I can n't understand why you pass up the toys
That Santa considered just right for small boys;
I can n't understand why you turn up your nose
At dogs, hobby-horses, and treasures like those,
And play a whole hour, sometimes longer than that,
With a thing as prosaic as daddy's old hat.
The tables and shelves have been loaded for you
With volumes of pictures — they're pretty ones, too —
Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother Goose
Repines in a corner and feels like the deuce,
While you, on the floor, quite contentedly look
At page after page of the telephone book.