* * * * *

William Wordsworth.



VI

OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN

If thou couldst know thine own sweetness, O little one, perfect and sweet, Thou wouldst be a child forever; Completer whilst incomplete.

Francis Turner Palgrave.



OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN



Where Go the Boats?[A]

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.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.



Cleanliness

Come, my little Robert, near— Fie! what filthy hands are here! Who, that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong, yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within,— Who this hand would choose to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it look'd in hue and shape Like the forefoot of an ape! Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways, May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever— But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect. All-endearing cleanliness, Virtue next to godliness, Easiest, cheapest, needfull'st duty, To the body health and beauty; Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?

Charles and Mary Lamb.



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, And birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing.

Oh—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 sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before the day was over, Home must come the rover, For mother's kiss,—sweeter this Than any other thing.

William Allingham.



The Boy

The Boy from his bedroom window Look'd over the little town, And away to the bleak black upland Under a clouded moon.

The moon came forth from her cavern. He saw the sudden gleam Of a tarn in the swarthy moorland; Or perhaps the whole was a dream.

For I never could find that water In all my walks and rides: Far-off, in the Land of Memory, That midnight pool abides.

Many fine things had I glimpse of, And said, "I shall find them one day." Whether within or without me They were, I cannot say.

William Allingham.



Infant Joy

"I have no name, I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy! Sweet joy but two days old! Sweet joy I call thee. Thou dost smile, I sing the while. Sweet joy befall thee!

William Blake



A Blessing for the Blessed

When the sun has left the hill-top And the daisy fringe is furled, When the birds from wood and meadow In their hidden nests are curled, Then I think of all the babies That are sleeping in the world.

There are babies in the high lands And babies in the low, There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins On the margin of the snow, And brown ones naked in the isles Where all the spices grow.

And some are in the palace On a white and downy bed, And some are in the garret With a clout beneath their head, And some are on the cold hard earth, Whose mothers have no bread.

O little men and women, Dear flowers yet unblown— O little kings and beggars Of the pageant yet unshown— Sleep soft and dream pale dreams now, To-morrow is your own.

Laurence Alma Tadema.



Piping Down the Valleys Wild

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.



A Sleeping Child

Lips, lips, open! Up comes a little bird that lives inside, Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.

All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings; Up he comes and out he goes at night to spread his wings.

Little bird, little bird, whither will you go? Round about the world while nobody can know.

Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee? Far away round the world while nobody can see.

Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam? All round the world and around again home.

Round the round world, and back through the air, When the morning comes, the little bird is there.

Back comes the little bird, and looks, and in he flies. Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes.

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird's away, Little bird will come again by the peep of day;

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird must go Round about the world, while nobody can know.

Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round, Round and round he goes,—sleep, sleep sound!

Arthur Hugh Clough.



Birdies with Broken Wings[A]

Birdies with broken wings, Hide from each other; But babies in trouble Can run home to mother.

Mary Mapes Dodge.



Seven Times One

Exultation



There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven; I've said my "seven times" over and over— Seven times one are seven.

I am old! so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done: The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing, And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing; You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet Bee! you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold; O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow! Give me your money to hold.

O Columbine! open your folded wrapper Where two twin turtle-doves dwell; O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper, That hangs in your clear, green bell.

And show me your nest with the young ones in it— I will not steal them away, I am old! you may trust me, Linnet, Linnet,— I am seven times one to-day.

Jean Ingelow.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "Rhymes and Jingles." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.



I Remember, I Remember

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born; The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups— Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum, on his birthday,— The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now. And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy.

Thomas Hood.



Good-night and Good-morning

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 own time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep.

The tall, pink Fox-glove 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."

Lord Houghton.

(Richard Monckton Milnes.)



Little Children

Sporting through the forest wide; Playing by the waterside; Wandering o'er the heathy fells; Down within the woodland dells; All among the mountains wild, Dwelleth many a little child! In the baron's hall of pride; By the poor man's dull fireside: 'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean, Little children may be seen, Like the flowers that spring up fair, Bright and countless everywhere! In the far isles of the main; In the desert's lone domain; In the savage mountain-glen, 'Mong the tribes of swarthy men; Whereso'er the sun hath shone On a league of people'd ground, Little children may be found! Blessings on them! they in me Move a kindly sympathy, With their wishes, hopes, and fears; With their laughter and their tears; With their wonder so intense, And their small experience! Little children, not alone On the wide earth are ye known, 'Mid its labours and its cares, 'Mid its sufferings and its snares; Free from sorrow, free from strife, In the world of love and life, Where no sinful thing hath trod— In the presence of your God, Spotless, blameless, glorified— Little children, ye abide!

Mary Howitt.



The Angel's Whisper

A baby was sleeping; Its mother was weeping; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling, And she cried, "Dermot, darling, Oh, come back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee. "Oh, blest be that warning, Thy sweet sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering to thee!

"And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! And say thou would'st rather They'd watch o'er thy father, For I know that the angels are whispering to thee."

The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering to thee."

Samuel Lover.



Little Garaine

"Where do the stars grow, little Garaine? The garden of moons is it far away? The orchard of suns, my little Garaine, Will you take us there some day?"

"If you shut your eyes," quoth little Garaine, "I will show you the way to go To the orchard of suns and the garden of moons And the field where the stars do grow.

"But you must speak soft," quoth little Garaine "And still must your footsteps be, For a great bear prowls in the field of stars, And the moons they have men to see.

"And the suns have the Children of Signs to guard, And they have no pity at all—— You must not stumble, you must not speak, When you come to the orchard wall.

"The gates are locked," quoth little Garaine, "But the way I am going to tell! The key of your heart it will open them all And there's where the darlings dwell!"

Sir Gilbert Parker.



A Letter

(To Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child)

My noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my First Epistle beg ye, At dawn of morn, and close of even, To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double duty say your prayer: Our Father first, then Notre Pere.

And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing you do and say, Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love and angels aid ye.

If to these precepts you attend, No second letter need I send, And so I rest your constant friend.

Matthew Prior.



Love and the Child

Toys, and treats, and pleasures pass Like a shadow in a glass, Like the smoke that mounts on high, Like a noonday's butterfly.

Quick they come and quick they end, Like the money that I spend; Some to-day, to-morrow more, Short, like those that went before.

Mother, fold me to your knees! How much should I care for these— Little joys that come and go! If you did not love me so?

And when things are sad or wrong, Then I know that love is strong; When I ache, or when I weep, Then I know that love is deep.

Father, now my prayer is said, Lay your hand upon my head! Pleasures pass from day to day, But I know that love will stay.

While I sleep it will be near; I shall wake and find it here; I shall feel it in the air When I say my morning prayer.

Maker of this little heart! Lord of love I know thou art! Little heart! though thou forget, Still the love is round thee set.

William Brighty Rands.



