My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three,
And handsome and strong as a feller can be;
And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small,
You never would think she could boss him at all;
But, my jing!
She do'n't do a thing
But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string!
It jest makes me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know,
To think that he'll let a girl bully him so.

He goes to walk with her and carries her muff
And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff;
She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton;
And, honest, he likes it,—as if it was fun!
And, oh, say!
When they go to a play,
He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away,
And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight,
And then she'll scold him 'cause they get there so late.

He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things,
Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings;
And all he's got for 'em 's a handkerchief case—
A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace;
But, my land!
He thinks it's just grand,
"'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand";
He calls her "an angel"—I heard him—and "saint,"
And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"—but she ain't.

'Fore I go an errand for her any time
I jest make her coax me, and give me a dime;
But that great, big silly—why, honest and true—
He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to.
Oh, gee whiz!
I tell you what 'tis!
I jest think it's awful—those actions of his.
I won't fall in love, when I'm grown—no sir-ee!
My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!