If we were all alike an’ looked an’ thought the same,
I wonder how’d they call us, ’cause there’d only be one name. 
An’ there’d only be one flavor for our ice cream sodas, too,
An’ one color for a necktie an’ I ’spose that would be blue;
An’ maybe we’d have mothers who were very fond of curls,
An’ they’d make us fellers wear our hair like lovely little girls.

Sometimes I think it’s funny when I hear some feller say
That he isn’t fond of chocolate, when I eat it every day. 
Or some other fellow doesn’t like the books I like to read;
But I’m glad that we are different, yes, siree!  I am indeed. 
If everybody looked alike an’ talked alike, Oh, Gee! 
We’d never know which one was you or which of us was me.

Aw Gee Whiz!

Queerest little chap he is,
Always saying:  “Aw Gee Whiz!”
Needing something from the store
That you’ve got to send him for
And you call him from his play,
Then it is you hear him say: 
    “Aw Gee Whiz!”

Seems that most expressive phrase
Is a part of childhood days;
Call him in at supper time,
Hands and face all smeared with grime,
Send him up to wash, and he
Answers you disgustedly: 
    “Aw Gee Whiz!”

When it’s time to go to bed
And he’d rather play instead,
As you call him from the street,
He comes in with dragging feet,
Knowing that he has to go,
Then it is he mutters low: 
    “Aw Gee Whiz!”

Makes no difference what you ask
Of him as a little task;
He has yet to learn that life
Crosses many a joy with strife,
So when duty mars his play,
Always we can hear him say: 
    “Aw Gee Whiz!”

Practicing Time

Always whenever I want to play
I’ve got to practice an hour a day,
Get through breakfast an’ make my bed,
And Mother says:  “Marjorie, run ahead! 
There’s a time for work and a time for fun,
So go and get your practicing done.” 
And Bud, he chuckles and says to me: 
“Yes, do your practicing, Marjorie.” 
A brother’s an awful tease, you know,
And he just says that ’cause I hate it so.

They leave me alone in the parlor there
To play the scales or “The Maiden’s Prayer,”
And if I stop, Mother’s bound to call,
“Marjorie dear, you’re not playing at all! 
Don’t waste your time, but keep right on,
Or you’ll have to stay when the hour is gone.” 
Or maybe the maid looks in at me
And says:  “You’re not playing, as I can see. 
Just hustle along—­I’ve got work to do
And I can’t dust the room until you get through.”

Then when I’ve run over the scales and things
Like “The Fairies’ Dance,” or “The Mountain Springs,”
And my fingers ache and my head is sore,
I find I must sit there a half hour more. 
An hour is terribly long, I say,
When you’ve got to practice and want to play. 
So slowly at times has the big hand dropped
That I was sure that the clock had stopped,
But Mother called down to me:  “Don’t forget—­
A full hour, please.  It’s not over yet.”