We have a certain neighbor
Who has the run-in-itis;
But she's so very charming
That her comings-in delight us.
Her presence brings out gallantry
In boys, (and Husband, too)
Who stoop to take her rubbers off,
Or tie her dainty shoe.
She loves to play an instrument,
And favors my Krakauer;
When I am busy, she will sit
And play it by the hour.
Sometimes her stay is very brief -
For she has children seven,
And they're her greatest earthly care
And joy this side of heaven;
Allergic to all sorts of ills -
Like measles, mumps and fever -
And when wee Susie gets a cold,
She really cannot leave her.
Being whimsical, she picks
Out queer names for her clan,
Like "Punkin-Wiener" "Freckle-Face"
And "Jerry Porkupan."
In spite of her eccentric ways,
Our neighbor we adore,
For these are just her dollies;
And wee Lynn is only four!
It isn't difficult to obey the injunction, "Love thy neighbor," when you have a neighbor like Lynn. When the door-bell rings, and I can't see anyone through the upper half of the door - which is glass - then I know it's tiny Lynn. Eyes as blue and clear as a summer sky; manner, prim; dress and speech, immaculate; and a wisdom far beyond her brief span of years. I always feel flattered when she comes to our door; for I have so little to offer her - beyond the use of my piano, and access to my cookie jar; but she has so much to give me. When she comes in the door, cyncism and unworthy doubts seem to fly out the window. Little children ... "of such are the Kingdom of Heaven."
This old world may be full of sin and ghastly ignorance, and poverty, and anxiety; but it is certainly not a dull place to live. How can life be boring, with interesting people all around you? No two alike. Having children of various ages, a nice variety of young folks come within the family acquaintance. I get a big kick out of High School students. They are brimming over with life and fun and wit. Then these gangling boys - full of wild energy, and "ego" sprouting out all over. So many arguments have to be settled with a "haymaker" to the chin.
Let me tell you of an incident that occurred last Sunday morning, that will give you an idea of the kind of neighbors Lyndhurst has. We were driving, in our ancient Dodge, to Sunday School - at a very respectable speed. Suddenly a Lyndhurst police car passed, honked and motioned for me to pull over to the curb. My heart skipped a beat! In swift panic - a hangover from my early childhood, when policemen were represented as great ogres - I thought "What have I done? Did I crash a red light? Is a wheel coming off? Is our car such ancient vintage that it is considered a highway menace?" (Hundreds of Cleveland jaloppies have been ordered to the scrap heap). All these foolish thoughts, while my serene husband said, "We haven't done anything wrong," and a smiling, handsome young policeman came to the left side of the car, pointed to the running-board; then reached down and came up with two baseball mitts - our sons' most valuable possessions right now. A gasp and an "Oh, boy!" came from two boyish throats in the rear seat. Virgil, Sr. thanked him cordially; the boys and I were too overwhelmed by the turn of affairs; finally I shouted after his retreating figure, "You're a dear!" For which ardor I have been kidded ever since. Do you wonder that we like Lyndhurst?
Next week I would like to tell you a success story that I think will warm your heart. It is now mail-time - the last mail - and I must say au revoir until next week.
Florence B. Taylor
Next - 6/25/39 - Cleveland Letter
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