He was the boy of the house, you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad;
He was never tired, and never sick,
And nothing could make him sad.
Did some one urge that he make less noise,
He would say, with a saucy grin,
"Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir--
I'm sorry I am not a twin!"
"There are two of twins--oh, it must be fun
To go double at everything:
To hollo by twos, and to run by twos,
To whistle by twos, and to sing!"
His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy;
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.
You met him out in the garden path,
With the terrier at his heels;
You knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.
The maiden auntie was half distraught
At his tricks as the days went by;
"The most mischievous child in the world!"
She said, with a shrug and a sigh.
His father owned that her words were true,
And his mother declared each day
Was putting wrinkles into her face,
And was turning her brown hair gray.
But it never troubled the boy of the house;
He reveled in clatter and din,
And had only one regret in the world--
That he hadn't been born a twin.
* * * * *
There's nobody making a noise to-day,
There's nobody stamping the floor,
There's an awful silence, upstairs and down,
There's crape on the wide hall door.
The terrier's whining out in the sun--
"Where's my comrade?" he seems to say;
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog.
There's no frolic for you to-day.
The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
Is sobbing her young heart out;
Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
To miss the laugh and the shout.
How strangely quiet the little form,
With the hands on the bosom crossed!
Not a fold, not a flower, out of place,
Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!
So solemn and still the big house seems--
No laughter, no racket, no din,
No starting shriek, no voice piping out,
"I'm sorry I am not a twin!"
There a man and a woman, pale with grief,
As the wearisome moments creep;
Oh! the loneliness touches everything--
The boy of the house is asleep.
_Jean Blewett._
From the Toronto _Globe_.
[Illustration:]
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