from Maggie Smith

Animal Crackers

Animal crackers, and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers, I think;
When I'm grown up and can have what I please,
I think I shall always insist upon these.
What do you choose when you're offered a treat?
When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
It's cocoa and animals that I love the most!
The kitchen's the coziest place that I know:
The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,
And there in the twilight, how jolly to see
The cocoa and animals waiting for me.
Daddy and Mother dine later in state,
With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;
But they don't have nearly as much fun as I
Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

Guilty Or Not Guilty

She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild;
In form, too small for a woman,
In features, too old for a child,
For a look, so worn, and pathetic,
Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering,
Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the Judge, as he eyed her,
With a kindly look, yet keen,
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."
"And your age?" "I'm turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary," and from a paper he slowly and gravely read.
"Y ou are charged here, I am sorry to say it,
With stealing three loaves of bread.
You don't look like an old offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge is false- Now tell me
Are you guilty of this or no?"

A passionate burst of weeping was,
at first, her sole reply,
But she dried her tears in a moment
and looked in the judge's eye.
"I will tell you just how it was, sir,
My father and mother are dead,
and my little brothers and sisters were hungry,
and asked me for bread.

At first I earned it for them,
by working hard all day,
But somehow the times grew hard, sir,
and work all fell away.
I could get no more employment,
the weather was bitter cold,
The little ones cried and shivered,
Little Johnnie's but four years old.

So what was I to do, sir,
I am guilty, but do not condemn,
I took, (O God was it stealing)
the bread to give to them.
one so learned in such matters,
so wise in dealing with men,
seemed on a simple sentence,
sorely puzzled just then.

Everyone in the courtroom,
grey-bearded and thoughtless youth,
Knew as they looked upon her,
that the prisoner spoke the truth.
Out from their pockets came handkerchiefs,
out from their eyes came tears,
And out from old, faded wallets,
treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study,
the strangest ever you saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured
something about the law.
For one so learned in such matters,

 So wise in dealing with men,

 He seemed on a simple question 

Sorely puzzled just then. 

But no one blamed him, or wondered, 

When at last these words they heard, 

"The sentence of this young prisoner 

Is for the present deferred." 

And no one blamed him, or wondered, 

When he went to her and smiled, 

And tenderly led from the court-room, 

Himself, the "guilty" child.

-Anonymous

Boy Or Girl

Some folks pray for a boy, and some
For a golden-haired little girl to come.
Some claim to think there is more of joy
Wrapped up in the smile of a little boy,
While others pretend that the silky curls
And plump, pink cheeks of the little girls
Bring more of bliss to the old home place
Than a small boy's queer little freckled face.
Now which is better, I couldn't say
If the Lord should ask me to choose to-day;
If He should put in a call for me,
And say: "Now, what shall your order be,
A boy or girl: I have both in store,
Which of the two are you waiting for?"
I'd say with one of my broadest grrins:
"Send either one, if it can't be twins."
I've heard it said to some people's shame
They cried with grief when a small boy came,

For they wanted a girl.
And some folks I know
Who wanted a boy just took on so,
When a girl was sent.
But it seems to me
That mothers and fathers should happy be
To think when 'the stork has come and gone
That the Lord would trust them with either one.
Boy or girl? There can be no choice;
There's something lovely in either voice,
And all that I ask the Lord to do
Is to see that the Mother comes safely through,
And guard the baby and have it well,
With a perfect form, and a healthy yell,
And a pair of eyes, and a shock of hair
The boy or girl-and its dad won't care.

-Edgar A. Guest

A Father's Confession To His Son

Listen, Son:
I am saying this to you as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a hot, stifling wave of remorse swept over me. I could not resist it. Guiltily I came to your bedside. These are the things I was thinking, son:
I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when I found you had thrown some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a little hand and called, "Goodbye!" and I frowned, and said, "Hold your shoulders back."
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the hill road I spied you down on your knees playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your friends by making you march ahead of me back to the house. Stockings were expensive -and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father! It was such stupid, silly logic.
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in, softly, timidly, with a sort of hurt, hunted look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across, in one tempestuous plunge; and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, again and again, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God has set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. Suddenly I saw myself as I really was, in all my horrible selfishness, and I felt sick at heart.
What had habit been doing to me? The habit of complaining, of finding fault, of reprimanding-all of these were my rewards to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you, it was that I expected so much of youth. I was measuring' you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good, and fine, and true in your character. You did hot deserve my treatment of you, son. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. All this was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, so I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, choking with emotion, and so ashamed! It is a feeble atonement. I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours, yet I must say what I am saying. I must burn sacrificial fires alone, here in your bedroom, and make free confession. And I have prayed God to strengthen me in my new resolve. Tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer and laugh when you laugh. I'll be a real daddy.

-Author unknown.

Kittens and Babies

There were two little kittens, a black and a gray

And grandmama said, with a frown,
"It will never do to keep them both,
The black one we'd better drown."

"Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess
"One kitten's enough to keep;
Now, run to nurse, for it is growing late
And time you were fast asleep.

