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diff --git a/old/62643-0.txt b/old/62643-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 71f0966..0000000 --- a/old/62643-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2848 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of With Trumpet and Drum, by Eugene Field - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: With Trumpet and Drum - -Author: Eugene Field - -Release Date: July 14, 2020 [EBook #62643] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM - - BY EUGENE FIELD - - - Second Book of Tales. - Songs and Other Verse. - The Holy Cross and Other Tales. - The House. - The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac. - A Little Book of Profitable Tales. - A Little Book of Western Verse. - Second Book of Verse. - Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25. - A Little Book of Profitable Tales. - Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25. - Echoes from the Sabine Farm. - 4to, $2.00. - With Trumpet and Drum. - 16mo, $1.00. - Love Songs of Childhood. - 16mo, $1.00. - - Songs of Childhood. - Verses by EUGENE FIELD. Music by REGINALD - DE KOVEN, and others. Small 4to, $2.00 _net._ - - - - - With·Trumpet·and·Drum - - by - - Eugene·Field - - - [Illustration] - - - New·York - Charles·Scribner’s·Sons - 1897 - - - Copyright, 1892, by MARY FRENCH FIELD. - - - TROW DIRECTORY - PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY - NEW YORK - - - - -This volume is made up of verse compiled from my “Little Book of Western -Verse,” my “Second Book of Verse,” and the files of the “Chicago Daily -News,” the “Youth’s Companion,” and the “Ladies’ Home Journal.” - - E.F. - -CHICAGO, October 25, 1892. - - - - - _WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM_ - - - _With big tin trumpet and little red drum,_ - _Marching like soldiers, the children come!_ - _It’s this way and that way they circle and file--_ - _My! but that music of theirs is fine!_ - _This way and that way, and after a while_ - _They march straight into this heart of mine!_ - _A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb_ - _To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!_ - - _Come on, little people, from cot and from hall--_ - _This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!_ - _It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,_ - _As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;_ - _It will rock you away to the dreamland above--_ - _Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,_ - _And jollier still is it bound to become_ - _When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!_ - - _So come; though I see not his dear little face_ - _And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,_ - _I know he were happy to bid me enshrine_ - _His memory deep in my heart with your play--_ - _Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine_ - _Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!_ - _And my heart it is lonely--so, little folk, come,_ - _March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!_ - - _EUGENE FIELD._ - - _Chicago, September 13, 1892._ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - PAGE - -THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 1 - -KRINKEN 4 - -THE NAUGHTY DOLL 7 - -NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT 10 - -INTRY-MINTRY 12 - -PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 15 - -BALOW, MY BONNIE 18 - -THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 20 - -LITTLE BLUE PIGEON (Japanese Lullaby) 24 - -THE LYTTEL BOY 26 - -TEENY-WEENY 28 - -NELLIE 31 - -NORSE LULLABY 33 - -GRANDMA’S PRAYER 35 - -SOME TIME 36 - -THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST 38 - -BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 44 - -WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD (Dutch Lullaby) 46 - -GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE 49 - -THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 51 - -TO A LITTLE BROOK 54 - -CROODLIN’ DOO[A] 58 - -LITTLE MISTRESS SANS-MERCI 60 - -LONG AGO 62 - -IN THE FIRELIGHT 64 - -COBBLER AND STORK (Armenian Folk-Lore) 66 - -“LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY” 70 - -LIZZIE AND THE BABY 72 - -AT THE DOOR 74 - -HUGO’S “CHILD AT PLAY” 76 - -HI-SPY 77 - -LITTLE BOY BLUE 78 - -FATHER’S LETTER 80 - -JEWISH LULLABY 86 - -OUR WHIPPINGS 88 - -THE ARMENIAN MOTHER (Folk-Song) 93 - -HEIGHO, MY DEARIE 95 - -TO A USURPER 97 - -THE BELL-FLOWER TREE 99 - -FAIRY AND CHILD 102 - -THE GRANDSIRE 104 - -HUSHABY, SWEET MY OWN 106 - -CHILD AND MOTHER 108 - -MEDIEVAL EVENTIDE SONG 110 - -ARMENIAN LULLABY 113 - -CHRISTMAS TREASURES 115 - -OH, LITTLE CHILD 118 - -GANDERFEATHER’S GIFT 120 - -BAMBINO (Sicilian Folk-Song) 123 - -LITTLE HOMER’S SLATE 125 - - [A] Cooing Dove. - - - - - WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM - - - - - THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE - - - Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? - ’Tis a marvel of great renown! - It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea - In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; - The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet - (As those who have tasted it say) - That good little children have only to eat - Of that fruit to be happy next day. - - When you’ve got to the tree, you would have a hard time - To capture the fruit which I sing; - The tree is so tall that no person could climb - To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! - But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, - And a gingerbread dog prowls below-- - And this is the way you contrive to get at - Those sugar-plums tempting you so: - - You say but the word to that gingerbread dog - And he barks with such terrible zest - That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, - As her swelling proportions attest. - And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around - From this leafy limb unto that, - And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground-- - Hurrah for that chocolate cat! - - There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, - With stripings of scarlet or gold, - And you carry away of the treasure that rains - As much as your apron can hold! - So come, little child, cuddle closer to me - In your dainty white nightcap and gown, - And I’ll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree - In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. - - - - - KRINKEN - - - Krinken was a little child,-- - It was summer when he smiled. - Oft the hoary sea and grim - Stretched its white arms out to him, - Calling, “Sun-child, come to me; - Let me warm my heart with thee!” - But the child heard not the sea. - - Krinken on the beach one day - Saw a maiden Nis at play; - Fair, and very fair, was she, - Just a little child was he. - “Krinken,” said the maiden Nis, - “Let me have a little kiss,-- - Just a kiss, and go with me - To the summer-lands that be - Down within the silver sea.” - - Krinken was a little child, - By the maiden Nis beguiled; - Down into the calling sea - With the maiden Nis went he. - - But the sea calls out no more; - It is winter on the shore,-- - Winter where that little child - Made sweet summer when he smiled: - Though ’tis summer on the sea - Where with maiden Nis went he,-- - Summer, summer evermore,-- - It is winter on the shore, - Winter, winter evermore. - - Of the summer on the deep - Come sweet visions in my sleep; - _His_ fair face lifts from the sea, - _His_ dear voice calls out to me,-- - These my dreams of summer be. - - Krinken was a little child, - By the maiden Nis beguiled; - Oft the hoary sea and grim - Reached its longing arms to him, - Crying, “Sun-child, come to me; - Let me warm my heart with thee!” - But the sea calls out no more; - It is winter on the shore,-- - Winter, cold and dark and wild; - Krinken was a little child,-- - It was summer when he smiled; - Down he went into the sea, - And the winter bides with me. - Just a little child was he. - - - - - THE NAUGHTY DOLL - - - My dolly is a dreadful care,-- - Her name is Miss Amandy; - I dress her up and curl her hair, - And feed her taffy candy. - Yet heedless of the pleading voice - Of her devoted mother, - She will not wed her mother’s choice, - But says she’ll wed another. - - I’d have her wed the china vase,-- - There is no Dresden rarer; - You might go searching every place - And never find a fairer. - He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- - Of that there’s no denying; - Yet when I speak of him, forsooth, - Amandy falls to crying! - - She loves the drum--that’s very plain-- - And scorns the vase so clever; - And weeping, vows she will remain - A spinster doll forever! - The protestations of the drum - I am convinced are hollow; - When once distressing times should come, - How soon