He goes to walk with her and carries her muff And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun! And, oh, say! When they go to a play, He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late. He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; And all he's got for 'em 's a handkerchief case-- A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; But, my land! He thinks it's just grand, "'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint," And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't. 'Fore _I_ go an errand for her any time I jest make her coax me, and give me a dime; But that great, big silly--why, honest and true-- He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to. Oh, gee whiz! I tell you what 'tis! I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his. _I_ won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee! My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me! * * * * * "THE WIDDER CLARK" It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill, The wind comes down the chimbly with a whistle sharp and shrill, The dead leaves rasp and rustle in the corner by the shed, And the branches scratch and rattle on the skylight overhead. The cracklin' blaze is climbin' up around the old backlog, As we set by the fireplace here, myself and cat and dog; And as fer me, I'm thinkin', as the fire burns clear and bright, That it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night. It's bad enough fer me, b'gosh, a-pokin' round the place, With jest these two dumb critters here, and nary human face To make the house a home agin, same as it used ter be While mother lived, for she was 'bout the hull wide world ter me. My bein' all the son she had, we loved each other more-- That's why, I guess, I'm what they call a "bach" at forty-four. It's hard fer _me_ to set alone, but women folks--'t ain't right, And it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night. I see her t' other mornin', and, I swan, 't wa'n't later 'n six, And there she was, out in the cold, a-choppin' up the sticks To kindle fire fer breakfast, and she smiled so bright and gay, By gee, I simply couldn't bear ter see her work that way! Well, I went in and chopped, I guess, enough ter last a year, And she said "Thanks," so pretty, gosh! it done me good ter hear! She do'n't look over twenty-five, no, not a single mite; Ah, hum! it must be lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.