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Poem	In our dainty little kitchen, Where my aproned wife is queen Over all the tin-pan people, In a realm exceeding clean, Oft I like to loiter, watching While she mixes things for tea; And she tasks me, slyly smiling, “Now just guess what this will be!” Hidden in a big blue apron, Her dimpled arms laid bare, And the love-smiles coyly mingling With a housewife’s frown of care— See her beat a golden batter, Pausing but to ask of me, As she adds a bit of butter, “Now just guess what this will be!” Then I bravely do my duty, Guess it, “pudding,” “cake” or “pie,” “Dumplings,” “waffles,” “bread” or “muffins;” But no matter what I try, This provoking witch just answers: “Never mind, just wait and see! But I think you should be able, Dear, to guess what this will be.” Little fraud! she never tells me Until ’tis baked and browned— And I think I know the reason For her secrecy profound— She herself with all her fine airs And her books on cookery, Could not answer, should I ask her, “Dearest, what will that mess be?”
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