The Poetry Corner

A Boy's Trials.

By Jean Blewett

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.