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Show A Real Boy. (Chicago Post.) There's a joy that is a joy In a boy that Is a boy-Just boy-Just a romping, reckless tike That the whole round world must like; Freckled, awkward, lank and slim. Hat that's minus band and brim, With a trailing dog, or pup, That betimes will trip him up. In the morning out and gone At the bugles of the dawn. Finding wondrous games to play In each nook along the way, Wading brooks and climbing trees, Pestering "the. honeybees Till they sting him in despair-But despair-But what does a real boy care? In at noon to bolt his lunch. Then a run to join the "bunch"; Shouts and yells and battle call Over strife with bat and ball, Or a make-believe affray With the pirates in his play; Blisters, stone bruise on his heel Scratches that his baths reveal. Crooning in a sing-song twang, Horrifying by his slang. Giving every one the shakes. By his chumminess with snakes, Naming with a careless shrug Every beetle, bird and bug, Ruminant upon the grass Watching all the clouds that pass. Coming home at fall of night. Grimed and marred from play and fight. Braggadocio, weary Yes, With a wondrous weariness. Dreaming on with smiles and sighs After sleep has closed his eyes There's a joy that is a boy In a boy that is a boy! |