The morrow dawned, rosy and sweet
Came little Bess from her nap
The nurse said, "Go on down to momma's room
And look in grandmas lap."

"Come here," said grandma, with a smile,
from the rocking-chair where she sat,
"God has sent you two little sisters;
Now! What do you think about that?"

Bess looked at the babies a moment,
with their wee heads, yellow and brown,
And then to grandma soberly said,
"Which one are you going to drown?"

His Dream

Papa (at the breakfast - table): "Willie, my boy, why are you looking so thoughtful? Are you not feeling well?"
Willie (very seriously): "Yes, papa; but I had a strange dream this morning."
Papa: "Indeed? What was it?"
 Willie: "I dreamed, papa, that I died and went to heaven; and when St. Peter met me at the gate, instead of showing me the way to the golden street, as I expected, he took me out into a large field, and in the middle of the field there was a ladder reaching- away up into the sky and out of sight. Then St. Peter told me that heaven was at the top, and that in order to get there I must take the big piece of chalk he gave me.and slowly climb the ladder, writing on each rung some sin I had committed."
Papa (laying down his newspaper): "And did you finally reach heaven, my son?"
Willie! "No, papa, for just as I was trying to think of something to write on the second rung I looked up into the sky and saw you coming down."
Papa: "And what was I coming down for, pray?"
Willie: "That's just what I asked you, papa, and you told me you were going for more chalk."

I Wanted a Drinik

TIME: 2 A. M.
"MA, I want a drink!"
"Hush, darling; turn and go to sleep."
"I want a drink! "
"No, you are restless. Turn over, dear, and go to sleep."
-(After five minutes.)
 "Ma, I want.a drink!"
 "Lie still, Ethel, and go to sleep."
"But I want a drink!"
"No, you don't want a drink; you had a drink just before you went to bed. Now be still and go right to sleep."
"I do, too, want a drink!"
"Don't let me speak to you again, child, go to sleep."
(After five minutes.) "Ma, won't you please give me a drink?"
"If you say another word I'll get up and spank you. Now go to sleep. You are a naughty girl."
(After two mimutes.) "Ma, when you get up to spank me will you give me a drink?"

Fanfare For Janet

Let Abyssinian kings be meek,
Let dime store queens be humble,
Let brave policemen cease to seek
For hunted men. Ah, stumble,
You haughty matrons, pouter-pigeon
Chested; ah, grave preachers,
Smile and be gay in your religion;
You sober-visaged teachers,
Let routine pause. Clerks, cold as clams,
Stand silent in your doors;
Messengers carrying telegrams,
Go softly on your chores:
For here she comes, her majesty
Queenly and grave and mild
So dark of hair, so blue of eye,
My own, my youngest child:
A regal baby, fine and good,
Wearing a fuzzy woolen hood!

LEONA AMES HILL.

If It Be A Daughter

Teach her to be as gentle
As the dew of dawn
Settling on a blade of grass.
Show her the grandeur in a ragged leaf
And in a winding road,
And in a single star.

Teach her to be forgiving
Tolerant, kind,
For kindness is lovelier
Than any glittering gown,
Or any silver slipper.

Show her the greatness of all
Simple things and the majesty
Of a roaring, foaming, sea.
Place in her hands
The shining threads
With which to weave ideals
And with which to bind securely
The love of life
Given her by you.

Teach her that if she would be great,
She would make fine use of common things. . .
A tiny house with curtains,
A fireplace, a grate of cinders,
A kitchen, and a man and child.

Give to her the knowledge
You have gained,
From singing winds and bending trees
And wistful smiles.

Show her the sparkle of
The yet uncovered diamond
In a dreamed-of scheme.

Point out to her the sun behind a cloud
 That she may never cry to God:
"You did not hear!"

Give her a belief in books.
Though they be but paper and worn
And of cracked binding.

For if she would know peace in spirit
And in heart,
She would read with all the eagerness
 Of a flower, forcing its bloom
Up, above the earth.
And lastly,
Teach her to live as quietly
As the magic passing of the moon
Over a smooth, clear space of sky.

JULIA B. COHAN.

Crossing Bridges (To a five-year-old daughter)

Now, you are five and I am-well,
To you-as old as God and Time.
With deep humility and prayer
To keep your faith in me sublime,
I answer all your questionings
Of birds and bees and clouds and trees,
Your hows and whens and whys and wheres
And all about the brown Chinese.
Your wide, dark eyes with wonder glow
And rapture as we talk about
The stars and God and baby bugs
But never with a spark of doubt.
My prayers are ten years in advance
against that hour when you arise
And close a door and shut me out
And find that you, not I, are wise.

ALICE WADDELL PORTIS.

A Change Of Clothing

A timid wee thing brushed his shoulder
And kept her place at his side;
She was slender and frail and not older
Than her school-girl dress implied.

He was forty and fat and married;
She guided him into the store.
Proud and possessive, he tarried
While she changed the dull clothing she wore

For garments that pointed the fashion.
He was forty and fat-and he paid!
But his lips were untouched by passion
While she suffered his kiss, unafraid.

