They say it's wrong to interrupt when someone talks to you, But I don't do it near as much as grown-up people do; For while I'm telling Mother some important piece of news She is counting up my buttons or examining my shoes. And just when I have gotten to the most exciting part, And she ought to pay attention to my words with all her heart, All at once she says, "Come here! I very greatly fear A button's coming off your clothes, and I must fix it, dear." It's just the same with Father,—he's no better, I'm afraid. I always want him to admire important things I've made. But when I start to show him, so that he will understand Where I nailed it or I sawed it, and just how I worked and planned, He'll nod his head, and say "Indeed!" in an attentive way, And act as if he saw it, but then like as not he'll say, Just when I've got a-going, "My boy, your nose needs blowing;" Which proves he doesn't hear, nor even look at what I'm showing. |