(Why don't you ever write any child poetry? br -A MOTHER.) br br My right-hand neighbour hath a child, br A pretty child of five or six, br Not more than other children wild, br Nor fuller than the rest of tricks- br At five he rises, shine or rain, br And noisily plays 'fire' or 'train.' br br Likewise a girl, aetatis eight, br He hath. Each morning, as a rule, br Proudly my neighbour will relate br How bright Mathilda is at school. br My ardour, less than half of mild, br Bids me to comment, 'Wondrous child!' br br All through the vernal afternoon br My other neighbour's children skate br A wild Bacchantic rigadoon br On rollers; nor does it abate br Till dark; and then his babies cry br What time I fain would versify. br br Did I but set myself to sing br A children's song, I'd stand revealed br A bard that did the infant thing br As well as Riley or 'Gene Field. br I could write famous Children Stuff, br If they'd keep quiet long enough.br br Franklin P.