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342 BABY IS KING.
How I smote Bumble-bee with my kerchief,
And tore up the lily he stole ! But was glad, all the while, to remember
Wee Hum-bird had never a soul.
��BABY IS KING.
A ROSE-CURTAINED cradle, Where, nestled within Soft cambric and flannel, Lie pounds seventeen, Is the throne of a. tyrant ; . That pink little thing Is an autocrat august, For Baby is king.
Good, solemn grandfather
Dares hardly to speak Or walk, lest the sleeper
Should hear his boots creak ; Grandma is a martyr
In habits and cap, W T hich the monarch unsettles
As well as her nap.
Papa, wise and mighty, Just home from the House,
Grows meek on the threshold, And moves like a mouse
�� �
