Happy hearts and happy faces, Happy play in grassy places— That was how, in ancient ages, Children grew to kings and sages.

But the unkind and the unruly, And the sort who eat unduly, They must never hope for glory— Theirs is quite a different story!

Cruel children, crying babies, All grow up as geese and gabies, Hated, as their age increases, By their nephews and their nieces.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



REBECCA'S AFTER-THOUGHT

Yesterday, Rebecca Mason, In the parlor by herself, Broke a handsome china basin, Placed upon the mantel-shelf.

Quite alarmed, she thought of going Very quietly away, Not a single person knowing, Of her being there that day.

But Rebecca recollected She was taught deceit to shun; And the moment she reflected, Told her mother what was done;

Who commended her behavior, Loved her better, and forgave her.

Elizabeth Turner [?—1846]



KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

Little children, never give Pain to things that feel and live; Let the gentle robin come For the crumbs you save at home,— As his meat you throw along He'll repay you with a song; Never hurt the timid hare Peeping from her green grass lair, Let her come and sport and play On the lawn at close of day; The little lark goes soaring high To the bright windows of the sky, Singing as if 'twere always spring, And fluttering on an untired wing,— Oh! let him sing his happy song, Nor do these gentle creatures wrong.



A RULE FOR BIRDS' NESTERS

The robin and the red-breast, The sparrow and the wren; If ye take out o' their nest, Ye'll never thrive again!

The robin and the red-breast, The martin and the swallow; If ye touch one o' their eggs, Bad luck will surely follow!



"SING ON, BLITHE BIRD"

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree, But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me. I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near; I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was good To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood.

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing; He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing. He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray, I would not harm him for the world, or interrupt his lay. Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness; It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

William Motherwell [1797-1835]



"I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY"

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.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]



LITTLE THINGS

Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land.

So the little moments, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity.

So our little errors Lead the soul away From the path of virtue, Far in sin to stray.

Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Help to make earth happy Like the heaven above.

Julia Fletcher Carney [1823-1908]



THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN From "Little Derwent's Breakfast"

Take your meals, my little man, Always like a gentleman; Wash your face and hands with care, Change your shoes, and brush your hair; Then so fresh, and clean, and neat, Come and take your proper seat: Do not loiter and be late, Making other people wait; Do not rudely point or touch: Do not eat and drink too much: Finish what you have, before You even ask, or send for more: Never crumble or destroy Food that others might enjoy; They who idly crumbs will waste Often want a loaf to taste! Never spill your milk or tea, Never rude or noisy be; Never choose the daintiest food, Be content with what is good: Seek in all things that you can To be a little gentleman.



THE CRUST OF BREAD

I must not throw upon the floor The crust I cannot eat; For many little hungry ones Would think it quite a treat.

My parents labor very hard To get me wholesome food; Then I must never waste a bit That would do others good.

For wilful waste makes woeful want, And I may live to say, Oh! how I wish I had the bread That once I threw away!



"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE"

How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell! How neat she spreads the wax! And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be passed, That I may give for every day Some good account at last.

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]



THE BROWN THRUSH

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're as good as can be."

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]



THE SLUGGARD

'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again"; As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"; Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands.

I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking. But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me; That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]



THE VIOLET

Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower, Its colors bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused a sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]



DIRTY JIM

There was one little Jim, 'Tis reported of him, And must be to his lasting disgrace, That he never was seen With hands at all clean, Nor yet ever clean was his face.

His friends were much hurt To see so much dirt, And often they made him quite clean; But all was in vain, He got dirty again, And not at all fit to be seen.

It gave him no pain To hear them complain, Nor his own dirty clothes to survey; His indolent mind No pleasure could find In tidy and wholesome array.

The idle and bad, Like this little lad, May love dirty ways, to be sure; But good boys are seen, To be decent and clean, Although they are ever so poor.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]



THE PIN

"Dear me! what signifies a pin, Wedged in a rotten board? I'm certain that I won't begin, At ten years old, to hoard; I never will be called a miser, That I'm determined," said Eliza.

So onward tripped the little maid, And left the pin behind, Which very snug and quiet lay, To its hard fate resigned; Nor did she think (a careless chit) 'Twas worth her while to stoop for it.

Next day a party was to ride, To see an air balloon; And all the company beside Were dressed and ready soon; But she a woeful case was in, For want of just a single pin.

In vain her eager eyes she brings, To every darksome crack; There was not one, and yet her things Were dropping off her back. She cut her pincushion in two, But no, not one had fallen through.

At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away; But poor Eliza was not in, For want of just—a single pin!

There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforeseen; And wilful waste, depend upon't, Brings, almost always, woeful want!

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]



JANE AND ELIZA

There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain, One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane; They were both of one height, as I've heard people say, And both of one age, I believe, to a day.

'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them, There was not a pin to be chosen between them; But no one for long in this notion persisted, So great a distinction there really existed.

Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing, While fretting and fuming, while sulking or teasing; And therefore in company artfully tried, Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide.

So, when she was out, with much labor and pain, She contrived to look almost as pleasant as Jane; But then you might see that, in forcing a smile, Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while.

And in spite of her care it would sometimes befall That some cross event happened to ruin it all; And because it might chance that her share was the worst, Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed.

But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, But her face always showed what her bosom was feeling.

At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, A cheerful good nature that needed no guile. And Eliza worked hard, but could never obtain The affection that freely was given to Jane.

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]



MEDDLESOME MATTY

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 now but sneeze.

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

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]



CONTENTED JOHN

One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, Although he was poor, did not want to be richer; For all such vain wishes in him were prevented By a fortunate habit of being contented.