would ruin follow! - - Yet all in vain the Dresden boy - From yonder mantel woos her; - A mania for that vulgar toy, - The noisy drum, imbues her! - In vain I wheel her to and fro, - And reason with her mildly,-- - Her waxen tears in torrents flow, - Her sawdust heart beats wildly. - - I’m sure that when I’m big and tall, - And wear long trailing dresses, - I sha’n’t encourage beaux at all - Till mama acquiesces; - Our choice will be a suitor then - As pretty as this vase is,-- - Oh, how we’ll hate the noisy men - With whiskers on their faces! - - - - - NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT - - - 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!” - - - - - INTRY-MINTRY - - - Willie and Bess, Georgie and May-- - Once, as these children were hard at play, - An old man, hoary and tottering, came - And watched them playing their pretty game. - He seemed to wonder, while standing there, - What the meaning thereof could be-- - Aha, but the old man yearned to share - Of the little children’s innocent glee - As they circled around with laugh and shout - And told their rime at counting out: - “Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, - Apple-seed and apple-thorn; - Wire, brier, limber, lock, - Twelve geese in a flock; - Some flew east, some flew west, - Some flew over the cuckoo’s nest!” - - Willie and Bess, Georgie and May-- - Ah, the mirth of that summer-day! - ’Twas Father Time who had come to share - The innocent joy of those children there; - He learned betimes the game they played - And into their sport with them went he-- - How _could_ the children have been afraid, - Since little they recked whom he might be? - They laughed to hear old Father Time - Mumbling that curious nonsense rime - Of “Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, - Apple-seed and apple-thorn; - Wire, brier, limber, lock, - Twelve geese in a flock; - Some flew east, some flew west, - Some flew over the cuckoo’s nest!” - - Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, - And joy of summer--where are they? - The grim old man still standeth near - Crooning the song of a far-off year; - And into the winter I come alone, - Cheered by that mournful requiem, - Soothed by the dolorous monotone - That shall count me off as it counted them-- - The solemn voice of old Father Time - Chanting the homely nursery rime - He learned of the children a summer morn - When, with “apple-seed and apple-thorn,” - Life was full of the dulcet cheer - That bringeth the grace of heaven anear-- - The sound of the little ones hard at play-- - Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. - - - - - PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE - - - All day long they come and go-- - Pittypat and Tippytoe; - Footprints up and down the hall, - Playthings scattered on the floor, - Finger-marks along the wall, - Tell-tale smudges on the door-- - By these presents you shall know - Pittypat and Tippytoe. - - How they riot at their play! - And a dozen times a day - In they troop, demanding bread-- - Only buttered bread will do, - And that butter must be spread - Inches thick with sugar too! - And I never can say “No, - Pittypat and Tippytoe!” - - Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, - Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; - For (I much regret to say) - Tippytoe and Pittypat - Sometimes interrupt their play - With an internecine spat; - Fie, for shame! to quarrel so-- - Pittypat and Tippytoe! - - Oh the thousand worrying things - Every day recurrent brings! - Hands to scrub and hair to brush, - Search for playthings gone amiss, - Many a wee complaint to hush, - Many a little bump to kiss; - Life seems one vain, fleeting show - To Pittypat and Tippytoe! - - And when day is at an end, - There are little duds to mend: - Little frocks are strangely torn, - Little shoes great holes reveal, - Little hose, but one day worn, - Rudely yawn at toe and heel! - Who but _you_ could work such woe, - Pittypat and Tippytoe? - - But when comes this thought to me: - “Some there are that childless be,” - Stealing to their little beds, - With a love I cannot speak, - Tenderly I stroke their heads-- - Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. - God help those who do not know - A Pittypat or Tippytoe! - - On the floor and down the hall, - Rudely smutched upon the wall, - There are proofs in every kind - Of the havoc they have wrought, - And upon my heart you’d find - Just such trade-marks, if you sought; - Oh, how glad I am ’tis so, - Pittypat and Tippytoe! - - - - - BALOW, MY BONNIE - - - Hush, bonnie, dinna greit; - Moder will rocke her sweete,-- - Balow, my boy! - When that his toile ben done, - Daddie will come anone,-- - Hush thee, my lyttel one; - Balow, my boy! - - Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce - Fayries will come to daunce,-- - Balow, my boy! - Oft hath thy moder seene - Moonlight and mirkland queene - Daunce on thy slumbering een,-- - Balow, my boy! - - Then droned a bomblebee - Saftly this songe to thee: - “Balow, my boy!” - - And a wee heather bell, - Pluckt from a fayry dell, - Chimed thee this rune hersell: - “Balow, my boy!” - - Soe, bonnie, dinna greit; - Moder doth rock her sweete,-- - Balow, my boy! - Give mee thy lyttel hand, - Moder will hold it and - Lead thee to balow land,-- - Balow, my boy! - - - - - THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN - - - The Hawthorne children--seven in all-- - Are famous friends of mine, - And with what pleasure I recall - How, years ago, one gloomy fall, - I took a tedious railway line - And journeyed by slow stages down - Unto that sleepy seaport town - (Albeit one worth seeing), - Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, - And Beatrix and Gwendolen - And she that was the baby then-- - These famous seven, as aforesaid, - Lived, moved, and had their being. - - The Hawthorne children gave me such - A welcome by the sea, - That the eight of us were soon in touch, - And though their mother marveled much, - Happy as larks were we! - Egad I was a boy again - With Henry, John, and Gwendolen! - And, oh! the funny capers - I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! - The pranks we heedless children played, - The deafening, awful noise we made-- - ’Twould shock my family, if they read - About it in the papers! - - The Hawthorne children all were smart; - The girls, as I recall, - Had comprehended every art - Appealing to the head and heart, - The boys were gifted, all; - ’Twas Hildegarde who showed me how - To hitch the horse and milk a cow - And cook the best of suppers; - With Beatrix upon the sands - I sprinted daily, and was beat, - While Henry stumped me to the feat - Of walking round upon my hands - Instead of on my “uppers.” - - The Hawthorne children liked me best - Of evenings, after tea; - For then, by general request, - I spun them yarns about the west-- - And _all_ involving Me! - I represented how I’d slain - The bison on the gore-smeared plain, - And divers tales of wonder - I told of how I’d fought and bled - In Injun scrimmages galore, - Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth “No more!” - And packed her darlings off to bed - To dream of blood and thunder! - - They must have changed a deal since then: - The misses tall and fair - And those three lusty, handsome men, - Would they be girls and boys again - Were I to happen there, - Down in that spot beside the sea - Where we made such tumultuous glee - In dull autumnal weather? - Ah me! the years go swiftly by, - And yet how fondly I recall - The week when we were children all-- - Dear Hawthorne children, you and I-- - Just eight of us, together! - - - - - LITTLE BLUE PIGEON - - - Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings-- - Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; - Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging-- - Swinging the nest where her little one lies. - - Away out yonder I see a star-- - Silvery star with a tinkling song; - To the soft dew falling I hear it calling-- - Calling and tinkling the night along. - - In through the window a moonbeam comes-- - Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; - All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping-- - Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?” - - Up from the sea there floats the sob - Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, - As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning-- - Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more. - - But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings-- - Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; - Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging-- - Swinging the nest where my darling lies. - - - - - THE LYTTEL BOY - - - Some time there ben a lyttel boy - That wolde not renne and play, - And helpless like that little tyke - Ben