WHO WOULD NOT BE A BOY?
Reading edition
All Things Considered, He Is a Lucky Little Mortal, Though Perhaps He Does Not Always Realize It Until He Has Passed That Age “When Thought Is Speech, and Speech Is Truth.”
THE BOY.
By W. H. Pierce.
I wouldn’t be a single thing on earth
Except a boy;
And it’s just an accident of birth
That I’m a boy;
And, goodness gracious! When I stop and think
That I once trembled on the very brink
Of making my appearance here a girl
It fairly makes my ears and eyebrows curl—
But I’m a boy.
Just think of all the jolly fun there is
When you’re a boy!
I tell you, you’re just full of business
When you’re a boy.
There’s fires to build in all the vacant lots.
Go swimmin’, tie the fellers’ clothes in knots,
Tie tin-cans on the tails of dogs—why, gee!
The days ain’t half as long as they should be
When you’re a boy.
There’s lots of foolish things that make you tired
When you’re a boy;
There’s heaps of grouchy men that can’t be hired
To like a boy;
There’s wood to chop at home, and coal to bring,
And “Here, do this—do that—the other thing!”
And, worse than all, there’s girls—oh, holy smoke!
Are they a crime, or are they just a joke
Upon a boy?
And then, there’s always somebody to jaw
When you’re a boy—
Somebody always laying down the law
To every boy;
“Pick up your coat; see where you’ve put your hat;
Don’t stone the dog, don’t tease the poor old cat;
Don’t race around the house”—why, suffrin’ Moses!
The only time you have to practise things like those is
When you’re a boy!
And yet, I don’t believe I’d change a thing
For any boy;
You’ve got to laugh, to cry, to work, to sing,
To be a boy;
With all his thoughtless noise and care less play,
With all his heartfelt trials day by day,
With all his boyish hopes and all his fears,
I’d like to live on earth a thousand years
And be a boy.
Chicago Times-Herald.
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SONG OF THE MODERN ATONEMENT
By J. W. Foley.
Sumtimes i wisht i was a pirut so
i woodunt hafftoo go to skool uno
but fli mi skulankroasboans in the breez
ann berry awl mi treashur in the seez
neer sum lost iland ann sum uther day
ide kum ann dive fore it ann bare away
the spannish dubloons i had hidd ann ther
go back to the old town i livd in wenn
i was a boy ann settul down ann sho
um awl i am not prowd ur sweld uno.
then i wood bi the teecher a noo dres
fore she wood nede it badd enuf i gess
ann fownd a norfens hoam ann sel iskream
fore onley wott it kost ann it wood seam
a parradice on urth ann every day
ide give beafstake ann bukweet flower away
too awl the poor ann wenn thay past the hatt
ide dropp a hundered dollur bil in thatt
too maik the preecher gladd ann help him bi
owr way to thoas brite manshuns in the ski.
ann aftur wile i wood repent mi dedes
bi dooen things wich everybuddy nedes
ann spennden mi ilgoten welth to fownd
sum collidges with statchoos awl arownd
ann hayv a littul munney left soze i
woant be a popper wenn i kum too di.
then i wood urn foargivness fore mi past
ann be content to no thatt now at last
ime dooen good ann trien to atoan
fore dedes i did wile aftur welth aloan.
Saturday Evening Post.
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ADAM: THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS A BOY.
Of all the men the world has seen
Since Time his rounds began,
There’s one I pity every day—
Earth’s first and foremost man;
Just think of all the fun he missed
By failing to enjoy
The dear delights of youthtime,
For—he never was a boy.
He never stubbed his naked toe
Against a root or stone,
He never with a pin-hook fished
For minnows all alone;
He never sought the bumblebee
Among the daisies coy,
Nor felt its business end,
Because—he never was a boy.
He never hookey played, nor tied
A bright and shining pail,
Down in the alley all alone,
To a trusting poodle’s tail.
And when he home from swimmin’ came,
His pleasure to destroy
No slipper interfered,
Because—he never was a boy.
He might remember splendid times
In Eden’s bowers—yet
He never acted Romeo
To a six-year Juliet.
He never sent a valentine
Intended to annoy
His good but maiden aunt,
Because—he never was a boy.
He never cut a kite string, no,
Nor hid an Easter egg;
He never spoiled his pantaloons
A playin’ mumbley-peg.
He never from the attic stole
A ‘coon-hunt to enjoy,
Nor found the “old man” waiting,
For—he never was a boy.
I pity him, why should I not?
I even drop a tear;
He never knew how much he missed;
He never will, I fear.
And always when those dear old days
My memories employ,
I pity him, earth’s only man
Who—never was a boy.
Pittsburgh Dispatch.
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THE BOY WHO LIVES NEXT DOOR.
By S. E. Kiser.
The boy who lives next door
Has freckles on his face;
His ears are red and hang
Away out into space,
And when I hear a dog ki-yi
And see it flee in terror, I
Can quickly guess the cause—
’Tis merely that one more
Poor little victim knows
A boy resides next door.
He runs across the lawn
I’ve nursed with jealous care,
And, in the summer-time,
Knocks down the flowers there!
It seems to give him pure delight
To yell around with all his might,
And every week or so
A pebble finds its way
Against a light of glass
For which I have to pay.
He has no teeth in front,
His hands are cracked and brown,
Twice he has nearly burned
Our summer kitchen down!
He calls to people, “Hey! Watch out!”
And when they jump he whoops about—
I used to think if God
Would take him from below
Up to the sky I’d try
To bravely bear the blow!
The little child whose love
Is all to me, one day
Was stricken suddenly
When I was far away—
The boy who lives next door forgot
To yell around, but ran and brought
The doctor to the bed,
And when I came, at last
Shrank from me with a look
Of pity as I passed!
The boy who lives next door
Brought in his tops and gun,
And pocketfuls of trash
To please our little one;
He played beside my darling’s bed,
Turned cartwheels, and stood on his head
And God was good to me—
Let’s wait awhile before
We utterly condemn
“The boy who lives next door!”
Old scrap book.