I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys,
Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise;
He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too,
Says “Mamma,” und “Bapa,” und somedimes “ah-goo!”
You don’t find a baby den dimes oudt off nine
Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine.

He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt,
Und puts efryding he can find in his mout;
He durables der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair,
Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare. 
Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine
Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby off mine.

Der vas someding, you pet, I don’t likes pooty veil;
To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutscher yell,
Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo’es,
Vhile der chills down der sphine off mine pack quickly goes. 
Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn’t so fine
Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off mine.

Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin’ to pe men,
Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den;
Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshted of a bib,
Und voudn’t got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib. 
Veil! veil! ven I’m feeple und in life’s decline,
May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine.

A DUTCHMAN’S MISTAKE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot peeznis, but I don’t got mooch gapital to work mit, so I finds it hard vork to get me all der gredits vot I vould like.

Last veek I hear about some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gief me der refusal of dose goots for a gouple of days.  He gafe me der refusal—­dot is, he sait I gouldn’t haf dem—­but he sait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore, und den if mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, berhaps ve might do somedings togedder.

Veil, I vas behind mine gounter yesterday, ven a shentle-man gomes in and dakes me py der hant and says, “Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve.”  I says, “Yaw,” und den I tinks to mine-self, dis vas der man vot has doze goots to sell, und I must dry to make some goot imbressions mit him, so ve gould do some peesnis.

“Dis vas goot schtore,” he says, looking roundt, “bud you don’t got a pooty big shtock already.”  I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat ’bout a tousand tollars vort of goots in der blace, so I says, “You ton’t tink I hat more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, vould you?” He says, “You ton’t tole me!  Vos dot bossible!” I says, “Yaw.”

I meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn’t so, vor I vas like ’Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut town der “olt elm” on Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadchet, and gouldn’t dell some lies aboud id.

“Veil,” says der shentleman, “I dinks you ought to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der schtore.”  Und den he takes a pig book vrom unter his arm and say, “Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars.”