allwais in the way. - “Goe, make you merrie with the rest,” - His weary moder cried; - But with a frown he catcht her gown - And hong untill her side. - - That boy did love his moder well, - Which spake him faire, I ween; - He loved to stand and hold her hand - And ken her with his een; - His cosset bleated in the croft, - His toys unheeded lay,-- - He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe, - Ben allwais in the way. - - Godde loveth children and doth gird - His throne with soche as these, - And he doth smile in plaisaunce while - They cluster at his knees; - And some time, when he looked on earth - And watched the bairns at play, - He kenned with joy a lyttel boy - Ben allwais in the way. - - And then a moder felt her heart - How that it ben to-torne, - She kissed eche day till she ben gray - The shoon he use to worn; - No bairn let hold untill her gown - Nor played upon the floore,-- - Godde’s was the joy; a lyttel boy - Ben in the way no more! - - - - - TEENY-WEENY - - - Every evening, after tea, - Teeny-Weeny comes to me, - And, astride my willing knee, - Plies his lash and rides away; - Though that palfrey, all too spare, - Finds his burden hard to bear, - Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care; - He commands, and I obey! - - First it’s trot, and gallop then; - Now it’s back to trot again; - Teeny-Weeny likes it when - He is riding fierce and fast. - Then his dark eyes brighter grow - And his cheeks are all aglow: - “More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!” - Till the horse breaks down at last. - - Oh, the strange and lovely sights - Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, - As he makes those famous flights - On that wondrous horse of his! - Oftentimes before he knows, - Wearylike his eyelids close, - And, still smiling, off he goes - Where the land of By-low is. - - There he sees the folk of fay - Hard at ring-a-rosie play, - And he hears those fairies say: - “Come, let’s chase him to and fro!” - But, with a defiant shout, - Teeny puts that host to rout; - Of this tale I make no doubt, - Every night he tells it so. - - So I feel a tender pride - In my boy who dares to ride - That fierce horse of his astride, - Off into those misty lands; - And as on my breast he lies, - Dreaming in that wondrous wise, - I caress his folded eyes, - Pat his little dimpled hands. - - On a time he went away, - Just a little while to stay, - And I’m not ashamed to say - I was very lonely then; - Life without him was so sad, - You can fancy I was glad - And made merry when I had - Teeny-Weeny back again! - - So of evenings, after tea, - When he toddles up to me - And goes tugging at my knee. - You should hear his palfrey neigh! - You should see him prance and shy, - When, with an exulting cry, - Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, - Plies his lash and rides away! - - - - - NELLIE - - - His listening soul hears no echo of battle, - No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame; - But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle, - And softly he murmurs her idolized name. - And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging - As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee; - He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing-- - And Nellie is coming from over the sea. - - While each patriot’s hope stays the fullness of sorrow, - While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low, - He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow - Like an angel come back from the dear long ago. - Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion, - And what for our love or our grief careth he? - A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean, - And Nellie is coming from over the sea! - - O daughter--my daughter! when Death stands before me - And beckons me off to that far misty shore, - Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me, - And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore. - In the grace of your love all my anguish abating, - I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he, - And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waiting - When Nellie was coming from over the sea. - - - - - NORSE LULLABY - - - The sky is dark and the hills are white - As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night; - And this is the song the storm-king sings, - As over the world his cloak he flings: - “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”; - He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: - “Sleep, little one, sleep.” - - On yonder mountain-side a vine - Clings at the foot of a mother pine; - The tree bends over the trembling thing, - And only the vine can hear her sing: - “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep-- - What shall you fear when I am here? - Sleep, little one, sleep.” - - The king may sing in his bitter flight, - The tree may croon to the vine to-night, - But the little snowflake at my breast - Liketh the song _I_ sing the best-- - Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; - Weary thou art, a-next my heart - Sleep, little one, sleep. - - - - - GRANDMA’S PRAYER - - - I pray that, risen from the dead, - I may in glory stand-- - A crown, perhaps, upon my head, - But a needle in my hand. - - I’ve never learned to sing or play, - So let no harp be mine; - From birth unto my dying day, - Plain sewing’s been my line. - - Therefore, accustomed to the end - To plying useful stitches, - I’ll be content if asked to mend - The little angels’ breeches. - - - - - SOME TIME - - - Last night, my darling, as you slept, - I thought I heard you sigh, - And to your little crib I crept, - And watched a space thereby; - Then, bending down, I kissed your brow-- - For, oh! I love you so-- - You are too young to know it now, - But some time you shall know. - - Some time, when, in a darkened place - Where others come to weep, - Your eyes shall see a weary face - Calm in eternal sleep; - The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, - The patient smile may show-- - You are too young to know it now, - But some time you shall know. - - Look backward, then, into the years, - And see me here to-night-- - See, O my darling! how my tears - Are falling as I write; - And feel once more upon your brow - The kiss of long ago-- - You are too young to know it now, - But some time you shall know. - - - - - THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST - - - As I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day, - I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way; - I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to me - That elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be! - The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs-- - High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings, - But not so high as when a little boy I did my best - To scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest! - - The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prize - That dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise, - And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb, - He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him! - Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm-- - But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm! - The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the rest - Ran every risk to carry off the old fire-hang-bird’s nest! - - I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through, - That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue, - And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when she - Discovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree; - How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs, - She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs, - And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attest - That they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest! - - Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there, - While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair, - The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go, - As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below! - And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chide - The callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside: - “Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest-- - I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!” - - For many, very many years that mother-bird has come - To rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home. - She is the selfsame bird of old--I’m certain it is she-- - Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me. - Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name - (And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same); - Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breast - To climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest! - - I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree, - And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as it _used_ to be, - I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow, - For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago! - The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and I - Beheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high; - He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out West - His little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest! - - Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be-- - I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me! - They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to know - When brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago. - So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men, - They could recall with proper pride their country life again; - And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the best - Would be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest! - - - - - BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT - - - Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not-- - These three bloomed in a garden spot; - And once, all merry with song and play, - A little one heard three voices say: - “Shine and shadow, summer and spring, - O thou child with the tangled hair - And laughing eyes! we three shall bring - Each an offering passing fair.” - The little one did not understand, - But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. - - Buttercup gamboled all day long, - Sharing the little one’s mirth and song; - Then, stealing along on misty gleams, - Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams. - Playing and dreaming--and that was all - Till once a sleeper would not awake; - Kissing the little face under the pall, - We thought of the words the third flower spake; - And we found betimes in a hallowed spot - The solace and peace of Forget-me-not. - - Buttercup shareth the joy of day, - Glinting with gold the hours of play; - Bringeth the poppy sweet repose, - When the hands would fold and the eyes would close; - And after it all--the play and the sleep - Of a little life--what cometh then? - To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep - A new flower bringeth God’s peace again. - Each one serveth its tender lot-- - Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. - - - - - WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD - - - 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. - - - - - GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE - - - Out on the mountain over the town, - All night long, all night long, - The trolls go up and the trolls go down, - Bearing their packs and singing a song; - And this is the song the hill-folk croon, - As they trudge in the light of the misty moon-- - This is ever their dolorous tune: - “Gold, gold! ever more gold-- - Bright red gold for dearie!” - - Deep in the hill a father delves - All night long, all night long; - None but the peering, furtive elves - Sees his toil and hears his song; - Merrily ever the cavern rings - As merrily ever his pick he swings, - And merrily ever this song he sings: - “Gold, gold! ever more gold-- - Bright red gold for dearie!” - - Mother is rocking thy lowly bed - All night long, all night long, - Happy to smooth thy curly head, - To hold thy hand and to sing her song: - ’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old, - Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold, - And the burthen it beareth is not of gold, - But it’s “Love, love! nothing but love - Mother’s love for dearie!” - - - - - THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME - - - Dearest, how hard it is to say - That all is for the best, - Since, sometimes, in a grievous way - God’s will is manifest. - - See with what hearty, noisy glee - Our little ones to-night - Dance round and round our Christmas tree - With pretty toys bedight. - - Dearest, one voice they may not hear, - One face they may not see-- - Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer - Cometh to you and me? - - Cometh before our misty eyes - That other little face, - And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, - That love in the old embrace. - - Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night, - Bringing his peace to men, - And he bringeth to you and to me the light - Of the old, old years again. - - Bringeth the peace of long ago, - When a wee one clasped your knee - And lisped of the morrow--dear one, you know-- - And here come back is he! - - Dearest, ’tis sometimes hard to say - That all is for the best, - For, often, in a grievous way - God’s will is manifest. - - But in the grace of this holy night - That bringeth us back our child, - Let us see that the ways of God are right, - And so be reconciled. - - - - - TO A LITTLE BROOK - - - You’re not so big as you were then, - O little brook!-- - I mean those hazy summers when - We boys roamed, full of awe, beside - Your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide, - And wondered if it could be true - That there were bigger brooks than you - O mighty brook, O peerless brook! - - All up and down this reedy place - Where lives the brook, - We angled for the furtive dace; - The redwing-blackbird did his best - To make us think he’d built his nest - Hard by the stream, when, like as not, - He’d hung it in a secret spot - Far from the brook, the telltale brook! - - And often, when the noontime heat - Parboiled the brook, - We’d draw our boots and swing our feet - Upon the waves that, in their play, - Would tag us last and scoot away; - And mother never seemed to know - What burnt our legs and chapped them so-- - But father guessed it was the brook! - - And Fido--how he loved to swim - The cooling brook, - Whenever we’d throw sticks for him; - And how we boys _did_ wish that we - Could only swim as good as he-- - Why, Daniel Webster never was - Recipient of such great applause - As Fido, battling with the brook! - - But once--O most unhappy day - For you, my brook!-- - Came Cousin Sam along that way; - And, having lived a spell out West, - Where creeks aren’t counted much at best, - He neither waded, swam, nor leapt, - But, with superb indifference, _stept_ - Across that brook--our mighty brook! - - Why do you scamper on your way, - You little brook, - When I come back to you to-day? - Is it because you flee the grass - That lunges at you as you pass, - As if, in playful mood, it would - Tickle the truant if it could, - You chuckling brook--you saucy brook? - - Or is it you no longer know-- - You fickle brook-- - The honest friend of long ago? - The years that kept us twain apart - Have changed my face, but not my heart-- - Many and sore those years, and yet - I fancied you could not forget - That happy time, my playmate brook! - - Oh, sing again in artless glee, - My little brook, - The song you used to sing for me-- - The song that’s lingered in my ears - So soothingly these many years; - My grief shall be forgotten when - I hear your tranquil voice again - And that sweet song, dear little brook! - - - - - CROODLIN’ DOO - - - Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin’ doo? - Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin’ on the lea? - Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me-- - Got a lump o’ sugar an’ a posie for you, - Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin’ doo! - - Why! here you are, my little croodlin’ doo! - Looked in er cradle, but didn’t find you there-- - Looked f’r my wee, wee croodlin’ doo ever’where; - Be’n kind lonesome all er day withouten you-- - Where you be’n, my teeny, wee, wee croodlin’ doo? - - Now you go balow, my little croodlin’ doo; - Now you go rockaby ever so far,-- - Rockaby, rockaby up to the star - That’s winkin’ an’ blinkin’ an’ singin’ to you, - As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin’ doo! - - - - - LITTLE MISTRESS SANS-MERCI - - - Little Mistress Sans-Merci - Fareth world-wide, fancy free: - Trotteth cooing to and fro, - And her cooing is command-- - Never ruled there yet, I trow, - Mightier despot in the land. - And my heart it lieth where - Mistress Sans-Merci doth fare. - - Little Mistress Sans-Merci-- - She hath made a slave of me! - “Go,” she biddeth, and I go-- - “Come,” and I am fain to come-- - Never mercy doth she show, - Be she wroth or frolicsome, - Yet am I content to be - Slave to Mistress Sans-Merci! - - Little Mistress Sans-Merci - Hath become so dear to me - That I count as passing sweet - All the pain her moods impart, - And I bless the little feet - That go trampling on my heart: - Ah, how lonely life would be - But for little Sans-Merci! - - Little Mistress Sans-Merci, - Cuddle close this night to me, - And the heart, which all day long - Ruthless thou hast trod upon, - Shall outpour a soothing song - For its best belovéd one-- - All its tenderness for thee, - Little Mistress Sans-Merci! - - - - - LONG AGO - - - I once knew all the birds that came - And nested in our orchard trees, - For every flower I had a name-- - My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees; - I knew where thrived in yonder glen - What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe-- - Oh, I was very learned then, - But that was very long ago. - - I knew the spot upon the hill - Where checkerberries could be found, - I knew the rushes near the mill - Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound! - I knew the wood--the very tree - Where lived the poaching, saucy crow, - And all the woods and crows knew me-- - But that was very long ago. - - And pining for the joys of youth, - I tread the old familiar spot - Only to learn this solemn truth: - I have forgotten, am forgot. - Yet here’s this youngster at my knee - Knows all the things I used to know; - To think I once was wise as he!