Breeches short and long surtout,
Crooked nose and cane to suit,
Gray of soul and black of eye,
Hat slouched back, expression sly—
Such is old Sol Shuffleshins;
How complacently he grins!
Fittig's door he's passing now;
Hark! a furious, row-wow-wow!
Scarcely has the echo gone,
When the following scene comes on.
Turn and twist him as he will,
Plish and Plum stick to him still;
Underneath his long surtout
Tugs and tears each crazy brute.
Shall that happen twice? not quite!
Mind shall triumph over might!
Presto! What strange dog is there,
Hat in mouth? the young ones stare.
What queer quadruped can he,
Backing toward the doorway, be?
Mrs. Fittig hears the clatter,
Comes to see what is the matter.
Soft as on a mossy bank,
In her lap Sol backward sank.
Fittig also came in view.
"Ow!" cried Sol, "I'm torn in two!
Herr von Fittig pays me for 't,
Or I'll carry it to court!"
He must pay; that makes him pout
Worse than having ten teeth out.
In despair he casts askance
At that youthful pair a glance,—
Seeming plainly to confess,
"I've no words your shame to express"
Little care the hardened creatures
For their parent's play of features.
"Bad enough!" says Sly, "he! he!
Awful bad! but not for me!"