Beard And Baby
I
say,
as
one
who
never
feared
The
wrath
of
a
subscriber's
bullet,
I
pity
him
who
has
a
beard
But
has
no
little
girl
to
pull
it!
When
wife
and
I
have
finished
tea,
Our
baby
woos
me
with
her
prattle,
And,
perching
proudly
on
my
knee,
She
gives
my
petted
whiskers
battle.
With
both
her
hands
she
tugs
away,
While
scolding
at
me
kind
o'
spiteful;
You'll
not
believe
me
when
I
say
I
find
the
torture
quite
delightful!
No
other
would
presume,
I
ween,
To
trifle
with
this
hirsute
wonder,
Else
would
I
rise
in
vengeful
mien
And
rend
his
vandal
frame
asunder!
But
when
her
baby
fingers
pull
This
glossy,
sleek,
and
silky
treasure,
My
cup
of
happiness
is
full
-
I
fairly
glow
with
pride
and
pleasure!
And,
sweeter
still,
through
all
the
day
I
seem
to
hear
her
winsome
prattle
-
I
seem
to
feel
her
hands
at
play,
As
though
they
gave
me
sportive
battle.
Yes,
heavenly
music
seems
to
steal
Where
thought
of
her
forever
lingers,
And
round
my
heart
I
always
feel
The
twining
of
her
dimpled
fingers!
