JOE GUMBLE

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 560, 12 January 1929, Page 25

JOE GUMBLE

There was a bad youth And his name was Joe Gumble. He awoke every morning, Determined to grumble; He turned up his nose At the good wholesome food, And the things that he said Were alarmingly rude.

“This porridge,” he growled, Is not fit for the flies; If fed to the cat It would cause, her surprise The eggs are not fresh, And the tea is a blight, The milk is aneamic And nothing is right.” His mother would coax him And vainly protest That the cook in the kitchen Was doing her best. They thought of new dishes, They tried very hard, But he met tlieir attempts With the same scant regard. At last, one fine morning As Joe took his seat, His father said, “Child, You can watch us all eat; As you never seem hungry We thought it a waste To cook for a boy With so fickle a taste.’* At dinner that evening The same thing occurred. Joe sat like a statue With never a word, But at breakfast next morning So hungry was he That he begged for a crust And a mouthful of tea. “Your porridge is here,” Was his father’s reply, “If you starve any longer No doubt you will die.” So Joe took his spoon And set to with a will, And several hours later Had eaten his fill.

Now his temper is conquered; He never is rude, But asks to be -served With thb plainest of food.