A BOY'S TRIALS.

When I was but a little lad

One thing I could not bear,

It was to stand at mother's knee

And have her comb my hair.

They did n't keep boys’ hair as short

As it's kept now-a-days,

And mine was always tangled up

In twenty different ways.

I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth,

And say it was n't fair —

It was a trial, and no mistake,

When mother combed my hair.

She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl

That grew upon my pate,

And with her scissors nip and clip

To make the edges straight.

Then smooth it down until it shone,

While I would grin and bear,

And feel a martyr through and through,

When mother combed my hair.

She'd take my round chin in her hand

And hold it there the while

She made the parting carefully,

Then tell me with a smile:

“Do n't push your cap down on your curls

And spoil my work and care;

He is a pretty little lad

When mother combs his hair.”

I'd hurry out and rumple up

That mop of hair so thick —

A vandal, I, for she had worked

So hard to make it slick —

And wish I were a grown-up man

So nobody would dare

To put a washrag in my ears,

Or comb my tangled hair.

Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray,

Methinks I would be glad

To have her smooth my brow and cheeks,

And whisper, “Mother's lad!”

A longing for the care-free days

Doth take me unaware;

To stand, a boy, at mother's knee

And have her comb my hair.