-- - But that was very long ago. - - I know it’s folly to complain - Of whatsoe’er the fates decree, - Yet, were not wishes all in vain, - I tell you what my wish should be: - I’d wish to be a boy again, - Back with the friends I used to know. - For I was, oh, so happy then-- - But that was very long ago! - - - - - IN THE FIRELIGHT - - - The fire upon the hearth is low, - And there is stillness everywhere, - And, like wing’d spirits, here and there - The firelight shadows fluttering go. - And as the shadows round me creep, - A childish treble breaks the gloom, - And softly from a further room - Comes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.” - - And, somehow, with that little pray’r - And that sweet treble in my ears, - My thought goes back to distant years, - And lingers with a dear one there; - And as I hear my child’s amen, - My mother’s faith comes back to me-- - Crouched at her side I seem to be, - And mother holds my hands again. - - Oh, for an hour in that dear place-- - Oh, for the peace of that dear time-- - Oh, for that childish trust sublime-- - Oh, for a glimpse of mother’s face! - Yet, as the shadows round me creep, - I do not seem to be alone-- - Sweet magic of that treble tone - And “Now I lay me down to sleep!” - - - - - COBBLER AND STORK - - - _Cobbler._ - - Stork, I am justly wroth, - For thou hast wronged me sore; - The ash roof-tree that shelters thee - Shall shelter thee no more! - - - _Stork._ - - Full fifty years I’ve dwelt - Upon this honest tree, - And long ago (as people know!) - I brought thy father thee. - What hail hath chilled thy heart, - That thou shouldst bid me go? - Speak out, I pray--then I’ll away, - Since thou commandest so. - - - _Cobbler._ - - Thou tellest of the time - When, wheeling from the west, - This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’st - Unto a mother’s breast. - _I_ was the wretched child - Was fetched that dismal morn-- - ’Twere better die than be (as I) - To life of misery born! - And hadst thou borne me on - Still farther up the town, - A king I’d be of high degree, - And wear a golden crown! - For yonder lives the prince - Was brought that selfsame day: - How happy he, while--look at me! - I toil my life away! - And see my little boy-- - To what estate he’s born! - Why, when I die no hoard leave I - But poverty and scorn. - And _thou_ hast done it all-- - I might have been a king - And ruled in state, but for thy hate, - Thou base, perfidious thing! - - - _Stork._ - - Since, cobbler, thou dost speak - Of one thou lovest well, - Hear of that king what grievous thing - This very morn befell. - Whilst round thy homely bench - Thy well-belovéd played, - In yonder hall beneath a pall - A little one was laid; - Thy well-belovéd’s face - Was rosy with delight, - But ’neath that pall in yonder hall - The little face is white; - Whilst by a merry voice - Thy soul is filled with cheer, - Another weeps for one that sleeps - All mute and cold anear; - One father hath his hope, - And one is childless now; - _He_ wears a crown and rules a town-- - Only a cobbler _thou_! - Wouldst thou exchange thy lot - At price of such a woe? - I’ll nest no more above thy door, - But, as thou bidst me, go. - - - _Cobbler._ - - Nay, stork! thou shalt remain-- - I mean not what I said; - Good neighbors we must always be, - So make thy home o’erhead. - I would not change my bench - For any monarch’s throne, - Nor sacrifice at any price - My darling and my own! - Stork! on my roof-tree bide, - That, seeing thee anear, - I’ll thankful be God sent by thee - Me and my darling here! - - - - -“LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY” - - - Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing, - I heard a moder to her dearie singing - “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; - And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping, - And on his moder’s breast did fall a-sleeping - To “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” - - Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging, - But fairer yet the moder’s gentle singing-- - “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; - And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling - In dreems while him hys moder ben beguiling - With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” - - Then to my harte saies I: “Oh, that thy beating - Colde be assuaged by some sweete voice repeating - ‘Lollyby, lolly, lollyby’; - That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping - With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, - To ‘lolly, lolly, lollyby’!” - - Some time--mayhap when curfew bells are ringing-- - A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing - “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; - Some time, mayhap, with Chryst’s love round me streaming, - I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming, - With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” - - - - - LIZZIE AND THE BABY - - - I wonder ef all wimmin air - Like Lizzie is when we go out - To theaters an’ concerts where - Is things the papers talk about. - Do other wimmin fret an’ stew - Like they wuz bein’ crucified-- - Frettin’ a show or concert through, - With wonderin’ ef the baby cried? - - Now Lizzie knows that gran’ma’s there - To see that everything is right, - Yet Lizzie thinks that gran’ma’s care - Ain’t good enuff f’r baby, quite; - Yet what am I to answer when - She kind uv fidgets at my side, - An’ asks me every now and then: - “I wonder if the baby cried?” - - Seems like she seen two little eyes - A-pinin’ f’r their mother’s smile-- - Seems like she heern the pleadin’ cries - Uv one she thinks uv all the while; - An’ so she’s sorry that she come, - An’ though she allus tries to hide - The truth, she’d ruther stay to hum - Than wonder ef the baby cried. - - Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- - By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; - There never wuz a little tyke, - But that his mother loved him best. - And nex’ to bein’ what I be-- - The husband uv my gentle bride-- - I’d wisht I wuz that croodlin’ wee, - With Lizzie wonderin’ ef I cried. - - - - - AT THE DOOR - - - I thought myself, indeed, secure - So fast the door, so firm the lock; - But, lo! he toddling comes to lure - My parent ear with timorous knock. - - My heart were stone could it withstand - The sweetness of my baby’s plea,-- - That timorous, baby knocking and - “Please let me in,--it’s only me.” - - I threw aside the unfinished book, - Regardless of its tempting charms, - And, opening wide the door, I took - My laughing darling in my arms. - - Who knows but in Eternity, - I, like a truant child, shall wait - The glories of a life to be, - Beyond the Heavenly Father’s gate? - - And will that Heavenly Father heed - The truant’s supplicating cry, - As at the outer door I plead, - “‘Tis I, O Father! only I?” - - - - - HUGO’S “CHILD AT PLAY” - - - A child was singing at his play-- - I heard the song, and paused to hear; - His mother moaning, groaning lay, - And, lo! a specter stood anear! - - The child shook sunlight from his hair, - And caroled gaily all day long-- - Aye, with that specter gloating there, - The innocent made mirth and song! - - How like to harvest fruit wert thou, - O sorrow, in that dismal room-- - God ladeth not the tender bough - Save with the joy of bud and bloom! - - - - - HI-SPY - - - Strange that the city thoroughfare, - Noisy and bustling all the day, - Should with the night renounce its care - And lend itself to children’s play! - - Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys, - And have been so since Abel’s birth, - And shall be so till dolls and toys - Are with the children swept from earth. - - The selfsame sport that crowns the day - Of many a Syrian