Though cold were the weather, or dear were the food, John never was found in a murmuring mood; For this he was constantly heard to declare,— What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.

"For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said; "If I cannot get meat, I'll be thankful for bread; And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper, It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper."

If John was afflicted with sickness or pain, He wished himself better, but did not complain, Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow, But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.

If any one wronged him or treated him ill, Why, John was good-natured and sociable still; For he said that revenging the injury done Would be making two rogues when there need be but one.

And thus honest John, though his station was humble, Passed through this sad world without even a grumble; And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]



FRIENDS

How good to lie a little while And look up through the tree! The Sky is like a kind big smile Bent sweetly over me.

The Sunshine flickers through the lace Of leaves above my head, And kisses me upon the face Like Mother, before bed.

The Wind comes stealing o'er the grass To whisper pretty things; And though I cannot see him pass, I feel his careful wings.

So many gentle Friends are near Whom one can scarcely see, A child should never feel a fear, Wherever he may be.

Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]



ANGER

Anger in its time and place May assume a kind of grace. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. If to further lengths it go, It does into malice grow. 'Tis the difference that we see 'Twixt the serpent and the bee. If the latter you provoke, It inflicts a hasty stroke, Puts you to some little pain, But it never stings again. Close in tufted bush or brake Lurks the poison-swelled snake Nursing up his cherished wrath; In the purlieus of his path, In the cold, or in the warm, Mean him good, or mean him harm, Wheresoever fate may bring you, The vile snake will always sting you.

Charles and Mary Lamb



"THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL"

There was a little girl, who had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead, And when she was good she was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid.

She stood on her head, on her little trundle-bed, With nobody by for to hinder; She screamed and she squalled, she yelled and she bawled, And drummed her little heels against the winder.

Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys Playing in the empty attic, She rushed upstairs, and caught her unawares, And spanked her, most emphatic.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]



THE REFORMATION OF GODFREY GORE

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore— No doubt you have heard the name before— Was a boy who never would shut a door!

The wind might whistle, the wind might roar, And teeth be aching and throats be sore, But still he never would shut the door.

His father would beg, his mother implore, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, We really do wish you would shut the door!"

Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore; But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore Was deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.

When he walked forth the folks would roar, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, Why don't you think to shut the door?"

They rigged out a Shutter with sail and oar, And threatened to pack off Gustavus Gore On a voyage of penance to Singapore.

But he begged for mercy, and said, "No more! Pray do not send me to Singapore On a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!"

"You will?" said his parents; "then keep on shore! But mind you do! For the plague is sore Of a fellow that never will shut the door, Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!"

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]



THE BEST FIRM

A pretty good firm is "Watch & Waite," And another is "Attit, Early & Layte;" And still another is "Doo & Dairet;" But the best is probably "Grinn & Barrett."

Walter G. Doty [1876-



A LITTLE PAGE'S SONG (13th Century)

God's lark at morning I would be! I'd set my heart within a tree Close to His bed and sing to Him Right merrily A sunrise hymn.

At night I'd be God's troubadour! Beneath His starry walls I'd pour Across the moat such roundelays He'd love me sure— And maybe praise!

William Alexander Percy [1885-



HOW THE LITTLE KITE LEARNED TO FLY

"I never can do it," the little kite said, As he looked at the others high over his head; "I know I should fall if I tried to fly." "Try," said the big kite; "only try! Or I fear you never will learn at all." But the little kite said, "I'm afraid I'll fall."

The big kite nodded: "Ah well, goodby; I'm off;" and he rose toward the tranquil sky. Then the little kite's paper stirred at the sight, And trembling he shook himself free for flight. First whirling and frightened, then braver grown, Up, up he rose through the air alone, Till the big kite looking down could see The little one rising steadily.

Then how the little kite thrilled with pride, As he sailed with the big kite side by side! While far below he could see the ground, And the boys like small spots moving round. They rested high in the quiet air, And only the birds and the clouds were there. "Oh, how happy I am!" the little kite cried, "And all because I was brave, and tried."

Unknown



THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE

Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a laboring bee; "Thou hast no colors of the sky On painted wings like me."

"Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colors bright and rare," With mild reproof, the bee replies, "Are all beneath my care."

"Content I toil from morn till eve, And, scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress."

William Lisle Bowles [1762-1850]



THE BUTTERFLY

The butterfly, an idle thing, Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, As do the bee and bird; Nor does it, like the prudent ant, Lay up the grain for times of want, A wise and cautious hoard.

My youth is but a summer's day: Then like the bee and ant I'll lay A store of learning by; And though from flower to flower I rove, My stock of wisdom I'll improve, Nor be a butterfly.

Adelaide O'Keefe [1776-1855]



MORNING

The lark is up to meet the sun, The bee is on the wing, The ant her labor has begun, The woods with music ring.

Shall birds and bees and ants be wise, While I my moments waste? Oh, let me with the morning rise, And to my duties haste.

Why should I sleep till beams of morn Their light and glory shed? Immortal beings were not born To waste their time in bed.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]



BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES

Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers; Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours, While the trees are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies Spring up here and there.

Ere the snow-drop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold,— Somewhere on the sunny bank Buttercups are bright; Somewhere midst the frozen grass Peeps the daisy white.

Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother's door. Purple with the north-wind, Yet alert and bold; Fearing not, and caring not, Though they be a-cold!

What to them is winter! What are stormy showers! Buttercups and daisies Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardships And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength And patient hearts to bear.

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]



THE ANT AND THE CRICKET

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty and winter was come. Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground; Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree: "Oh, what will become," says the cricket, "of me?"

