Love-Songs of Childhood | Page 9

my little Googly-Goo!
THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE
Speakin' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce
Hed most o' the virtues, an'

nary a vice.
Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose
From
his predisposition to chronic repose;
But, rouse his ambition, he
couldn't be beat -
Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet!
Mos' dorgs hez some forte - like huntin' an' such,
But the sports o' the
field didn't bother him much;
Wuz just a plain dorg, an' contented to
be
On peaceable terms with the neighbors an' me;
Used to fiddle an'
squirm, and grunt "Oh, how nice!"
When I tickled the back of that
bench-legged fyce!
He wuz long in the bar'l, like a fyce oughter be;
His color wuz yaller
as ever you see;
His tail, curlin' upward, wuz long, loose, an' slim -

When he didn't wag it, why, the tail it wagged him!
His legs wuz so
crooked, my bench-legged pup
Wuz as tall settin' down as he wuz
standin' up!
He'd lie by the stove of a night an' regret
The various vittles an' things
he had et;
When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along,
He'd
lift up his voice in significant song -
You wondered, by gum! how
there ever wuz space
In that bosom o' his'n to hold so much bass!
Of daytimes he'd sneak to the road an' lie down,
An' tackle the
country dorgs comin' to town;
By common consent he wuz boss in St.
Joe,
For what he took hold of he never let go!
An' a dude that come
courtin' our girl left a slice
Of his white flannel suit with our
bench-legged fyce!
He wuz good to us kids - when we pulled at his fur
Or twisted his tail
he would never demur;
He seemed to enjoy all our play an' our chaff,

For his tongue 'u'd hang out an' he'd laff an' he'd laff;
An' once,
when the Hobart boy fell through the ice,
He wuz drug clean ashore
by that bench-legged fyce!
We all hev our choice, an' you, like the rest,
Allow that the dorg
which you've got is the best;
I wouldn't give much for the boy 'at

grows up
With no friendship subsistin' 'tween him an' a pup!
When
a fellow gits old - I tell you it's nice
To think of his youth and his
bench-legged fyce!
To think of the springtime 'way back in St. Joe -
Of the peach-trees
abloom an' the daisies ablow;
To think of the play in the medder an'
grove,
When little legs wrassled an' little han's strove;
To think of
the loyalty, valor, an' truth
Of the friendships that hallow the season
of youth!
LITTLE MISS BRAG
Little Miss Brag has much to say
To the rich little lady from over the
way
And the rich little lady puts out a lip
As she looks at her own
white, dainty slip,
And wishes that she could wear a gown
As pretty
as gingham of faded brown!
For little Miss Brag she lays much stress

On the privileges of a gingham dress -
"Aha,
Oho!"
The rich little lady from over the way
Has beautiful dolls in vast array;

Yet she envies the raggedy home-made doll
She hears our little
Miss Brag extol.
For the raggedy doll can fear no hurt
From wet, or
heat, or tumble, or dirt!
Her nose is inked, and her mouth is, too,

And one eye's black and the other's blue -
"Aha,
Oho!"
The rich little lady goes out to ride
With footmen standing up outside,

Yet wishes that, sometimes, after dark
Her father would trundle her
in the park; -
That, sometimes, her mother would sing the things

Little Miss Brag says her mother sings
When through the attic
window streams
The moonlight full of golden dreams -
"Aha,
Oho!"

Yes, little Miss Brag has much to say
To the rich little lady from over
the way;
And yet who knows but from her heart
Often the bitter
sighs upstart -
Uprise to lose their burn and sting
In the grace of the
tongue that loves to sing
Praise of the treasures all its own!
So I've
come to love that treble tone -
"Aha,
Oho!"
THE HUMMING TOP
The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song
To my dear little boy at play
-
Merrily singeth all day long,
As it spinneth and spinneth away.

And my dear little boy
He laugheth with joy
When he heareth the
monotone
Of that busy thing
That loveth to sing
The song that is
all its own.
Hold fast the string and wind it tight,
That the song be loud and clear;

Now hurl the top with all your might
Upon the banquette here;

And straight from the string
The joyous thing
Boundeth and
spinneth along,
And it whirrs and it chirrs
And it birrs and it purrs

Ever its pretty song.
Will ever my dear little boy grow old,
As some have grown before?

Will ever his heart feel faint and cold,
When he heareth the songs
of yore?
Will ever this toy
Of my dear little boy,
When the years
have worn away,
Sing sad and low
Of the long ago,
As it singeth
to me to-day?
LADY BUTTON-EYES
When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh
gently to and fro;
When