Taste

I can't understand why you pass up the toys That Santa considered just right for small boys; I can't understand why you turn up your nose At dogs, hobby-horses, and treasures like those, And play a whole hour, sometimes longer than that, With a thing as prosaic as daddy's old hat.

The tables and shelves have been loaded for you With volumes of pictures--they're pretty ones, too-- Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother Goose Repines in a corner and feels like the deuce, While you, on the floor, quite contentedly look At page after page of the telephone book.