The True Northerner

FOR THE LITTLE FOLKS

Blowing Bubbles,

a nonsense song

Our Albert, with his pipe and bowl
Where the bright sunlight lingers,
Is seated just beyond the reach
Of baby's chubby fingers.

The little ones, with one accord,
Forgetting all their troubles,
Are busy in the pleasant sport
Of catching Albert's bubbles.

And grandpapa, in his great arm-chair,
Diverted by their clamor,
To have him in their pastime share,
Lays down his Prairie Farmer.

While Albert, pleased at his success
In entertaining, doubles
His futile efforts to supply
The great demand for bubbles.

"Now, children, you may each take turn,"
Cries grandpapa, gay as any,
"Whoever blows the biggest ones
Shall have a bright, new penny.

"Come, Ben, will you the first one be
To try to win the wager?"
"I dess not, grandpapa, but you'll see
Me kill 'em like a major."

"I do not wonder much," said Rose,
"That Ben would rather break them.
He often sucks, but never blows,
Whene'er he tries to make them."

And now bright eyes grow brighter with
Unspeakable admiration,
Invariably followed by
Regretful exclamation.

Their feelings are too deep for words,
But joyful looks express them,
And grandpapa sits with moistened eyes
And murmurs low, God bless them

"May all their pleasures be as bright;
Likewise may all their troubles,
Fancied and real, be as light
And transient as the bubbles."

One word from ma dispels the charm,
No one cares who is winner;
They scatter in uproarious haste,
That magic word was—dinner!