A Poem For You

Papa's Letter
I was sitting in my study,

Writing letters when I heard"Please dear mama,

Mary told me Mama mustn't be disturbed.
"But I's tired of the kitty;

Want some ozzer fing to do.

Writing letters, is ou mama?

Tan't I wite a letter too?"
"Not now, darling, mama's busy;

Run and play with kitty, now."

"No, no mama, me wite letter;

Tan, if 'ou will show me how."
I would paint my darling's portrait

As his sweet eyes searched my face.

Hair of gold, eyes of azure,

Form of childish, witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded,

As I slowly shook my head,

Till I said: "I'll make a letter

Of you, darling boy, instead."
So I parted back the tresses

From his forehead high and white,

And a stamp in sport I pasted

'Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said,

"Now, little letter,.

Go away and bear good news."

And I smiled as down the staircase

Clattered loud the little shoes.
Down the street the baby hastened

Till he reached the office door.

"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;

Is there room for any more?
'Cause dis' letter's doin to papa,

Papa lives with God,

'ou know,Mama sent me for a letter,

Do 'ou fink at I tan go?"
But the clerk in wonder answered,

"Not today, my little man."

"Den I'll find anozzer office,

'Cause I must go if I tan."
Suddenly the crowd was parted,

People fled to left, to right,

As a pair of maddened horses

At the moment dashed in sight.
No one saw the baby figure-

No one saw the golden hair,

Till a voice of frightened sweetness

Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late-a moment only

Stood the beauteous vision there,

Then the little face lay lifeless

Covered o'er with golden hair.
Rev'rently they raised my darling,

Brushed away the curls of gold,

Saw the stamp upon his forehead

Growing now so icy cold.
Not a mark the face disfigured,

Showing where the hoof had trod;

But the little life had ended-

Papa's letter was with God.
-Anonymous, Nineteenth Century