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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-10 10:21:05 -0700 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-10 10:21:05 -0700 |
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diff --git a/75578-0.txt b/75578-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..93452ca --- /dev/null +++ b/75578-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4615 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75578 *** + + + + + +POEMS OF CHILDHOOD + + + + +[Illustration: + + POEMS OF CHILDHOOD + BY EVGENE FIELD + WITH ILLVSTRATIONS + BY MAXFIELD PARRISH + + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + NEW YORK MCMIV +] + + + + + WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM + Copyright, 1892 + By MARY FRENCH FIELD + + LOVE SONGS OF CHILDHOOD + Copyright, 1894 + By EUGENE FIELD + + Copyright, 1904 + By CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + Published, September, 1904 + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM 1 + + KRINKEN 3 + + THE NAUGHTY DOLL 5 + + NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT 7 + + INTRY-MINTRY 9 + + PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 11 + + BALOW, MY BONNIE 14 + + THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 16 + + LITTLE BLUE PIGEON (Japanese Lullaby) 19 + + THE LYTTEL BOY 20 + + TEENY-WEENY 22 + + NELLIE 25 + + NORSE LULLABY 27 + + THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 28 + + GRANDMA’S PRAYER 30 + + SOME TIME 31 + + THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST 33 + + BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 36 + + GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE 38 + + THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 40 + + TO A LITTLE BROOK 42 + + CROODLIN’ DOO[A] 45 + + LITTLE MISTRESS SANS-MERCI 46 + + LONG AGO 48 + + IN THE FIRELIGHT 50 + + COBBLER AND STORK (Armenian Folk-Lore) 52 + + “LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY” 56 + + LIZZIE AND THE BABY 58 + + AT THE DOOR 60 + + HUGO’S “CHILD AT PLAY” 61 + + WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD (Dutch Lullaby) 62 + + HI-SPY 65 + + LITTLE BOY BLUE 66 + + FATHER’S LETTER 68 + + JEWISH LULLABY 71 + + OUR WHIPPINGS 73 + + THE ARMENIAN MOTHER (Folk-Song) 76 + + HEIGHO, MY DEARIE 78 + + TO A USURPER 80 + + THE BELL-FLOWER TREE 82 + + FAIRY AND CHILD 85 + + THE GRANDSIRE 87 + + HUSHABY, SWEET MY OWN 89 + + CHILD AND MOTHER 91 + + MEDIEVAL EVENTIDE SONG 93 + + THE LITTLE PEACH 95 + + ARMENIAN LULLABY 97 + + CHRISTMAS TREASURES 99 + + OH, LITTLE CHILD 101 + + GANDERFEATHER’S GIFT 102 + + BAMBINO (Sicilian Folk-Song) 104 + + LITTLE HOMER’S SLATE 106 + + THE ROCK-A-BY LADY 108 + + “BOOH!” 110 + + GARDEN AND CRADLE 111 + + THE NIGHT WIND 112 + + KISSING TIME 114 + + JEST ’FORE CHRISTMAS 116 + + BEARD AND BABY 118 + + THE DINKEY-BIRD 120 + + THE DRUM 123 + + THE DEAD BABE 125 + + THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD 127 + + SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO! 129 + + THE SONG OF LUDDY-DUD 131 + + THE DUEL 133 + + GOOD-CHILDREN STREET 135 + + THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT 137 + + THE FLY-AWAY HORSE 144 + + THE STORK 147 + + THE BOTTLE TREE 149 + + GOOGLY-GOO 151 + + THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE 154 + + LITTLE MISS BRAG 157 + + THE HUMMING-TOP 159 + + LADY BUTTON-EYES 161 + + THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE 164 + + THE BROOK 166 + + PICNIC-TIME 168 + + SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS 170 + + THE SHUT-EYE TRAIN 172 + + LITTLE-OH-DEAR 175 + + SWING HIGH AND SWING LOW 177 + + WHEN I WAS A BOY 178 + + AT PLAY 180 + + A VALENTINE 182 + + LITTLE ALL-ALONEY 184 + + THE CUNNIN’ LITTLE THING 186 + + THE DOLL’S WOOING 188 + + INSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON’S SILVER PLATE 190 + + SEEIN’ THINGS 191 + + FISHERMAN JIM’S KIDS 193 + + “FIDDLE-DEE-DEE” 196 + + OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY 198 + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[A] Cooing Dove + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +FROM DRAWINGS IN COLORS BY MAXFIELD PARRISH + + + FACING + PAGE + + WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM 2 + + With big tin trumpet and little red drum, + Marching like soldiers, the children come! + + + THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 28 + + And you carry away of the treasure that rains + As much as your apron can hold! + + + WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD 62 + + Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night + Sailed off in a wooden shoe-- + Sailed on a river of crystal light, + Into a sea of dew. + + + THE LITTLE PEACH 96 + + John took a bite and Sue a chew, + And then the trouble began to brew,-- + Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue. + Too true! + + + THE DINKEY-BIRD 120 + + In an ocean, ’way out yonder + (As all sapient people know), + Is the land of Wonder-Wander, + Whither children love to go. + + + THE FLY-AWAY HORSE 144 + + And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those far-away lands + You little folk dream of at night-- + + + SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS 170 + + Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks + Sit together, building blocks; + Shuffle-Shoon is old and gray, + Amber-Locks a little child. + + + SEEIN’ THINGS 192 + + I woke up in the dark an’ saw things standin’ in a row, + A-lookin’ at me cross-eyed an’ p’intin’ at me--so! + + + + +POEMS OF CHILDHOOD + + + + +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! + +[Illustration: _With Trumpet and Drum_] + + + + +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 + + + Willy 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 who 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 marvelled 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 fulness 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. + + + + +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. + +[Illustration: _The Sugar-plum