Polly

Brown eyes, straight nose; Dirt pies, rumpled clothes.

Torn books, spoilt toys: Arch looks, unlike a boy's;

Little rages, obvious arts; (Three her age is), cakes, tarts;

Falling down off chairs; Breaking crown down stairs;

Catching flies on the pane; Deep sighs—cause not plain;

Bribing you with kisses For a few farthing blisses.

Wide-a-wake; as you hear, "Mercy's sake, quiet, dear!"

New shoes, new frock; Vague views of what's o'clock

When it's time to go to bed, And scorn sublime for what is said.

Folded hands, saying prayers, Understands not nor cares—

Thinks it odd, smiles away; Yet may God hear her pray!

Bed gown white, kiss Dolly; Good night!—that's Polly,

Fast asleep, as you see, Heaven keep my girl for me!

William Brighty Rands.



A Chill

What can lambkins do All the keen night through? Nestle by their woolly mother The careful ewe.

What can nestlings do In the nightly dew? Sleep beneath their mother's wing Till day breaks anew.

If in field or tree There might only be Such a warm soft sleeping-place Found for me!

Christina G. Rossetti.



A Child's Laughter

All the bells of heaven may ring, All the birds of heaven may sing, All the wells on earth may spring, All the winds on earth may bring All sweet sounds together; Sweeter far than all things heard, Hand of harper, tone of bird, Sound of woods at sundawn stirred, Welling water's winsome word, Wind in warm, wan weather.

One thing yet there is that none Hearing, ere its chime be done Knows not well the sweetest one Heard of man beneath the sun, Hoped in heaven hereafter; Soft and strong and loud and light, Very sound of very light, Heard from morning's rosiest height, When the soul of all delight Fills a child's clear laughter.

Golden bells of welcome rolled Never forth such note, nor told Hours so blithe in tones so bold, As the radiant month of gold Here that rings forth heaven. If the golden-crested wren Were a nightingale—why, then Something seen and heard of men Might be half as sweet as when Laughs a child of seven.

Algernon C. Swinburne.



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.

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

The brook that flows beside the mill, As happy as a brook can be, Goes singing its old song until It learns the singing of the sea.

For every wave upon the sands Sings songs you never tire to hear, Of laden ships from sunny lands Where it is summer all the year.

And if you listen to the rain Where 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.



The Little Land[A]

When at home alone I sit And am very tired of it, I have just to shut my eyes To go sailing through the skies— To go sailing far away To the pleasant Land of Play; To the fairy land afar Where the Little People are; Where the clover-tops are trees, And the rain-pools are the seas, And the leaves like little ships Sail about on tiny trips; And above the daisy tree Through the grasses, High o'erhead the Bumble Bee Hums and passes.

In that forest to and fro I can wander, I can go; See the spider and the fly, And the ants go marching by Carrying parcels with their feet Down the green and grassy street. I can in the sorrel sit Where the ladybird alit. I can climb the jointed grass; And on high See the greater swallows pass In the sky, And the round sun rolling by Heeding no such thing as I.

Through the forest I can pass Till, as in a looking-glass, Humming fly and daisy tree And my tiny self I see, Painted very clear and neat On the rain-pool at my feet. Should a leaflet come to land Drifting near to where I stand, Straight I'll board that tiny boat Round the rain-pool sea to float.

Little thoughtful creatures sit On the grassy coasts of it; Little things with lovely eyes See me sailing with surprise. Some are clad in armour green— (These have sure to battle been!) Some are pied with ev'ry hue, Black and crimson, gold and blue; Some have wings and swift are gone:— But they all look kindly on.

When my eyes I once again Open and see all things plain; High bare walls, great bare floor; Great big knobs on drawer and door; Great big people perched on chairs, Stitching tucks and mending tears, Each a hill that I could climb, And talking nonsense all the time— O dear me, That I could be A sailor on the rain-pool sea, A climber in the clover-tree, And just come back, a sleepy-head, Late at night to go to bed.

Robert Louis Stevenson.



FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.



In a Garden

Baby, see the flowers! Baby sees Fairer things than these, Fairer though they be than dreams of ours. Baby, hear the birds! Baby knows Better songs than those, Sweeter though they sound than sweetest words.

Baby, see the moon! Baby's eyes Laugh to watch it rise, Answering light with love and night with noon.

Baby, hear the sea! Baby's face Takes a graver grace, Touched with wonder what the sound may be.

Baby, see the star! Baby's hand Opens, warm and bland, Calm in claim of all things fair that are.

Baby, hear the bells! Baby's head Bows as ripe for bed, Now the flowers curl round and close their cells.

Baby, flower of light, Sleep and see Brighter dreams than we, Till good day shall smile away good night.

Algernon Charles Swinburne



Little Gustava

I

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.

II

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.

III

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.

IV

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.

V

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.

VI

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

VII

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.

VIII

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!"

IX

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.



A Bunch of Roses

The rosy mouth and rosy toe Of little baby brother, Until about a month ago Had never met each other; But nowadays the neighbours sweet, In every sort of weather, Half way with rosy fingers meet, To kiss and play together.

John B. Tabb.



The Child

At Bethlehem

Long, long before the Babe could speak, When he would kiss his mother's cheek And to her bosom press, The brightest angels standing near Would turn away to hide a tear— For they are motherless.

John B. Tabb



After the Storm

And when,—its force expended, The harmless storm was ended, And as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea— I thought, as day was breaking, My little girls were waking, And smiling and making A prayer at home for me.

William Makepeace Thackeray.



Lucy Gray

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor,— The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go: And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster-clock has just struck two; And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

They wept—and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the low stone wall:

And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They follow from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

William Wordsworth



Deaf and Dumb

He lies on the grass, looking up to the sky; Blue butterflies pass like a breath or a sigh, The shy little hare runs confidingly near, And wise rabbits stare with inquiry, not fear: Gay squirrels have found him and made him their choice; All creatures flock round him, and seem to rejoice.

Wild ladybirds leap on his cheek fresh and fair, Young partridges creep, nestling under his hair, Brown honey-bees drop something sweet on his lips, Rash grasshoppers hop on his round finger-tips, Birds hover above him with musical call; All things seem to love him, and he loves them all.

Is nothing afraid of the boy lying there? Would all nature aid if he wanted its care? Things timid and wild with soft eagerness come. Ah, poor little child!—he is deaf—he is dumb. But what can have brought them? but how can they know? What instinct has taught them to cherish him so?

Since first he could walk they have served him like this. His lips could not talk, but they found they could kiss. They made him a court, and they crowned him a king; Ah, who could have thought of so lovely a thing? They found him so pretty, they gave him their hearts, And some divine pity has taught them their parts!

"A."



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 Make either day or night?

My day and night myself I make, Whene'er I sleep or play, And could I always 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 peace of mind destroy; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy!

Colley Cibber.



VII

PLAY-TIME

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.

