Our Boys and Girls.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 993, 13 March 1891, Page 6

Our Boys and Girls.

A BOYS BELIEF. It isn’t much fun a-living If grandpa says what’s true, That this is the jolliest time o’ life That I’m a-passing through. I’m afraid he can’t remember, It’s been so awful loDg. I’m sure if he could recollect He’d know that he was wrong. Did he ever have, I wonder, A sister just like mine, Who’d take his skates, or break his kite, Or tangle up his twine ? Did he ever chop the kindling, Or fetch in coal and wood, Or offer to turn the wringer ? If ho did he was awful good. In summer it’s * weed the garden ’; In winter it’s ‘shovel the snow For there isn’t a single season But has its work, yon know. And then, when a fellow’s tired. And hopes he may just Bit still, It’s * bring me a pail of water son, From the spring at the foot of the hill.’

How can grandpa remember, A follow’s grief and joy? ’Tween you and me, I don’t believe He ever was a boy. Is this the jolliest time o’ life ! Believe it I never can ; Nor that it’s as nice to be a boy Ab a roally grown-up man.

HIDING FROM FATHER-

There is something perculiarly sorrowful to me in the way in whioh the children of some households slips quietly out of sight when they hear father’s footsteps outside the door. There must be no noise or disorder, no laughing and Bhoutiug when father comes home. The ohildren must settle down then, for father can’t bear noise and, disorder worries him. Oh, it does, does it? It makej him nervous to hear the baby cry or the children laugh, doe 3it ? He likes to have the house perfeotly still, does he ? Well, then, what under the sun did he ever marry for ? Why didn’t he remain in that state of single blessedness peculiarly appropriate to men whom ohildren worry ? There are so many nice, quiet, delightful boarding houses in whioh the laugh of a child is never heard because children are ‘ not allowed ’ there.

Men whom ohildren worry ought to for ever remain within the walla of these delightful abodes. It would be better for them, and infinitely better for the children that come to them when they marry and establish homes of their own.

I know a great, tall, robust husband and father whose children have to quiet down the moment he comes home because their noise makes him nervous. Poor man ! I could feel a little sorry for him, perhaps, if I had not often seen him in the Board of Trade building enduring its Bedlam-like racket with perfect self-composure. He is a stock broker, and the noisiest, loudest-mouthed one in the street, but the moment he gets within the doors of his own home he becomes so nervous that the laughter, and childish prattle of his own children is more than he can bear. Sad, isn’t it ? It is sad for the children. It cheats them out of so muoh of the joy of childhood that other children know—the romps with father, the rummaging of his pockets to see if he has brought them anything, the climbing into his lap to hug and kiss him, the going * to Boston town ’ on his foot, the ‘ trot, trot, to Banbury Cross, and the feeling dear and sweet to childhood that their father loves them and that they can coma to him with all their little cares and sorrows. It is sorrowful to see natural, childish affection smothered and rejected and at last killed by a father whose footstep is a signal for his ohildren to hide from the faoo that ought to be the dearest one in the world to them. QUEER SAYINGS. Little Johnny—Say, dad, when I grow up I want you to make a minister out of me. Brown —What induces you to make that choice, my boy? Little Johnny—l want to go for a sea trip every summer. Papa—So you’ve been smoking again, I hear ? Didn’t I tell you some time ago when I caught you with that cigarette that it should be the last one ? Robbie—Yes, pa, and it was. I’ve been smoking cigars ever since. Papa (who used a bad word when he tore his trousers) —I forgot myself then, Sammy. It was wrong of me to say such a word. Sammy—Ob, you needn’t apologise, papa ! I often use it myself. Taking the Cake. —Mamma--1 hope my little boy while dining with friends remembered what I told him about not taking cake the second time. Little Boy—Yes, mamma, I remembered, and took two pieces the hrst time.

A Good Name.—Charlie had seen grasshoppers in plenty, but a toad was new to him The other night he saw one in the path by his home for the first time. ‘Oh, mamma !’ he cried, ‘ Come and see the pathhopper 1’ A little girl was sent by her mother to the grocery to get a cake of castile soap. When she got there she couldn’t remember the name. ‘ls it glycerine or oatmeal soap ? suggested the grocer. Grade shook her head. Then she brightened np like a flash. ‘ Now I know !’ she exclaimed triumphantly, * I want caßfc-iron soap. 1 la that your cream cow ?’ asked Tommy. i Yes,’ said the farmer. ‘ Where’s your buttermilk cow ?’

Annie, who is only twenty-two months aid, was told not to touch an apple on the table. ‘You will please ’cuse me mamma, and then calmly bit it. On the Farm.—Willie—Where’s my little bantam? Tommy—Guess it’s gone to roost. Willie—Shoo 1 You don’t know what yon are talking about. My bantam isn’t a rooster,