I WONDER ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an' concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmin fret an' stew Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- Frettin' a show or concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried?
Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there To see that everything is right; Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An' asks me every now an' then, "I wonder ef the baby cried"?
Seems like she seen two little eyes A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while; An' so she's sorry that she come. An' though she allus tries to hide The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum Than wonder ef the baby cried.
Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; There never wuz a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best. And nex' to bein' what I be-- The husband uv my gentle bride-- I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.
AFTER dear old grandma died, Hunting through an oaken chest In the attic, we espied What repaid our childish quest: 'Twas a homely little slate, Seemingly of ancient date.
On its quaint and battered face Was the picture of a cart Drawn with all that awkward grace Which betokens childish art. But what meant this legend, pray: "Homer drew this yesterday"?
Mother recollected then What the years were fain to hide: She was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died. Forty years, so mother said, Little Homer had been dead.
This one secret through those years Grandma kept from all apart, Hallowed by her lonely tears And the breaking of her heart; While each year that sped away Seemed to her but yesterday.
So the homely little slate Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, To a memory consecrate, Lieth in the oaken chest, Where, unwilling we should know, Grandma put it years ago.
DON'T take on so, Hiram, But do what you're told to do; It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows A heap sight more than you. I'll allow that sometimes _her_ way Don't seem the wisest, quite; But the _easiest_ way, When she's had her say, Is to reckon yer mother is right.