At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant, To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant Him shelter from rain: A mouthful of grain He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow: If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend; But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I. My heart was so light That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay." "You sang, sir, you say? Go then," said the ant, "and dance winter away." Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket And out of the door turned the poor little cricket. Though this is a fable, the moral is good: If you live without work, you must live without food.

Unknown



AFTER WINGS

This was your butterfly, you see,— His fine wings made him vain: The caterpillars crawl, but he Passed them in rich disdain.— My pretty boy says, "Let him be Only a worm again!"

O child, when things have learned to wear Wings once, they must be fain To keep them always high and fair: Think of the creeping pain Which even a butterfly must bear To be a worm again!

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]



DEEDS OF KINDNESS

Suppose the little Cowslip Should hang its golden cup And say, "I'm such a little flower I'd better not grow up!" How many a weary traveller Would miss its fragrant smell, How many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell!

Suppose the glistening Dewdrop Upon the grass should say, "What can a little dewdrop do? I'd better roll away!" The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun.

Suppose the little Breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to cool The traveller on his way: Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake If they were acting so?

How many deed of kindness A little child can do, Although it has but little strength And little wisdom too! It wants a loving spirit Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by its love.

Epes Sargent [1813-1880]



THE LION AND THE MOUSE

A lion with the heat oppressed, One day composed himself to rest: But while he dozed as he intended, A mouse, his royal back ascended; Nor thought of harm, as Aesop tells, Mistaking him for someone else; And travelled over him, and round him, And might have left him as she found him Had she not—tremble when you hear— Tried to explore the monarch's ear! Who straightway woke, with wrath immense, And shook his head to cast her thence. "You rascal, what are you about?" Said he, when he had turned her out, "I'll teach you soon," the lion said, "To make a mouse-hole in my head!" So saying, he prepared his foot To crush the trembling tiny brute; But she (the mouse) with tearful eye, Implored the lion's clemency, Who thought it best at last to give His little prisoner a reprieve.

'Twas nearly twelve months after this, The lion chanced his way to miss; When pressing forward, heedless yet, He got entangled in a net. With dreadful rage, he stamped and tore, And straight commenced a lordly roar; When the poor mouse, who heard the noise, Attended, for she knew his voice. Then what the lion's utmost strength Could not effect, she did at length; With patient labor she applied Her teeth, the network to divide; And so at last forth issued he, A lion, by a mouse set free.

Few are so small or weak, I guess, But may assist us in distress, Nor shall we ever, if we're wise, The meanest, or the least despise.

Jeffreys Taylor [1792-1853]



THE BOY AND THE WOLF

A little Boy was set to keep A little flock of goats or sheep; He thought the task too solitary, And took a strange perverse vagary: To call the people out of fun, To see them leave their work and run, He cried and screamed with all his might,— "Wolf! wolf!" in a pretended fright. Some people, working at a distance, Came running in to his assistance. They searched the fields and bushes round, The Wolf was nowhere to be found. The Boy, delighted with his game, A few days after did the same, And once again the people came. The trick was many times repeated, At last they found that they were cheated. One day the Wolf appeared in sight, The Boy was in a real fright, He cried, "Wolf! wolf!"—the neighbors heard, But not a single creature stirred. "We need not go from our employ,— 'Tis nothing but that idle boy." The little Boy cried out again, "Help, help! the Wolf!" he cried in vain. At last his master came to beat him. He came too late, the Wolf had eat him.

This shows the bad effect of lying, And likewise of continual crying. If I had heard you scream and roar, For nothing, twenty times before, Although you might have broke your arm, Or met with any serious harm, Your cries could give me no alarm; They would not make me move the faster, Nor apprehend the least disaster; I should be sorry when I came, But you yourself would be to blame.

John Hookham Frere [1769-1846]



THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS, WHO WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP

Augustus was a chubby lad; Fat, ruddy cheeks Augustus had; And everybody saw with joy The plump and hearty, healthy boy. He ate and drank as he was told, And never let his soup get cold.

But one day, one cold winter's day, He screamed out—"Take the soup away! O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."

Next day begins his tale of woes; Quite lank and lean Augustus grows. Yet, though he feels so weak and ill, The naughty fellow cries out still— "Not any soup for me, I say: O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."

The third day comes; O what a sin! To make himself so pale and thin. Yet, when the soup is put on table, He screams, as loud as he is able,— "Not any soup for me, I say: O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."

Look at him, now the fourth day's come! He scarcely weighs a sugar-plum; He's like a little bit of thread, And on the fifth day, he was—dead!

From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]



THE STORY OF LITTLE SUCK-A-THUMB

One day, mamma said: "Conrad dear, I must go out and leave you here. But mind now, Conrad, what I say, Don't suck your thumb while I'm away. The great tall tailor always comes To little boys that suck their thumbs; And ere they dream what he's about, He takes his great sharp scissors out And cuts their thumbs clean off,—and then, You know, they never grow again."

Mamma had scarcely turned her back, The thumb was in, alack! alack! The door flew open, in he ran, The great, long, red-legged scissors-man. Oh, children, see! the tailor's come And caught our little Suck-a-Thumb. Snip! snap! snip! the scissors go; And Conrad cries out—"Oh! oh! oh!"

Snip! snap! Snip! They go so fast, That both his thumbs are off at last. Mamma comes home; there Conrad stands, And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;— "Ah!" said mamma, "I knew he'd come To naughty little Suck-a-Thumb."

From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]



WRITTEN IN A LITTLE LADY'S LITTLE ALBUM

Hearts good and true Have wishes few In narrow circles bounded, And hope that lives On what God gives Is Christian hope well founded.

Small things are best; Grief and unrest To rank and wealth are given; But little things On little wings Bear little souls to heaven.

