LITTLE DORA’S SOLILOQUY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2369, 5 November 1881, Page 3

LITTLE DORA’S SOLILOQUY.

I tan’t see what our baby boy is dood for anyway; He don’t know how to walk or talk, he don’t know how to play ; He tears up ev’ry single zing he posser-billy tan, An’ even tried to break, one day, my mamma’s bestest fan. He’s allays tumblin’ bout ze floor, an’ gives us awful scares, An’ when he goes to bed at night he never says his prayers. On Sunday, too, he musses up my go-to-meetin’ clothes; An’ once I form’ him hard at work a pincin’ Dolly’s nose; An’ ze ozzer day zat naughty boy (now what s’pose you zink?) Upset a dreat big bottle of my papa’s writin’ ink; An’ ’stead of kying’ dood an’ hard, as course he ought to done, He laughed, and kicked his head ’most off, as zough he sought ’twas fun. He even tries to reach up high, an’ pull zings off ze shelf, An’ he’s al’ays wantin’ you, of course, jus’ when you wants you’selt, I rather dross, I really do, from home he pulls my turls, Zay all was made a purpose for to ’noy us little dirls; An’ I wish zere wasn’t no such zing as naughty baby boys— Why—why, zat’s him a-kyingnow ; he makes a droful noise, Ideas I better run and see, for ho has —boohoo! Felled down ze stairs and killed his self, whatever s-s-s’all I do ! —St. Nicholas.