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- Love-Songs of Childhood - 6/10 -

And when I come at evening, I stand without the door And patiently I listen For that dear sound once more; And oftentimes I wonder, "Oh, God! what should I do If any ill should happen To my little Googly-Goo!"

Then in affright I call him - I hear his gleeful shouts! Begone, ye dread forebodings - Begone, ye killing doubts! For, with my arms about him, My heart warms through and through With the oogling and the googling Of my little Googly-Goo!


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 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 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?


When the busy day is done, And my weary little one Rocketh gently to and fro; When the night winds softly blow, And the crickets in the glen Chirp and chirp and chirp again; When upon the haunted green Fairies dance around their queen - Then from yonder misty skies Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Through the murk and mist and gloam To our quiet, cozy home, Where to singing, sweet and low, Rocks a cradle to and fro; Where the clock's dull monotone Telleth of the day that's done; Where the moonbeams hover o'er Playthings sleeping on the floor - Where my weary wee one lies Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Cometh like a fleeting ghost From some distant eerie coast; Never footfall can you hear As that spirit fareth near - Never whisper, never word From that shadow-queen is heard. In ethereal raiment dight, From the realm of fay and sprite In the depth of yonder skies Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Love-Songs of Childhood - 6/10

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