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Beard and Baby
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

I say, as one who never feared
   The wrath of a subscriber's bullet,
I pity him who has a beard
   But has no little girl to pull it!

When wife and I have finished tea,
   Our baby woos me with her prattle,
And, perching proudly on my knee,
   She gives my petted whiskers battle.

With both her hands she tugs away,
   While scolding at me kind o' spiteful;
You 'll not believe me when I say
   I find the torture quite delightful!

No other would presume, I ween,
   To trifle with this hirsute wonder,
Else would I rise in vengeful mien
   And rend his vandal frame asunder!

But when her baby fingers pull
   This glossy, sleek, and silky treasure,
My cup of happiness is full---
   I fairly glow with pride and pleasure!

And, sweeter still, through all the day
   I seem to hear her winsome prattle---
I seem to feel her hands at play,
   As though they gave me sportive battle.

Yes, heavenly music seems to steal
   Where thought of her forever lingers,
And round my heart I always feel
   The twining of her dimpled fingers!


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Page last updated: 19 December 1998
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