And if they do git nervous-like and try to hit him back
He swells up so with pride it seems as if his skin would crack;
And then he's wuss than ever, so they find it doesn't pay,
But let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away.

There's lots of people built like him--yer see 'em everywhere--
Who, 'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear
Ter see another feller rise, but in their petty spite
And natural meanness, snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite.
They don't come out in front like men, and squarely speak their mind,
But like that wuthless yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind.
They're little and contemptible, but if yer make a slip
It must be bothersome ter know they'll take that chance ter nip.

But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all;
Perhaps we ought ter thank the Lord _our_ souls ain't quite so small;
And they, with all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess,
The thorns that prick your fingers 'round the roses of success:
Fer, when yer come ter think of it, they never bark until
A feller's really started and a good ways up the hill;
So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap,
But I'd think I _was_ somebody when the curs begun ter "yap."

* * * * *

THE MINISTER'S WIFE

She's little and modest and purty,
As red as a rose and as sweet;
_Her_ children don't ever look dirty,