Tree_] + + + + +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-hangbird’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 cosey 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 gambolled 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. + + + + +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 build 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; + B’en 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-belovèd 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-belovèd played, + In yonder hall beneath a pall + A little one was laid; + Thy well-belovèd’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 theatres an’ concerts where + Is things the papers talk about. + Do other wimmin fret an’ stew + Like they wuz bein’ crucified-- + Frettin’ 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 spectre stood anear! + + The child shook sunlight from his hair, + And carolled gayly all day long-- + Aye, with that spectre 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! + + + + +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. + + [Illustration: _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. + + + + +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 staunch he stands; + And the little toy soldier is red with rust, + And his musket moulds 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 eyes; + 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-defence 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 revellers 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. + + + + +THE LITTLE PEACH + + + Little peach in the orchard grew,-- + A little peach of emerald hue; + Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, + It grew. + + One day, passing that orchard through, + That little peach dawned on the view + Of Johnny Jones and his Sister Sue-- + Them two. + + Up at that peach a club they threw-- + Down from the stem on which it grew + Fell that peach of emerald hue. + Mon Dieu! + + John took a bite and Sue a chew, + And then the trouble began to brew,-- + Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue. + Too true! + + Under the turf where the daisies grew + They planted John and his Sister Sue, + And their little souls to the angels flew,-- + Boo hoo! + + What of that peach of the emerald hue, + Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? + Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. + Adieu! + +[Illustration: _The Little Peach_] + + + + +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 peakèd 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. + + + + +THE ROCK-A-BY LADY + + + The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street + Comes stealing; comes creeping; + The poppies they hang from her head to her feet, + And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet-- + She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet, + When she findeth you sleeping! + + There is one little dream of a beautiful drum-- + “Rub-a-dub!” it goeth; + There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum, + And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come + Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum, + And a trumpet that bloweth! + + And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams + With laughter and singing; + And boats go a-floating on silvery streams, + And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams, + And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams, + The fairies go winging! + + Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet? + They’ll come to you sleeping; + So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet, + For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street, + With poppies that hang from her head to her feet, + Comes stealing; comes creeping. + + + + +“BOOH!” + + + On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap, + And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse’s lap, + In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face, + And cautiously and quietly I move about the place; + Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view, + And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say “Booh!” + + Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared, + And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared; + And then his under lip came out and farther out it came, + Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a “cruel shame”-- + But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do + But laugh and kick his little heels when I say “Booh!” + + He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then + In shrill, despotic treble bids me “do it all aden!” + And I--of course I do it; for, as his progenitor, + It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for! + And it is, oh, such fun! and I am sure that we shall rue + The time when we are both too old to play the game of “Booh!” + + + + +GARDEN AND CRADLE + + + When our babe he goeth walking in his garden, + Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play; + The posies they are good to him, + And bow them as they should to him, + As fareth he upon his kingly way; + And birdlings of the wood to him + Make music, gentle music, all the day, + When our babe he goeth walking in his garden. + + When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle, + Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down; + The little stars are kind to him, + The moon she hath a mind to him + And layeth on his head a golden crown; + And singeth then the wind to him + A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town, + When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle. + + + + +THE NIGHT WIND + + + Have you ever heard the wind go “Yooooo”? + ’Tis a pitiful sound to hear! + It seems to chill you through and through + With a strange and speechless fear. + ’Tis the voice of the night that broods outside + When folk should be asleep, + And many and many’s the time I’ve cried + To the darkness brooding far and wide + Over the land and the deep: + “Whom do you want, O lonely night, + That you wail the long hours through?” + And the night would say in its ghostly way: + “Yoooooooo! + Yoooooooo! + Yoooooooo!” + + My