She accepted the clothing he bought her,
But fault is hard to find;
For she was the man's own daughter;
And the evil all in your mind.

LABAN JOHNSTON.

Fourteen

Today, she brushed her little golden curls
And pinned them high with a fancy jeweled pin;
She wasn't hungry at the dinner hour,
But blushed and said she'd had an ice cream cone;
And when I met her eyes, above a note,
She looked out through the window and just said,
"Oh, it's a letter from a boy named Joe."
She strolled about and spoke with strange, new air
"Let's get new curtains for the living room!"
A sad and poignant beauty haunts her eyes,
And smiles and tears are often close akin;
O God, don't let her leave my side just yet
She is so young-but in her face there lies
The fleeting fragrance of the spring's first flowers.

EDYTHE HOPE GENEE.

Aside to Mothers

That half-grown, bashful son of yours
How could you know
That to the little girl next door
He's Romeo?
Or that her rosy, childish face
Seems to your boy
Like one which launched a thousand ships
To ravage Troy?

BEULAH RIDGEWAY WINANS.

My Daughter

She is proud as wild things are,
Quick, and much more fearless;
Curb and bridle, let her be,
Days, leave her tearless.

I would keep her whimsical,
Life a jest to her;
Let her laugh; she has but seen
Her fifteenth summer.

Let her feel the world is hers
Peaks and wild wings waiting.
Sorrow, let no shadow fall,
Wisdom, cease your prating.

FRANCES WHITE.

Just Five

What an odd assortment of shrines you've knelt before in your small, brief span.

First it was water. Why, that first year I didn't dare let you in the bathroom or near a hydrant alone.
And when it rained! In spite of locks and chains you got out and were as hard to catch as a small, wet eel.
Then at two you discovered dogs. So much as let you out the door and all the dogs in all the land collected at your heels.
At three you became an Indian fighter. Me, the chairs, the window shades, the divan still bear scars of that assault.
At four you joined the G-men. Never satisfied with less than best Mr. Hoover became your all-consuming hero.
What a devout and earnest disciple you can be-but, then, when some new cause claims your heart, what a complete and cruel deserter.
So now it's cowboys, Autry and Rogers: Boot heels clack through the house, a broom-stick Champ upsets the chairs, the lamps.
Doors slam, pistol shots disturb the neighbors, rip through the startled air, as you chase outlaws galore.
Then when tired, as now, you turn the dial to a hillbilly band and in high treble join "She's Comin' Round the Mountain"
Beating time on a broken-string guitar as big as you, tapping one high heel as you've seen the real ones do.
Such a funny, earnest picture sitting there; big hat pushed back, red hair in disarray, a dozen freckles across your nose;
Battle-scarred dungarees, run-over heels, turned-up toes, kerchief of yellow, shirt of blue-a miniature Spencer Tracy gone buckaroo.

ELLA A. DUNCAN.

Dilettante

He knows that every woman there

Will turn impulsively to stare
As he strolls in, though men with whom
He stands so slight fill all the room.
His lively step, his merry eyes
Mark him as one whose day defies
All heavy care, each bright hour flung
Away in joie de vivre. Among
The hand-wrought glass he walks with ease,
 Prefers to toy with it than to please
The anxious ones who would divert
His mind to sounder topics. Alert
To smiles, he shows his lack of learning
By looking on the crowd, then turning

Toward the one whose jewels glitter-dance,
While she displays them for his glance
And words, whose depth she hopes to find.
Why is it women of clear mind
Will shed all pride in such pursuit,
And great men bend for that small fruit
His pleasure and approval hold?
The reason is, he's three years old.

E. M. WILKINS.

Physical Law

Little boys and cookie jars
Gravitate together.
Separate them by a shelf
It's a question whether
It will be a stool or chair
For the best ascent,
Or the jar hooked off the edge
"By an accident."
Little boys and cookie jars
Magnetize each other.
You won't find it in a book;
But just ask any mother!

ESTHER BALDWIN YORK.

Disguise

My Daddy sed 'at Santa Claus
Won't bring no toys this year because
He's down in a big hold an' dead.
He sed 'at men jist burned his sled
An' turned his reindeers loose because
There jist arnt no more Santa Claus.
An' then he sed, "What will you do?"

An' I was mighty awful blue,
I sed, "I feel like jist to die
An' go to bed an' cryan' cry,
But I jist won't, "
 " You dress in red
An' play like you was him instead."

ERVIN R. STOKER.

Circus Day

"He promised me
Whatever happened,
We would go, we three."
She said.

And facing blue reproachful eyes,
I prayed-
"Dear God, help me to keep
The promise that he made."

Why had it come today?
Bright gilded wagons, elephants and clowns,
A circus band that loudly played,
Passing a new clay mound, rose-strewn.

"Dear God, you'll make him understand
Just that I kept his promise, and saved
Her happiness; and he will know how great her love
That planted blue and yellow toy balloons upon his grave."

ANNA BOONE ROBERTSON.