  HE was the boy of the house you know, A jolly and rollicking lad, He was never tired and never sick, And nothing could make him sad. If he started to play at sunrise, Not a rest would he take at noon; No day was so long from beginning to end But his bed-time came too soon. Did some one urge that he make less noise, He would say with a saucy grin, “Why, one boy alone doesn’t make much stir— I’m sorry I isn’t a twin! “There’s two of twins—oh it must be fun To go double at everything, To holler by twos, and to run by twos, To whistle by twos, and to sing!” His laugh was something to make you glad, So brimful was it of joy, A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast, But it never troubled the boy. You met him out in the garden path, With the terrier at his heels, How happy a youngster feels. The maiden auntie was half distraught At his tricks, as the day went by, “The most mischievous child in the world!” She said, with a shrug and a sigh. His father owned that her words were true, And his mother declared each day Was putting wrinkles into her face, And was turning her brown hair grey. His grown-up sister referred to him As a trouble, a trial, a grief, “The way he ignored all rules,” she said, “Was something beyond belief.” But it never troubled the boy of the house, He revelled in clatter and din, And had only one regret in the world— That he hadn’t been born a twin. . . . . . . . . . . There’s nobody making a noise to-day, There’s nobody stamping the floor, There’s an awful silence up-stairs and down, There’s crape on the wide hall door. The terrier’s whining out in the sun— “Where’s my comrade?” he seems to say, Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog, There’s no frolic for you to-day. The freckle-faced girl from the house next door, Is sobbing her young heart out, Don’t cry little girl, you’ll soon forget To miss the laugh and the shout. The grown-up sister is kissing his face, And calling him “darling” and “sweet,” The maiden aunt is holding the shoes That he wore on his restless feet. How strangely quiet the little form, With the hands on the bosom crossed! Not a fold, not a flower out of place, Not a short curl rumpled and tossed! So solemn and still the big house seems— No laughter, no racket, no din, No startling shriek, no voice piping out, “I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!” There’s a man and a woman pale with grief, As the wearisome moments creep; Oh! the loneliness touches everything— The boy of the house is asleep. |
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