Gabriel Setoun.



PLAY-TIME



A Boy's Song

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 trace 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 o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

James Hogg (The Ettrick Shepherd).



The Lost Doll

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled; Yet for old sake's sake, she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world.

Charles Kingsley



Dolladine

This is her picture—Dolladine— The beautifullest doll that ever was seen! Oh, what nosegays! Oh, what sashes! Oh, what beautiful eyes and lashes!

Oh, what a precious perfect pet! On each instep a pink rosette; Little blue shoes for her little blue tots; Elegant ribbons in bows and knots.

Her hair is powdered; her arms are straight, Only feel, she is quite a weight! Her legs are limp, though;—stand up, miss!— What a beautiful buttoned-up mouth to kiss!

William Brighty Rands.



Dressing the Doll

This is the way we dress the Doll:— You may make her a shepherdess, the Doll, If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook, But this is the way we dress the Doll.

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple and mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll. First, you observe her little chemise, As white as milk, with ruches of silk; And the little drawers that cover her knees. As she sits or stands, with golden bands, And lace in beautiful filagrees.

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple or mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll.

Now these are the bodies: she has two, One of pink, with ruches of blue, And sweet white lace; be careful, do! And one of green, with buttons of sheen, Buttons and bands of gold, I mean, With lace on the border in lovely order, The most expensive we can afford her!

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple or mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll.

Then, with black at the border, jacket And this—and this—she will not lack it; Skirts? Why, there are skirts, of course, And shoes and stockings we shall enforce, With a proper bodice, in the proper place (Stays that lace have had their days And made their martyrs); likewise garters, All entire. But our desire Is to show you her night attire, At least a part of it. Pray admire This sweet white thing that she goes to bed in! It's not the one that's made for her wedding; That is special, a new design, Made with a charm and a countersign, Three times three and nine times nine: These are only her usual clothes: Look, there's a wardrobe! gracious knows It's pretty enough, as far as it goes!

So you see the way we dress the Doll: You might make her a shepherdess, the Doll, If you gave her a crook with a pastoral hook, With sheep, and a shed, and a shallow brook, And all that, out of the poetry-book.

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple and mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll; If you had not seen, could you guess the Doll?

William Brighty Rands.



The Pedlar's Caravan

I wish I lived in a caravan, With a horse to drive, like a pedlar-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 the alphabet round the border!

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

With the pedlar-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.



A Sea-Song from the Shore

Hail! Ho! Sail! Ho! Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy! Who calls to me, So far at sea? Only a little boy!

Sail! Ho! Hail! Ho! The sailor he sails the sea: I wish he would capture a little sea-horse And send him home to me.

I wish, as he sails Through the tropical gales, He would catch me a sea-bird, too, With its silver wings And the song it sings, And its breast of down and dew!

I wish he would catch me a Little mermaid, Some island where he lands, With her dripping curls, And her crown of pearls, And the looking-glass in her hands! Hail! Ho! Sail! Ho! Sail far o'er the fabulous main! And if I were a sailor, I'd sail with you, Though I never sailed back again.

James Whitcomb Riley.



The Land of Story-Books[A]

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.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "A Child's Garden of Verses," by Robert Louis Stevenson. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.



The City Child

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury bells."

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.



Going into Breeches

Joy to Philip! he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Put the manly breeches on. Officer on gay parade, Red-coat in his first cockade, Bridegroom in his wedding-trim, Birthday beau surpassing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state Or the pride (yet free from sin) Of my little MANIKIN: Never was there pride or bliss Half so rational as his. Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em, Philip's limbs have got their freedom— He can run, or he can ride, And do twenty things beside, Which his petticoats forbade; Is he not a happy lad? Now he's under other banners He must leave his former manners; Bid adieu to female games And forget their very names; Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek, Sports for girls and punies weak! Baste-the-bear he now may play at; Leap-frog, foot-ball sport away at; Show his skill and strength at cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket; Run about in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow; Climb a tree or scale a wall Without any fear to fall. If he get a hurt or bruise, To complain he must refuse, Though the anguish and the smart Go unto his little heart; He must have his courage ready, Keep his voice and visage steady; Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum, That a tear may never come; And his grief must only speak From the colour in his cheek. This and more he must endure, Hero he in miniature. This and more must now be done, Now the breeches are put on.

Charles and Mary Lamb.



Hunting Song

Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay! To the meadows trip away. 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn, Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



Hie Away

Hie away, hie away! Over bank and over brae, Where the copsewood is the greenest, Where the fountains glisten sheenest, Where the lady fern grows strongest, Where the morning dew lies longest, Where the blackcock sweetest sips it, Where the fairy latest trips it: Hie to haunts right seldom seen, Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, Over bank and over brae, Hie away, hie away!

Sir Walter Scott.



VIII

STORY TIME

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.



STORY TIME



The Fairy Folk

Come cuddle close in daddy's coat Beside the fire so bright, And hear about the fairy folk That wander in the night. For when the stars are shining clear And all the world is still, They float across the silver moon From hill to cloudy hill.

Their caps of red, their cloaks of green, Are hung with silver bells, And when they're shaken with the wind Their merry ringing swells. And riding on the crimson moth, With black spots on his wings, They guide them down the purple sky With golden bridle rings.

They love to visit girls and boys To see how sweet they sleep, To stand beside their cosy cots And at their faces peep. For in the whole of fairy land They have no finer sight Than little children sleeping sound With faces rosy bright.

On tip-toe crowding round their heads, When bright the moonlight beams, They whisper little tender words That fill their minds with dreams; And when they see a sunny smile, With lightest finger tips They lay a hundred kisses sweet Upon the ruddy lips.

And then the little spotted moths Spread out their crimson wings, And bear away the fairy crowd With shaking bridle rings. Come bairnies, hide in daddy's coat, Beside the fire so bright— Perhaps the little fairy folk Will visit you to-night.

Robert Bird.



A Fairy in Armor

He put his acorn helmet on; It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down; The corslet plate that guarded his breast Was once the wild bee's golden vest; His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, Was formed of the wings of butterflies; His shield was the shell of a lady-bug green, Studs of gold on a ground of green; And the quivering lance which he brandished bright, Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue; He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, And away like a glance of thought he flew, To skim the heavens, and follow far The fiery trail of the rocket-star.

Joseph Rodman Drake.



The Last Voyage of the Fairies

Down the bright stream the Fairies float,— A water-lily is their boat.

Long rushes they for paddles take, Their mainsail of a bat's wing make;

The tackle is of cobwebs neat,— With glow-worm lantern all's complete.

So down the broad'ning stream they float, With Puck as pilot of the boat.

