  Illustration by Kingston Hengler. My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white in a single night, As men’s have grown, from sudden fears— But gray all the same, Just over a name— A name for the baby; Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain— Or may be Ornate—if I try to explain The trouble, anxiety, Crass contrariety, Strain on one’s piety— He wouldn’t be quiet—he Cooed to satiety— (Cute little one)— Yes—it was pitiful, In a whole city-full Name he had none. “Now let there be a merry time throughout all Christendom, For the mother set her foot down—and the boy’s named ‘TOM!’” Cousins to right of us, Uncles to left of us, Gran’ma in front of us, Mentioned a hundred; Neighbors, and friends as well, Aided the din to swell, Talked, until out of breath, And, when the dinner-bell Rang, they all wondered. A simple child, That cries and holds its breath, And kicks with either nether limb— What shall we call him? S’ death! Wait till he’s seven. Now glory to that wife of mine, from whom all glories are: Add “Hallelujahs” freely, for I’m not particular; Now let there be a merry time throughout all Christendom, For the mother set her foot down—and the boy’s named “TOM.” Drawn by R. F. Zogbaum. |
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