His Wonderful Choo-Choos

When I see his wonderful choo-choo trains,
Which he daily builds with infinite pains,
Whose cars are a crazy and curious lot -
A doll, a picture, a pepper pot,
A hat, a pillow, a horse, a book,
A pote, a mintie, a button hook,
A bag of tobacco, a piece of string,
A pair of wubbas, a bodkin ring,
A deck of twos and a paper box,
A brush, a comb and a lot of blocks -
When I first gaze on his wonderful trains,
Which he daily builds with infinite pains,
I laugh, and I think to myself, "O gee!
Was ever a child as cute as he?"

But when he's gone to his cozy nest,
From the toil of his strenuous day to rest,
And when I gaze on his trains once more,
Where they lie, abandoned, across the floor,
And when the terrible task I face
Of putting each "Pullman" back in its place,
I groan a little, and think, "O gee!
Was ever a child as mean as he?"

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

Ringgold Wilmer 'Ring' Lardner was an American sports columnist and short story writer best known for his satirical takes on sports figures and the cultural mores of the Jazz Age. Born on March 6, 1885, in Niles, Michigan, he began his career as a journalist but soon gained fame for his humorous and poignant short stories. His works often featured the American slang vernacular and painted an evocative picture of early 20th-century American life. Lardner passed away on September 25, 1933.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

Decision Reversed

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner, Simple Poetry

Guess Again

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Welcome To Spring

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner, Simple Poetry

Good-By Bill

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner, Simple Poetry

English

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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.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

His Imagination

One thing that's yours, my little child
Your poor old dad is simply wild
To own. It's not a book or toy;
It's your imagination, boy.
If I possessed it, what a time
I'd have, nor need to spend a dime!

I wish that I could get astride
A broom, and have a horse to ride;
Or climb into the swing, and be
A sailor on the deep blue sea,
Or b'lieve a chair a choo-choo train,
Bound anywhere and back again.

If I could ride as fast and far
On ship or horse, in train or car,
As you, at small expense or none,
If I could have one-half your fun
And do the things that you do, free,
I'd give them back my salary.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

His Memory

Besides my little son's imagination,
Another thing he has appeals to me
And agitates my envious admiration -
It's his accommodating memory.

An instant after some unlucky stumble
Has floored him and induced a howl of pain,
He's clean forgotten all about his tumble
And violently sets out to romp again.

But if, when I leave home, I say that maybe
I'll get him something nice while I'm away,
It's very safe to bet that Mr. Baby
Will not forget, though I be gone all day.

Ah, would I might lose sight of things unpleasant:
The bills I owe; the work I haven't done.
And only think of future joys and present,
Like the approaching payday, and my son.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

A Visit From Young Gloom

There's been a young stranger at our house,
A baby whom nobody knew;
Who hated his brother, his father, his mother,
And made them aware of it, too.

He stayed with us nearly a fortnight
And carried a grouch all the while,
Nor promise nor present could make him look pleasant;
He hadn't the power to smile.

He cried when he couldn't have something;
He cried just as hard when he could;
Kind words by the earful but made him more tearful,
And scoldings did just as much good.

He stormed when his meals weren't ready,
And when they were ready, he screamed.
He went to bed growling, got up again howling
And quarreled and snarled as he dreamed.

He's gone, and the child we are fond of
Is back, just as nice as of old.
But I hope to be in som...

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The Hoosier Folk-Child.

    The Hoosier Folk-Child - all unsung -
    Unlettered all of mind and tongue;
    Unmastered, unmolested - made
    Most wholly frank and unafraid:
    Untaught of any school - unvexed
    Of law or creed - all unperplexed -
    Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled,
    An all imperfect-perfect child -
    A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you
    And I do tardy honor to,
    And so, profane the sanctities
    Of our most sacred memories.
    Who, growing thus from boy to man,
    That dares not be American?
    Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz -
    Go whistle! as the Folk-Child does.

    The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not
    Much wider than the stable-lot
    Between the house and highway fence
    That bounds the home his fathe...

James Whitcomb Riley

The New Plaything

I wonder what your thought will be
And what you'll say and do, sir,
When you come home again and see
What Daddy's got for you, sir.

I wonder if you'll like it, boy,
Or turn away disgusted
(You've often scorned a nice, new toy
For one that's old and busted.)

I wonder if you'll laugh, or cry
And run in fright to mother,
Or just act bored to death, when I
Show you your brand new brother.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner