The Lad.

The lad is eight, and partial to The talkie moving pictures,
And copies all the slang from these, Despite severest strictures.

page 21

“Say, Julius Caesar, he was ‘tough,'”
He said. “Do you know why? Well, he had a slave to carry his books
When he went to school, that guy.”
“And how are you getting on at school?”
I asked; “Oh! I'm all set; I can fight any boy in the class, and gee!
I can wrestle too, you bet!”
He owns a pair of cowboy pants;
He washed them yesterday In the clean, white bath, and almost wore
My facial soap away!
His bedroom is a dumping ground
For bits of wood and string—
Boats half made and aeroplanes And parts of everything.
All his boy friends seem to have
The self-same Christian name;
“Fatty” he calls each one, although His own's no puny frame.
“What's influenza, Mum?” he asked;
I said ‘it was the name for’ Flu.
He thought ‘it was a wall round England, built
To stop the sea coming through!
His future's not quite settled yet;
He thinks he'd like to be A railway guard, a fireman, or
An airman like “Smithy.”
One day I saw his ears unwashed;
I spoke impressively, Or so I thought—but when I'd done,
“Sez you!” said he to me.
“You must not speak to me like that,”
I said, “and please remember,
Don't use slang.” His answer was “O.K. Mum, I'll remember!”

—Madge F. Wynne.

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