Frederick William Faber [1814-1863]



MY LADY WIND

My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind, Went round about the house to find A chink to set her foot in; She tried the keyhole in the door, She tried the crevice in the floor, And drove the chimney soot in.

And then one night when it was dark She blew up such a tiny spark That all the town was bothered; From it she raised such flame and smoke That many in great terror woke, And many more were smothered.

And thus when once, my little dears, A whisper reaches itching ears— The same will come, you'll find: Take my advice, restrain the tongue, Remember what old nurse has sung Of busy Lady Wind.

Unknown



TO A CHILD

Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



A FAREWELL

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray: Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn on breezy down; To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever One grand sweet song.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]



RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD



REEDS OF INNOCENCE

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

"Pipe a song about a lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped: he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake [1757-1827]



THE WONDERFUL WORLD

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 tops 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 people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]



THE WORLD'S MUSIC

The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything.

I waken when the morning's come, And feel the air and light alive With strange sweet music like the hum Of bees about their busy hive.

The linnets play among the leaves At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing; While, flashing to and from the eaves, The swallows twitter on the wing.

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway; And tall old trees you could not climb; And winds that come, but cannot stay, Are gaily singing all the time.

From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel Makes music, going round and round; And dusty-white with flour and meal, The miller whistles to its sound.

And if you listen to the rain When leaves and birds and bees are dumb, You hear it pattering on the pane Like Andrew beating on his drum.

The coals beneath the kettle croon, And clap their hands and dance in glee; And even the kettle hums a tune To tell you when it's time for tea.

The world is such a happy place, That children, whether big or small, Should always have a smiling face, And never, never sulk at all.

Gabriel Setoun [1861-



A BOY'S SONG

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

James Hogg [1770-1835]



GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE A Boy's Song

With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:— "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

"Is this, is this your joy? O bird, then I, though a boy, For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!"

Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss? 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.

Henry Charles Beeching [1859-1919]



PLAYGROUNDS

In summer I am very glad We children are so small, For we can see a thousand things That men can't see at all.

They don't know much about the moss And all the stones they pass: They never lie and play among The forests in the grass:

They walk about a long way off; And, when we're at the sea, Let father stoop as best he can He can't find things like me.

But, when the snow is on the ground And all the puddles freeze, I wish that I were very tall, High up above the trees.

Laurence Alma-Tadema [18—



"WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?"

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

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

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]



THE WIND'S SONG

O winds that blow across the sea, What is the story that you bring? Leaves clap their hands on every tree And birds about their branches sing.

You sing to flowers and trees and birds Your sea-songs over all the land. Could you not stay and whisper words A little child might understand?

The roses nod to hear you sing; But though I listen all the day, You never tell me anything Of father's ship so far away.

Its masts are taller than the trees; Its sails are silver in the sun; There's not a ship upon the seas So beautiful as father's one.

With wings spread out it flies so fast It leaves the waves all white with foam. Just whisper to me, blowing past, If you have seen it sailing home.

I feel your breath upon my cheek, And in my hair, and on my brow. Dear winds, if you could only speak, I know that you would tell me now.

My father's coming home, you'd say, With precious presents, one, two, three; A shawl for mother, beads for May, And eggs and shells for Rob and me.

The winds sing songs where'er they roam; The leaves all clap their little hands; For father's ship is coming home With wondrous things from foreign lands.

Gabriel Setoun [1861-



THE PIPER ON THE HILL A Child's Song

There sits a piper on the hill Who pipes the livelong day, And when he pipes both loud and shrill, The frightened people say: "The wind, the wind is blowing up 'Tis rising to a gale." The women hurry to the shore To watch some distant sail. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing to a gale.

But when he pipes all sweet and low, The piper on the hill, I hear the merry women go With laughter, loud and shrill: "The wind, the wind is coming south 'Twill blow a gentle day." They gather on the meadow-land To toss the yellow hay. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing south to-day.

And in the morn, when winter comes, To keep the piper warm, The little Angels shake their wings To make a feather storm: "The snow, the snow has come at last!" The happy children call, And "ring around" they dance in glee, And watch the snowflakes fall. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Has spread a snowy pall.

But when at night the piper plays, I have not any fear, Because God's windows open wide The pretty tune to hear; And when each crowding spirit looks, From its star window-pane, A watching mother may behold Her little child again. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, May blow her home again.

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]



THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out; You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about— I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again! On high In the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge! If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone— Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar— "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage—he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew—till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, Good faith! I blew her to death— First blew her away right out of the sky— Then blew her in; what strength have I!

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high In the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.

George Macdonald [1824-1905]



CHILD'S SONG IN SPRING

The silver birch is a dainty lady, She wears a satin gown; The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady, She will not live in town.

The English oak is a sturdy fellow, He gets his green coat late; The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, While brown the beech trees wait.

Such a gay green gown God gives the larches— As green as He is good! The hazels hold up their arms for arches When Spring rides through the wood.

The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty, The poplar's gentle and tall, But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city— I love him best of all!

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]



BABY SEED SONG

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark? Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark— "Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you; Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you— Waken! 'tis morning—'tis May!"

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of flower will you be? I'll be a poppy—all white, like my mother; Do be a poppy like me. What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you When you're grown golden and high! But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you; Little brown brother, good-bye.

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]



LITTLE DANDELION

Gay little Dandelion Lights up the meads, Swings on her slender foot, Telleth her beads, Lists to the robin's note Poured from above; Wise little Dandelion Asks not for love.

Cold lie the daisy banks Clothed but in green, Where, in the days agone, Bright hues were seen. Wild pinks are slumbering, Violets delay; True little Dandelion Greeteth the May.

