From the Evening Star, June 27, 1913. By Walt Mason.
Hush my child, cut out the yelling! It will do no good, by durn; for I fear there is no telling when your mother will return. Father’s here to rock the cradle and to sing a dulcet note; father’s here, sweet child, to ladle paregoric down your throat. In your couch of wood and wattle, take your rest, my little sweet, drinking cow’s milk from a bottle, while your mother, on the street, tells about the Women’s Battle for their Sacred Rights, by jing; here’s your little wooden rattle, here’s your silver teething ring. Ah, this imitation nursing brings to baby’s face a frown, while your mother’s nobly cursing laws that keep the women down. Milk from can and milk from bottle, and the milk the druggists make, seem to paralyze your throttle and to make your tummy ache; but, my child, your mother’s doing work too long undone, alas! She is storming round and shooing poor male critters off the grass. With her woman suffrage rabies she is frothing at the snoot, and she can’t take care of babies—that’s for dad, the poor galoot. So, my dear, be bright and chipper; sing and smile as fine as silk; father’s here to poor a dipper of the predigested milk.
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