"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.
She hits the air sometimes, though," and
John smiled.
"Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with
widened eyes
Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a
prize?"

We laughed. And yet it set me thinking,
how
I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow
Munched at our early cabbages, and ate
The lettuce up, and tramped my mignon-
ette!
And many a time I kicked against the
pricks
Because the little dog at number six
Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross
I got
When Jane seemed discontented with her
lot.
Until poor John in desperation said
He wearied of the theme -- and went to
bed!

And how I vexed myself that day, when he
Brought people unexpectedly for tea,
Because the table-cloth was old and
stained,
And not a single piece of cake remained.