TASTE

I can n't understand why you pass up the toys

That Santa considered just right for small boys;

I can n't understand why you turn up your nose

At dogs, hobby-horses, and treasures like those,

And play a whole hour, sometimes longer than that,

With a thing as prosaic as daddy's old hat.

The tables and shelves have been loaded for you

With volumes of pictures — they're pretty ones, too —

Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother Goose

Repines in a corner and feels like the deuce,

While you, on the floor, quite contentedly look

At page after page of the telephone book.