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Show THE TINKLE OF THE SHINGLE. Every person who had read "The Rain Upon the Roof" will appreciate this improvement on that standard song: When the angry passion gathering in my mother's face I see, And she leads me to the bedroom - gently lays me on her knee - Then I know that I will catch it, and my flesh in fancy itches, As I listen to the patter of the shingle on my breeches. Every tinkle of the shingle has an echo and sting; And a thousand burning fancies into active being spring, And a thousand bees and hornets 'neath my coat-tail seem to swarm, As I listen to the patter of the shingle, Oh, so warm! In a splutter comes my father, whom I thought away had gone To survey the situation and to maker her lay it on - To see her bending o'er me as I listen to the strain Played by her and by the shingle to a wild and weird refrain. In a sudden intermission, which appears my only chance, I say, "Strike gently, mother, or you'll split my Sunday pants." She stops a moment, draws her breath, the shingle holds aloft, And says, "I had not thought of that, my son - just take them off." Holy Moses! and the angels! cast your pitying glances down. And thou, O family doctor! put a good soft poultice on; And may I with fools and dunces everlasting commingle If I ever say another word when my mother wields the shingle. |