Solution Manual for Orthopaedic

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in Musculoskeletal Systems Donald L.
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Keaveny
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 Table of Contents
1. The Musculoskeletal System

1.1. Anatomical Overview

1.2. The Functions of the Musculoskeletal System

1.3. Bones

1.4. Joints of the Body

1.5. Soft Tissue Structures

1.6. The Hip, Knee, and Spine

1.7. Damage and Repair

1.8. Summary

1.9. Exercises

2. Loads and Motion in the Musculoskeletal System

2.1. Basic Concepts

2.2. Static Analysis of Skeletal System

2.3. The Musculoskeletal Dynamics Problem

2.4. Joint Stability

2.5. Summary

2.6. Exercises

3. Tissue Mechanics I: Bone

3.1. Introduction

3.2. Composition of Bone

3.3. Bone as a Hierarchical Composite Material

3.4. Elastic Anisotropy

3.5. Material Properties of Cortical Bone

3.6. Material Properties of Trabecular Bone

3.7. Hierarchical Analysis

3.8. Structural Anisotropy

3.9. Biomechanics of Bone Adaptation

3.10. Summary

3.11. Exercises

4. Tissue Mechanics II: Soft Tissue

4.1. Tendon and Ligament

4.2. Articular Cartilage

4.3. Intervertebral Disc

4.4. Muscle

4.5. Viscoelasticity

4.6. Summary

4.7. Exercises
5. Structural Analysis of Musculoskeltal Systems: Beam Theory

5.1. Basic Concepts

5.2. Symmetric Beams

5.3. Unsymmetrical Beams

5.4. Case Studies: Whole Bone Mechanics

5.5. Summary

5.6. Exercises

6. Structural Analysis of Musculoskeltal Systems: Advanced Topics

6.1. Beams on Elastic Foundation

6.2. Torsion of Noncircular Sections

6.3. Contact Stress Analysis

6.4. Summary

6.5. Exercises
7. Bone-Implant Systems

7.1. Implant Materials

7.2. Fracture Fixation Devices

7.3. Joint Replacements

7.4. Design of Bone-Implant Systems

7.5. Summary

7.6. Exercises

8. Fracture Fixation Devices

8.1. Fracture Repair

8.2. Mechanics of Intramedullary Rods

8.3. Combined Behavior of Bone and Rod

8.4. Mechanics of Bone Plates

8.5. Combined Behavior of Bone and Plate

8.6. Plate Fixation: Other Considerations

8.7. Irregular Bone Cross Section with a Plate

8.8. External Fixators

8.9. Controlling Callus Strains

8.10. Bone Screws and Effects of Holes

8.11. Other Issues and Complications

8.12. Summary

8.13. Exercises

9. Total Hip Replacements

9.1. Function: Kinematics and Loads

9.2. Fixation: Femoral Stems

9.3. Stresses in the Central Zone

9.4. BOEF and FEA Models for Bone-Stem Systems

9.5. Summary

9.6. Exercises

10. Total Knee Replacements

10.1. Knee Function

10.2. Knee Structure

10.3. Knee Replacements

10.4. Summary

10.5. Exercises

11. Articulating Surfaces

11.1. Damage Modes

11.2. Design: General Considerations

11.3. Summary

11.4. Exercises

Suggestions for Further Reading

Index
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Girls are good as they can be,
But boys are best you must agree.

I guess I’ve tol’ you all I know

From where names come to where they go;
But ’member now ’ist what I sed,
My name is Bub instead o’ Ned.

THE VEGETABLE MAN

By Leonard G. Nattkemper

A Chinaman comes to our house each day

Wif horses that’s colored both red an’ gray,
An’ wagon ’ist full of things to eat—
An’ up I climbs on his big high seat.

This Chinaman’s name I cannot tell—

But “veg’table man” will do as well;
For corn an’ beans and cabbage, too,
He grows in the fields for me an’ you.

