(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._

LITTLE MAMMA

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