shepherd’s son, - Beguiles the little lads at play - By night in stately Babylon. - - I hear their voices in the street, - Yet ’tis so different now from then! - Come, brother! from your winding-sheet, - And let us two be boys again! - - - - - LITTLE BOY BLUE - - - The little toy dog is covered with dust, - But sturdy and stanch he stands; - And the little toy soldier is red with rust, - And his musket molds in his hands. - Time was when the little toy dog was new, - And the soldier was passing fair; - And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue - Kissed them and put them there. - - “Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said, - “And don’t you make any noise!” - So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, - He dreamt of the pretty toys; - And, as he was dreaming, an angel song - Awakened our Little Boy Blue-- - Oh! the years are many, the years are long, - But the little toy friends are true! - - Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, - Each in the same old place-- - Awaiting the touch of a little hand, - The smile of a little face; - And they wonder, as waiting the long years through - In the dust of that little chair, - What has become of our Little Boy Blue, - Since he kissed them and put them there. - - - - - FATHER’S LETTER - - - I’m going to write a letter to our oldest boy who went - Out West last spring to practise law and run for president; - I’ll tell him all the gossip I guess he’d like to hear, - For he hasn’t seen the home-folks for going on a year! - Most generally it’s Marthy does the writing, but as she - Is suffering with a felon, why, the job devolves on me-- - So, when the supper things are done and put away to-night, - I’ll draw my boots and shed my coat and settle down to write. - - I’ll tell him crops are looking up, with prospects big for corn, - That, fooling with the barnyard gate, the off-ox hurt his horn; - That the Templar lodge is doing well--Tim Bennett joined last week - When the prohibition candidate for Congress came to speak; - That the old gray woodchuck’s living still down in the pasture-lot, - A-wondering what’s become of little William, like as not! - Oh, yes, there’s lots of pleasant things and no bad news to tell, - Except that old Bill Graves was sick, but now he’s up and well. - - Cy Cooper says--(but I’ll not pass my word that it is so, - For Cy he is some punkins on spinning yarns, you know)-- - He says that, since the freshet, the pickerel are so thick - In Baker’s pond you can wade in and kill ’em with a stick! - The Hubbard girls are teaching school, and Widow Cutler’s Bill - Has taken Eli Baxter’s place in Luther Eastman’s mill; - Old Deacon Skinner’s dog licked Deacon Howard’s dog last week, - And now there are two lambkins in one flock that will not speak. - - The yellow rooster froze his feet, a-wadin’ through the snow, - And now he leans agin the fence when he starts in to crow; - The chestnut colt that was so skittish when _he_ went away-- - I’ve broke him to the sulky and I drive him every day! - We’ve got pink window curtains for the front spare-room up-stairs, - And Lizzie’s made new covers for the parlor lounge and chairs; - We’ve roofed the barn and braced the elm that has the hangbird’s nest-- - Oh, there’s been lots of changes since our William went out West! - - Old Uncle Enos Packard is getting mighty gay-- - He gave Miss Susan Birchard a peach the other day! - His late lamented Sarah hain’t been buried quite a year, - So his purring ’round Miss Susan causes criticism here. - At the last donation party, the minister opined - That, if he’d half suspicioned what was coming, he’d resigned; - For, though they brought him slippers like he was a centipede, - His pantry was depleted by the consequential feed! - These are the things I’ll write him--our boy that’s in the West; - And I’ll tell him how we miss him--his mother and the rest; - Why, we never have an apple-pie that mother doesn’t say: - “_He_ liked it so--I wish that he could have a piece to-day!” - I’ll tell him we are prospering, and hope he is the same-- - That we hope he’ll have no trouble getting on to wealth and fame; - And just before I write “good-by from father and the rest,” - I’ll say that “mother sends her love,” and that will please him best. - - For when _I_ went away from home, the weekly news I heard - Was nothing to the tenderness I found in that one word-- - The sacred name of mother--why, even now as then, - The thought brings back the saintly face, the gracious love again; - And in my bosom seems to come a peace that is divine, - As if an angel spirit communed a while with mine; - And one man’s heart is strengthened by the message from above, - And earth seems nearer heaven when “mother sends her love.” - - - - - JEWISH LULLABY - - - My harp is on the willow-tree, - Else would I sing, O love, to thee - A song of long-ago-- - Perchance the song that Miriam sung - Ere yet Judea’s heart was wrung - By centuries of woe. - - I ate my crust in tears to-day, - As scourged I went upon my way-- - And yet my darling smiled; - Aye, beating at my breast, he laughed-- - My anguish curdled not the draught-- - ’Twas sweet with love, my child! - - The shadow of the centuries lies - Deep in thy dark and mournful eye - But, hush! and close them now, - And in the dreams that thou shalt dream - The light of other days shall seem - To glorify thy brow! - - Our harp is on the willow-tree-- - I have no song to sing to thee, - As shadows round us roll; - But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear - Jehovah’s voice that speaks to cheer - Judea’s fainting soul! - - - - - OUR WHIPPINGS - - - Come, Harvey, let us sit a while and talk about the times - Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rimes-- - The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys - As ever worried home-folks with their everlasting noise! - Egad! and, were we so disposed, I’ll venture we could show - The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; - What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify-- - Mother’s whippings didn’t hurt, but father’s! oh, my! - - The way that we played hookey those many years ago-- - We’d rather give ’most anything than have our children know! - The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told-- - Why, thinking of them makes my presbyterian blood run cold! - How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his - He’d tan our “pesky little hides until the blisters riz!” - It’s many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe-- - Mother’s whippings didn’t count--father’s did, though! - - We used to sneak off swimmin’ in those careless, boyish days, - And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; - How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand, - But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand. - And, after tea, he’d beckon us to join him in the shed - Where he’d proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red; - Say what we will of mother’s, there is none will controvert - The proposition that our father’s lickings always hurt! - - For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild - That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; - And when at last in self-defense she had to whip us, she - Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we! - But how we bellowed and took on, as if we’d like to die-- - Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that’s what made _her_ cry! - Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, - For mother’s whippings never hurt, though father’s always did. - - In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, - But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! - Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: - “I’ll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!” - Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser buttons flew-- - What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! - Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, - With all respect to mother, it was father’s whippings hurt! - - The little boy experiencing that tingling ’neath his vest - Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; - Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight - The buffetings of childhood--as we do here to-night. - The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways - That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days - Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rimes-- - So, Harvey, let us sit a while and think upon those times. - - - - - THE ARMENIAN MOTHER - - - I was a mother, and I weep; - The night is come--the day is sped-- - The night of woe profound, for, oh, - My little golden son is dead! - - The pretty rose that bloomed anon - Upon my mother breast, they stole; - They let the dove I nursed with love - Fly