Of daytimes he'd sneak to the road an' lie down, An' tackle the country dorgs comin' to town; By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe, For what he took hold of he never let go! An' a dude that come courtin' our girl left a slice Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce! He wuz good to us kids--when we pulled at his fur Or twisted his tail he would never demur; He seemed to enjoy all our play an' our chaff, For his tongue 'u'd hang out an' he'd laff an' he'd laff; An' once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice, He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce! We all hev our choice, an' you, like the rest, Allow that the dorg which you've got is the best; I wouldn't give much for the boy 'at grows up With no friendship subsistin' 'tween him an' a pup! When a fellow gits old--I tell you it's nice To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce! To think of the springtime 'way back in St. Joe-- Of the peach-trees abloom an' the daisies ablow; To think of the play in the medder an' grove, When little legs wrassled an' little han's strove; To think of the loyalty, valor, an' truth Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth! LITTLE MISS BRAG Little Miss Brag has much to say To the rich little lady from over the way And the rich little lady puts out a lip As she looks at her own white, dainty slip, And wishes that she could wear a gown As pretty as gingham of faded brown! For little Miss Brag she lays much stress On the privileges of a gingham dress-- "Aha, Oho!" The rich little lady from over the way Has beautiful dolls in vast array; Yet she envies the raggedy home-made doll She hears our little Miss Brag extol. For the raggedy doll can fear no hurt From wet, or heat, or tumble, or dirt! Her nose is inked, and her mouth is, too, And one eye's black and the other's blue-- "Aha, Oho!" The rich little lady goes out to ride With footmen standing up outside, Yet wishes that, sometimes, after dark Her father would trundle her in the park;-- That, sometimes, her mother would sing the things Little Miss Brag says her mother sings When through the attic window streams The moonlight full of golden dreams-- "Aha, Oho!" Yes, little Miss Brag has much to say To the rich little lady from over the way; And yet who knows but from her heart Often the bitter sighs upstart-- Uprise to lose their burn and sting In the grace of the tongue that loves to sing Praise of the treasures all its own! So I've come to love that treble tone-- "Aha, Oho!" THE HUMMING TOP