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Poem	It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks, That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes; Then it's sleep no more for baby, and it's sleep no more for me, For, when he wants his dinner, why it's dinner it must be! And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado, While gran'ma laughs, And gran'pa laughs, And wife, she laughs, And I - well, I laugh, too! You'd think, to see us carrying on about that little tad, That, like as not, that baby was the first we'd ever had; But, sakes alive! he isn't, yet we people make a fuss As if the only baby in the world had come to us! And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do, Gran'ma, she laughs, Gran'pa, he laughs, Wife, she laughs, And I, of course, laugh, too! But once - a likely spell ago - when that poor little chick From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick, You wouldn't know us people as the same that went about A-feelin' good all over, just to hear him crow and shout; And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he'd pull him through, Old gran'ma cried, And gran'pa cried, And wife, she cried, And I - yes, I cried, too! It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place, With his everlastin' crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face; The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere, And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care! No matter what our trouble is, when he begins to coo, Old gran'ma laughs, And gran'pa laughs, Wife, she laughs, And I - you bet, I laugh, too!
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