zee.”
At “Nova Zembla,” in a gale,
I know that I should just turn pale;
For fear of earthquakes, I should quail
In “sunny Italy.”
A place that sounds nice on the map,
May have a little too much snap
To keep within its wall,
And so, though many names I see,
That sound as stylish as can be,
There’s no place quite so good for me,
As Smithville, after all!
Blanche Elizabeth Wade.