Oh! listen, little children, to a proper little song

Of a naughty little urchin who was always doing wrong:

He disobey'd his mammy, and he disobey'd his dad,

And he disobey'd his uncle, which was very near as bad.

He wouldn't learn to cipher, and he wouldn't learn to write,

But he would tear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite;

And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way,

That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.

At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive

To cure him of a theory that two and two made five

And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked whims

By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns.

Instead of all such pretty books, (which must improve the mind,)

He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind;

Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly,

And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when nobody was by.

From such a course of reading you can easily divine

The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine.

His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse,

Till it scandalised his governess and horrified his nurse.

He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear,

And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near:

The chill November day was done,
The working world home faring;
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas-lights flaring;
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying;
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying.
And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four, or over;
No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,
And wind blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She cherished in her wee, cold hand,
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other:
Half scared, half confidential, said,
"Oh! please, I want my mother!"
"Tell me your street and number, pet:
Don't cry, I'll take you to it."
Sobbing she answered, "I forget:
The organ made me do it.
"He came and played at Milly's steps,
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
The monkey was so funny.
I've walked about a hundred hours,
From one street to another:
The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers,
Oh! please, I want my mother."
"But what's your mother's name? and what
The street? Now think a minute."
"My mother's name is mamma dear—
The street—I can't begin it."
"But what is strange about the house,
Or new—not like the others?"
"I guess you mean my trundle-bed,
Mine and my little brother's.
"Oh dear! I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers,—
He's such a baby he forgets;
And we are both such players;—
And there's a bar to keep us both
From pitching on each other,
For Harry rolls when he's asleep:
Oh dear! I want my mother."
The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muffled, homeward faring:
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
I said at last, despairing,
I tied a kerchief round her neck—
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
"Why don't you know!" she smiling, said,
And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street, and name;
My eyes astonished met it;
"For," said the little one, "you see
I might sometimes forget it:
And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it;
For mother says she's very sure
I should get lost without it."

Eliza Sproat Turner.

I haf von funny leedle poy,
Vot comes schust to mine knee;
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He get der measles und der mumbs
And eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese—
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der schticks to beat it mit—
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vere dere plaze goes vrom her lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse.
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?
I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
But ven he vas aschleep in ped
So guiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

Charles Follen Adams.

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin—
(Good Heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air—
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub—but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint—
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life
(He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above!)

Thomas Hood.

Why is it the children don't love me
As they do Mamma?
That they put her ever above me—
"Little Mamma?"
I'm sure I do all that I can do,
What more can a rather big man do,
Who can't be Mamma—
Little Mamma?
Any game that the tyrants suggest,
"Logomachy,"—which I detest,—
Doll-babies, hop-scotch, or baseball,
I'm always on hand at the call.
When Noah and the others embark,
I'm the elephant saved in the ark.
I creep, and I climb, and I crawl—
By turns am the animals all.
For the show on the stair
I'm always the bear,
Chimpanzee, camel, or kangaroo.
It is never, "Mamma,—
Little Mamma,—
Won't you?"

My umbrella's the pony, if any—
None ride on Mamma's parasol:
I'm supposed to have always the penny
For bonbons, and beggars, and all.
My room is the one where they clatter—
Am I reading, or writing, what matter!
My knee is the one for a trot,
My foot is the stirrup for Dot.
If his fractions get into a snarl
Who straightens the tangles for Karl?
Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine,
And tries to bound flimsy old Spain?
Why,
It is I,
Papa,—
Not Little Mamma!
That the youngsters are ingrates don't say.
I think they love me—in a way—
As one does the old clock on the stair,—
Any curious, cumbrous affair
That one's used to having about,
And would feel rather lonely without.
I think that they love me, I say,
In a sort of a tolerant way;
But it's plain that Papa
Isn't Little Mamma.
Thus when twilight comes stealing anear,
When things in the firelight look queer;
And shadows the playroom enwrap,
They never climb into my lap
And toy with my head, smooth and bare,
As they do with Mamma's shining hair;
Nor feel round my throat and my chin
For dimples to put fingers in;
Nor lock my neck in a loving vise,
And say they're "mousies"—that's mice—
And will nibble my ears,
Will nibble and bite
With their little mice-teeth, so sharp and so white,
If I do not kiss them this very minute—
Don't-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it—
Dear little Papa!
That's what they say and do to Mamma.
If, mildly hinting, I quietly say that
Kissing's a game that more can play at,
They turn up at once those innocent eyes,
And I suddenly learn to my great surprise
That my face has "prickles"—
My moustache tickles.
If, storming their camp, I seize a pert shaver,
And take as a right what was asked as a favor,
It is, "Oh, Papa,
How horrid you are—
You taste exactly like a cigar!"
But though the rebels protest and pout,
And make a pretence of driving me out,
I hold, after all, the main redoubt,—
Not by force of arms nor the force of will,
But the power of love, which is mightier still.
And very deep in their hearts, I know,
Under the saucy and petulant "Oh,"
The doubtful "Yes," or the naughty "No,"
They love Papa.
And down in the heart that no one sees,
Where I hold my feasts and my jubilees,
I know that I would not abate one jot
Of the love that is held by my little Dot
Or my great big boy for their little Mamma,
Though out in the cold it crowded Papa.
I would not abate it the tiniest whit,
And I am not jealous the least little bit;
For I'll tell you a secret: Come, my dears,
And I'll whisper it—right-into-your-ears—
I, too, love Mamma,
Little Mamma!

Charles Henry Webb.

There was a child, as I have been told,
Who when she was young didn't look very old.
Another thing, too, some people have said,
At the top of her body there grew out a head;
And what perhaps might make some people stare
Her little bald pate was all covered with hair.
Another strange thing which made gossipers talk,
Was that she often attempted to walk.
And then, do you know, she occasioned much fun
By moving so fast as sometimes to run.
Nay, indeed, I have heard that some people say
She often would smile and often would play.
And what is a fact, though it seems very odd,
She had monstrous dislike to the feel of a rod.
This strange little child sometimes hungry would be
And then she delighted her victuals to see.
Even drink she would swallow, and though strange it appears
Whenever she listened it was with her ears.
With her eyes she could see, and strange to relate
Her peepers were placed in front of her pate.
There, too, was her mouth and also her nose,
And on her two feet were placed her ten toes.
Her teeth, I've been told, were fixed in her gums,
And beside having fingers she also had thumbs.
A droll child she therefore most surely must be,
For not being blind she was able to see.
One circumstance more had slipped from my mind
Which is when not cross she always was kind.
And, strangest of any that yet I have said,
She every night went to sleep on her bed.
And, what may occasion you no small surprise,
When napping, she always shut close up her eyes.

M. Pelham.

"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy,
"Pomegrantes pink," says Elaine;
"A junket of cream and a cranberry tart
For me," says Jane.
"Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy,
"Primroses pale," says Elaine;
"A nosegay of pinks and mignonette
For me," says Jane.
"Chariots of gold," says Timothy,
"Silvery wings," says Elaine;
"A bumpety ride in a waggon of hay
For me," says Jane.

Walter Ramal.