XXII.

When I was tellin’ ma, two days ago, About our beautiful typewriter girl She dropped the dough and give a sudden whirl And said: “She's twic't as old as you, you know — She must be twenty-five or six or so. Do n't think about her any more, my dear, And you and me'll be always happy here — Besides, she's nothing but an old scarecrow.”

It made me sad to hear her talk that way; My darling's just a little girl almost — I can n't see why ma give her such a roast, And I could hardly eat my lunch next day, For every time I took a bite of bread I almost hated ma for what she said.