"If that is true," was the slow, icy answer, "if every created thing weeps for Balder, he shall return to Asgard; but if one eye is dry he remains henceforth in Helheim."

Then Hermod rode swiftly away, and the decree of Hel was soon told in Asgard. Through all the worlds the gods sent messengers to say that all who loved Balder should weep for his return, and everywhere tears fell like rain. There was weeping in Asgard, and in all the earth there was nothing that did not weep. Men and women and little children, missing the light that had once fallen into their hearts and homes, sobbed with bitter grief; the birds of the air, who had sung carols of joy at the gates of the morning since time began, were full of sorrow; the beasts of the fields crouched and moaned in their desolation; the great trees, that had put on their robes of green at Balder's command, sighed as the wind wailed through them; and the sweet flowers, that waited for Balder's footstep and sprang up in all the fields to greet him, hung their frail blossoms and wept bitterly for the love and the warmth and the light that had gone out. Throughout the whole earth there was nothing but weeping, and the sound of it was like the wailing of those storms in autumn that weep for the dead summer as its withered leaves drop one by one from the trees.

The messengers of the gods went gladly back to Asgard, for everything had wept for Balder; but as they journeyed they came upon a giantess, called Thok, and her eyes were dry.

"Weep for Balder," they said.

"With dry eyes only will I weep for Balder," she answered. "Dead or alive, he never gave me gladness. Let him stay in Helheim."

When she had spoken these words a terrible laugh broke from her lips, and the messengers looked at each other with pallid faces, for they knew it was the voice of Loke.

Balder never came back to Asgard, and the shadows deepened over all things, for the night of death was fast coming on.



SECTION VII

POETRY



BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. SOME IMPORTANT GENERAL COLLECTIONS

Bryant, William Cullen, Library of Poetry and Song.

Child, Francis J., English and Scottish Popular Ballads. [Ed. by Sargent and Kittredge.]

Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, Oxford Book of English Verse.

Stedman, Edmund Clarence, An American Anthology. A Victorian Anthology.

Stevenson, Burton E., The Home Book of Verse.

The finest single-volume general collection yet made. It runs to nearly 4,000 pages, but is printed on thin paper so that the volume is not unwieldy.

Stevenson, Burton E., Poems of American History.

II. COLLECTIONS FOR CHILDREN

Chisholm, L., The Golden Staircase.

Grahame, Kenneth, The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children.

Henley, William Ernest, Lyra Heroica.

Ingpen, Roger, One Thousand Poems for Children.

Lang, Andrew, The Blue Poetry Book.

Lucas, Edward Verrall, A Book of Verses for Children. Another Book of Verses for Children.

Olcott, Frances J., Story Telling Ballads. Story Telling Poems for Children.

Palgrave, Francis T., The Children's Treasury of Poetry and Song.

Repplier, Agnes, A Book of Famous Verse.

Smith, J. C., A Book of Verse for Boys and Girls.

Stevenson, Burton E., The Home Book of Verse for Young Folks.

Thacher, Lucy W., The Listening Child.

Whittier, John Greenleaf, Child Life in Poetry.

Wiggin, K. D., and Smith, N. A., The Posy Ring. Golden Numbers.

III. INDIVIDUAL AUTHORS

Blake, William, Songs of Innocence.

Cary, Alice and Phoebe, Poems for Children. [In Complete Works.]

Dodge, Mary Mapes, Rhymes and Jingles.

Field, Eugene, Songs of Childhood.

Greenaway, Kate, Marigold Garden. Under the Window.

Lamb, Charles and Mary, Poetry for Children.

Lear, Edward, Nonsense Songs.

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, Complete Poetical Works.

Richards, Laura E., In My Nursery.

Riley, James Whitcomb, Rhymes of Childhood.

Sherman, Frank Dempster, Little-Folk Lyrics.

Stevenson, Robert Louis, A Child's Garden of Verses.

Rands, William Brighty, Lilliput Lyrics.

Rossetti, Christina G., Sing-Song. Goblin Market.

Seegmiller, Wilhelmina, Little Rhymes for Little Readers.

Tabb, John B., Poems.

Taylor, Ann and Jane, "Original Poems" and Others. [Ed. by E. V. Lucas.]

Watts, Isaac, Divine and Moral Songs.

Wells, Carolyn, The Jingle Book.



SECTION VII. POETRY

INTRODUCTORY

Many teachers have more difficulty in interesting their pupils in poetry than in any other form of literature. This difficulty may be due to any one of a number of causes. It may be due to a lack of poetic appreciation on the part of the teacher, leading to poor judgment in selecting and presenting poetry. It may be due to the feeling that there is something occult and mysterious about poetry that puts it outside the range of common interests, or to the idea that the technique of verse must in some way be emphasized. The first step in using poetry successfully with children is to brush away all these and other extraneous matters and to realize that poetry is in essence a simple and natural mode of expression, and that all attempts to explain how poetry does its work may be left for later stages of study. It is not necessary even for the teacher to be able to recognize and name all the varieties of rhythm to be able to present poetry enthusiastically and understandingly. Least of all is it necessary to have a prescribed list of the hundred "best poems." Some of the best poems for children would not belong in any such list.

The selections in this section cover a wide variety. They are not all equally great, but no teacher can fail to find here something suitable and interesting for any grade. The few suggestions which it is possible to make in this brief introduction may best, perhaps, and without any intention of being exhaustive, be thrown into the form of dogmatic statements:

1. If in doubt about what to use beyond the material in the following pages, depend upon some of the fine collections mentioned in the bibliography. Every teacher should have access to Stevenson's Home Book of Verse for Young Folks, which contains many poems from recent writers as well as the older favorites. If possible, have the advantage of the fine taste and judgment of the collections made by Andrew Lang, Miss Repplier, E. V. Lucas, and as many of the others as are available.

