A New Father’s Epistle

Heigho, mamma, the stranger’s come,

An’ ‘speck now thet things’ll hum;

You’d skeercly know thet I was here,

It’s nuthin’ but “my little dear!”

Frum ‘arly morn tell late et night,

An’ I am in the background quite.

An’ all I hear from break – to sup,

Is “sh – be off! you’ll wake her up.”

But I don’t s’pose I’d orter spout,

Tho’ ‘tis rough-like to be fruz out

By sech a little squeakin’ mite

Uv baby flesh hid frum my sight.

But I can’t blame the faithful gal,

For I suppose it’s natteral.

An’ true, she is a little saint,

A crowin’ cute one, durn ‘f she ain’t!

March 21, ‘91