mother told me long ago + (When I was a little tad) + That when the night went wailing so, + Somebody had been bad; + And then, when I was snug in bed, + Whither I had been sent, + With the blankets pulled up round my head, + I’d think of what my mother’d said, + And wonder what boy she meant! + And “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask + Of the wind that hoarsely blew, + And the voice would say in its meaningful way + “Yoooooooo! + Yoooooooo! + Yoooooooo!” + + That this was true I must allow-- + You’ll not believe it, though! + Yes, though I’m quite a model now, + I was not always so. + And if you doubt what things I say, + Suppose you make the test; + Suppose, when you’ve been bad some day + And up to bed are sent away + From mother and the rest-- + Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?” + And then you’ll hear what’s true; + For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: + “Yoooooooo! + Yoooooooo! + Yoooooooo!” + + + + +KISSING TIME + + + ’Tis when the lark goes soaring + And the bee is at the bud, + When lightly dancing zephyrs + Sing over field and flood; + When all sweet things in nature + Seem joyfully achime-- + ’Tis then I wake my darling, + For it is kissing time! + + Go, pretty lark, a-soaring, + And suck your sweets, O bee; + Sing, O ye winds of summer, + Your songs to mine and me; + For with your song and rapture + Cometh the moment when + It’s half-past kissing time + And time to kiss again! + + So--so the days go fleeting + Like golden fancies free, + And every day that cometh + Is full of sweets for me; + And sweetest are those moments + My darling comes to climb + Into my lap to mind me + That it is kissing time. + + Sometimes, maybe, he wanders + A heedless, aimless way-- + Sometimes, maybe, he loiters + In pretty, prattling play; + But presently bethinks him + And hastens to me then, + For it’s half-past kissing time + And time to kiss again! + + + + +JEST ’FORE CHRISTMAS + + + Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, + Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! + Mighty glad I ain’t a girl--ruther be a boy, + Without them sashes, curls, an’ things that’s worn by Fauntleroy! + Love to chawnk green apples an’ go swimmin’ in the lake-- + Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! + ’Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain’t no flies on + me, + But jest ’fore Christmas I’m as good as I kin be! + + Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; + First thing she knows she doesn’t know where she is at! + Got a clipper sled, an’ when us kids goes out to slide, + ’Long comes the grocery cart, an’ we all hook a ride! + But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an’ cross, + He reaches at us with his whip, an’ larrups up his hoss, + An’ then I laff an’ holler, “Oh, ye never teched _me_!” + But jest ’fore Christmas I’m as good as I kin be! + + Gran’ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, + I’ll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, + As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon’s Isle, + Where every prospeck pleases, an’ only man is vile! + But gran’ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, + Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she’d know + That Buff’lo Bill an’ cow-boys is good enough for me! + _Excep’_ jest ’fore Christmas, when I’m good as I kin be! + + And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an’ still, + His eyes they seem a-sayin’: “What’s the matter, little Bill?” + The old cat sneaks down off her perch an’ wonders what’s become + Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! + But I am so perlite an’ ’tend so earnestly to biz, + That mother says to father: “How improved our Willie is!” + But father, havin’ been a boy hisself, suspicions me + When, jest ’fore Christmas, I’m as good as I kin be! + + For Christmas, with its lots an’ lots of candies, cakes, an’ toys, + Was made, they say, for proper kids, an’ not for naughty boys; + So wash yer face an’ bresh yer hair, an’ mind yer p’s and q’s, + An’ don’t bust out yer pantaloons, and don’t wear out yer shoes; + Say “Yessum” to the ladies, an’ “Yessur” to the men, + An’ when they’s company, don’t pass yer plate for pie again; + But, thinkin’ of the things yer ’d like to see upon that tree, + Jest ’fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! + + + + +BEARD AND BABY + + + I say, as one who never feared + The wrath of a subscriber’s bullet, + I pity him who has a beard + But has no little girl to pull it! + + When wife and I have finished tea, + Our baby woos me with her prattle, + And, perching proudly on my knee, + She gives my petted whiskers battle. + + With both her hands she tugs away, + While scolding at me kind o’ spiteful; + You’ll not believe me when I say + I find the torture quite delightful! + + No other would presume, I ween, + To trifle with this hirsute wonder, + Else would I rise in vengeful mien + And rend his vandal frame asunder! + + But when _her_ baby fingers pull + This glossy, sleek, and silky treasure, + My cup of happiness is full-- + I fairly glow with pride and pleasure! + + And, sweeter still, through all the day + I seem to hear her winsome prattle-- + I seem to feel her hands at play, + As though they gave me sportive battle. + + Yes, heavenly music seems to steal + Where thought of her forever lingers, + And round my heart I always feel + The twining of her dimpled fingers! + + + + +THE DINKEY-BIRD + + + In an ocean, ’way out yonder + (As all sapient people know), + Is the land of Wonder-Wander, + Whither children love to go; + It’s their playing, romping, swinging, + That give great joy to me + While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing + In the amfalula tree! + + There the gum-drops grow like cherries, + And taffy’s thick as peas-- + Caramels you pick like berries + When, and where, and how you please; + Big red sugar-plums are clinging + To the cliffs beside that sea + Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing + In the amfalula tree. + + [Illustration: _The Dinkey-bird_] + + So when children shout and scamper + And make merry all