2. Remember that in poetry, more than elsewhere, one can present only what one is really interested in and, as a consequence, enthusiastic about. Even poems about whose fitness all judges agree should be omitted rather than run the risk of deadening them for children by a dead and formal handling.

3. Mainly, poetry should be presented orally. The appeal is first to the ear just as in music. The teacher should read or, better, recite the poem in order to get the best results. There should be no effort at "elocution" in its worst sense, but a simple, sincere rendering of the language of the poem. The more informal the process is, the better. There should be much repetition of favorite poems, so that the rich details and pictures may sink into the mind.

4. There should be great variety in choice that richness and breadth of impression may thus be gained. It is a mistake to confine the work in poetry entirely to lyrics or entirely to ballads. Wordsworth's "Daffodils" and Gilbert's "Yarn of the Nancy Bell" are far apart, but there is a place for each. Teachers should always be on the lookout for poetry old or new, in the magazines or elsewhere, which they can bring into the schoolroom. Such "finds" are often fresh with some timely suggestion and may prove just what is needed to start some hesitating pupil to reading poetry.

5. The earliest poetry should be that in which the music is very prominent and the idea absent or not prominent. The perfection of the Mother Goose jingles for little folks is in their fulfillment of this principle. Use and encourage strongly emphasized rhythm in reading poetry, especially in the early work. Gradually the meaning in poetry takes on more prominence as the work proceeds.

6. Children should be encouraged to commit much poetry to memory. They do this very easily after hearing it repeated a time or two. Such memorizing should not be done usually as a task. Children are, however, very obliging about liking what a teacher is enthusiastic about, and what they like they can hold in mind with surprising ease. The game of giving quotations that no one else in the class has given is always a delight. Don't be misled by the fun poked at the "memory gem method" of studying poetry. The error is not in memorizing complete poems and fine poetic passages, but in doing this in a mechanical fashion.

7. It is a mistake to use too much poetry at one time. Children, as well as grown people, tire of it more quickly than they do of prose. The mind seems soon to reach the saturation point where it is unable to take in any more. Frequent returns to a poem rather than long periods of study give the best results.

8. Encourage children to read poetry aloud. By example and suggestion help them keep their minds on the ideas, the pictures, the characters. Only by doing this can they really read so as to interpret a poem. No one can read with a lazy mind, or merely by imitation. Encourage them to croon or recite the lines when alone.

9. It is not necessary that children should understand everything in a poem. If it is worth while they will get enough of its meaning to justify its use and they will gradually see more and more in it as time passes. In fact it is this constantly growing content of a poem that makes its possession in memory such a treasure. Neither should the presence of difficult words be allowed to rule out a poem that possesses some large element of accessible value. Many words are understood by the ear that are not recognized by sight.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

Books such as Woodberry's Heart of Man and Appreciation of Literature are of especial value for getting the right attitude toward poetry. The most illuminating practical help would come from consulting the published lectures of Lafcadio Hearn, explaining poetry to Japanese students. His problem was not unlike that faced by the teacher of poetry in the grades. These lectures have been edited by John Erskine as Interpretations of Literature (2 vols.), Appreciations of Poetry, and Life and Literature. The whole philosophy of poetry is treated compactly in Professor Gayley's "The Principles of Poetry," which forms the introduction to Gayley and Young's Principles and Progress of English Poetry.



269

Mrs. Follen (1787-1860) was a rather voluminous writer and adapter of juvenile material. Her verses are old-fashioned, simple, and child-like, and have pleased several generations of children. While they have no such air of distinction as belongs to Stevenson's poems for children, they are full of the fancies that children enjoy, and deserve their continued popularity.

THE THREE LITTLE KITTENS

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

Three little kittens lost their mittens; And they began to cry, "Oh, mother dear, We very much fear That we have lost our mittens." "Lost your mittens! You naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie!" "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow." "No, you shall have no pie."

The three little kittens found their mittens; And they began to cry, "Oh, mother dear, See here, see here! See, we have found our mittens!" "Put on your mittens, You silly kittens, And you may have some pie." "Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r, Oh, let us have the pie! Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r."

The three little kittens put on their mittens, And soon ate up the pie; "Oh, mother dear, We greatly fear That we have soiled our mittens!" "Soiled your mittens! You naughty kittens!" Then they began to sigh, "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow." Then they began to sigh, "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."

The three little kittens washed their mittens, And hung them out to dry; "Oh, mother dear, Do not you hear That we have washed our mittens?" "Washed your mittens! Oh, you're good kittens! But I smell a rat close by; Hush, hush! Mee-ow, mee-ow." "We smell a rat close by, Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."



270

THE MOON

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

O look at the moon! She is shining up there; O mother, she looks Like a lamp in the air.

Last week she was smaller, And shaped like a bow; But now she's grown bigger, And round as an O.

Pretty moon, pretty moon, How you shine on the door, And make it all bright On my nursery floor!

You shine on my playthings, And show me their place, And I love to look up At your pretty bright face.

And there is a star Close by you, and maybe That small twinkling star Is your little baby.



271

RUNAWAY BROOK

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

"Stop, stop, pretty water!" Said Mary one day, To a frolicsome brook That was running away.

"You run on so fast! I wish you would stay; My boat and my flowers You will carry away.

"But I will run after: Mother says that I may; For I would know where You are running away."

So Mary ran on; But I have heard say, That she never could find Where the brook ran away.



272

DING DONG! DING DONG!

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

Ding dong! ding dong! I'll sing you a song; 'Tis about a little bird; He sat upon a tree, And he sang to me, And I never spoke a word.

Ding dong! ding dong! I'll sing you a song; 'Tis about a little mouse; He looked very cunning, As I saw him running About my father's house.

Ding dong! ding dong! I'll sing you a song About my little kitty; She's speckled all over, And I know you'll love her, For she is very pretty.



273

Mrs. Prentiss (1818-1878) was the author of The Susy Books, published from 1853 to 1856, forerunners of many series of such juvenile publications. The following poem has retained its hold on the affections of children.

