Classic Poem

You know your mother—that's plain as day,
But those wide blue eyes of you seem to say
When I bend over your crib: “Now who
Are you?”
It's little figure I cut, I know,
And faces trouble a baby so,
But I'm the gladdest of all the glad—
Your dad!

You're two months old, and you see us smile,
And I know you are wondering all the while
Whoever on earth can these people be
You see.
You've learned your mother; you know her well
When hunger rattles the dinner bell,
But somehow or other you cannot place
My face.

As yet, I'm but one of the passing throng,
The curious people who come along
And pause at your crib, and you seem to say
Each day:
“I know one voice that is sweet to hear,
I know her step when my mother's near,
I know her wonderful smile—but who
Are you?”

“You always come with the same old grin,
Your finger's rough when you tickle my chin.
But you run away when I start to cry,
And I
Don't understand when visitors call
Why you're so afraid they will let me fall.
You are the queerest of all the queer
Folks here!”

It's true that over your crib I stand
And tickle your chin with my rough old hand
And I run away when you start to cry,
But I
Have a right to my queer little funny ways,
To boast your worth and to sound your praise,
For I am the gladdest of all the glad—