The Queen on speckled moth-wings lies, And lifts at times her languid eyes

To mark the green and mossy spots Where bloom the blue forget-me-nots:

Oberon, on his rose-bud throne, Claims the fair valley as his own:

And elves and fairies, with a shout Which may be heard a yard about,

Hail him as Elfland's mighty King; And hazel-nuts in homage bring,

And bend the unreluctant knee, And wave their wands in loyalty.

Down the broad stream the Fairies float, An unseen power impels their boat;

The banks fly past—each wooded scene— The elder copse—the poplars green—

And soon they feel the briny breeze With salt and savour of the seas—

Still down the stream the Fairies float, An unseen power impels their boat;

Until they mark the rushing tide Within the estuary wide.

And now they're tossing on the sea, Where waves roll high, and winds blow free,—

Ah, mortal vision nevermore Shall see the Fairies on the shore,

Or watch upon a summer night Their mazy dances of delight!

Far, far away upon the sea, The waves roll high, the breeze blows free!

The Queen on speckled moth-wings lies, Slow gazing with a strange surprise

Where swim the sea-nymphs on the tide Or on the backs of dolphins ride:

The King, upon his rose-bud throne, Pales as he hears the waters moan;

The elves have ceased their sportive play, Hushed by the slowly sinking day:

And still afar, afar they float, The Fairies in their fragile boat,—

Further and further from the shore, And lost to mortals evermore!

W. H. Davenport Adams.



A New Fern

A Fairy has found a new fern! A lovely surprise of the May! She stamps her wee foot, looks uncommonly stern, And keeps other fairies at bay.

She watches it flourish and grow— What exquisite pleasure is hers! She kisses it, strokes it and fondles it so— I almost believe that she purrs!

Of all the most beautiful things, None brighter than this I discern, To be a young fairy, with glittering wings, And then—to discover a fern!

"A."



The Child and the Fairies

The woods are full of fairies! The trees are all alive: The river overflows with them, See how they dip and dive! What funny little fellows! What dainty little dears! They dance and leap, and prance and peep, And utter fairy cheers!

* * * * *

I'd like to tame a fairy, To keep it on a shelf, To see it wash its little face, And dress its little self. I'd teach it pretty manners, It always should say "Please;" And then you know I'd make it sew, And curtsey with its knees!

"A."



The Little Elf

I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small And why he didn't grow.

He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me," said he, "As you are big for you."

John Kendrick Bangs.



"One, Two, Three"[A]

It was an old, old, old, old lady And a boy that was half-past three, And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go romping and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree, And the game that they played I'll tell you, Just as it was told to me.

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing. Though you'd never have known it to be— With an old, old, old, old lady And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down On his little sound right knee. And he guessed where she was hiding In guesses One, Two, Three.

"You are in the china closet!" He would cry and laugh with glee— It wasn't the china closet, But he still had Two and Three.

"You are up in papa's big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key," And she said: "You are warm and warmer; But you are not quite right," said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard Where mamma's things used to be— So it must be in the clothes press, Gran'ma," And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three.

And they never had stirred from their places Right under the maple tree— This old, old, old, old lady And the boy with the lame little knee— This dear, dear, dear old lady And the boy who was half-past three.

Henry C. Bunner.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "The Poems of H. C. Bunner." Copyright, 1889, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



What May Happen to a Thimble

Come about the meadow, Hunt here and there, Where's mother's thimble? Can you tell where? Jane saw her wearing it, Fan saw it fall, Ned isn't sure That she dropp'd it at all.

Has a mouse carried it Down to her hole— Home full of twilight, Shady, small soul? Can she be darning there, Ere the light fails, Small ragged stockings— Tiny torn tails?

Did a finch fly with it Into the hedge, Or a reed-warbler Down in the sedge? Are they carousing there, All the night through? Such a great goblet, Brimful of dew!

Have beetles crept with it Where oak roots hide? There have they settled it Down on its side? Neat little kennel, So cosy and dark, Has one crept into it, Trying to bark?

Have the ants cover'd it With straw and sand? Roomy bell-tent for them, So tall and grand; Where the red soldier-ants Lie, loll, and lean— While the blacks steadily Build for their queen.

Has a huge dragon-fly Borne it (how cool!) To his snug dressing-room, By the clear pool? There will he try it on, For a new hat— Nobody watching But one water-rat?

Did the flowers fight for it, While, undecried, One selfish daisy Slipp'd it aside; Now has she plunged it in Close to her feet— Nice private water-tank For summer heat?

Did spiders snatch at it Wanting to look At the bright pebbles Which lie in the brook? Now are they using it (Nobody knows!) Safe little diving-bell, Shutting so close?

Hunt for it, hope for it, All through the moss; Dip for it, grope for it— 'Tis such a loss! Jane finds a drop of dew, Fan finds a stone; I find the thimble, Which is mother's own!

Run with it, fly with it— Don't let it fall; All did their best for it— Mother thanks all. Just as we give it her,— Think what a shame!— Ned says he's sure That it isn't the same!

"B."



Discontent

Down in a field, one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, Save one, who tried to hide herself, And drooped that pleasant weather.

A robin, who had flown too high, And felt a little lazy, Was resting near a buttercup Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grew so trig and tall! She always had a passion For wearing frills around her neck, In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be The same old tiresome color; While daisies dress in gold and white, Although their gold is duller.

"Dear robin," said the sad young flower, "Perhaps you'd not mind trying To find a nice white frill for me, Some day when you are flying?"

"You silly thing!" the robin said, "I think you must be crazy: I'd rather be my honest self, Than any made-up daisy.

"You're nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you: Be the best buttercup you can, And think no flower above you.

"Though swallows leave me out of sight, We'd better keep our places: Perhaps the world would all go wrong With one too many daisies.

"Look bravely up into the sky, And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here, where you are growing."

Sarah Orne Jewett.



The Nightingale and the Glowworm

A nightingale that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite; When looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glowworm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song: For 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard this short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.

William Cowper.



Thanksgiving Day

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 barn-yard 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 the pumpkin-pie!

Lydia Maria Child.



A Thanksgiving Fable

It was a hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving morn, And she watched a thankful little mouse, that ate an ear of corn. "If I ate that thankful little mouse, how thankful he should be, When he has made a meal himself, to make a meal for me!

"Then with his thanks for having fed, and his thanks for feeding me, With all his thankfulness inside, how thankful I shall be!" Thus mused the hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving Day; But the little mouse had overheard and declined (with thanks) to stay.

Oliver Herford.



The Magpie's Nest

A Fable

When the Arts in their infancy were, In a fable of old 'tis express'd A wise magpie constructed that rare Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.

This was talk'd of the whole country round; You might hear it on every bough sung, "Now no longer upon the rough ground Will fond mothers brood over their young:

"For the magpie with exquisite skill Has invented a moss-cover'd cell Within which a whole family will In the utmost security dwell."

To her mate did each female bird say, "Let us fly to the magpie, my dear; If she will but teach us the way, A nest we will build us up here.