THE LITTLE KITTY

ELIZABETH PRENTISS

Once there was a little kitty Whiter than snow; In a barn she used to frolic, Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie Ran to and fro; For she heard the kitty coming, Long time ago.

Two eyes had little kitty Black as a sloe; And they spied the little mousie, Long time ago.

Four paws had little kitty, Paws soft as dough; And they caught the little mousie, Long time ago.

Nine teeth had little kitty, All in a row; And they bit the little mousie, Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie, Little mouse cried, "Oh!" But she got away from kitty, Long time ago.



274

Mrs. Hale (1788-1879), left a widow with five children to support, devoted herself to a literary career. She wrote fiction, edited the Ladies' Magazine of Boston, afterward the Ladies' Book of Philadelphia, compiled a book of poetical quotations, and biographies of celebrated women. Most of her work was ephemeral in character, and she lives for us in the one poem that follows. It is usually printed without the last stanza which is here restored. Younger children, as a rule, do not object to such moralizing.

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB

SARA J. HALE

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school one day, That was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school.

And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear:

And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said, "I'm not afraid, You'll save me from all harm."

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" The eager children cry— "Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know," The Teacher did reply.

And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your will, If you are only kind.



275

Theodore Tilton (1835-1907) was a very brilliant New York orator, poet, and journalist. His poetry, published in a complete volume in 1897, contains some really distinguished verse. He is largely known to the new generation, however, by some stanzas from the following poem, which are usually found in readers and poetic compilations for children. The entire poem is given here. Does our "Swat the fly" campaign of recent years negate the kindly attitude emphasized in the poem?

BABY BYE

THEODORE TILTON

Baby bye, Here's a fly; Let us watch him, you and I. How he crawls Up the walls, Yet he never falls! I believe with six such legs You and I could walk on eggs. There he goes On his toes, Tickling baby's nose.

Spots of red Dot his head; Rainbows on his back are spread; That small speck Is his neck; See him nod and beck. I can show you, if you choose, Where to look to find his shoes,— Three small pairs, Made of hairs; These he always wears.

Black and brown Is his gown; He can wear it upside down; It is laced Round his waist; I admire his taste. Yet though tight his clothes are made He will lose them, I'm afraid, If to-night He gets sight Of the candle-light.

In the sun Webs are spun; What if he gets into one? When it rains He complains On the window-panes. Tongue to talk have you and I; God has given the little fly No such things, So he sings With his buzzing wings.

He can eat Bread and meat; There's his mouth between his feet. On his back Is a pack Like a pedler's sack. Does the baby understand? Then the fly shall kiss her hand; Put a crumb On her thumb, Maybe he will come.

Catch him? No, Let him go, Never hurt an insect so; But no doubt He flies out Just to gad about. Now you see his wings of silk Drabbled in the baby's milk; Fie, oh fie, Foolish fly! How will he get dry?

All wet flies Twist their thighs, Thus they wipe their head and eyes; Cats, you know, Wash just so, Then their whiskers grow. Flies have hair too short to comb, So they fly bareheaded home; But the gnat Wears a hat, Do you believe that?

Flies can see More than we. So how bright their eyes must be! Little fly, Ope your eye; Spiders are near by. For a secret I can tell,— Spiders never use flies well. Then away! Do not stay. Little fly, good-day!



276

Prominent among American writers who have contributed to the happiness of children is Lucy Larcom (1826-1893). One of a numerous family, she worked as a child in the Lowell mills, later taught school in Illinois, was one of the editors of Our Young Folks, and wrote a most fascinating autobiography called A New England Girlhood. Several of her poems are still used in schools. The one that follows is, perhaps, the most popular of these. It is semi-dramatic, and the three voices of the poem can be easily discovered. Miss Larcom's finest poem is the one entitled "Hannah Binding Shoes."

THE BROWN THRUSH

LUCY LARCOM

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, He's singing to me! He's singing to me! And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look! In my tree I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree? Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! Now I'm free! And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me. And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy!" But long it won't be, Don't you know? don't you see? Unless we are as good as can be.



277

Mrs. Child (1802-1880) was the editor of the first monthly for children in the United States, the Juvenile Miscellany. She wrote and compiled several works for children, and her optimistic outlook has led someone to speak of her as the "Apostle of Cheer." She wrote a novel, Hobomak (1821), which is still spoken of with respect, and she was a prominent figure in the anti-slavery agitation. The two poems following have held their own with children for reasons easily recognized.

THANKSGIVING DAY

LYDIA MARIA CHILD

Over the river and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood— Oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood, To have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!" Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple-gray! Spring over the ground, Like a hunting-hound! For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barnyard gate. We seem to go Extremely slow, It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood— Now grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for pumpkin-pie!



278

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?

LYDIA MARIA CHILD

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, But didn't take your nest away. Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! I gave the hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I'm not so mean, anyhow."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?"

"Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. I gave wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no, I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?"

"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; "I should like to know What thief took away A bird's nest to-day?"

"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen; "Don't ask me again, Why, I haven't a chick Would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together. I'd scorn to intrude On her and her brood. Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen, "Don't ask me again."

"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr! All the birds make a stir! Let us find out his name, And all cry 'For shame!'"

"I would not rob a bird," Said little Mary Green; "I think I never heard Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel, too," Said little Alice Neal; "I wonder if he knew How sad the bird would feel?"

A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame, He didn't like to tell his name.



279

"Susan Coolidge" was the pseudonym used by Sarah C. Woolsey (1845-1905). She wrote numerous tales and verses for young people, and her series of Katy Books was widely known and enjoyed. The poem that follows is a very familiar one, and its treatment of its theme may be compared with that in Henry Ward Beecher's little prose apologue (No. 249).

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN

"SUSAN COOLIDGE"

I'll tell you how the leaves came down: The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time to go to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! 'Tis such a very pleasant day, We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bedclothes heaped up on her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said; And from below each sleepy child Replied, "Good-night," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed."

