A Woman Named Smith

Sometimes my Little Girl.

When you were yet an Awful Baby, And bawled o' bed-time, I said "Maybe It is not best to spank or scold her: Suppose a fairy-tale were told her?" And gave you then, to my undoing, The wolf Red Riding-Hood pursuing; Sang Mother Goose her artless rhyming; Showed Jack the Magic Beanstalk climbing; Three Little Pigs were so appealing, You set up sympathetic squealing! Then, Bitsybet, you had your mother-- You bawled until I told another!

The Awful Baby's gone. Here lately You bear your little self sedately. You've shed your rompers; you want dresses Prinked out with frillies; fluff your tresses; Delight your daddy, aunts, and mother; And sisterly set straight your brother. Your bib-and-tucker days abolished, Your manners and your nails are polished. One baby trait remains, thank glory! You're still a glutton for a story. Still, Bitsybet, you beg another: So here's one for you from

YOUR MOTHER.