Now Marjory is seven years, And I am nine and more. We went a-strolling after cream Into a Flatbush store. The handsome clerk said “Ladies, yes, I’ll serve you with a rush.” He looked so very scrumptious that We both began to blush. He smiled at us, we smiled at him. And then we went away: We were so captivated, yes, That we forgot to pay. Of course we could have sauntered back, And settled, don’t you see, But oh, we could not stain romance With monetary fee. WHAT EVERY GIRL KNOWS In my bedroom, in my boudoir, There’s a box I ope no more; It is packed with all my treasures From the ten cent store. Saturday, a longing seizes-- Grips me so I scarce can speak, And I ask for my allowance, Mostly thirty cents a week. Then I call on Margie Lynam, And we hasten from the door; And we go inspecting counters In the ten cent store. We get flushed most every visit When we lay our money down; There are no expert advisors-- Mr. Woolworth’s out of town. Homeward, purchases we carry, And examine them with care; Then we pile them in the play-box, And we always leave them there. Riches never will be ours, We have said it o’er and o’er, Till they make things all “One Dollar” In the ten cent store. JEALOUSY Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! See the bobbed-head riding On the bob-tailed car. Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! I saw a big girl staring at my Pa. She was standing in the corner, she was turning in her toes. She must have been a senior--by the powder on her nose. Her hair was bobbed and blond-like and she was someone’s pet, But I went into action with the battlefield all set. Rah! Rah! Flatbush! my mother wasn’t there, But some papas are rather young and need a daughter’s care. And that is why in Flatbush we have organized a guard, Made up of little daughters of the men who work so hard. Some day, of course, I will mature and know a little more, But now I am content to be my mother’s Signal Corps. And mother knows when I go out with Pa, things are O. K., For I belong to the Flatbush Guards--we don’t let father stray. Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! I hold on to father’s hand When we go very far. Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! See the bobbed-head riding on the bob-tailed car. MOTHER’S BONNET This is her bonnet, with ribbons arrayed, Clearly a calico ambuscade; It dates from the days of the bricks of straw-- This is the bonnet my mother wore. This is the bonnet my mother donned When she walked with a youth by Plymouth Pond; ’Twas the night she wore her beads of jade, And father fell into the ambuscade. This is the bonnet I found in a chest, Daisies and bows in a lavender nest; It looks like the plumes the Persians wore, But it must have had wonderful power to draw. THE RAG BAG