The Sisseton Weekly Standard

The Ordeal
The pie is on the pantry shelf, where it was laid last night:
It bears no dents where certain teeth have nipped a furtive bite.
The cat sleeps on the sofa with a calm, untroubled brow.
She has no fear that any one will dock her whiskers now.
And in the kitchen there are heaps and heaps of kindling wood.
It's getting on toward Christmas time and Tommy's being good.
At half past eight he shuts his book and yawns and shakes his head
And says: "Good night to every one. It's time to go to bed."
And just as the stage dad is starting out for town
You hear him trotting down the stairs to see him safely down.
And yesterday his teacher said:
"Your boy has changed somehow.
He's taking such an interest in the work he's doing now.
He folds his napkin every day. His clothes are clean and neat.
He never kicks the cans along when he goes down the street.
He still is running with his gang, but up to Friday night
For almost fifteen days on end he hadn't had a fight.
Still, we'll be glad when Christmas comes for it is too plain
That Tommy boy is staggering beneath a fearful strain."
James J. Montague in New York American.