"It's a thing that's close arch'd overhead, With a hole made to creep out and in; We, my bird, might make just a bed If we only knew how to begin."

* * * * *

To the magpie soon every bird went And in modest terms made their request, That she would be pleased to consent To teach them to build up a nest.

She replied, "I will show you the way, So observe everything that I do: First two sticks 'cross each other I lay—" "To be sure," said the crow, "why I knew

"It must be begun with two sticks, And I thought that they crossed should be." Said the pie, "Then some straw and moss mix In the way you now see done by me."

"O yes, certainly," said the jackdaw, "That must follow, of course, I have thought; Though I never before building saw, I guess'd that, without being taught."

"More moss, straw, and feathers, I place In this manner," continued the pie. "Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the case; Though no builder myself, so thought I."

* * * * *

Whatever she taught them beside, In his turn every bird of them said, Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried He had just such a thought in his head.

Still the pie went on showing her art, Till a nest she had built up half-way; She no more of her skill would impart, But in her anger went fluttering away.

And this speech in their hearing she made, As she perch'd o'er their heads on a tree: "If ye all were well skill'd in my trade, Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"

When a scholar is willing to learn, He with silent submission should hear; Too late they their folly discern, The effect to this day does appear.

For whenever a pie's nest you see, Her charming warm canopy view, All birds' nests but hers seem to be A magpie's nest just cut in two.

Charles and Mary Lamb.



The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat; They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the moon above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are,— You are, What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How wonderful sweet you sing! O let us be married,—too long we have tarried,— But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the Bong tree grows And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose,— His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined upon mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon, And hand in hand on the edge of the sand They danced by the light of the moon,— The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear.



A Lobster Quadrille

"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail, "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance— Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance, Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied, "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France— Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"

Lewis Carroll.



The Fairies' Shopping

Where do you think the Fairies go To buy their blankets ere the snow?

When Autumn comes, with frosty days The sorry shivering little Fays

Begin to think it's time to creep Down to their caves for Winter sleep.

But first they come from far and near To buy, where shops are not too dear.

(The wind and frost bring prices down, So Fall's their time to come to town!)

Where on the hill-side rough and steep Browse all day long the cows and sheep,

The mullein's yellow candles burn Over the heads of dry sweet fern:

All summer long the mullein weaves His soft and thick and woolly leaves.

Warmer blankets were never seen Than these broad leaves of fuzzy green—

(The cost of each is but a shekel Made from the gold of honeysuckle!)

To buy their sheets and fine white lace (With which to trim a pillow-case),

They only have to go next door, Where stands a sleek brown spider's store,

And there they find the misty threads Ready to cut into sheets and spreads;

Then for a pillow, pluck with care Some soft-winged seeds as light as air;

Just what they want the thistle brings, But thistles are such surly things—

And so, though it is somewhat high, The clematis the Fairies buy.

The only bedsteads that they need Are silky pods of ripe milk-weed,

With hangings of the dearest things— Autumn leaves, or butterflies' wings!

And dandelions' fuzzy heads They use to stuff their feather beds;

And yellow snapdragons supply The nightcaps that the Fairies buy,

To which some blades of grass they pin, And tie them 'neath each little chin.

Then, shopping done, the Fairies cry, "Our Summer's gone! oh sweet, good-bye!"

And sadly to their caves they go, To hide away from Winter's snow—

And then, though winds and storms may beat, The Fairies' sleep is warm and sweet!

Margaret Deland.



Fable

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig." Bun replied: "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year And a sphere; And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back Neither can you crack a nut!"

Ralph Waldo Emerson.



A Midsummer Song

Oh, father's gone to market-town: he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will, "Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"

From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound, A murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo; And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo: "Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"

Above the trees, the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom, And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose. But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?

How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter! The farmer's wife is listening now, and wonders what's the matter. Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill. But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly!

Richard Watson Gilder.



The Fairies of the Caldon-Low

"And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?" "I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Hill?" "I heard the drops of water made, And I heard the corn-ears fill."

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary— All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low."

"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine;

"And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And their dancing feet so small; But oh! the sound of their talking Was merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way.

"And some they played with the water And rolled it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill;

"'For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be By the dawning of the day!

"'Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew so sharp and shrill!

"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go, Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn:

"'Oh, the poor blind widow— Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands stiff and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseed, And flung it down from the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow!

"'Oh, the poor lame weaver! How will he laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!'

"And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin; 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 'And I want some more to spin.

"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another— A little sheet for Mary's bed And an apron for her mother.'

"And with that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low, There was no one left but me.

"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.

"But, as I came down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly old miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!

"And I peeped into the widow's field, And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stiff and green!

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate With the good news in his eye!

"Now, this is all that I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"

Mary Howitt.



The Elf and the Dormouse

Under a toadstool Crept a wee Elf, Out of the rain, To shelter himself.

Under the toadstool Sound asleep, Sat a big Dormouse All in a heap.

Trembled the wee Elf, Frightened, and yet Fearing to fly away Lest he get wet.

To the next shelter— Maybe a mile! Sudden the wee Elf Smiled a wee smile,

Tugged till the toadstool Toppled in two. Holding it over him, Gayly he flew.

Soon he was safe home, Dry as could be. Soon woke the Dormouse— "Good gracious me!

"Where is my toadstool?" Loud he lamented. —And that's how umbrellas First were invented.

Oliver Herford.



Meg Merrilies

Old Meg she was a gipsy, And lived upon the moors; Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants pods o' broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her brothers were the craggy hills, Her sisters larchen-trees; Alone with her great family She lived as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And 'stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh She made her garlanding, And every night the dark glen yew She wore; and she would sing, And with her fingers old and brown She plaited mats of rushes, And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, And tall as Amazon; An old red blanket cloak she wore, A ship-hat had she on; God rest her aged bones somewhere! She died full long agone!

John Keats.



Romance

I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea; Her masts were of the shining gold, Her deck of ivory; And sails of silk, as soft as milk, And silvern shrouds had she.

And round about her sailing, The sea was sparkling white, The waves all clapped their hands and sang To see so fair a sight. They kissed her twice, they kissed her thrice, And murmured with delight.

Then came the gallant captain, And stood upon the deck; In velvet coat, and ruffles white, Without a spot or speck; And diamond rings, and triple strings Of pearls around his neck.

And four-and-twenty sailors Were round him bowing low; On every jacket three times three Gold buttons in a row; And cutlasses down to their knees; They made a goodly show.

And then the ship went sailing, A-sailing o'er the sea; She dived beyond the setting sun, But never back came she, For she found the lands of the golden sands, Where the pearls and diamonds be.

Gabriel Setoun.



