From the Evening Star, January 23, 1915. By Philander Johnson.
A baby is the pet of fate.
The people who draw near it
All say that it is something great
And gather round to cheer it.
Its smiles are sought by every one;
Its frown is viewed with terror,
And nothing it has said or done
Is ever called an error.
Alas, these days it must forsake!
As it is growing older,
The people who observe it make
Their criticisms bolder.
Although in life it travels far—
To high position, maybe—
No man can be as popular
As when he was a baby!