His is a wit without any alloy,
His are real jokes without venomous stings.
Laugh? When he speaks, from the tip of your toes
To the top of your head you will shake through and through,
As the soft breeze of summer oft shakes the red rose,
And the petals of pansies are thrilled by the dew.
Wish I was only as bright as my boy,
Wish I could think of such funny remarks,
His little mind is a fountain of joy,
Throwing off fun as an anvil sheds sparks.
He makes us laugh if we want to or not,
Never was jester of king quite so droll,
His are the shafts that go right to the spot,
His is a humor that tickles your soul.
None of the quips that your funny men say
Is equal to those that the child mind produces;
He has the power to drive sorrow away,
The flood gates of laughter he gayly unlooses.
Wise? As the wisest of brow wrinkled sages;
Quaint? As the quaintest of men on the earth;
Funny? Why, none of your funniest pages
Compare with a boy for real laughter and mirth.

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