far away--so sped my soul! - - That falcon Death swooped down upon - My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung; - ’Tis hushed and dark where soared the lark, - And so, and so my heart was wrung! - - Before my eyes, they sent the hail - Upon my green pomegranate-tree-- - Upon the bough where only now - A rosy apple bent to me. - - They shook my beauteous almond-tree, - Beating its glorious bloom to death-- - They strewed it round upon the ground, - And mocked its fragrant dying breath. - - I was a mother, and I weep; - I seek the rose where nestleth none-- - No more is heard the singing bird-- - I have no little golden son! - - So fall the shadows over me, - The blighted garden, lonely nest. - Reach down in love, O God above! - And fold my darling to thy breast. - - - - - HEIGHO, MY DEARIE - - - A moonbeam floateth from the skies, - Whispering: “Heigho, my dearie; - I would spin a web before your eyes-- - A beautiful web of silver light - Wherein is many a wondrous sight - Of a radiant garden leagues away, - Where the softly tinkling lilies sway - And the snow-white lambkins are at play-- - Heigho, my dearie!” - - A brownie stealeth from the vine, - Singing: “Heigho, my dearie; - And will you hear this song of mine-- - A song of the land of murk and mist - Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist? - Then let the moonbeam’s web of light - Be spun before thee silvery white, - And I shall sing the livelong night-- - Heigho, my dearie!” - - The night wind speedeth from the sea, - Murmuring: “Heigho, my dearie; - I bring a mariner’s prayer for thee; - So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, - And the brownie sing thee lullabies-- - But I shall rock thee to and fro, - Kissing the brow _he_ loveth so. - And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow-- - Heigho, my dearie!” - - - - - TO A USURPER - - - Aha! a traitor in the camp, - A rebel strangely bold,-- - A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, - Not more than four years old! - - To think that I, who’ve ruled alone - So proudly in the past, - Should be ejected from my throne - By my own son at last! - - He trots his treason to and fro, - As only babies can, - And says he’ll be his mamma’s beau - When he’s a “gweat, big man”! - - You stingy boy! you’ve always had - A share in mamma’s heart. - Would you begrudge your poor old dad - The tiniest little part? - - That mamma, I regret to see, - Inclines to take your part,-- - As if a dual monarchy - Should rule her gentle heart! - - But when the years of youth have sped, - The bearded man, I trow, - Will quite forget he ever said - He’d be his mamma’s beau. - - Renounce your treason, little son, - Leave mamma’s heart to me; - For there will come another one - To claim your loyalty. - - And when that other comes to you, - God grant her love may shine - Through all your life, as fair and true - As mamma’s does through mine! - - - - - THE BELL-FLOWER TREE - - - When brother Bill and I were boys, - How often in the summer we - Would seek the shade your branches made, - O fair and gracious bell-flower tree! - Amid the clover bloom we sat - And looked upon the Holyoke range, - While Fido lay a space away, - Thinking our silence very strange. - - The woodchuck in the pasture-lot, - Beside his furtive hole elate, - Heard, off beyond the pickerel pond, - The redwing-blackbird chide her mate. - The bumblebee went bustling round, - Pursuing labors never done-- - With drone and sting, the greedy thing - Begrudged the sweets we lay upon! - - Our eyes looked always at the hills-- - The Holyoke hills that seemed to stand - Between us boys and pictured joys - Of conquest in a further land! - Ah, how we coveted the time - When we should leave this prosy place - And work our wills beyond those hills, - And meet creation face to face! - - You must have heard our childish talk-- - Perhaps our prattle gave you pain; - For then, old friend, you seemed to bend - Your kindly arms about us twain. - It might have been the wind that sighed, - And yet I thought I heard you say: - “Seek not the ills beyond those hills-- - Oh, stay with me, my children, stay!” - - See, I’ve come back; the boy you knew - Is wiser, older, sadder grown; - I come once more, just as of yore-- - I come, but see! I come alone! - The memory of a brother’s love, - Of blighted hopes, I bring with me, - And here I lay my heart to-day-- - A weary heart, O bell-flower tree! - - So let me nestle in your shade - As though I were a boy again, - And pray extend your arms, old friend, - And love me as you used to then. - Sing softly as you used to sing, - And maybe I shall seem to be - A little boy and feel the joy - Of thy repose, O bell-flower tree! - - - - - FAIRY AND CHILD - - - Oh, listen, little Dear-My-Soul, - To the fairy voices calling, - For the moon is high in the misty sky - And the honey dew is falling; - To the midnight feast in the clover bloom - The bluebells are a-ringing, - And it’s “Come away to the land of fay” - That the katydid is singing. - - Oh, slumber, little Dear-My-Soul, - And hand in hand we’ll wander-- - Hand in hand to the beautiful land - Of Balow, away off yonder; - Or we’ll sail along in a lily leaf - Into the white moon’s halo-- - Over a stream of mist and dream - Into the land of Balow. - - Or, you shall have two beautiful wings-- - Two gossamer wings and airy, - And all the while shall the old moon smile - And think you a little fairy; - And you shall dance in the velvet sky, - And the silvery stars shall twinkle - And dream sweet dreams as over their beams - Your footfalls softly tinkle. - - - - - THE GRANDSIRE - - - I loved him so; his voice had grown - Into my heart, and now to hear - The pretty song he had sung so long - Die on the lips to me so dear! - _He_ a child with golden curls, - And I with head as white as snow-- - I knelt down there and made this pray’r: - “God, let me be the first to go!” - - How often I recall it now: - My darling tossing on his bed, - I sitting there in mute despair, - Smoothing the curls that crowned his head. - They did not speak to me of death-- - A feeling _here_ had told me so; - What could I say or do but pray - That I might be the first to go? - - Yet, thinking of him standing there - Out yonder as the years go by, - Waiting for me to come, I see - ’Twas better he should wait, not I. - For when I walk the vale of death, - Above the wail of Jordan’s flow - Shall rise a song that shall make me strong-- - The call of the child that was first to go. - - - - - HUSHABY, SWEET MY OWN - - - Fair is the castle up on the hill-- - Hushaby, sweet my own! - The night is fair, and the waves are still, - And the wind is singing to you and to me - In this lowly home beside the sea-- - Hushaby, sweet my own! - - On yonder hill is store of wealth-- - Hushaby, sweet my own! - And revelers drink to a little one’s health; - But you and I bide night and day - For the other love that has sailed away-- - Hushaby, sweet my own! - - See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep - Ghostlike, O my own! - Out of the mists of the murmuring deep; - Oh, see them not and make no cry - Till the angels of death have passed us by-- - Hushaby, sweet my own! - - Ah, little they reck of you and me-- - Hushaby, sweet my own! - In our lonely home beside the sea; - They seek the castle up on the hill, - And there they will do their ghostly will-- - Hushaby, O my own! - - Here by the sea a mother croons - “Hushaby, sweet my own!” - In yonder castle a mother swoons - While the angels go down to the misty deep - Bearing a little one fast asleep-- - Hushaby, sweet my own! - - - - - CHILD AND MOTHER - - - O Mother-my-love, if you’ll give me your hand, - And go where I ask you to wander, - I will lead you away to a beautiful land-- - The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder. - We’ll walk in a sweet-posie garden out there - Where moonlight and starlight are streaming - And the flowers and the birds are filling the air - With the fragrance and music of dreaming. - - There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress, - No questions or cares to perplex you; - There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress, - Nor patching of stockings to vex you. - For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream, - And sing you asleep when you’re weary, - And no one shall know of our beautiful dream - But you and your own little dearie. - - And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head - In the bosom that’s soothed me so often, - And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead - A song which our dreaming shall soften. - So, Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand, - And away through the starlight we’ll wander-- - Away through the mist to the beautiful land-- - The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder! - - - - - MEDIEVAL