An’ w’en it’s time to drive to town

He brings his wagon ’ist loaded down
With veg’t’ble things an’ peaches too—
He’ll peel you one if I ask him to.

Gee, but I love this Chinaman;

He stops an’ plays, an’ one day ran
Aroun’ his wagon clear out of sight—
But I found him there an’ held on tight.

Then up he lifts me way up high,

An’ laughs again wif his funny eye—
I forgot to tell that he can see
’Ist half so well as you an’ me.

’Cause one day w’en he’s ’ist a boy

An’ playin’ wif a home-made toy,
It flew aroun’ an’ hit his face,
An’ left that funny open place.

But I don’t care if he is queer,

He sees enough to know I’m here,
An’ finds the time to stop an’ play
W’en I am lonesome through the day.

But ma an’ dad are not so kind

As veg’t’ble man whose eye is blind.
I guess I love them all I can,
But most I love my Chinaman.

IMMIGRATION
By Wallace Irwin

Ezekiel, the Puritan,

Thus lifts his protestation:
“By ginger, I’m American,
And don’t like immigration.
Naow I jest guess I got here fust
And know what I’m abaout,
When I declar’ we’ll all go bust
Or keep them aliens out.”

Max Heidelburg, the German, says:

“Jah also. Right, mein frendt.
If ve dot foreign trash admit
Our woes will nefer endt.
I am Americans as you
Und villing to ge-shout
‘Hurray mit red und vite und plue,
Und kiip dose aliens oudt!’”

Ike Diamondstein, the Jew, exclaims:

“Ah, Izzy, ain’t dat grandt!
Ve Yangees haf such nople aims
Und vill togeder standt,
Ve’ve got der goods, ve’re nach’ralized—
Vat hinters us from shouten
‘Americavich is civilzized,
So keep dose aliens outen!’”

Pietro Garibaldi says:

“Here ever-r-ry man is king.
I catch-a da fun, I mak-a da mon,
I like-a da ever-r-yt’ing.
American he gent-a-man—
Watch-a da Dago shout,
‘Sell-a da fruit, shin-a da boot,
Keep-a da alien out!’”

The Irishman vociferates:

“Sure, Mike, it’s sahft as jelly.
I’ll take the shtick and crack the pates
Of ivery foreign Kelly.
If it’s the call o’ polyticks,
Then I’m the la’ad to shout,
‘Down wid th’ Da-agos an’ th’ Micks,
An’ keep th’ aliens out!’”

But covered with ancestral tan,

Beside his wigwam door,
The only real American
Counts idle talk a bore.
“Ugh! Pale-face man he mighty thief.
Much medicine talk about—
It heap too late for Injun chief
To keep-um alien out.”
 PATHETIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY

PASSIN’ BY[11]
By Bombardier B. Bumpas

Well, I went an’ joined the army, an’ I done my little bit—
’Ere’s the bloke wot put my pot on; yes, I keeps ’im in my kit—
No, ’e ain’t no proper soft-nose; just the end off on the sly;
’E’s the only one wot got me—but I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by,
God A’mighty! Yes, I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a little whistlin’ sigh,

“Nearly got you that time, Sonny, just a little bit too high,”
Or a crack like, “Jack, look out there: Keep yer ’ead down, mind yer
eye!”
But they’re gone an’ far behind yer ’fore you’ll ’ear ’em passin’ by.

Yes, I lay from Toosday mornin’ till the Wensday afternoon;

’En the Black Watch took their trenches ’en it woke me from a
swoon.
I was flamin’, nearly mad wi’ thirst an’ pain, an’ fit to cry,
But I cheered ’em as they trampled on me carcus, passin’ by.
God A’mighty! Yes, I cheered ’em as I ’eard ’em passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; trippin’, failin’, gettin’ nigh.

