and, though he’s nothing but wood, he’s got real glass eyes.
And perhaps in three birthdays more there may be as many of us as the
Smiths, for five and three make eight;
I shall be seven years old then (as old as Joe), but I don’t like
to think too much of it, it’s so long to wait.
And after all I don’t know that I want any more of us: I think I’d
rather my sister had a chair
Like mine; and the next year I should like a collar for Towser if
it wouldn’t rub off his hair.
And it would be very nice if the Prince of Wales could be dressed
like a Field-marshal, for he’s got nothing on his legs;
And Cinderella’s beautifully dressed, and Towser looks quite as if
he’d got a fur coat on when he begs.
Joe says it’s perfectly absurd, and that I can’t take a Pomeranian
in earnest for my brother;
But I don’t think he really and truly knows how much Towser and I
love each other.
I didn’t like his saying, “Well, there’s one thing about your lot,—you
can always have your own way.”
And then he says, “You can’t possibly have fun with four people when
you have to pretend what they say.”
But, whatever he says, I don’t believe I shall ever enjoy a tea-party
more than the one that we had on that day.
Can any one look so wise, and have
so little in his head?
How long will it be, Papa Poodle, before you have learned to read?
You were called Papa Poodle because you took care of me when I was
And now I can read words of three syllables, and you sit with a book
before you like a regular gaby.
You’ve not read a word since I put you in that corner ten minutes ago;
Bill and I’ve fought the battle of Waterloo since dinner, and you’ve
not learned BA BE BI BO.
Here am I doing the whole British Army by myself, for Bill is obliged
to be the French;
And I’ve come away to hear you say your lesson, and left Bill waiting
for me in the trench.
And there you sit, with a curly white wig, like the Lord Chief Justice,
and as grave a face,
Looking the very picture of goodness and wisdom, when you’re really in
the deepest disgrace.
Those woolly locks of yours grow thicker and thicker, Papa Poodle.
Does the wool tangle inside as well as outside your head? and is it
that which makes you such a noodle?
You seem so clever at some things, and so stupid at others, and I keep
But I’m afraid the truth is, Papa Poodle, that you’re uncommonly sly.
You did no spelling-lessons last week, for you were out from morning
Except when you slunk in, like a dirty door-mat on legs, and with one
ear bleeding from a fight,
Looking as if you’d no notion what o’clock it was, and had come home
But your watch keeps very good meal-time, Papa Poodle, for you’re