the day, + When there’s naught to put a damper + To the ardor of their play; + When I hear their laughter ringing, + Then I’m sure as sure can be + That the Dinkey-Bird is singing + In the amfalula tree. + + For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras + And staccatos are so sweet-- + His roulades, appoggiaturas, + And robustos so complete, + That the youth of every nation-- + Be they near or far away-- + Have especial delectation + In that gladsome roundelay. + + Their eyes grow bright and brighter + Their lungs begin to crow, + Their hearts get light and lighter, + And their cheeks are all aglow; + For an echo cometh bringing + The news to all and me, + That the Dinkey-Bird is singing + In the amfalula tree. + + I’m sure you like to go there + To see your feathered friend-- + And so many goodies grow there + You would like to comprehend! + _Speed, little dreams, your winging + To that land across the sea + Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing + In the amfalula tree!_ + + + + +THE DRUM + + + I’m a beautiful red, red drum, + And I train with the soldier boys; + As up the street we come, + Wonderful is our noise! + There’s Tom, and Jim, and Phil, + And Dick, and Nat, and Fred, + While Widow Cutler’s Bill + And I march on ahead, + With a r-r-rat-tat-tat + And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum-- + Oh, there’s bushels of fun in that + For boys with a little red drum! + + The Injuns came last night + While the soldiers were abed, + And they gobbled a Chinese kite + And off to the woods they fled! + The woods are the cherry-trees + Down in the orchard lot, + And the soldiers are marching to seize + The booty the Injuns got. + With tum-titty-um-tum-tum, + And r-r-rat-tat-tat, + When soldiers marching come + Injuns had better scat! + + Step up there, little Fred, + And, Charley, have a mind! + Jim is as far ahead + As you two are behind! + Ready with gun and sword + Your valorous work to do-- + Yonder the Injun horde + Are lying in wait for you. + And their hearts go pitapat + When they hear the soldiers come + With a r-r-rat-tat-tat + And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum! + + Course it’s all in play! + The skulking Injun crew + That hustled the kite away + Are little white boys, like you! + But “honest” or “just in fun,” + It is all the same to me; + And, when the battle is won, + Home once again march we + With a r-r-rat-tat-tat + And tum-titty-um-tum-tum; + And there’s glory enough in that + For the boys with their little red drum! + + + + +THE DEAD BABE + + + Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, + In agony I knelt and said: + “O God! what have I done, + Or in what wise offended Thee, + That Thou shouldst take away from me + My little son? + + “Upon the thousand useless lives, + Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives, + Thy wrath were better spent! + Why shouldst Thou take my little son-- + Why shouldst Thou vent Thy wrath upon + This innocent?” + + Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, + Before mine eyes the vision spread + Of things that _might_ have been: + Licentious riot, cruel strife, + Forgotten prayers, a wasted life + Dark red with sin! + + Then, with sweet music in the air, + I saw another vision there: + A Shepherd in whose keep + A little lamb--my little child! + Of worldly wisdom undefiled, + Lay fast asleep! + + Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, + In those two messages I read + A wisdom manifest; + And though my arms be childless now, + I am content--to Him I bow + Who knoweth best. + + + + +THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD + + + It’s when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks, + That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes; + Then it’s sleep no more for baby, and it’s sleep no more for me, + For, when he wants his dinner, why it’s dinner it must be! + And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado. + While gran’ma laughs, + And gran’pa laughs, + And wife, she laughs, + And I--well, _I_ laugh, _too_! + + You’d think, to see us carrying on about that little tad, + That, like as not, that baby was the first we’d ever had; + But, sakes alive! he isn’t, yet we people make a fuss + As if the only baby in the world had come to _us_! + And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do, + Gran’ma, she laughs, + Gran’pa, he laughs, + Wife, she laughs, + And _I_, of course, laugh, too! + + But once--a likely spell ago--when that poor little chick + From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick, + You wouldn’t know us people as the same that went about + A-feelin’ good all over, just to hear him crow and shout; + And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he’d pull him + through, + Old gran’ma cried, + And gran’pa cried, + And wife, she cried, + And I--yes, _I_ cried, _too_! + + It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place, + With his everlastin’ crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face; + The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere, + And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care! + No matter _what_ our trouble is, when _he_ begins to _coo_, + Old gran’ma laughs, + And gran’pa laughs, + Wife, she laughs, + And I--you bet, _I_ laugh, _too_! + + + + +SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO! + + + So, so, rock-a-by so! + Off to the garden where dreamikins grow; + And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes, + And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek + And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies + In the beautiful garden way up in the skies + Which you seek. + Now mind these three kisses wherever you go-- + So, so, rock-a-by so! + + There’s one little fumfay who lives there, I know, + For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow; + I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes, + I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek. + And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise + When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies + Which you