But quiet comfort did arrive, And I began to grow and thrive, And ma and pa could take their rest, And thought themselves supremely blest. Just then I first began to talk; At later date, I learned to walk; But stammered out my early say, And stumbled on my infant way, Till one bright morn in early June, A baby “brought in a balloon,” Unjoints my little Grecian nose, My infant ire at once arose.
Our family now was much too large, And then it was a fearful charge For mother, who had much to do. I’d try to put the baby through. I’d feel its tiny foot, and sly Would pinch or scratch, and make it cry, Or rub its head, with look so meek, And pull its hair or pinch its cheek; And mother would at once begin To look for the offending pin, That made the “baby waby” shriek, Ne’er dreaming it was Bessie’s freak.
So, at the early age of three, Being bad as bad could be, I never was a minute mute, And people thought me smart and cute; The baby was, I’m glad to say, More good and quiet in its way-- Not half the trouble I had been-- Unless I stuck it with a pin, Or rocked it hard, and made it cry, You scarce would know the babe was by.
So time rolled on, and I intent On infant mischief, came and went, Till little sister learned to talk. ’Twas I that taught her first to walk; She’d tumble down--I’d pull her through And scold her well, and shake her too. Then she would totter on and cry, While I would chase a butterfly, And leave her standing in the lane, A-wondering when I’d come again.
Around the barn we used to roam, Or any place away from home; We hand-in-hand would tramp and play, From early morn till close of day, Upsetting all the honest nests That enterprising hens possessed, And loving little ducks to death, And out of chickens squeeze the breath, Till mother’d come and frown and fuss, And father, too, to save a muss.
Then homeward bound you’d see us go, The family party in a row, But I was nearly always last, For when my penitence was past, I stopped at times upon the way, To finish my neglected play; And father laughed and mother’d scold About the black sheep of the fold.
Thus matters stood when I was five, The hardest little case alive. We spent the hottest summer days Working hard at baby-plays, Making pies of mud and clay, Hauling sand and dirt away; Through grass and puddles we would wade, Till we a hill or ditch had made. With muddy dresses, tousled hair, And dirty faces, we’d repair From lane to road, from road to lane, Through dirt and dust, through sun and rain.