You term me an "unfeeling brute,"
A "monster Herod-like," and so on--
You may be right; I'll not dispute;
I'll cease a brat's good name to blow on.

Who'll read the bantling's dawning days?--
Precocious shall he prove, and harass
The world with inconvenient ways
And lisped conundrums that embarrass?
(Such as Impressionists delight
To offer each æsthetic gaper,
And faddists hyper-Ibsenite
Rejoice to perpetrate on paper?)

Or, one of those young scamps perhaps
Who love to rig their bogus bogies,
And set their artful booby-traps
For over-unsuspicious fogies?
Or haply, only commonplace--
A plodding sort of good apprentice,
Who does his master's will with grace,
And hurries meekly where he sent is?

And, when he grows apace, what blend
Of genius, chivalry and daring,
What virtues might our little friend
Display to brighten souls despairing?
What quiet charities unknown,
What modest, openhanded kindness,
What tolerance in touch and tone