The poems for young readers produced by the sisters Alice Cary (1820-1871) and Phoebe Cary (1824-1871) constitute the most successful body of juvenile verse yet produced in this country. One of Alice Cary's poems, "An Order for a Picture," is of a very distinguished quality, but as its appeal is largely to mature readers, two of Phoebe Cary's poems of simpler quality are chosen for use here. The first of these marks, by means of three illustrations within the range of children's observation, a very common defect of child nature and is, by the force of these illustrations, a good lesson in practical ethics. The appeal of the second is to that inherent ideal of disinterested heroism which is so strong in children. The setting of the story amidst the ever-present threat of the sea affords a good chance for the teacher to do effective work in emphasizing the geographical background. This should be done, however, not as geography merely, but with the attention on the human elements involved.



280

THEY DIDN'T THINK

PHOEBE CARY

Once a trap was baited With a piece of cheese; Which tickled so a little mouse It almost made him sneeze; An old rat said, "There's danger, Be careful where you go!" "Nonsense!" said the other, "I don't think you know!" So he walked in boldly— Nobody in sight; First he took a nibble, Then he took a bite; Close the trap together Snapped as quick as wink, Catching mousey fast there, 'Cause he didn't think.

Once a little turkey, Fond of her own way, Wouldn't ask the old ones Where to go or stay; She said, "I'm not a baby, Here I am half-grown; Surely, I am big enough To run about alone!" Off she went, but somebody Hiding saw her pass; Soon like snow her feathers Covered all the grass. So she made a supper For a sly young mink, 'Cause she was so headstrong That she wouldn't think.

Once there was a robin Lived outside the door, Who wanted to go inside And hop upon the floor. "Ho, no," said the mother, "You must stay with me; Little birds are safest Sitting in a tree." "I don't care," said Robin, And gave his tail a fling, "I don't think the old folks Know quite everything." Down he flew, and Kitty seized him. Before he'd time to blink. "Oh," he cried, "I'm sorry, But I didn't think."

Now my little children, You who read this song, Don't you see what trouble Comes of thinking wrong? And can't you take a warning From their dreadful fate Who began their thinking When it was too late? Don't think there's always safety Where no danger shows, Don't suppose you know more Than anybody knows; But when you're warned of ruin, Pause upon the brink, And don't go under headlong, 'Cause you didn't think.



281

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE

A Story of Holland

PHOEBE CARY

The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day, And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play: "Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see, To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me; And take these cakes I made for him— They are hot and smoking yet; You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set."

Then the good-wife turned to her labor, Humming a simple song, And thought of her husband, working hard At the sluices all day long; And set the turf a-blazing, And brought the coarse black bread; That he might find a fire at night, And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother, With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow's tender shade; And told them they'd see him back before They saw a star in sight, Though he wouldn't be afraid to go In the very darkest night!

For he was a brave, bright fellow, With eye and conscience clear; He could do whatever a boy might do, And he had not learned to fear. Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, Nor brought a stork to harm, Though never a law in Holland Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle Made glad a lonesome place— Alas! if only the blind old man Could have seen that happy face! Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent; And he felt the sunshine come and go As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking, And the winds began to rise, The mother looked from her door again, Shading her anxious eyes; And saw the shadows deepen And birds to their homes come back, But never a sign of Peter Along the level track. But she said: "He will come at morning, So I need not fret or grieve— Though it isn't like my boy at all To stay without my leave."

But where was the child delaying? On the homeward way was he, And across the dike while the sun was up An hour above the sea. He was stopping now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound, As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound.

"Ah! well for us," said Peter, "That the gates are good and strong, And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long! You're a wicked sea," said Peter; "I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes; But our sluices keep you safe!"

But hark! Through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child's face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment, And stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand.

'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means. A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear. For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night; And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! He has seen the danger, And, shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm! He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep passing nigh; And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry. And he hears the rough winds blowing, And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him, Save the echo of his call. He sees no hope, no succor, His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post!

So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea; Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company; He thinks of his brother and sister, Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother, Of himself as dying—and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last: But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all night. And now she watches the pathway, As yester eve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun? Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door; Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before!

"He is dead!" she cries; "my darling!" And the startled father hears, And comes and looks the way she looks, And fears the thing she fears: Till a glad shout from the bearers Thrills the stricken man and wife— "Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, And God has saved his life!" So, there in the morning sunshine They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy.

'Tis many a year since then; but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good. For every man in that country Takes his son by the hand, And tells him of little Peter, Whose courage saved the land.

They have many a valiant hero, Remembered through the years: But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears. And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, And told to the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea!

The world's greatest writer of verse for children, Robert Louis Stevenson, was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1850. After he was twenty-five years old he spent much of the rest of his short life traveling in search of health. From 1889 to the time of his death in 1894 he resided in Samoa. The verses given here (Nos. 282-295) are taken from his famous book, A Child's Garden of Verses, which, says Professor Saintsbury, "is, perhaps, the most perfectly natural book of the kind. It was supplemented later by other poems for children; and some of his work outside this, culminating in the widely known epitaph

Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill,

has the rarely combined merits of simplicity, sincerity, music, and strength." One of the best of Stevenson's poems for children outside the Child's Garden of Verses is the powerfully dramatic story called Heather Ale. In attempting to solve the secret of Stevenson's supremacy, Edmund Gosse calls attention to the "curiously candid and confidential attitude of mind" in these poems, to the "extraordinary clearness and precision with which the immature fancies of eager childhood" are reproduced, and particularly, to the fact that they give us "a transcript of that child-mind which we have all possessed and enjoyed, but of which no one, except Mr. Stevenson, seems to have carried away a photograph." It is this ability to hand on a photographic transcript of the child's way of seeing things that, according to Mr. Gosse, puts Stevenson in a class which contains only two other members, Hans Christian Andersen in nursery stories, and Juliana Horatia Ewing in the more realistic prose tale. Children find expressed in these poems their own active fancies. It has been objected to them that the child pictured there is a lonely child, but every child, like every mature person, has an inner world of dreams and experiences in which he delights now and then to dwell. The presence of the qualities mentioned put at least two of Stevenson's prose romances among the most splendid adventure stories for young people, Treasure Island and Kidnapped. Perhaps no book is more popular among pupils of the seventh and eighth grades than the former. It has been called a "sublimated dime novel," that is, it has all the decidedly attractive features of the "dime novel" plus the fine art of story-telling which is always lacking in that sensational type of story.



