He's gone, and the child we are fond of Is back, just as nice as of old. But I hope to be in some port European The next time he has a bad cold. [Illustration] [Illustration] AN APPRECIATIVE AUDIENCE My son, I wish that it were half As easy to extract a laugh From grown-ups as from thee. Then I'd go on the stage, my boy, While Richard Carle and Eddie Foy Burned up with jealousy. I wouldn't have to rack my brain Or lie awake all night in vain Pursuit of brand new jokes; Nor fear my lines were heard with groans Of pain and sympathetic moans From sympathetic folks. I'd merely have to make a face, Just twist a feature out of place, And be the soul of wit; Or bark, and then pretend to bite, And, from the screams of wild delight, Be sure I'd made a hit. [Illustration] [Illustration] DISCIPLINE He couldn't have a doughnut, and it made him very mad; He undertook to get revenge by screaming at his dad. "Cut out that noise!" I ordered, and he gave another roar, And so I put him in "the room" and shut and locked the door. I left him in his prison cell two minutes, just about, And, penitent, he smiled at me when I did let him out. But when he got another look at the forbidden fruit He gave a yell that they could hear in Jacksonville or Butte. "Cut out that noise!" I barked again. "Cut out that foghorn stuff! Perhaps I didn't leave you in your prison long enough. "You want your dad to keep you jailed all afternoon, I guess." He smiled at me and answered his equivalent for "yes." [Illustration] [Illustration] INEXPENSIVE GUESTS I wonder how 'twould make you feel, My fellow food providers, To have as guests at ev'ry meal Three--count 'em, three--outsiders. Well, that's the case with me, but still I don't complain or holler, For, strange to say, the groc'ry bill Has not gone up a dollar. These guests of ours, to make it brief, Can't really chew or swallow; They're merely dolls, called Indian Chief, And Funny Man, and Rollo. [Illustration] [Illustration] HIS SENSE OF HUMOR Perhaps in some respects it's true That you resemble dad; To be informed I look like you Would never make me mad. But one thing I am sure of, son, You have a different line Of humor, your idea of fun Is not a bit like mine. You drop my slippers in the sink And leave them there to soak. That's very laughable, you think But I can't see the joke You take my hat outdoors with you And fill it full of earth; You seem to think that's witty, too, But I'm not moved to mirth. You open up the chicken-yard; Its inmates run a mile; You giggle, but I find it hard To force one-half a smile. No, kid, I fear your funny stuff, Though funny it may be, Is not quite delicate enough To make a hit with me. [Illustration]