A Boy's Trials.

    When I was but a little lad
    One thing I could not bear,
    It was to stand at mother's knee
    And have her comb my hair.

    They didn't keep boys' hair as short
    As it's kept now-a-days,
    And mine was always tangled up
    In twenty different ways.

    I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth,
    And say it wasn't fair -
    It was a trial, and no mistake,
    When mother combed my hair.

    She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl
    That grew upon my pate,
    And with her scissors nip and clip
    To make the edges straight.

    Then smooth it down until it shone,
    While I would grin and bear,
    And feel a martyr through and through,
    When mother combed my hair.

    She'd take my round chin in her hand
    And hold it there the while
    She made the parting carefully,
    Then tell me with a smile:

    "Don't push your cap down on your curls
    And spoil my work and care;
    He is a pretty little lad
    When mother combs his hair."

    I'd hurry out and rumple up
    That mop of hair so thick -
    A vandal, I, for she had worked
    So hard to make it slick -

    And wish I were a grown-up man
    So nobody would dare
    To put a washrag in my ears,
    Or comb my tangled hair.

    Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray,
    Methinks I would be glad
    To have her smooth my brow and cheeks,
    And whisper, "Mother's lad!"

    A longing for the care-free days
    Doth take me unaware;
    To stand, a boy, at mother's knee
    And have her comb my hair.