Brave little Dandelion! Fast falls the snow, Bending the daffodil's Haughty head low. Under that fleecy tent, Careless of cold, Blithe little Dandelion Counteth her gold.

Meek little Dandelion Groweth more fair, Till dies the amber dew Out from her hair. High rides the thirsty sun, Fiercely and high; Faint little Dandelion Closeth her eye.

Pale little Dandelion, In her white shroud, Heareth the angel-breeze Call from the cloud; Tiny plumes fluttering Make no delay; Little winged Dandelion Soareth away.

Helen Barron Bostwick [1826-? ]



LITTLE WHITE LILY From "Within and Without"

Little White Lily sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting till the sun shone. Little White Lily sunshine has fed; Little White Lily is lifting her head.

Little White Lily said: "It is good, Little White Lily's clothing and food." Little White Lily dressed like a bride! Shining with whiteness, and crowned beside!

Little White Lily drooping with pain, Waiting and waiting for the wet rain, Little White Lily holdeth her cup; Rain is fast falling and filling it up.

Little White Lily said: "Good again, When I am thirsty to have the nice rain. Now I am stronger, now I am cool; Heat cannot burn me, my veins are so full."

Little White Lily smells very sweet; On her head sunshine, rain at her feet. Thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the rain, Little White Lily is happy again.

George Macdonald [1824-1905]



WISHING

Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the Spring! The stooping bough above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm-tree for our King!

Nay,—stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The Birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing!

O—no! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till Winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing.

Well—tell! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For Mother's kiss,—sweeter this Than any other thing!

William Allingham [1824-1889]



IN THE GARDEN

I spied beside the garden bed A tiny lass of ours, Who stopped and bent her sunny head Above the red June flowers.

Pushing the leaves and thorns apart, She singled out a rose, And in its inmost crimson heart, Enraptured, plunged her nose.

"O dear, dear rose, come, tell me true— Come, tell me true," said she, "If I smell just as sweet to you As you smell sweet to me!"

Ernest Crosby [1856-1907]



THE GLADNESS OF NATURE

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]



GLAD DAY

Here's another day, dear, Here's the sun again Peeping in his pleasant way Through the window pane. Rise and let him in, dear, Hail him "hip hurray!" Now the fun will all begin. Here's another day!

Down the coppice path, dear, Through the dewy glade, (When the Morning took her bath What a splash she made!) Up the wet wood-way, dear, Under dripping green Run to meet another day, Brightest ever seen.

Mushrooms in the field, dear, Show their silver gleam. What a dainty crop they yield Firm as clouted cream, Cool as balls of snow, dear, Sweet and fresh and round! Ere the early dew can go We must clear the ground.

Such a lot to do, dear, Such a lot to see! How we ever can get through Fairly puzzles me. Hurry up and out, dear, Then—away! away! In and out and round about, Here's another day!

W. Graham Robertson [1867-



THE TIGER

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 the fire?

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

William Blake [1757-1827]



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving—all come back together. But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he— "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]



HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN

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 them 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 upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

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

Susan Coolidge [1835-1905]



A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND

Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter That they cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer To the sledges, when it snows; And the children look like bear's cubs In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story— I don't believe 'tis true; And yet you may learn a lesson If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter Lived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage, In traveling round the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes, And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting, For the day was almost done, He asked her, from her store of cakes, To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake, But as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemed Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one; But it looked, when she turned it over, As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, And rolled and rolled it flat; And baked it thin as a wafer— But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small When I eat of them myself, Are yet too large to give away." So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint; And surely such a woman Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty food By boring, and boring, and boring, All day in the hard, dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney, Never speaking a word, And out of the top flew a woodpecker, For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, But all the rest of her clothes were burned Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school-boy Has seen her in the wood, Where she lives in the trees till this very day, Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches: Live not for yourself alone, Lest the needs you will not pity Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given to you, Listen to pity's call; Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird though you live As selfishly as you can; But you will be changed to a smaller thing— A mean and selfish man.

Phoebe Cary [1824-1871]



THE CRICKET'S STORY

The high and mighty lord of Glendare, The owner of acres both broad and fair, Searched, once on a time, his vast domains, His deep, green forest, and yellow plains, For some rare singer, to make complete The studied charms of his country-seat; But found, for all his pains and labors, No sweeter songster than had his neighbors.

Ah, what shall my lord of the manor do? He pondered the day and the whole night through. He called on the gentry of hill-top and dale; And at last on Madame the Nightingale,— Inviting, in his majestical way, Her pupils to sing at his grand soiree, That perchance among them my lord might find Some singer to whom his heart inclined. What wonder, then, when the evening came, And the castle gardens were all aflame With the many curious lights that hung O'er the ivied porches, and flared among The grand old trees and the banners proud, That many a heart beat high and loud, While the famous choir of Glendare Bog, Established and led by the Brothers Frog, Sat thrumming as hoarsely as they were able, In front of the manager's mushroom table!

The overture closed with a crash—then, hark! Across the stage comes the sweet-voiced Lark. She daintily sways, with an airy grace, And flutters a bit of gossamer lace, While the leafy alcove echoes and thrills With her liquid runs and lingering trills. Miss Goldfinch came next, in her satin gown, And shaking her feathery flounces down, With much expression and feeling sung Some "Oh's" and "Ah's" in a foreign tongue; While to give the affair a classic tone, Miss Katydid rendered a song of her own, In which each line closed as it had begun, With some wonderful deed which she had done. Then the Misses Sparrow, so prim and set, Twittered and chirped through a long duet; And poor little Wren, who tried with a will, But who couldn't tell "Heber" from "Ortonville," Unconscious of sarcasm, piped away And courtesied low o'er a huge bouquet Of crimson clover-heads, culled by the dozen, By some brown-coated, plebeian cousin.