282

WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

A child should always say what's true, And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table; At least as far as he is able.



283

THE COW

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart: She gives me cream with all her might, To eat with apple-tart.

She wanders lowing here and there, And yet she cannot stray, All in the pleasant open air, The pleasant light of day;

And blown by all the winds that pass And wet with all the showers, She walks among the meadow grass And eats the meadow flowers.



284

TIME TO RISE

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

A birdie with a yellow bill Hopped upon the window-sill, Cocked his shining eye and said: "Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?"



285

RAIN

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The rain is raining all around, It falls on field and tree, It rains on the umbrellas here, And on the ships at sea.



286

A GOOD PLAY

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

We built a ship upon the stairs All made of the back-bedroom chairs, And filled it full of sofa pillows To go a-sailing on the billows.

We took a saw and several nails, And water in the nursery pails; And Tom said, "Let us also take An apple and a slice of cake;"— Which was enough for Tom and me To go a-sailing on, till tea.

We sailed along for days and days, And had the very best of plays; But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, So there was no one left but me.



287

THE LAMPLIGHTER

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by; For every night at tea-time and before you take your seat, With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.

Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea, And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do, O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!



288

THE LAND OF NOD

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

From breakfast on through all the day At home among my friends I stay, But every night I go abroad Afar into the land of Nod.

All by myself I have to go, With none to tell me what to do— All alone beside the streams And up the mountain sides of dreams.

The strangest things are there for me, Both things to eat and things to see, And many frightening sights abroad, Till morning in the land of Nod.

Try as I like to find the way, I never can get back by day, Nor can remember plain and clear The curious music that I hear.



289

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lion comes to drink.

I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear Land of Story-books.



290

MY BED IS A BOAT

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

My bed is like a little boat; Nurse helps me in when I embark: She girds me in my sailor's coat And starts me in the dark.

At night, I go on board and say Good-night to all my friends on shore; I shut my eyes and sail away And see and hear no more.

And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two.

All night across the dark we steer; But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room, beside the pier, I find my vessel fast.



291

MY SHADOW

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.



292

THE SWING

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown— Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down!



293

WHERE GO THE BOATS?

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along forever With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating— Where will all come home?

On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill.

Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore.



294

THE WIND

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies' skirts across the grass— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!



295

WINDY NIGHTS

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again.



The four poems that follow are from Little-Folk Lyrics, by Frank Dempster Sherman (1860—), and are used here by permission of and special arrangement with the publishers, Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston. Many of Sherman's poems have been found pleasing to children, particularly those dealing with nature themes and with outdoor activities.



296

SPINNING TOP

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

When I spin round without a stop And keep my balance like the top, I find that soon the floor will swim Before my eyes; and then, like him, I lie all dizzy on the floor Until I feel like spinning more.



297

FLYING KITE

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

I often sit and wish that I Could be a kite up in the sky, And ride upon the breeze, and go Whatever way it chanced to blow. Then I could look beyond the town, And see the river winding down, And follow all the ships that sail Like me before the merry gale, Until at last with them I came To some place with a foreign name.



298

KING BELL

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

Long ago there lived a King A mighty man and bold, Who had two sons, named Dong and Ding, Of whom this tale is told.

Prince Ding was clear of voice, and tall, A Prince in every line; Prince Dong, his voice was very small, And he but four feet nine.

Now both these sons were very dear To Bell, the mighty King. They always hastened to appear When he for them would ring.

Ding never failed the first to be, But Dong, he followed well, And at the second summons he Responded to King Bell.

This promptness of each royal Prince Is all of them we know, Except that all their kindred since Have done exactly so.

And if you chance to know a King Like this one of the dong, Just listen once—and there is Ding; Again—and there is Dong.



299

DAISIES

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadows of the Night.

And often while I'm dreaming so, Across the sky the Moon will go; It is a lady, sweet and fair, Who comes to gather daisies there.

For, when at morning I arise, There's not a star left in the skies; She's picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town.

The three poems by Eugene Field (Nos. 300-302) are used by special permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York City. Field was born at St. Louis in 1850, and died at Chicago in 1895. The quaint fantastical conceptions in these poems have made them supreme favorites with children. No. 300 belongs to the list of the world's great lullabies.



300

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD

EUGENE FIELD

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,— Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!" Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea— "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, Never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam,— Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home: 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:— Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.



301

THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE

EUGENE FIELD

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? 'Tis a marvel of great renown! It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop sea In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet (As those who have tasted it say) That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day.

When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below— And this is the way you contrive to get at Those sugar-plums tempting you so:

You say but the word to that gingerbread dog And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest. And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground— Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains, As much as your apron can hold! So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.



302

THE DUEL

EUGENE FIELD

The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; 'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink! The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Appeared to know as sure as fate There was going to be a terrible spat. (I wasn't there; I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!" And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!" The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind: I'm only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and claw In the awfullest way you ever saw— And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (Don't fancy I exaggerate— I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning, where the two had sat They found no trace of dog or cat: And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away! But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! Now what do you really think of that! (The old Dutch clock it told me so, And that is how I came to know.)