Gettin’ nearer to the trenches, ’en you ’eard a Tommy cry:
“Don’t forget the Belgian wimmen, nor the little bairns forbye.”
God! I wouldn’t be a German when them men was passin’ by.

Then they gathered us together an’ they sorted out the worst—
Wot they called the “stretcher cases”—and they ’tended to us first,
They was overworked an’ crowded, an’ the Doc ’ud give a sigh—
“Hopeless, that case”—“that one, also”—speakin’ softly, passin’ by.
God! They watched ’im, silent, suff’rin’, watchin’, hopin’—passin’ by.
Passin’ by; passin’ by; curt command an’ stifled sigh,
For it ain’t no place for drama, an’ a man ’as got ter die;
’En I thought I ’eard a whimper an’ a little soft reply—
“Greater love than this hath no man”—some one speakin’ passin’ by.

So they ships me off to “Blighty,” ’en they sticks me in a ward,

I was short a leg an’ peeper, but they treats me like a lord.
I’d allus bin a lonely bloke, an’ so I used ter lie
An’ watch the fren’s of other men continual passin’ by,
Sisters, children, wives, an’ mothers, everlastin’ passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a smile or with a sigh;

With their cigarettes an’ matches, flowers or shirt or pipe or tie;
An’ one ’ud sometimes talk an’ speak—I used ter wonder why—
Cos I ain’t no blame Adonis, not ter notice, passin’ by.

I’m thinkin’ if the angels ’ave a Union Jack around,

An’ sticks it somewhere prominent when Gabriel starts to sound,
The people round that flag will be ’most half the hosts on high—
The men who’ve passed, or waits to pass, or now are passin’ by,
Big ’earted men an’ wimmen, white an’ black, a-passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; just to keep that flag on high,

An’ all that flag ’as stood for in the days that’s now gone by;
An’ when they pass before, I’m sure ’E’ll listen to their cry,
An’ ’E’ll treat ’em very gentle, an’ forgive ’em, passin’ by.

JEANIE MORRISON
By William Motherwell

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west,

Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The luve o’ life’s young day!
The fire that’s blawn on Beltanes e’en
May weel be black ’gin Yule;
But blacker fa’ awaits the heart
 Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o’ bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi’ tears:
They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o’ langsyne.

’Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,

’Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time,—sad time! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones and looks and smiles were shed,
Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi’ ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,

How cheeks brent red wi’ shame,
Whene’er the scule-weans, laughin’, said
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o’ the Saturdays,
(The scule then skail’t at noon,)
When we ran off the speel the braes,—
The broomy braes o’ June?
My head rins round and round about,—
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O’ scule-time and o’ thee.
O mornin’ life! O mornin’ luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like summer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin’ dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin’ o’ the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,

The burn sang to the trees,—
And we, with Nature’s heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o’ joy, till baith
Wi’ very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled,—unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae bin to thee
As closely twined wi’ earliest thocts
As ye hae been to me?
O, tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine!
O, say gin e’er your heart grows grit
Wi’ dreamings o’ langsyne?

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west,

I’ve borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luv o’ life’s young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young
I’ve never seen your face, nor heard
The music o’ your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O’ bygone days and me!

CUDDLE DOON
By Alexander Anderson

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht

Wi’ muckle faught an’ din;
“Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrief rogues,
Your faither’s comin’ in.”
They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gie a froon,
But aye I hap them up an’ cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”
Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid—
He aye sleeps next the wa’—
Bangs up an’ cries, “I want a piece;”
The rascal starts them a’.
I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop awee the soun’,
Then draw the blankets up an’ cry,
“Noo, weanies, cuddle doon.”

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab

Cries out, frae neath the claes,
“Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at once,
He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes.”
The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks,
He’d bother half the toon,
But aye I hap them up and cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

At length they hear their faither’s fit,

An’ as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa’,
While Tam pretends to snore.
“Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks,
As he pits off his shoon;
“The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An’ lang since cuddled doon.”