But you should have heard the red Robin sing His English ballad, "Come, beautiful Spring!" And Master Owlet's melodious tune, "O, meet me under the silvery moon!" Then, as flighty Miss Humming-bird didn't care To sing for the high and mighty Glendare, The close of the evening's performance fell To the fair young Nightingale, Mademoiselle. Ah! the wealth of each wonderful note That came from the depths of her tiny throat! She carolled, she trilled, and she held her breath, Till she seemed to hang at the point of death: She ran the chromatics through every key, And ended triumphant on upper C; Airing the graces her mother had taught her In a manner quite worthy of Madame's daughter.

But his lordship glared down the leafy aisle With never so much as a nod or smile, Till, out in the shade of a blackberry thicket, He all of a sudden spied little Miss Cricket; And, roused from his gloom, like an angry bat, He sternly demanded, "Who is that?" "Miss Cricket, my lord, may it please you so, A charity scholar—ahem!—you know— Quite worthy, of course, but we couldn't bring"— Thundered His Mightiness, "Let her sing!" The Nightingale opened her little eyes Extremely wide in her blank surprise; But catching a glimpse of his lordship's rage, Led little Miss Cricket upon the stage, Where she modestly sang, in her simple measures, Of "Home, sweet Home," and its humble pleasures. And the lord of Glendare cried out in his glee, "This little Miss Cricket shall sing for me!"

Of course, of comment there was no need; But the world said, "Really!" and "Ah, indeed!" Yet, notwithstanding, we find it true As his lordship does will the neighbors do; So this is the way, as the legends tell, In the very beginning it befell That the Crickets came, in the evening's gloom, To sing at our hearths of "Home, sweet Home."

Emma Huntington Nason [1845-1921]



THE SINGING-LESSON

A nightingale made a mistake; She sang a few notes out of tune; Her heart was ready to break, And she hid away from the moon. She wrung her claws, poor thing! But was far too proud to weep; She tucked her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep.

A lark, arm in arm with a thrush, Came sauntering up to the place; The nightingale felt herself blush, Though feathers hid her face. She knew they had heard her song, She felt them snicker and sneer; She thought that life was too long, And wished she could skip a year.

"Oh, Nightingale," cooed a dove— "Oh, Nightingale, what's the use? You bird of beauty and love, Why behave like a goose? Don't skulk away from our sight, Like a common, contemptible fowl; You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl?

"Only think of all you have done, Only think of all you can do; A false note is really fun From such a bird as you! Lift up your proud little crest, Open your musical beak; Other birds have to do their best— You need only to speak."

The nightingale shyly took Her head from under her wing, And, giving the dove a look, Straightway began to sing. There was never a bird could pass; The night was divinely calm, And the people stood on the grass To hear that wonderful psalm.

The nightingale did not care; She only sang to the skies; Her song ascended there, And there she fixed her eyes. The people that stood below She knew but little about; And this tale has a moral, I know, If you'll try to find it out.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]



CHANTICLEER

Of all the birds from East to West That tuneful are and dear, I love that farmyard bird the best, They call him Chanticleer.

Gold plume and copper plume, Comb of scarlet gay; 'Tis he that scatters night and gloom, And whistles back the day!

He is the sun's brave herald That, ringing his blithe horn, Calls round a world dew-pearled The heavenly airs of morn.

O clear gold, shrill and bold! He calls through creeping mist The mountains from the night and cold To rose and amethyst.

He sets the birds to singing, And calls the flowers to rise; The morning cometh, bringing Sweet sleep to heavy eyes.

Gold plume and silver plume, Comb of coral gay; 'Tis he packs off the night and gloom, And summons home the day!

Black fear he sends it flying, Black care he drives afar; And creeping shadows sighing Before the morning star.

The birds of all the forest Have dear and pleasant cheer, But yet I hold the rarest The farmyard Chanticleer.

Red cock or black cock, Gold cock or white, The flower of all the feathered flock, He whistles back the light!

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]



"WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?" From "Sea Dreams"

What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger, If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



NURSE'S SONG

When the voices of children are heard on the green And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still.

"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of the night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep."

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed." The little ones leaped and shouted and laughed; And all the hills echoed.

William Blake [1757-1827]



JACK FROST

The door was shut, as doors should be, Before you went to bed last night; Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see, And left your window silver white.

He must have waited till you slept; And not a single word he spoke, But pencilled o'er the panes and crept Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane; But there are fairer things than these His fingers traced on every pane.

Rocks and castles towering high; Hills and dales, and streams and fields; And knights in armor riding by, With nodding plumes and shining shields.

And here are little boats, and there Big ships with sails spread to the breeze; And yonder, palm trees waving fair On islands set in silver seas.

And butterflies with gauzy wings; And herds of cows and flocks of sheep; And fruit and flowers and all the things You see when you are sound asleep.

For creeping softly underneath The door when all the lights are out, Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe, And knows the things you think about.

He paints them on the window pane In fairy lines with frozen steam; And when you wake you see again The lovely things you saw in dream.

Gabriel Setoun [1861-



OCTOBER'S PARTY

October gave a party; The leaves by hundreds came— The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples, And leaves of every name. The Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand, Miss Weather led the dancing, Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow, The Oaks in crimson dressed; The lovely Misses Maple In scarlet looked their best; All balanced to their partners, And gaily fluttered by; The sight was like a rainbow New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow, At hide-and-seek they played, The party closed at sundown, And everybody stayed. Professor Wind played louder; They flew along the ground; And then the party ended In jolly "hands around."

