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The Brute
Young Wife. "I told you you'd suffer for eating that stovepipe."
He. "Oh! oh! 'Twasn't the pipe,—oh!—'twas the pie you made for dinner!"
Bein' Sick
WHEN I am really sick abed
It isn't ever any fun.
I feel all achy in my head
An' hate to take my medisun.
Th' sheets get stickyish an' hot,
But I am not allowed to kick
'Em off, er read, er talk a lot
When I am sick.
I hate for all the folks about
To come an' pat me on th' face
An' say, "Poor child, you'll soon be out,"
An' tiptoe all around th' place.
They go when I pretend to be
Asleep—I do it for a trick:
I don't like folks to pity me
When I am sick.
My mother's diff'runt—I don't care
If she sits by me once er twice
An' says, "Poor boy," an' smooths my hair;
She ain't just tryin' to be nice.
They bring warm squushy things to me
For meals, an' make me eat 'em quick.
I'm mis'ruble as I can be
When I am sick.
But when yer really sick abed
All th' fun is getting well.
Say! It's jolly, bein' fed,—
I c'n hardly ever tell
What tastes best. 'Most any food
Goes so fast I want t' lick
Th' plate. Stuff always tastes so good
When I've been sick.
I like it best when I can sit
All bundled in th' easy chair,
With all the windows raised a bit
To give the place a little air.
An' if a breeze comes now and then,
I tell y' what, it's pretty slick
Just t' smell outdoors again,
When I've been sick!
They put th' kittens on th' rug,
An' mother brings her sewin' in.
An' everythin's so nice an' snug
I sit an' look around an' grin.
An' then I get to countin' sheep,—
Or wond'rin' why th' clock should tick
In diff'runt ways. I like t' sleep
When I've been sick.