And just afore we bed oorsels,

We look at our wee lambs;
Tam has his airm roun’ wee Rab’s neck,
And Rab his airm round Tam’s.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An’ as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht

Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me;
But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet, come what will to ilka ane,
May He who rules aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows be beld
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

THE PATRIOT
By Robert Browning
(An Old Story)

It was roses, roses, all the way,

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels—
But give me your sun from yonder skies!”
They had answered “And afterward, what else?”

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

There’s nobody on the house-tops now

Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet,
By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,

 A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?” God might question; now instead,
’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

ANNABEL LEE
By Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee,
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

THE LOVER OF ANNABEL LEE

By Edwin D. Casterline

Often I think of the beautiful soul,

The soul of Annabel Lee,
And the man who loved, in the years gone by,
The soul of Annabel Lee—
His beautiful bride, who sleeps by his side,
By the shores of the sounding sea.

They say he was mad, but the world was mad,

More mad and more wrong than he,
For the soul was true that loved the soul
Of the wondrous Annabel Lee,
And the touch of that love was the love that made
The soul of her lover free.

In the days gone by, in the wreck of things,

From the wave of Life’s wide sea,
They were carried beyond by their kinsmen high,
He and his Annabel Lee;
Her heart was pure, too pure for the world
That chills the heart of the free—
And his was a life that chilled with the life
That passed from Annabel Lee.

But the angels are good; in heaven above

They gather the wrecks of the sea,
They gather the gold from the wrecks of love,
And the soul in its purity free—
So this is what they’ve done with the love
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.

I’ve stood in the room where they lived and loved,

And my soul touched the Life to be,
And I felt the spell of the hidden light
That lived in Annabel Lee;
And I felt the hand of the man she loved,
(That she loved far better than we,)
And down in my soul the double soul
Awoke the God in me.

So down in my dreams I follow the beams

Of Poe and his Annabel Lee,
And deep in the night I see the pure light
That flashes and quivers to me.
Away in the years where the Future stands,
In the world that is to be,
I know that my hands will clasp the hands
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.
 THE BURIED HEART
By Dennar Stewart

“I sleep, but my heart waketh.”

Tread lightly, love, when over my head,

Beneath the daisies lying,
And tenderly press the grassy bed
Where the fallen rose lies dying.

Dreamless I sleep in the quiet ground,

Save when, your foot-fall hearing,
My heart awakes to the old-loved sound
And beats to the step that’s nearing.

Bright shone the moon, last eve, when you came—

Still, dust for dust hath feeling—
The willow-roots whispered low the name
Of him who weeps while kneeling.

The lily-cup holds the falling tears,

The tears you shed above me;
And I know through all these silent years
There’s some one still to love me.

Oh, softly sigh; for I hear the sound

And grieve me o’er your sorrow;
But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound—
I’ll give it back to-morrow.

Whisper me, love, as in moments fled,

While I dream your hand mine taketh;
For the stone speaks false that says, “She’s dead;”
I sleep, but my heart awaketh.

BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!

 By Alfred Tennyson

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman’s boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor-lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;
But, O, for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

BESIDE THE DEAD

By Ina Coolbrith
(One of the finest sonnets in the English language)

It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie

With hands that folded are from every task;
Sealed with the seal of the great mystery,
The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask.
The life-long struggle ended; ended quite
The weariness of patience, and of pain,
And the eyes closed to open not again
On desolate dawn or dreariness of night.
It must be sweet to slumber and forget;
To have the poor tired heart so still at last:
Done with all yearning, done with all regret,
Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all forever past:
Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet—
It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!

—From “Songs of the Golden Gate,” copyright by Houghton,

Mifflin & Co., and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

ROCKING THE BABY

By Madge Morris Wagner

I hear her rocking the baby—

Her room is just next to mine—
And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms
That round her neck entwine,
As she rocks, and rocks the baby,
In the room just next to mine.
I hear her rocking the baby
Each day when the twilight comes,
And I know there’s a world of blessing and love
In the “baby bye” she hums.
I see the restless fingers
Playing with “mamma’s rings,”
And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth,
That to hers in kissing clings,
As she rocks and sings to the baby,
And dreams as she rocks and sings.