seek. + Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe-- + So, so, rock-a-by so! + + And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go, + Don’t forget mother who loveth you so! + And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes, + And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek, + And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies + Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies + Which you seek-- + The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow-- + So, so, rock-a-by so! + + + + +THE SONG OF LUDDY-DUD + + + A sunbeam comes a-creeping + Into my dear one’s nest, + And sings to our babe a-sleeping, + The song that I love the best: + “’Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning-- + ’Tis little Luddy-Dud at night; + And all day long + ’Tis the same sweet song + Of that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite, Luddy-Dud.” + + The bird to the tossing clover, + The bee to the swaying bud, + Keep singing that sweet song over + Of wee little Luddy-Dud. + “’Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning-- + ’Tis little Luddy-Dud at night; + And all day long + ’Tis the same dear song + Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite, Luddy-Dud!” + + Luddy-Dud’s cradle is swinging + Where softly the night winds blow, + And Luddy-Dud’s mother is singing + A song that is sweet and low: + “’Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning-- + ’Tis little Luddy-Dud at night; + And all day long + ’Tis the same sweet song + Of my nearest and my dearest heart’s delight, Luddy-Dud!” + + + + +THE DUEL + + + The gingham dog and the calico cat + Side by side on the table sat; + ’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) + Nor one nor t’other had slept a wink! + The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate + Appeared to know as sure as fate + There was going to be a terrible spat. + (_I wasn’t there; I simply state + What was told to me by the Chinese plate!_) + + The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!” + And the calico cat replied “mee-ow!” + The air was littered, an hour or so, + With bits of gingham and calico, + While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place + Up with its hands before its face, + For it always dreaded a family row! + (_Now mind: I’m only telling you + What the old Dutch clock declares is true!_) + + The Chinese plate looked very blue, + And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!” + But the gingham dog and the calico cat + Wallowed this way and tumbled that, + Employing every tooth and claw + In the awfullest way you ever saw-- + And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! + (_Don’t fancy I exaggerate-- + I got my news from the Chinese plate!_) + + Next morning, where the two had sat + They found no trace of dog or cat; + And some folks think unto this day + That burglars stole that pair away! + But the truth about the cat and pup + Is this: they ate each other up! + Now what do you really think of that! + (_The old Dutch clock it told me so, + And that is how I came to know._) + + + + +GOOD-CHILDREN STREET + + + There’s a dear little home in Good-Children street-- + My heart turneth fondly to-day + Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet + Make sweetest of music at play; + Where the sunshine of love illumines each face + And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place. + + For dear little children go romping about + With dollies and tin tops and drums, + And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout + Till bedtime too speedily comes! + Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet + With little folk living in Good-Children street. + + See, here comes an army with guns painted red, + And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts; + The captain rides gayly and proudly ahead + On a stick-horse that prances and snorts! + Oh, legions of soldiers you’re certain to meet-- + Nice make-believe soldiers--in Good-Children street. + + And yonder Odette wheels her dolly about-- + Poor dolly! I’m sure she is ill, + For one of her blue china eyes has dropped out + And her voice is asthmatic’ly shrill. + Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet, + Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street. + + ’Tis so the dear children go romping about + With dollies and banners and drums, + And I venture to say they are sadly put out + When an end to their jubilee comes: + Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet + With little folk living in Good-Children street! + + But when falleth night over river and town, + Those little folk vanish from sight, + And an angel all white from the sky cometh down + And guardeth the babes through the night, + And singeth her lullabies tender and sweet + To the dear little people in Good-Children street. + + Though elsewhere the world be o’erburdened with care, + Though poverty fall to my lot, + Though toil and vexation be always my share, + What care I--they trouble me not! + _This_ thought maketh life ever joyous and sweet: + There’s a dear little home in Good-Children street. + + + + +THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT + + + Up yonder in Buena Park + There is a famous spot, + In legend and in history + Yclept the Waller Lot. + + There children play in daytime + And lovers stroll by dark, + For ’tis the goodliest trysting-place + In all Buena Park. + + Once on a time that beauteous maid, + Sweet little Sissy Knott, + Took out her pretty doll to walk + Within the Waller Lot. + + While thus she fared, from Ravenswood + Came Injuns o’er the plain, + And seized upon that beauteous maid + And rent her doll in twain. + + Oh, ’twas a piteous thing to hear + Her lamentations wild; + She tore her golden curls and cried: + “My child! My child! My child!” + + Alas, what cared those Injun chiefs + How bitterly wailed she? + They never had been mothers, + And they could not hope to be! + + “Have done with tears,” they rudely quoth, + And then they bound her hands; + For they proposed to take her off + To distant border lands. + + But, joy! from Mr. Eddy’s barn + Doth Willie Clow