The Cow-Boy's Song

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, home from the wood They sent me to fetch you as fast as I could. The sun has gone down: it is time to go home. Mooly cow, mooly cow, why don't you come? Your udders are full, and the milkmaid is there, And the children are waiting their supper to share. I have let the long bars down,—why don't you pass through?" The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, have you not been Regaling all day where the pastures are green? No doubt it was pleasant, dear mooly, to see The clear running brook and the wide-spreading tree, The clover to crop and the streamlet to wade, To drink the cool water and lie in the shade; But now it is night: they are waiting for you." The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, where do you go, When all the green pastures are covered with snow? You go to the barn and we feed you with hay, And the maid goes to milk you there, every day; She speaks to you kindly and sits by your side, She pats you, she loves you, she strokes your sleek hide: Then come along home, pretty mooly cow, do." But the mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, whisking your tail, The milkmaid is waiting, I say, with her pail; She tucks up her petticoats, tidy and neat, And places the three-legged stool for her seat:— What can you be staring at, mooly? You know That we ought to have gone home an hour ago. How dark it is growing! O, what shall I do?" The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

Anna M. Wells.



IX

BED TIME[A]

When the golden day is done, Through the closing portal, Child and garden, flower and sun, Vanish all things mortal.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "A Child's Garden of Verses," by Robert Louis Stevenson. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.



BED-TIME



Auld Daddy Darkness

Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, Black as a blackamoor, blin' as a mole: Stir the fire till it lowes, let the bairnie sit, Auld Daddy Darkness is no wantit yet.

See him in the corners hidin' frae the licht, See him at the window gloomin' at the nicht; Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far awa'.

Awa' to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, Awa' to lap the wee flooers on their mither's breast, Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca', For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'.

He comes when we're weary to wean's frae oor waes, He comes when the bairnies are getting aff their claes; To cover them sae cosy, an' bring bonnie dreams, So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he seems.

Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye'll see Daddy then; He's in below the bed claes, to cuddle ye he's fain; Noo nestle in his bosie, sleep and dream yer fill, Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre the hill.

James Ferguson.



Wynken, Blynken, and Nod[A]

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 folks 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.

Eugene Field.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "With Trumpet and Drum," by Eugene Field. Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



Rockaby, Lullaby[A]

Rockaby, lullaby, bees on the clover!— Crooning so drowsily, crying so low— Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Down into wonderland— Down to the under-land— Go, oh go! Down into wonderland go!

Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover! Tears on the eyelids that struggle and weep! Rockaby, lullaby—bending it over! Down on the mother world, Down on the other world! Sleep, oh sleep! Down on the mother-world sleep!

Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover! Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn! Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Into the stilly world! Into the lily world, Gone! oh gone! Into the lily world, gone!

Josiah Gilbert Holland.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "The Poetical Works of J. G. Holland." Copyright, 1881, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



Sleep, My Treasure

Sleep, sleep, my treasure, The long day's pleasure Has tired the birds, to their nests they creep; The garden still is Alight with lilies, But all the daisies are fast asleep.

Sleep, sleep, my darling, Dawn wakes the starling, The sparrow stirs when he sees day break; But all the meadow Is wrapped in shadow, And you must sleep till the daisies wake!

E. Nesbit.



Lullaby of an Infant Chief

Oh, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens from the tower which we see, They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

Oh, hush thee, my babie, the time will soon come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

Sir Walter Scott.



Sweet and Low

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me: While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.



Old Gaelic Lullaby

Hush! the waves are rolling in, White with foam, white with foam; Father toils amid the din; But baby sleeps at home.

Hush! the winds roar hoarse and deep,— On they come, on they come! Brother seeks the wandering sheep: But baby sleeps at home.

Hush! the rain sweeps o'er the knowes, Where they roam, where they roam; Sister goes to seek the cows; But baby sleeps at home.

Unknown.



The Sandman

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down; And now the sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town. "White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away— Yes, in another land— He gathers up at break of day His store of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes; And every child right well he knows,— Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting on the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

Margaret Vandegrift.



The Cottager to Her Infant

The days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty Love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light, 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane bedropped with rain; There, little darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day.

Dorothy Wordsworth.



A Charm to Call Sleep

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep, Come to my blankets and come to my bed, Come to my legs and my arms and my head, Over me, under me, into me creep.

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep, Blow on my face like a soft breath of air, Lay your cool hand on my forehead and hair, Carry me down through the dream-waters deep.

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep, Tell me the secrets that you alone know, Show me the wonders none other can show, Open the box where your treasures you keep.

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep: Softly I call you; as soft and as slow Come to me, cuddle me, stay with me so, Stay till the dawn is beginning to peep.

Henry Johnstone.



Night

The snow is white, the wind is cold— The king has sent for my three-year-old. Bring the pony and shoe him fast With silver shoes that were made to last. Bring the saddle trimmed with gold; Put foot in stirrup, my three-year-old; Jump in the saddle, away, away! And hurry back by the break of day; By break of day, through dale and down, And bring me the news from Slumbertown.

Mary F. Butts.



Bed-Time

'Tis bed-time; say your hymn, and bid "Good night, "God bless mamma, papa, and dear ones all." Your half-shut eyes beneath your eye-lids fall; Another minute you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall. What will you give me, Sleepy One, and call My wages, if I settle you all right? I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand; Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, Her heart next mine, beat gently, soft and warm; She nestled to me, and, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages,—Baby's kiss.

Lord Rosslyn.



Nightfall in Dordrecht[A]

The mill goes toiling slowly around With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak. While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings: "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, And, over his pot of beer, The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, Lustily maketh cheer; He mocks at the winds that caper along From the far-off clamorous deep— But we—we love their lullaby song Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

Old dog Fritz in slumber sound Groans of the stony mart— To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you round, Hitched to our new milk-cart! And you shall help me blanket the kine And fold the gentle sheep And set the herring a-soak in brine— But now, little tulip, sleep!

A Dream-One comes to button the eyes That wearily droop and blink, While the old mill buffets the frowning skies And scolds at the stars that wink; Over your face the misty wings Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, And rocking your cradle she softly sings: "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

Eugene Field.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "With Trumpet and Drum," by Eugene Field. Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



X

FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD

Sunday's child is full of grace.

Old Proverb.



FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD



All Things Bright and Beautiful

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colours, He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And order'd their estate.

The purple-headed mountain, The river running by, The sunset and the morning, That brightens up the sky;—

The cold wind in the winter, The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden,— He made them every one;

The tall trees in the greenwood, The meadows where we play, The rushes by the water We gather every day;—

He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell, How great is God Almighty, Who has made all things well.

Cecil Frances Alexander.



The Still Small Voice

Wee Sandy in the corner Sits greeting on a stool, And sair the laddie rues Playing truant frae the school; Then ye'll learn frae silly Sandy, Wha's gotten sic a fright, To do naething through the day That may gar ye greet at night.

He durstna venture hame now, Nor play, though e'er so fine, And ilka ane he met wi' He thought them sure to ken, And started at ilk whin bush, Though it was braid daylight— Sae do nothing through the day That may gar ye greet at night.

