From time an infant draws first breath
And 'gins its virgin squaking,
Each mother proud, not saving one,
Translates all goos as talking.
This goo means this, a girr means that—
A new word every minute—
It yells! Says pa, "My dear, you're right,
There's surely something in it." (A pin, perhaps).
Milk-Latin talk lasts 'bout a year,
And then, strict truth I'm telling,
A plain "Mam-ma" may strike your ear—
In interim of yelling.
The next few years great strides are made;
Mamma is fair ecstatic,
For now it talks as good as dad—
'Cept 'course, it's not grammatic.
And then comes slang, and cussing, too—
If it's a boy, the latter—
But if a girl, the whole day through
It's giggle, chatter, chatter.
And now it's grown, and still it talks!
But will somebody answer:
How much is said that tends to help
Despondent fellow-man, sir?
And words of comfort, love and cheer
Are all not slow in giving?
Yet it's the joy we scatter here
That makes our lives worth living.
From birth till death it's talk, talk, talk!
But listen, please, and ponder:
What would it mean if speech meant thought?
Who would be dumb, I wonder?