I hear her rocking the baby,

Slower and slower now,
And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss
On its eyes, and cheek, and brow.
From her rocking, rocking, rocking,
I wonder would she start,
Could she know, through the wall between us,
She is rocking on a heart,
While my empty arms are aching
For a form they may not press,
And my emptier heart is breaking
In its desolate loneliness?
I list to the rocking, rocking,
In the room just next to mine,
And breathe a prayer in silence,
At a mother’s broken shrine,
For the woman who rocks the baby
In the room just next to mine.

—Copyright by Harr Wagner Co., San Francisco, and used by kind

permission of author and publisher.

PUT FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE

By Madge Morris Wagner

When dead, no imposing funeral rite,

Nor line of praise I crave;
But drop your tears upon my face—
Put flowers on my grave.

Close not in narrow wall the place

In which my heart finds rest,
Nor mark with tow’ring monument
The sod above my breast.

Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab

A burning thought or deed.
Or word of love, or praise, or blame,
For stranger eyes to read.

But deep, deep in your heart of hearts,

A tender mem’ry save;
Upon my dead face drop your tears—
Put flowers on my grave.
 —Copyright by Harr Wagner Co., San Francisco, and used by kind
permission of author and publisher.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

By Charles Lamb

I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert thou not born in my father’s dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I FEEL I’M GROWING AULD, GUDE-WIFE

By James Linen
I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
My steps are frail, my een are bleared,
My pow is unco bauld.
I’ve seen the snaws o’ fourscore years
O’er hill and meadow fa’,
And hinnie! were it no’ for you,
I’d gladly slip awa’.

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—

I feel I’m growing auld;
Frae youth to age I’ve keepit warm
The love that ne’er turned cauld.
I canna bear the dreary thocht
That we maun sindered be;
There’s naething binds my poor auld heart
To earth, gude-wife, but thee.

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—

I feel I’m growing auld;
Life seems to me a wintry waste,
The very sun feels cauld.
Of worldly frien’s ye’ve been to me,
Amang them a’ the best;
Now, I’ll lay down my weary head,
Gude-wife, and be at rest.

DA THIEF[12]
By T. A. Daly

Eef poor man goes

An’ steals a rose
Een Juna-time—
Wan leetla rose—
You gon’ su’pose
Dat dat’s a crime?
Eh! w’at? Den taka look at me,
For here bayfore your eyes you see
Wan thief, dat ees so glad an’ proud
He gona brag of eet out loud!
So moocha good I do, an’ feel,
From dat wan leetle rose I steal,
Dat eef I gon’ to jail to-day
Dey no could tak’ my joy away.
So, leesen! here ees how eet come:
Las’ night w’en I am walkin’ home
From work een hotta ceety street

Ees sudden com’ a smal so sweet

Eet maka heaven een my nose—
I look an’ dere I see da rose!
Not wan, but manny, fine an’ tall,
Dat peep at me above da wall.
So, then, I close my eyes an’ find
Anudder peecture een my mind;
I see a house dat’s small an’ hot
Where many pretta theengs ees not,
Where leetla woman, good an’ true,
Ees work so hard da whole day through,
She’s too wore out, w’en com’s da night,
For smile an’ mak’ da housa bright.

But presto! now I’m home, an’ she

Ees seetin’ on da step weeth me.
Bambino, sleepin’ on her breast,
Ees nevva know more sweeta rest,
An’ nevva was sooch glad su’prise
Like now ees shina from her eyes;
An’ all baycause to-night she wear
Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair.
She ees so please’! Eet mak’ me feel
I shoulda sooner learned to steal!