George Cooper [1840-1927]



THE SHEPHERD

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 lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful, while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.

William Blake [1757-1827]



NIKOLINA

O tell me, little children, have you seen her— The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina? O, her eyes are blue as cornflowers, mid the corn, And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn!

Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her, As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller, Breaking off their scarlet cups for you, With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue.

In her little garden many a flower is growing— Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing, But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay Is sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they.

Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]



LITTLE GUSTAVA

Little Gustava sits in the sun, Safe in the porch, and the little drops run From the icicles under the eaves so fast, For the bright spring sun shines warm at last, And glad is little Gustava.

She wears a quaint little scarlet cap, And a little green bowl she holds in her lap, Filled with bread and milk to the brim, And a wreath of marigolds round the rim: "Ha! ha!" laughs little Gustava.

Up comes her little gray coaxing cat With her little pink nose, and she mews, "What's that?" Gustava feeds her,—she begs for more; And a little brown hen walks in at the door: "Good day!" cries little Gustava.

She scatters crumbs for the little brown hen. There comes a rush and a flutter, and then Down fly her little white doves so sweet, With their snowy wings and crimson feet: "Welcome!" cries little Gustava.

So dainty and eager they pick up the crumbs. But who is this through the doorway comes? Little Scotch terrier, little dog Rags, Looks in her face, and his funny tail wags: "Ha! ha!" laughs little Gustava.

"You want some breakfast too?" and down She sets her bowl on the brick floor brown; And little dog Rags drinks up her milk, While she strokes his shaggy locks like silk: "Dear Rags!" says little Gustava.

Waiting without stood sparrow and crow, Cooling their feet in the melting snow: "Won't you come in, good folk?" she cried. But they were too bashful, and stood outside Though "Pray come in!" cried Gustava.

So the last she threw them, and knelt on the mat With doves and biddy and dog and cat. And her mother came to the open house-door: "Dear little daughter, I bring you some more. My merry little Gustava!"

Kitty and terrier, biddy and doves, All things harmless Gustava loves. The shy, kind creatures 'tis joy to feed, And oh, her breakfast is sweet indeed To happy little Gustava!

Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]



PRINCE TATTERS

Little Prince Tatters has lost his cap! Over the hedge he threw it; Into the river it fell "kerslap!" Stupid old thing to do it! Now Mother may sigh and Nurse may fume For the gay little cap with its eagle plume. "One cannot be thinking all day of such matters! Trifles are trifles!" says little Prince Tatters.

Little Prince Tatters has lost his coat! Playing, he did not need it; "Left it right there, by the nanny-goat, And nobody never seed it!" Now Mother and Nurse may search till night For the little new coat with its buttons bright; But—"Coat-sleeves or shirt-sleeves, how little it matters! Trifles are trifles!" says little Prince Tatters.

Little Prince Tatters has LOST HIS BALL! Rolled away down the street! Somebody'll have to find it, that's all, Before he can sleep or eat. Now raise the neighborhood, quickly, do! And send for the crier and constable too! "Trifles are trifles; but serious matters, They must be seen to," says little Prince Tatters.

Laura E. Richards [1850-



THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but oh, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun,—there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away; And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying: 'Come out from the grove, My love and care, And round My golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

William Blake [1757-1827]



THE BLIND BOY

O say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he, Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy: Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

Colley Cibber [1671-1757]



BUNCHES OF GRAPES

"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy, "Pomegranates pink," says Elaine; "A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me," says Jane.

"Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy, "Primroses pale," says Elaine; "A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me," says Jane.

"Chariots of gold," says Timothy, "Silvery wings," says Elaine; "A bumpety ride in a wagon of hay For me," says Jane.

Walter de la Mare [1873-



MY SHADOW

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.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me lay To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so I watched my leaden soldiers go, With different uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets All up and down among the sheets; Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

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 lions come 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.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



THE GARDENER

The gardener does not love to talk, He makes me keep the gravel walk; And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row Where no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots, I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to. He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play.

Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, When in the garden bare and brown You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these garden days O how much wiser you would be To play at Indian wars with me!

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



FOREIGN LANDS

Up into the cherry tree Who should climb but little me? I held the trunk with both my hands And looked abroad on foreign lands.

I saw the next door garden lie, Adorned with flowers, before my eye, And many pleasant places more That I had never seen before.

I saw the dimpling river pass And be the sky's blue looking-glass; The dusty roads go up and down With people tramping in to town.

If I could find a higher tree, Farther and farther I should see, To where the grown-up river slips Into the sea among the ships;

To where the roads on either hand Lead onward into fairy land, Where all the children dine at five, And all the playthings come alive.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



MY BED IS A BOAT

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.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN

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!

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]



MR. COGGS

A watch will tell the time of day, Or tell it nearly, any way, Excepting when it's overwound, Or when you drop it on the ground.

If any of our watches stop, We haste to Mr. Coggs's shop; For though to scold us he pretends, He's quite among our special friends.

He fits a dice-box in his eye, And takes a long and thoughtful spy, And prods the wheels, and says, "Dear, dear! More carelessness, I greatly fear."

And then he lays the dice-box down And frowns a most prodigious frown; But if we ask him what's the time, He'll make his gold repeater chime.

Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-



THE BUILDING OF THE NEST

They'll come again to the apple tree— Robin and all the rest— When the orchard branches are fair to see, In the snow of the blossoms dressed; And the prettiest thing in the world will be The building of the nest.

Weaving it well, so round and trim, Hollowing it with care,— Nothing too far away for him, Nothing for her too fair,— Hanging it safe on the topmost limb, Their castle in the air.