Wha winna be advised Are sure to rue ere lang; And muckle pains it costs them To do the thing that's wrang, When they wi' half the fash o't Might aye be in the right, And do naething through the day That would gar them greet at night.

What fools are wilfu' bairns, Who misbehave frae hame! There's something in the breast aye That tells them they're to blame; And then when comes the gloamin', They're in a waefu' plight! Sae do naething through the day That may gar ye greet at night.

Alexander Smart.



The Camel's Nose

Once in his shop a workman wrought, With languid head and listless thought, When, through the open window's space, Behold, a camel thrust his face! "My nose is cold," he meekly cried; "Oh, let me warm it by thy side!"

Since no denial word was said, In came the nose, in came the head: As sure as sermon follows text, The long and scraggy neck came next; And then, as falls the threatening storm, In leaped the whole ungainly form.

Aghast the owner gazed around, And on the rude invader frowned, Convinced, as closer still he pressed, There was no room for such a guest; Yet more astonished, heard him say, "If thou art troubled, go away, For in this place I choose to stay."

O youthful hearts to gladness born, Treat not this Arab lore with scorn! To evil habits' earliest wile Lend neither ear, nor glance, nor smile. Choke the dark fountain ere it flows, Nor e'en admit the camel's nose!

Lydia H. Sigourney.



A Child's Grace

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.

Robert Burns.



A Child's Thought of God

They say that God lives very high! But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God. And why?

And if you dig down in the mines You never see Him in the gold, Though from Him all that's glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face— Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place:

As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure, Half-waking me at night; and said "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.



The Lamb

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!

William Blake.



Night and Day[A]

When I run about all day, When I kneel at night to pray, God sees.

When I'm dreaming in the dark, When I lie awake and hark, God sees.

Need I ever know a fear? Night and day my Father's near:— God sees.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "Rhymes and Jingles," by Mary Mapes Dodge. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.



High and Low[A]

The showers fall as softly Upon the lowly grass As on the stately roses That tremble as they pass.

The sunlight shines as brightly On fern-leaves bent and torn As on the golden harvest, The fields of waving corn.

The wild birds sing as sweetly To rugged, jagged pines, As to the blossomed orchards, And to the cultured vines.

* * * * *

Dora Read Goodale.



By Cool Siloam's Shady Rill

By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose!

Lo, such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God.

Reginald Heber.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From "Apple Blossoms," by Dora Read Goodale. By permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons.



Sheep and Lambs

All in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.

* * * * *

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God.

Katharine Tynan Hinkson.



To His Saviour, a Child; A Present by a Child

Go, pretty child, and bear this flower Unto thy little Saviour; And tell him, by that bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known. When thou hast said so, stick it there Upon his bib or stomacher; And tell him, for good hansel too, That thou hast brought a whistle new, Made of a clean strait oaten reed, To charm his cries at time of need. Tell him, for coral thou hast none, But if thou hadst, he should have one; But poor thou art, and known to be Even as moneyless as he. Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss From those mellifluous lips of his; Then never take a second on, To spoil the first impression.

Robert Herrick.



What Would You See?

What would you see if I took you up To my little nest in the air? You would see the sky like a clear blue cup Turned upside downwards there.

What would you do if I took you there To my little nest in the tree? My child with cries would trouble the air, To get what she could but see.

What would you get in the top of the tree For all your crying and grief? Not a star would you clutch of all you see— You could only gather a leaf.

But when you had lost your greedy grief, Content to see from afar, You would find in your hand a withering leaf, In your heart a shining star.

George Macdonald.



Corn-Fields

When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down,— Oh, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest-hill!

What joy in dreaming ease to lie Amid a field new shorn; And see all round, on sunlit slopes, The piled-up shocks of corn; And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!

I feel the day; I see the field; The quivering of the leaves; And good old Jacob, and his horse,— Binding the yellow sheaves! And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream!

I see the fields of Bethlehem, And reapers many a one Bending unto their sickles' stroke, And Boaz looking on; And Ruth, the Moabitess fair, Among the gleaners stooping there!

Again, I see a little child, His mother's sole delight,— God's living gift of love unto The kind, good Shunamite; To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field.

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, The fields of Galilee, That eighteen hundred years ago Were full of corn, I see; And the dear Saviour take his way 'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath-day.

Oh golden fields of bending corn, How beautiful they seem! The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, To me are like a dream; The sunshine, and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there!

Mary Howitt.



Little Christel

I

Slowly forth from the village church,— The voice of the choristers hushed overhead,— Came little Christel. She paused in the porch, Pondering what the preacher had said.

Even the youngest, humblest child Something may do to please the Lord; "Now, what," thought she, and half-sadly smiled, "Can I, so little and poor, afford?—

"Never, never a day should pass, Without some kindness, kindly shown, The preacher said"—Then down to the grass A skylark dropped, like a brown-winged stone.

"Well, a day is before me now; Yet, what," thought she, "can I do, if I try? If an angel of God would show me how! But silly am I, and the hours they fly."

Then the lark sprang singing up from the sod, And the maiden thought, as he rose to the blue, "He says he will carry my prayer to God; But who would have thought the little lark knew?"

II

Now she entered the village street, With book in hand and face demure, And soon she came, with sober feet, To a crying babe at a cottage door.

It wept at a windmill that would not move, It puffed with round red cheeks in vain, One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove, And baby's breath could not stir it again.

So baby beat the sail and cried, While no one came from the cottage door; But little Christel knelt down by its side, And set the windmill going once more.

Then babe was pleased, and the little girl Was glad when she heard it laugh and crow; Thinking, "Happy windmill, that has but to whirl, To please the pretty young creature so."

III

No thought of herself was in her head, As she passed out at the end of the street, And came to a rose-tree tall and red, Drooping and faint with the summer heat.

She ran to a brook that was flowing by, She made of her two hands a nice round cup, And washed the roots of the rose-tree high, Till it lifted its languid blossoms up.

"O happy brook!" thought little Christel, "You have done some good this summer's day, You have made the flowers look fresh and well!" Then she rose and went on her way.

* * * * *

William Brighty Rands.



A Child's Prayer

God make my life a little light, Within the world to glow— A tiny flame that burneth bright, Wherever I may go.

God make my life a little flower, That bringeth joy to all, Content to bloom in native bower, Although its place be small.

God make my life a little song, That comforteth the sad, That helpeth others to be strong, And makes the singer glad.

M. Betham Edwards



XI

BELLS OF CHRISTMAS

Then let the holly red be hung, And all the sweetest carols sung, While we with joy remember them— The journeyers to Bethlehem.

Frank Dempster Sherman.



BELLS OF CHRISTMAS



The Adoration of the Wise Men

Saw you never in the twilight, When the sun had left the skies, Up in heaven the clear stars shining, Through the gloom like silver eyes? So of old the wise men watching, Saw a little stranger star, And they knew the King was given, And they follow'd it from far.

