Page 34 - Poetry-Family

Nor feel round my throat and my chin
For dimples to put fingers in;
Nor lock my neck in a loving vise
And say they’re “mousies”—that’s mice
And will nibble my ears,
Will nibble and bite
With their little mice-teeth, so sharp and so white,
If I do not kiss them this very minute
Don’t-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it. —
Dear little papa!
That’s what they say and do to mamma.
If, mildly hinting, I quietly say that
Kissing’s a game that more can play at,
They turn up at once those innocent eyes
And I suddenly learn to my great surprise
That my face has “prickles”—
My mustache tickles.
If storming their camp I seize a pert shaver,
And take as a right what was asked as a favor,
It is, “O Papa,
How horrid you are—
You taste exactly like a cigar!”
But though the rebels protest and pout,
And make a pretense of driving me out,
I hold, after all, the main redoubt,—
Not by force of arms nor the force of will,
But the power of love, which is mightier still.
And very deep in their hearts, I know,
Under the saucy and petulant “Oh,”
The doubtful “Yes,” or the naughty “No,”
They love papa.

And down in the heart that no one sees,
Where I hold my feasts and my jubilees,
I know that I would not abate one jot
Of the love that is held by my little Dot
Or my great big boy for their little mamma,
Though out in the cold it crowded papa.
I would not abate it the tiniest whit,
And I am not jealous the least little bit;
For I’ll tell you a secret: Come, my dears,

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