303

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1849, and died at Indianapolis in 1916. His success was largely due to his ability to present homely phases of life in the Hoosier dialect. "The Raggedy Man" is a good illustration of this skill. In his prime Mr. Riley was an excellent oral interpreter of his own work, and his personifications of the Hoosier types in his poems in recitals all over the country had much to do with giving him an understanding body of readers. He had much of the power in which Stevenson was so supreme—that power of remembering accurately and giving full expression to the points of view of childhood. The perennial fascination of the circus as in "The Circus Day Parade" illustrates this particularly well. "The Treasures of the Wise Man" represents another class of Mr. Riley's poems in which he moralizes in a fashion that makes people willing to be preached at. It may be said very truly that most of his poems have their chief attraction in enabling older readers to recall the almost vanished thrilling delights of youth, but poems that do that are generally found to interest children also.

THE TREASURES OF THE WISE MAN[1]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

O the night was dark and the night was late, And the robbers came to rob him; And they picked the locks of his palace gate, The robbers that came to rob him— They picked the locks of his palace gate, Seized his jewels and gems of state, His coffers of gold and his priceless plate— The robbers that came to rob him.

But loud laughed he in the morning red!— For of what had the robbers robbed him?— Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed, When the robbers came to rob him,— They robbed him not of a golden shred Of the childish dreams in his wise old head— "And they're welcome to all things else," he said, When the robbers came to rob him.



304

THE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE[1]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played! And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed, As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!

How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own, And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known! And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind, Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!

How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue, And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you, Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore, Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore!

How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed, And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side! How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame, With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.

How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast, And the mystery within it only hinted of at last From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!

And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town, With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down, And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.

Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played! And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed, As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!

FOOTNOTE:

[1] From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.



305

THE RAGGEDY MAN[2]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! He comes to our house every day, An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; An' he opens the shed—an' we all ist laugh When he drives out our little old wobblely calf; An' nen—ef our hired girl says he can— He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.— Aint he a' awful good Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W'y, The Raggedy Man—he's ist so good He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; An' nen he spades in our garden, too, An' does most things 'at boys can't do!— He clumbed clean up in our big tree An' shooked a' apple down fer me— An' nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann— An' nother'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man— Aint he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes: Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers therselves! An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! Aint he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man—one time when he Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me, Says "When you're big like your Pa is, Air you go' to keep a fine store like his— An' be a rich merchunt—an' wear fine clothes?— Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows!" An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!"

FOOTNOTE:

[2] From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.



306

James Hogg (1770-1835) was a poet of Scotland and a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott. He was known as the Ettrick Shepherd, from the place of his birth and from the fact that as a boy he tended the sheep. He had little schooling and was a thoroughly self-made man. The strongly marked and energetic swing of the rhythm, fitting in so well with the vigorous out-of-door experiences suggested, has made "A Boy's Song" a great favorite. Other poems of his that are still read are "The Skylark" and the verse fairy tale called "Kilmeny."

A BOY'S SONG

JAMES HOGG

Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.



307

Mary Howitt (1799-1888), an English author and translator, was the first to put Hans Christian Andersen's tales into English. She wrote on a great variety of subjects, and much of her work was useful and pleasing to a multitude of readers old and young. Besides the following poem, she is known well to young readers by her "The Fairies of Caldon-Low."

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

MARY HOWITT

"Will you walk into my parlor?" Said the Spider to the Fly; "'Tis the prettiest little parlor That ever you did spy.

"The way into my parlor Is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things To show when you are there."

"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "To ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair Can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, With soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" Said the Spider to the Fly.

"There are pretty curtains drawn around; The sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"

"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "For I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, Who sleep upon your bed."

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly: "Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?

"I have within my pantry Good store of all that's nice: I'm sure you're very welcome— Will you please to take a slice?"

"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "Kind sir, that cannot be; I've heard what's in your pantry, And I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "You're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings How brilliant are your eyes!

"I have a little looking-glass Upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, You shall behold yourself."

"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "For what you're pleased to say, And, bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about. And went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly Would soon come back again:

So he wove a subtle web In a little corner sly, And set his table ready To dine upon the Fly.

Then came out to his door again, And merrily did sing: "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, With the pearl and silver wing;

"Your robes are green and purple— There's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, But mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon This silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, Came slowly flitting by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, Then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, And green and purple hue—

Thinking only of her crested head— Poor, foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, And fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, Into his dismal den, Within his little parlor— But she ne'er came out again.

And now, dear little children, Who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed.

Unto an evil counsellor Close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale Of the Spider and the Fly.



308

William Howitt (1792-1879) and his wife, author of the preceding poem, worked together on many literary projects. One of William Howitt's poems, "The Wind in a Frolic," has long found a place in collections for children. It presents the wind in a sprightly, mischievous, and boisterous mood.

THE WIND IN A FROLIC

WILLIAM HOWITT

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap! Now for a madcap galloping chase! I'll make a commotion in every place!"

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, Cracking the signs and scattering down Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls, Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls, There never was heard a much lustier shout, As the apples and oranges trundled about; And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the field it went, blustering and humming, And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming; It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows, And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows; Till, offended at such an unusual salute, They all turned their backs, and stood sulky and mute.

So on it went capering and playing its pranks, Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks, Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, Or the traveller grave on the king's highway. It was not too nice to hustle the bags Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;

'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak. Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, "Now, You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!" And it made them bow without more ado, Or it cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm, Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm; And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm;—

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps, To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd; There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had swept on, and had met in a lane With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain; For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood With his hat in a pool and his shoes in the mud.

Then away went the wind in its holiday glee, And now it was far on the billowy sea, And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow, And the little boats darted to and fro.

But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming West, Laughing to think, in its fearful fun, How little of mischief it really had done.



Ann Taylor (1782-1866) and Jane Taylor (1783-1824), English writers of verse and prose for children, have earned a permanent place in the history of juvenile literature on account of the real worth of their work and because they were among the first authors to write poetry especially for children. They published jointly three volumes of verse for children: Original Poems for Infant Minds, Rhymes for the Nursery, and Hymns for Infant Minds. Many of their poems seem a little too didactic, but they were genuine in their ethical earnestness and largely succeeded in putting things in terms of the child's own comprehension. The four poems given here represent them at their best, which was good enough to win the admiration of Sir Walter Scott.



