cent, so helpless, so trusting, is somehow pathetic to me.
There was one jolly little chap who used to play with a large white Teddy Bear. He was always with his mother, a sweet-faced woman, who followed his every movement with delight. I used to watch them both, and often spoke a few words.
Then one day I missed them, and it struck me I had not seen them for a week, even a month, maybe. After that I looked for them a time or two and soon forgot.
Then this morning I saw the mother in the rue D’Assas. She was alone and in deep black. I wanted to ask after the boy, but there was a look in her face that stopped me.
I do not think she will ever enter the garden of the Luxembourg again.
TEDDY BEAR
O Teddy Bear! with your head awry
And your comical twisted smile,
You rub your eyes–do you wonder why
You’ve slept such a long, long while?
As you lay so still in the cupboard dim,
And you heard on the roof the rain,
Were you thinking… what has become of him?
And when will he play again?
Do you sometimes long for a chubby hand,
And a voice so sweetly shrill?
O Teddy Bear! don’t you understand
Why the house is awf’ly still?
You sit with your muzzle propped on your paws,
And your whimsical face askew.
