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 didn'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 wasn'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:         "Don'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.