Different

The kids at our house number three,

As different as they can be;

And if perchance they numbered six

Each one would have particular tricks,

And certain little whims and fads

Unlike the other girls and lads.

No two glad rascals can you name

Whom God has fashioned just the same.

Bud's tough and full of life and fun

And likes to race about and run,

And tease the girls; the rascal knows

The slyest ways to pinch a nose,

And yank a curl until it hurts,

And disarrange their Sunday skirts.

Sometimes he trips them, heads o'er heels,

To glory in their frenzied squeals.

And Marjorie: She'd have more joy,

She thinks, if she'd been born a boy;

She wants no ribbons on her hair,

No fancy, fussy things to wear.

The things in which Sylvia delights

To Marjorie are dreadful frights.

They're sisters, yet I'd swear the name

Is all they own that is the same.

Proud Sylvia, beautiful to see,

A high-toned lady wants to be;

She'll primp and fuss and deck her hair

And gorgeous raiment wants to wear;

She'll sit sedately by the light

And read a fairy tale at night;

And she will sigh and sometimes wince

At all the trials of the prince.

If God should send us children nine

To follow our ancestral line,

I'd vow that in the lot we'd strike

No two among them just alike.

And that's the way it ought to be;

The larger grows the family,

The more we own of joy and bliss,

For each brings charms the others miss.