309

THE COW

ANN TAYLOR

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, That will make it very sweet.

Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.



310

MEDDLESOME MATTY

ANN TAYLOR

One ugly trick has often spoiled The sweetest and the best; Matilda, though a pleasant child, One ugly trick possessed, Which, like a cloud before the skies, Hid all her better qualities.

Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid, To peep at what was in it; Or tilt the kettle, if you did But turn your back a minute. In vain you told her not to touch, Her trick of meddling grew so much.

Her grandmamma went out one day And by mistake she laid Her spectacles and snuff-box gay Too near the little maid; "Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on, As soon as grandmamma is gone."

Forthwith she placed upon her nose The glasses large and wide; And looking round, as I suppose, The snuff-box too she spied: "Oh! what a pretty box is that; I'll open it," said little Matt.

"I know that grandmamma would say, 'Don't meddle with it, dear,' But then, she's far enough away, And no one else is near: Besides, what can there be amiss In opening such a box as this?"

So thumb and finger went to work To move the stubborn lid, And presently a mighty jerk The mighty mischief did; For all at once, ah! woeful case, The snuff came puffing in her face.

Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth beside A dismal sight presented; In vain, as bitterly she cried, Her folly she repented. In vain she ran about for ease; She could do nothing else but sneeze.

She dashed the spectacles away, To wipe her tingling eyes, And as in twenty bits they lay, Her grandmamma she spies. "Heyday! and what's the matter now?" Says grandmamma with lifted brow.

Matilda, smarting with the pain, And tingling still, and sore, Made many a promise to refrain From meddling evermore. And 'tis a fact, as I have heard, She ever since has kept her word.



311

"I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY"

JANE TAYLOR

I like little Pussy, Her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her She'll do me no harm. So I'll not pull her tail, Nor drive her away, But Pussy and I Very gently will play; She shall sit by my side, And I'll give her some food; And she'll love me because I am gentle and good.

I'll pat little Pussy, And then she will purr, And thus show her thanks For my kindness to her; I'll not pinch her ears, Nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her To use her sharp claw; I never will vex her, Nor make her displeased, For Pussy can't bear To be worried or teased.



312

THE STAR

JANE TAYLOR

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark; He could not see which way to go, If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Although Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894) is not known primarily as a writer for children, her Sing-Song, from which the next seven poems are taken, is a juvenile classic. She ranks very high among the women poets of the nineteenth century, her only equal being Mrs. Browning. Besides the brief poems in Sing-Song, Miss Rossetti's "Goblin Market" and "Uphill" please young people of a contemplative mood. While there is an undercurrent of sadness in much of her work, it is a natural accompaniment of her themes and is not unduly emphasized.



313

SELDOM OR NEVER

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

Seldom "can't," Seldom "don't"; Never "shan't," Never "won't."



314

AN EMERALD IS AS GREEN AS GRASS

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

An emerald is as green as grass; A ruby, red as blood; A sapphire shines as blue as heaven; A flint lies in the mud.

A diamond is a brilliant stone To catch the world's desire; An opal holds a fiery spark; But a flint holds fire.



315

BOATS SAIL ON THE RIVERS

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

Boats sail on the rivers, And ships sail on the seas; But clouds that sail across the sky Are prettier far than these. There are bridges on the rivers, As pretty as you please; But the bow that bridges heaven, And overtops the trees, And builds a road from earth to sky, Is prettier far than these.



316

A DIAMOND OR A COAL?

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

A diamond or a coal? A diamond, if you please; Who cares about a clumsy coal Beneath the summer trees?

A diamond or a coal? A coal, sir, if you please; One comes to care about the coal At times when waters freeze.



317

THE SWALLOW

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

Fly away, fly away over the sea, Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done; Come again, come again, come back to me, Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.



318

WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing thro'.

Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.



319

MILKING TIME

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

When the cows come home the milk is coming; Honey's made while the bees are humming; Duck and drake on the rushy lake, And the deer live safe in the breezy brake; And timid, funny, pert little bunny Winks his nose, and sits all sunny.



320

William Brighty Rands (1823-1882), an English author writing under the name of "Matthew Browne," produced in his Lilliput Lyrics a juvenile masterpiece containing much verse worthy to live. The two poems that follow are decidedly successful in catching that elusive something called the child's point of view.

THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN

WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS

I wish I lived in a caravan With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man! Where he comes from nobody knows, Or where he goes to, but on he goes!

His caravan has windows two, And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through; He has a wife, with a baby brown, And they go riding from town to town.

Chairs to mend, and delf to sell! He clashes the basins like a bell; Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order, Plates, with alphabets round the border!

The roads are brown, and the sea is green, But his house is like a bathing-machine; The world is round, and he can ride, Rumble and slash, to the other side!

With the peddler-man I should like to roam, And write a book when I came home; All the people would read my book, Just like the Travels of Captain Cook!



321

THE WONDERFUL WORLD

WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast— World, you are beautifully dressed!

The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree— It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the top of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens and cliffs and isles, And the people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I hardly can think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,

"If the wonderful World is great to you, And great to father and mother, too, You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot! You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"



322

Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton, 1809-1885), an English poet, wrote one poem that has held its own in children's collections. Its quiet mood of industry at one with the gentler influences of nature is especially appealing.

GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES

A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right And said, "Dear work, good-night, good-night!"

Such a number of rooks came over her head, Crying "Caw! Caw!" on their way to bed, She said, as she watched their curious flight, "Little black things, good-night, good-night!"

The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, The sheep's "Bleat! Bleat!" came over the road; All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, "Good little girl, good-night, good-night!"

She did not say to the sun, "Good-night!" Though she saw him there like a ball of light; For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world and never could sleep.