behold + The sight that makes his hair rise up + And all his blood run cold. + + He put his fingers in his mouth + And whistled long and clear, + And presently a goodly horde + Of cow-boys did appear. + + Cried Willie Clow: “My comrades bold, + Haste to the Waller Lot, + And rescue from that Injun band + Our charming Sissy Knott! + + “Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw, + But smite them hide and hair! + Spare neither sex nor age nor size, + And no condition spare!” + + Then sped that cow-boy band away, + Full of revengeful wrath, + And Kendall Evans rode ahead + Upon a hickory lath. + + And next came gallant Dady Field + And Willie’s brother Kent, + The Eddy boys and Robbie James, + On murderous purpose bent. + + For they were much beholden to + That maid--in sooth, the lot + Were very, very much in love + With charming Sissy Knott. + + What wonder? She was beauty’s queen, + And good beyond compare; + Moreover, it was known she was + Her wealthy father’s heir! + + Now when the Injuns saw that band + They trembled with affright, + And yet they thought the cheapest thing + To do was stay and fight. + + So sturdily they stood their ground, + Nor would their prisoner yield, + Despite the wrath of Willie Clow + And gallant Dady Field. + + Oh, never fiercer battle raged + Upon the Waller Lot, + And never blood more freely flowed + Than flowed for Sissy Knott! + + An Injun chief of monstrous size + Got Kendall Evans down, + And Robbie James was soon o’erthrown + By one of great renown. + + And Dady Field was sorely done, + And Willie Clow was hurt, + And all that gallant cow-boy band + Lay wallowing in the dirt. + + But still they strove with might and main + Till all the Waller Lot + Was strewn with hair and gouts of gore-- + All, all for Sissy Knott! + + Then cried the maiden in despair: + “Alas, I sadly fear + The battle and my hopes are lost, + Unless some help appear!” + + Lo, as she spoke, she saw afar + The rescuer looming up-- + The pride of all Buena Park, + Clow’s famous yellow pup! + + “Now, sick ’em, Don,” the maiden cried, + “Now, sick ’em, Don!” cried she; + Obedient Don at once complied-- + As ordered, so did he. + + He sicked ’em all so passing well + That, overcome by fright, + The Indian horde gave up the fray + And safety sought in flight. + + They ran and ran and ran and ran + O’er valley, plain, and hill; + And if they are not walking now, + Why, then, they ’re running still. + + The cow-boys rose up from the dust + With faces black and blue; + “Remember, beauteous maid,” said they, + “We’ve bled and died for you! + + “And though we suffer grievously, + We gladly hail the lot + That brings us toils and pains and wounds + For charming Sissy Knott!” + + But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept, + And still her fate reviled; + For who could patch her dolly up-- + Who, who could mend her child? + + Then out her doting mother came, + And soothed her daughter then; + “Grieve not, my darling, I will sew + Your dolly up again!” + + Joy soon succeeded unto grief, + And tears were soon dried up, + And dignities were heaped upon + Clow’s noble yellow pup. + + Him all that goodly company + Did as deliverer hail-- + They tied a ribbon round his neck, + Another round his tail. + + And every anniversary day + Upon the Waller Lot + They celebrate the victory won + For charming Sissy Knott. + + And I, the poet of these folk, + Am ordered to compile + This truly famous history + In good old ballad style. + + Which having done as to have earned + The sweet rewards of fame, + In what same style I did begin + I now shall end the same. + + So let us sing: Long live the King, + Long live the Queen and Jack, + Long live the ten-spot and the ace, + And also all the pack. + + + + +THE FLY-AWAY HORSE + + + Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse-- + Perhaps you have seen him before; + Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept + Through the moonlight that floats on the floor. + For it’s only at night, when the stars twinkle bright, + That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh + And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane, + Is up on his heels and away! + The Moon in the sky, + As he gallopeth by, + Cries: “Oh! what a marvellous sight!” + And the Stars in dismay + Hide their faces away + In the lap of old Grandmother Night. + + It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse + Speedeth ever and ever away-- + Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains, + Over streamlets that sing at their play; + And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he, + While the ships they go sailing below, + And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast + Adjudge him some portent of woe. + “What ho there!” they cry, + As he flourishes by + With a whisk of his beautiful tail; + And the fish in the sea + Are as scared as can be, + From the nautilus up to the whale! + + [Illustration: _The Fly-away Horse_] + + And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those far-away lands + You little folk dream of at night-- + Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow, + And corn-fields with popcorn are white; + And the beasts in the wood are ever so good + To children who visit them there-- + What glory astride of a lion to ride, + Or to wrestle around with a bear! + The monkeys, they say: + “Come on, let us play,” + And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees: + While the parrots, that cling + To the peanut-vines, sing + Or converse with comparative ease! + + Off! scamper to bed--you shall ride him to-night! + For, as soon as you’ve fallen asleep, + With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away + Over forest and hillside and deep! + But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear + In those beautiful lands over there, + Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his far-away course + With the wee one consigned to his care. + Then grandma will cry + In amazement: “Oh, my!” + And she’ll think it could never be so; + And only we two + Shall know it is true-- + You and I, little precious! shall know! + + + + +THE STORK + + + Last night the Stork came stalking, + And, Stork, beneath your wing + Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber, + The tiniest little thing! + From Babyland, out yonder + Beside a silver sea, + You brought a priceless treasure + As gift to mine and me! + + Last night my dear one listened-- + And, wife, you knew the cry-- + The dear old Stork has sought our home + A many times gone by! + And in your gentle bosom + I found the pretty thing + That from the realm out yonder + Our friend the Stork did bring. + + Last night a babe awakened, + And, babe, how strange and new + Must seem the home and people + The Stork has brought you to; + And yet methinks you like them-- + You neither stare nor weep, + But closer to my dear one + You cuddle, and you sleep! + + Last night my heart grew fonder-- + O happy heart of mine, + Sing of the inspirations + That round my pathway shine! + And sing your sweetest love-song + To this dear nestling wee + The Stork from ’Way-Out-Yonder + Hath brought to mine and me! + + + + +THE BOTTLE TREE + + + A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land-- + Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! + A snug little berth in that ship I demand + That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away + Where the Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day + And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand; + You take of that fruit as much as you list, + For colic’s a nuisance that doesn’t exist! + So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast, + And cuddle me snug in my cradle away, + For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast-- + Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! + + The Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day! + Heigh-ho for Winkyway land! + And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I’ve heard people say) + Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand-- + And that is a trick I would fain understand! + Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day! + And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night-- + A bottle of milk that is creamy and white! + So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast, + And cuddle me snug in my cradle away, + For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast-- + Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! + + + + +GOOGLY-GOO + + + Of mornings, bright and early, + When the lark is on the wing + And the robin in the maple + Hops from her nest to sing, + From yonder cheery chamber + Cometh a mellow coo-- + ’Tis the sweet, persuasive treble + Of my little Googly-Goo! + + The sunbeams hear his music, + And they seek his little bed, + And they dance their prettiest dances + Round his golden curly head: + Schottisches, galops, minuets, + Gavottes and waltzes, too, + Dance they unto the music + Of my googling Googly-Goo. + + My heart--my heart it leapeth + To hear that treble tone; + What music like _thy_ music, + My darling and mine own! + And patiently--yes, cheerfully + I toil the long day through-- + My labor seemeth lightened + By the song of Googly-Goo! + + I may not see his antics, + Nor kiss his dimpled cheek: + I may not smooth the tresses + The sunbeams love to seek; + It mattereth not--the echo + Of his sweet, persuasive coo + Recurreth to remind me + Of my little Googly-goo. + + And when I come at evening, + I stand without the door + And patiently I listen + For that dear sound once more; + And oftentimes I wonder, + “Oh, God! what should I do + If any ill should happen + To my little Googly-Goo!” + + Then in affright I call him-- + I hear his gleeful shouts! + Begone, ye dread forebodings-- + Begone, ye killing doubts! + For, with my arms about him, + My heart warms through and through + With the oogling and the googling + Of my little Googly-Goo! + + + + +THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE + + + Speakin’ of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce + Hed most o’ the virtues, an’ nary a vice. + Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose + From his predisposition to chronic repose; + But, rouse his ambition, he couldn’t be beat-- + Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet! + + Mos’ dorgs hez some forte--like huntin’ an’ such, + But the sports o’ the field didn’t bother _him_ much; + Wuz just a plain dorg, an’ contented to be + On peaceable terms with the neighbors an’ me; + Used to fiddle an’ squirm, and grunt “Oh, how nice!” + When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce! + + He wuz long in the bar’l, like a fyce oughter be; + His color wuz yaller as ever you see; + His tail, curlin’ upward, wuz long, loose, an’ slim-- + When he didn’t wag _it_, why, the tail it wagged _him_! + His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pup + Wuz as tall settin’ down as he wuz standin’ up! + + He’d lie by the stove of a night an’ regret + The various vittles an’ things he had et; + When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along, + He’d lift up his voice in significant song-- + You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space + In that bosom o’ his’n to hold so much bass! + + Of daytimes he’d sneak to the road an’ lie down, + An’ tackle the country dorgs comin’ to town; + By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe, + For what he took hold of he never let go! + An’ a dude that come courtin’ our girl left a slice + Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce! + + He wuz good to us kids--when we pulled at his fur + Or twisted his tail he would never demur; + He seemed to enjoy all our play an’ our chaff, + For his tongue ’u’d hang out an’ he’d laff an’ he’d laff; + An’ once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice, + He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce! + + We all hev our choice, an’ you, like the rest, + Allow that the dorg which you’ve got is the best; + I wouldn’t give much for the boy ’at grows up + With no friendship subsistin’ ’tween him an’ a pup! + When a fellow gits old--I tell you it’s nice + To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce! + + To think of