Heard you never of the story, How they cross'd the desert wild, Journey'd on by plain and mountain, Till they found the Holy Child? How they open'd all their treasure, Kneeling to that Infant King, Gave the gold and fragrant incense, Gave the myrrh in offering?

Know ye not that lowly Baby Was the bright and morning star, He who came to light the Gentiles, And the darken'd isles afar?

And we too may seek his cradle, There our heart's best treasures bring, Love, and Faith, and true devotion, For our Saviour, God, and King.

Cecil Frances Alexander.



Cradle Hymn

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber; Holy angels guard thy bed; Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care, or payment, All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended, And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle; Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable, And His softest bed was hay.

See the kindly shepherds round him, Telling wonders from the sky! When they sought Him, there they found Him, With his Virgin-Mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the honest oxen fed; —Peace, my darling! here's no danger! Here's no ox a-near thy bed!

Mayst thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!

I could give thee thousand kisses, Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire.

Isaac Watts.



The Christmas Silence

Hushed are the pigeons cooing low On dusty rafters of the loft; And mild-eyed oxen, breathing soft, Sleep on the fragrant hay below.

Dim shadows in the corner hide; The glimmering lantern's rays are shed Where one young lamb just lifts his head, Then huddles 'gainst his mother's side.

Strange silence tingles in the air; Through the half-open door a bar Of light from one low-hanging star Touches a baby's radiant hair.

No sound: the mother, kneeling, lays Her cheek against the little face. Oh human love! Oh heavenly grace! 'Tis yet in silence that she prays!

Ages of silence end to-night; Then to the long-expectant earth Glad angels come to greet His birth In burst of music, love, and light!

Margaret Deland.



An Offertory

Oh, the beauty of the Christ Child, The gentleness, the grace, The smiling, loving tenderness, The infantile embrace! All babyhood he holdeth, All motherhood enfoldeth— Yet who hath seen his face?

Oh, the nearness of the Christ Child, When, for a sacred space, He nestles in our very homes— Light of the human race! We know him and we love him, No man to us need prove him— Yet who hath seen his face?

Mary Mapes Dodge.



Christmas Song

Why do bells for Christmas ring? Why do little children sing?

Once a lovely, shining star, Seen by shepherds from afar, Gently moved until its light Made a manger-cradle bright.

There a darling baby lay Pillowed soft upon the hay. And his mother sang and smiled, "This is Christ, the holy child."

So the bells for Christmas ring, So the little children sing.

Lydia Avery Coonley Ward.



A Visit from St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap— When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a lustre of midday to objects below; When what to my wondering eyes should appear But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick! More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name. "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!— To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky, So, up to the housetop the coursers they flew, With a sleigh full of toys—and St. Nicholas, too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound: He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot: A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf: And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings: then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement C. Moore.



The Christmas Trees

There's a stir among the trees, There's a whisper in the breeze, Little ice-points clash and clink, Little needles nod and wink, Sturdy fir-trees sway and sigh— "Here am I! Here am I!"

"All the summer long I stood In the silence of the woods. Tall and tapering I grew; What might happen well I knew; For one day a little bird Sang, and in the song I heard Many things quite strange to me Of Christmas and the Christmas tree.

"When the sun was hid from sight In the darkness of the night, When the wind with sudden fret Pulled at my green coronet, Staunch I stood, and hid my fears, Weeping silent fragrant tears, Praying still that I might be Fitted for a Christmas tree.

"Now here we stand On every hand! In us a hoard of summer stored, Birds have flown over us, Blue sky has covered us, Soft winds have sung to us, Blossoms have flung to us Measureless sweetness, Now in completeness We wait."

Mary F. Butts.



A Birthday Gift



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What can I give him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, If I were a wise man I would do my part,— Yet what I can I give him, Give my heart.

Christina Rossetti.



A Christmas Lullaby

Sleep, baby, sleep! The Mother sings: Heaven's angels kneel and fold their wings. Sleep, baby, sleep!

With swathes of scented hay Thy bed By Mary's hand at eve was spread. Sleep, baby, sleep!

At midnight came the shepherds, they Whom seraphs wakened by the way. Sleep, baby, sleep!

And three kings from the East afar, Ere dawn came, guided by the star. Sleep, baby, sleep!

They brought Thee gifts of gold and gems, Pure orient pearls, rich diadems. Sleep, baby, sleep!

But Thou who liest slumbering there, Art King of Kings, earth, ocean, air. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds sing: Through heaven, through earth, hosannas ring. Sleep, baby, sleep!

John Addington Symonds.



I Saw Three Ships

I saw three ships come sailing in, On Christmas day, on Christmas day; I saw three ships come sailing in, On Christmas day in the morning.

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Pray whither sailed those ships all three On Christmas day, on Christmas day? Pray whither sailed those ships all three On Christmas day in the morning?

Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem On Christmas day, on Christmas day; Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas day, on Christmas day; And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the angels in heaven shall sing On Christmas day, on Christmas day; And all the angels in heaven shall sing On Christmas day in the morning.

And all the souls on earth shall sing On Christmas day, on Christmas day; And all the souls on earth shall sing On Christmas day in the morning.

Old Carol.



Santa Claus

He comes in the night! He comes in the night! He softly, silently comes; While the little brown heads on the pillows so white Are dreaming of bugles and drums.

He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam, While the white flakes around him whirl; Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide; It will carry a host of things, While dozens of drums hang over the side, With the sticks sticking under the strings. And yet not the sound of a drum is heard, Not a bugle blast is blown, As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird, And drops to the hearth like a stone.

The little red stockings he silently fills, Till the stockings will hold no more; The bright little sleds for the great snow hills Are quickly set down on the floor. Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird, And glides to his seat in the sleigh; Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West, Of his goodies he touches not one; He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast When the dear little folks are done. Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can; This beautiful mission is his; Then, children, be good to the little old man, When you find who the little man is.

Unknown.



Neighbors of the Christ Night

Deep in the shelter of the cave, The ass with drooping head Stood weary in the shadow, where His master's hand had led. About the manger oxen lay, Bending a wide-eyed gaze Upon the little new-born Babe, Half worship, half amaze. High in the roof the doves were set, And cooed there, soft and mild, Yet not so sweet as, in the hay, The Mother to her Child. The gentle cows breathed fragrant breath To keep Babe Jesus warm, While loud and clear, o'er hill and dale, The cocks crowed, "Christ is born!" Out in the fields, beneath the stars, The young lambs sleeping lay, And dreamed that in the manger slept Another, white as they.

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These were Thy neighbors, Christmas Child; To Thee their love was given, For in Thy baby face there shone The wonder-light of Heaven.

Nora Archibald Smith.



Cradle Hymn

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head. The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay— The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.