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; The violets curtsied, and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.

And while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day; And all things said to the beautiful sun, "Good-morning, good-morning! our work is begun."



323

It is quite impossible for us to realize why the English reading public should have been so excited over the following poem in the years immediately following its first appearance in 1806. It attracted the attention of royalty, was set to music, had a host of imitators, and established itself as a nursery classic. It was written by William Roscoe (1753-1831), historian, banker, and poet, for his son Robert, and was merely an entertaining skit upon an actual banquet. Probably the fact that the characters at the butterfly's ball were drawn with human faces in the original illustrations to represent the prominent guests at the actual banquet had much to do with the initial success. The impulse which it received a hundred years ago, coupled with its own undoubted power of fancy, has projected it thus far, and children seem inclined to approve and still further insure its already long life.

THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL

WILLIAM ROSCOE

"Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste To the Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast, The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has summon'd the crew, And the Revels are now only waiting for you." So said little Robert, and pacing along, His merry Companions came forth in a throng, And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood, Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood, Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of Air For an Evening's Amusement together repair.

And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back, And there was the Gnat and the Dragonfly too, With all their Relations, green, orange and blue. And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down, And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown; Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring, But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole, And brought to the Feast his blind Brother, the Mole; And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell, Came from a great distance, the length of an ell.

A Mushroom, their Table, and on it was laid A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made. The Viands were various, to each of their taste, And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast. Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise, The Frog from a corner look'd up to the skies; And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversion to see, Mounted high overhead and look'd down from a tree. Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine, To show his dexterity on the tight-line, From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung, Then quick as an arrow he darted along, But just in the middle—oh! shocking to tell, From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell. Yet he touch'd not the ground, but with talons outspread, Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.

Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring, Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing; He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight, Then chirp'd his own praises the rest of the night. With step so majestic the Snail did advance, And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance; But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head, And went in his own little chamber to bed. Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night, Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light. "Then Home let us hasten while yet we can see, For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me." So said little Robert, and pacing along, His merry Companions return'd in a throng.



324

CAN YOU?

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Can you put the spider's web back in place That once has been swept away? Can you put the apple again on the bough Which fell at our feet to-day? Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem And cause it to live and grow? Can you mend the butterfly's broken wing That you crush with a hasty blow? Can you put the bloom again on the grape And the grape again on the vine? Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowers And make them sparkle and shine? Can you put the petals back on the rose? If you could, would it smell as sweet? Can you put the flour again in the husk, And show me the ripened wheat? Can you put the kernel again in the nut, Or the broken egg in the shell? Can you put the honey back in the comb, And cover with wax each cell? Can you put the perfume back in the vase When once it has sped away? Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, Or down on the catkins, say? You think my questions are trifling, lad, Let me ask you another one: Can a hasty word be ever unsaid, Or a deed unkind, undone?



325

In 1841 Robert Browning (1812-1889) published a drama in verse entitled Pippa Passes. Pippa was a little girl who worked in the silkmills of an Italian city. When her one holiday of the year came, she arose early and went singing out of town to the hills to enjoy the day. Various people who were planning to do evil heard her songs as she passed and did not do the wicked things they had intended to do. The next day Pippa returned to her usual work and never knew that her songs had changed the lives of many people. The following is the first of Pippa's songs.

PIPPA'S SONG

ROBERT BROWNING

The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His Heaven— All's right with the world!



326

Charles Mackay (1814-1889) was an English journalist, poet, and miscellaneous writer. He was especially popular as a writer of songs, composing both words and music. Other well-known poems of his are "The Miller of Dee" and "Tubal Cain." "Little and Great" presents a familiar idea through a series of illustrations—the idea that great and lasting results may spring from unstudied deeds of helpfulness and love.

LITTLE AND GREAT

CHARLES MACKAY

A traveler on a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening-time, To breathe its early vows; And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore— It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that Toil might drink. He passed again; and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues, And saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, And, lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame. The thought was small; its issue great; A watch-fire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still.

A nameless man, amid the crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied from the heart,— A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath,— It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last.



327

The following poem by Mrs. Hemans (1793-1835), an English poet, is remembered for its historic interest. Louis Casabianca, a Frenchman, served on a war ship that helped convey French troops to America, to aid the colonists during the Revolution. Later, when Napoleon attempted to conquer Egypt, he was captain of the admiral's flagship during the battle of the Nile. When the admiral was killed, he took command of the fleet at the moment of defeat. He blew up his ship, after the crew had been saved, rather than surrender it. His ten-year-old son refused to leave and perished with his father.

CASABIANCA

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on; he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say, If yet my task be done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him, fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound: The boy,—oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea,—

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part,— But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young, faithful heart.

The five numbers that follow are from the works of the great English poet and mystic William Blake (1757-1827). All except the first are given in their entirety. No. 328 is made up of three couplets taken from the loosely strung together Auguries of Innocence. Nos. 329, 330, and 332 are from Songs of Innocence (1789), where the last was printed as an introduction without any other title. No. 331 is from Songs of Experience (1794). Blake labored in obscurity and poverty, though he has now come to be regarded as one of England's most important poets. It is not necessary that children should understand fully all that Blake says, but it is important for teachers to realize that most children are natural mystics and that Blake's poetry, more than any other, is the natural food for them.



328

THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER

WILLIAM BLAKE

A Robin Redbreast in a cage, Puts all heaven in a rage.

A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.



329

THE LAMB

WILLIAM BLAKE

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee, Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, For He calls himself a Lamb: He is meek and he is mild, He became a little child. I a child and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee, Little lamb, God bless thee.



330

THE SHEPHERD

WILLIAM BLAKE

How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot; From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call, And he hears the ewes' tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh.



331

THE TIGER

WILLIAM BLAKE

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize thy fire?

And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?



332

THE PIPER

WILLIAM BLAKE

Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:—