JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit:
If I drum in the house, "Oh, what a noise you make!" Sighs Mamma. "Baby'll wake!" If in the garden green I drum, our Bridget cries: "Ye'll mak' me spile the pies And cakes! I can not think! That droom destroys me wit! Be off, me b'y,—or quit!" If I drum in the street, Out comes Miss Peters, quick, And says her ma is sick; Or Doctor Daniel Brown Calls from his window: "Bub, That dreadful rub-a-dub Confuses my ideas. My sermon is not done. Run on, my little son!"
The creeps crawl up my back When I am still, and oh, Nobody seems to know How very tired I get Without some sort of noise, Such as a boy enjoys!
Last summer, on the farm, I used to jump and shout, For Grandpa Osterhout And Grandma both are deaf. But soon some neighbors came And said it was a shame, The way I scared them all. They called my shouts "wild yells," And asked if I had "spells" Or "fits, or anything." You see, grown people all Forget they once were small.
Now, isn't there one place Where "wriggley" tired boys Can make a stunning noise And play wild Injun-chief, And Independence-day, And not be sent away? Or was that place left out? Dear Jack, please tell me true; I've confidence in you. Your friend without end, Tommy.