EVENTIDE SONG - - - Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, - For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, - And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may, - And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. - - To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth down - A lyttel childe that ben a lyttel angell of his owne; - And if so bee they love that childe, he willeth it to staye, - But elsewise, in his mercie, he taketh it awaye. - - And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe, - And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben beguiled; - They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play, - And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye. - - I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me; - If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde be! - For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in his eare, - What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare? - - Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, - For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, - And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, - And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. - - - - - ARMENIAN LULLABY - - - If thou wilt shut thy drowsy eyes, - My mulberry one, my golden sun! - The rose shall sing thee lullabies, - My pretty cosset lambkin! - And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, - With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee-- - A silver boat in a golden sea, - My velvet love, my nestling dove, - My own pomegranate blossom! - - The stork shall guard thee passing well - All night, my sweet! my dimple-feet! - And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, - My gentle rain-of-springtime! - And for thy slumbrous play shall twine - The diamond stars with an emerald vine - To trail in the waves of ruby wine, - My myrtle bloom, my heart’s perfume, - My little chirping sparrow! - - And when the morn wakes up to see - My apple bright, my soul’s delight! - The partridge shall come calling thee, - My jar of milk-and-honey! - Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies - In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, - If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, - You wakeful one, you naughty son, - You cooing little turtle! - - - - - CHRISTMAS TREASURES - - - I count my treasures o’er with care,-- - The little toy my darling knew, - A little sock of faded hue, - A little lock of golden hair. - - Long years ago this holy time, - My little one--my all to me-- - Sat robed in white upon my knee, - And heard the merry Christmas chime. - - “Tell me, my little golden-head, - If Santa Claus should come to-night, - What shall he bring my baby bright,-- - What treasure for my boy?” I said. - - And then he named this little toy, - While in his round and mournful eyes - There came a look of sweet surprise, - That spake his quiet, trustful joy. - - And as he lisped his evening prayer - He asked the boon with childish grace; - Then, toddling to the chimney-place, - He hung this little stocking there. - - That night, while lengthening shadows crept, - I saw the white-winged angels come - With singing to our lowly home - And kiss my darling as he slept. - - They must have heard his little prayer, - For in the morn, with rapturous face, - He toddled to the chimney-place, - And found this little treasure there. - - They came again one Christmas-tide,-- - That angel host, so fair and white; - And, singing all that glorious night, - They lured my darling from my side. - - A little sock, a little toy, - A little lock of golden hair, - The Christmas music on the air, - A watching for my baby boy! - - But if again that angel train - And golden-head come back for me - To bear me to Eternity, - My watching will not be in vain. - - - - - OH, LITTLE CHILD - - - Hush, little one, and fold your hands-- - The sun hath set, the moon is high; - The sea is singing to the sands, - And wakeful posies are beguiled - By many a fairy lullaby-- - Hush, little child--my little child! - - Dream, little one, and in your dreams - Float upward from this lowly place-- - Float out on mellow, misty streams - To lands where bideth Mary mild, - And let her kiss thy little face, - You little child--my little child! - - Sleep, little one, and take thy rest-- - With angels bending over thee, - Sleep sweetly on that Father’s breast - Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled-- - But stay not there--come back to me, - Oh, little child--_my_ little child! - - - - - GANDERFEATHER’S GIFT - - - I was just a little thing - When a fairy came and kissed me; - Floating in upon the light - Of a haunted summer night, - Lo, the fairies came to sing - Pretty slumber songs and bring - Certain boons that else had missed me. - From a dream I turned to see - What those strangers brought for me, - When that fairy up and kissed me-- - Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me! - - Simmerdew was there, but she - Did not like me altogether; - Daisybright and Turtledove, - Pilfercurds and Honeylove, - Thistleblow and Amberglee - On that gleaming, ghostly sea - Floated from the misty heather, - And around my trundle-bed - Frisked, and looked, and whispering said-- - Solemnlike and all together: - “_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!” - - Ganderfeather kissed me then-- - Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! - No attenuate sprite was he, - --But as buxom as could be;-- - Kissed me twice, and once again, - And the others shouted when - On my cheek uprose a berry - Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, - But the kiss-mark of that chap - Ganderfeather, passing merry-- - Humorsome, but kindly, very! - - I was just a tiny thing - When the prankish Ganderfeather - Brought this curious gift to me - With his fairy kisses three; - Yet with honest pride I sing - That same gift he chose to bring - Out of yonder haunted heather. - Other charms and friendships fly-- - Constant friends this mole and I, - Who have been so long together - Thank you, little Ganderfeather! - - - - - BAMBINO - - - Bambino in his cradle slept; - And by his side his grandam grim - Bent down and smiled upon the child, - And sung this lullaby to him,-- - This “ninna and anninia”: - - “When thou art older, thou shalt mind - To traverse countries far and wide, - And thou shalt go where roses blow - And balmy waters singing glide-- - So ninna and anninia! - - “And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, - A famous jacket edged in red, - And, more than that, a peakéd hat, - All decked in gold, upon thy head-- - Ah! ninna and anninia! - - “Then shalt thou carry gun and knife, - Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; - Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, - A mighty bandit thou shalt be-- - So ninna and anninia! - - “No woman yet of our proud race - Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; - The brazen churl that eyed a girl - Bought her the ring or paid his head-- - So ninna and anninia! - - “But once came spies (I know the thieves!) - And brought disaster to our race; - God heard us when our fifteen men - Were hanged within the market-place-- - But ninna and anninia! - - “Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- - Right worthy fellows all, and strong; - Live thou and be for them and me - Avenger of that deadly wrong-- - So ninna and anninia!” - - - - - LITTLE HOMER’S SLATE - - - After dear old grandma died, - Hunting through an oaken chest - In the attic, we espied - What repaid our childish quest; - ’Twas a homely little slate, - Seemingly of ancient date. - - On its quaint and battered face - Was the picture of a cart, - Drawn with all that awkward grace - Which betokens childish art; - But what meant this legend, pray: - “Homer drew this yesterday”? - - Mother recollected then - What the years were fain to hide-- - She was but a baby when - Little Homer lived and died; - Forty years, so mother said, - Little Homer had been dead. - - This one secret through those years - Grandma kept from all apart, - Hallowed by her lonely tears - And the breaking of her heart; - While each year that sped away - Seemed to her but yesterday. - - So the homely little slate - Grandma’s baby’s fingers pressed, - To a memory consecrate, - Lieth in the oaken chest, - Where, unwilling we should know, - Grandma put it, years ago. - - -[Illustration] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of With Trumpet and Drum, by Eugene Field - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM *** - -***** This file should be named 62643-0.txt or 62643-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/6/4/62643/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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