Ah! mother bird, you'll have weary days When the eggs are under your breast, And shadow may darken the dancing rays When the wee ones leave the nest; But they'll find their wings in a glad amaze. And God will see to the rest.

So come to the trees with all your train When the apple blossoms blow; Through the April shimmer of sun and rain, Go flying to and fro; And sing to our hearts as we watch again Your fairy building grow.

Margaret Sangster [1838-1912]



"THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER" From "Love in a Village"

There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee; He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he; And this the burden of his song forever used to be:— "I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me.

"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife; I would not change my station for any other in life; No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor e'er had a groat from me; I care for nobody, no not I if nobody cares for me."

When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay; No summer's drought alarms his fear, nor winter's cold decay; No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say, "Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day."

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing; The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing; This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring; Let heart and voice and all agree to say, "Long live the king."

Isaac Bickerstaff [?—1812?]



ONE AND ONE

Two little girls are better than one, Two little boys can double the fun, Two little birds can build a fine nest, Two little arms can love mother best. Two little ponies must go to a span; Two little pockets has my little man; Two little eyes to open and close, Two little ears and one little nose, Two little elbows, dimpled and sweet, Two little shoes on two little feet, Two little lips and one little chin, Two little cheeks with a rose shut in; Two little shoulders, chubby and strong, Two little legs running all day long. Two little prayers does my darling say, Twice does he kneel by my side each day, Two little folded hands, soft and brown, Two little eyelids cast meekly down, And two little angels guard him in bed, "One at the foot, and one at the head."

Mary Mapes Dodge [1831-1905]



A NURSERY SONG

Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout Are two little goblins black. Full oft from my house I've driven them out, But somehow they still come back.

They clamber up to the baby's mouth, And pull the corners down; They perch aloft on the baby's brow, And twist it into a frown.

Chorus: And one says "Must!" and t'other says "Can't!" And one says "Shall!" and t'other says "Shan't!" Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout, I pray you now from my house keep out!

But Samuel Smile and Lemuel Laugh Are two little fairies bright; They're always ready for fun and chaff, And sunshine is their delight.

And when they creep into Baby's eyes, Why, there the sunbeams are; And when they peep through her rosy lips, Her laughter rings near and far.

Chorus: And one says "Please!" and t'other says "Do!" And both together say "I love you!" So, Lemuel Laugh and Samuel Smile, Come in, my dears, and tarry awhile!

Laura E. Richards [1850-



A MORTIFYING MISTAKE

I studied my tables over and over, and backward and forward, too; But I couldn't remember six times nine, and I didn't know what to do, Till sister told me to play with my doll, and not to bother my head. "If you call her 'Fifty-four' for a while, you'll learn it by heart," she said.

So I took my favorite, Mary Ann (though I thought 'twas a dreadful shame To give such a perfectly lovely child such a perfectly horrid name), And I called her my dear little "Fifty-four" a hundred times, till I knew The answer of six times nine as well as the answer of two times two.

Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who always acts so proud, Said, "Six times nine is fifty-two," and I nearly laughed aloud! But I wished I hadn't when teacher said, "Now, Dorothy, tell if you can." For I thought of my doll and—sakes alive!—I answered, "Mary Ann!"

Anna Maria Pratt [18—-

THE RAGGEDY MAN

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 wobble-ly calf; An' nen—ef our hired girl says he can— He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.— Ain't 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.— Ain't 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! Er Ma, er Pa, er the Raggedy Man! Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man—one time when he Was 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!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



THE MAN IN THE MOON

Said the Raggedy Man, on a hot afternoon, "My! Sakes! What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on The Man in the Moon! But people that's b'en up to see him, like me, And calls on him frequent and intimately, Might drop a few facts that would interest you Clean! Through!— If you wanted 'em to— Some actual facts that might interest you!

"O The Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; Whee! Whimm! Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun.— So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise— My! Eyes! But isn't he wise— To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?

"And The Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear,— Whee! Whing! What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,— There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,— He calls it a dimple—but dimples stick in— Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! Whang! Ho! Why, certainly so!— It might be a dimple turned over, you know!

"And The Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,— Gee! Whizz! What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan. Whing! Whann! What a marvelous man! What a very remarkably marvelous man!

"And The Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man, "Gits! So! Sullonesome, you know,— Up there by hisse'f sence creation began!— That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,— Till—Well! if it wasn't fer Jimmy-cum-Jim, Dadd! Limb! I'd go pardners with him— Jes' jump my job here and be pardners with him!"

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers— An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heered him holler, an' his Daddy heered him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout: An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,— You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond and dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



OUR HIRED GIRL

Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann; An' she can cook best things to eat! She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet; An' nen she salts it all on top With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow, In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so It's custard-pie, first thing you know! An' nen she'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"

When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad, An' says folks got to walk the chalk When she's around, er wisht they had! I play out on our porch an' talk To Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn; An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans on His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn! Ef my old nose don't tell me lies, It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!" An' nen he'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time for play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er she cain't git no cookin' done!"

Wunst our hired girl, when she Got the supper, an' we all et, An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' me An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met,— An' nen when we come home, an' see A light in the kitchen door, an' we Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'— O'-Gracious, who can her beau be?" An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann Wuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man! Better say, "Clear out o' the way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take the hint, an' run, child, run! Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



SEEIN' THINGS

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice, An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed, For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, Mother tells me "Happy Dreams!" an' takes away the light, An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!

Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door, Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor; Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round So softly and so creepylike they never make a sound! Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white— But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!

Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street, An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row, A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me—so! Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite— It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!

Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death! Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath; An' I am, oh, so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again! Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!

An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within; An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice, I want to—but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice! No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!

Eugene Field [1850-1895]



THE DUEL

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.)