HE fell in a puddle and muddied his dress,
He struck little Bob with a hammer, I guess;
He cut sister’s curls with a big pair of shears
And left ragged edges down over her ears;
He muddied the floor that was just scrubbed so clean,
He lighted a match near the canned gasoline,
He broke all his soldiers and smashed all his toys,
And yet we forgave him, for boys will be boys.

He singed the cat’s whiskers and cut off its tail
And then turned it loose with its discordant wail;
He dropped bread and jelly upon a big chair
And thought of it only when Aunty sat there;
He sheared the pet poodle one midwinter day,
His father is frantic, his mother is gray,
His Aunt and his Grandma protest at his noise,
And then all forgive him, for boys will be boys.

He clamors for cookies, for jelly and jam,
He shuts ne’er a door, but he gives it a slam,
He dabbles in paint, be it red, blue or green,
He loves to play hob with the sewing machine;
And then—well, he’s gone into trousers and vests,
For years must be passing and time never rests,
And some day we look at a picture—and then
We wish—strange it is—that we had him again.