the springtime ’way back in St. Joe-- + Of the peach-trees abloom an’ the daisies ablow; + To think of the play in the medder an’ grove, + When little legs wrassled an’ little han’s strove; + To think of the loyalty, valor, an’ truth + Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth! + + + + +LITTLE MISS BRAG + + + Little Miss Brag has much to say + To the rich little lady from over the way, + And the rich little lady puts out a lip + As she looks at her own white, dainty slip, + And wishes that _she_ could wear a gown + As pretty as gingham of faded brown! + For little Miss Brag she lays much stress + On the privileges of a gingham dress-- + “Aha, + Oho!” + + The rich little lady from over the way + Has beautiful dolls in vast array; + Yet she envies the raggedy home-made doll + She hears our little Miss Brag extol. + For the raggedy doll can fear no hurt + From wet, or heat, or tumble, or dirt! + Her nose is inked, and her mouth is, too, + And one eye’s black and the other’s blue-- + “Aha, + Oho!” + + The rich little lady goes out to ride + With footmen standing up outside, + Yet wishes that, sometimes, after dark + _Her_ father would trundle _her_ in the park;-- + That, sometimes, _her_ mother would sing the things + Little Miss Brag says _her_ mother sings + When through the attic window streams + The moonlight full of golden dreams-- + “Aha, + Oho!” + + Yes, little Miss Brag has much to say + To the rich little lady from over the way; + And yet who knows but from her heart + Often the bitter sighs upstart-- + Uprise to lose their burn and sting + In the grace of the tongue that loves to sing + Praise of the treasures all its own! + So I’ve come to love that treble tone-- + “Aha, + Oho!” + + + + +THE HUMMING-TOP + + + The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song + To my dear little boy at play-- + Merrily singeth all day long, + As it spinneth and spinneth away. + And my dear little boy + He laugheth with joy + When he heareth the monotone + Of that busy thing + That loveth to sing + The song that is all its own. + + Hold fast the string and wind it tight, + That the song be loud and clear; + Now hurl the top with all your might + Upon the banquette here; + And straight from the string + The joyous thing + Boundeth and spinneth along, + And it whirrs and it chirrs + And it birrs and it purrs + Ever its pretty song. + + Will ever my dear little boy grow old, + As some have grown before? + Will ever his heart feel faint and cold, + When he heareth the songs of yore? + Will ever this toy + Of my dear little boy, + When the years have worn away, + Sing sad and low + Of the long ago, + As it singeth to me to-day? + + + + +LADY BUTTON-EYES + + + When the busy day is done, + And my weary little one + Rocketh gently to and fro; + When the night winds softly blow, + And the crickets in the glen + Chirp and chirp and chirp again; + When upon the haunted green + Fairies dance around their queen-- + Then from yonder misty skies + Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. + + Through the murk and mist and gloam, + To our quiet, cosey home, + Where to singing, sweet and low, + Rocks a cradle to and fro; + Where the clock’s dull monotone + Telleth of the day that’s done; + Where the moonbeams hover o’er + Playthings sleeping on the floor-- + Where my weary wee one lies + Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. + + Cometh like a fleeting ghost + From some distant eerie coast; + Never footfall can you hear + As that spirit fareth near-- + Never whisper, never word + From that shadow-queen is heard. + In ethereal raiment dight, + From the realm of fay and sprite + In the depth of yonder skies + Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. + + Layeth she her hands upon + My dear weary little one, + And those white hands overspread + Like a veil the curly head, + Seem to fondle and caress + Every little silken tress; + Then she smooths the eyelids down + Over those two eyes of brown-- + In such soothing, tender wise + Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. + + Dearest, feel upon your brow + That caressing magic now; + For the crickets in the glen + Chirp and chirp and chirp again, + While upon the haunted green + Fairies dance around their queen, + And the moonbeams hover o’er + Playthings sleeping on the floor-- + Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies + Cometh Lady Button-Eyes! + + + + +THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE + + + Play that my knee was a calico mare + Saddled and bridled for Bumpville; + Leap to the back of this steed, if you dare, + And gallop away to Bumpville! + I hope you’ll be sure to sit fast in your seat, + For this calico mare is prodigiously fleet, + And many adventures you’re likely to meet + As you journey along to Bumpville. + + This calico mare both gallops and trots + While whisking you off to Bumpville; + She paces, she shies, and she stumbles, in spots, + In the tortuous road to Bumpville; + And sometimes this strangely mercurial steed + Will suddenly stop and refuse to proceed, + Which, all will admit, is vexatious indeed, + When one is en route to Bumpville! + + She’s scared of the cars when the engine goes “Toot!” + Down by the crossing at Bumpville; + You’d better look out for that treacherous brute + Bearing you off to Bumpville! + With a snort she rears up on her hindermost heels, + And executes jigs and Virginia reels-- + Words fail to explain how embarrassed one feels + Dancing so wildly to Bumpville! + + It’s bumpytybump and it’s jiggytyjog, + Journeying on to Bumpville; + It’s over the hilltop and down through the bog + You ride on your way to Bumpville; + It’s rattletybang over boulder and stump, + There are rivers to ford, there are fences to jump, + And the corduroy road it goes bumpytybump, + Mile after mile to Bumpville! + + Perhaps you’ll observe it’s no easy thing + Making the journey to Bumpville, + So I think, on the whole, it were prudent to bring + An end to this ride to Bumpville; + For, though she has uttered no protest or plaint, + The calico mare must be blowing and faint-- + What’s more to the point, I’m blowed if I ain’t! + So play we have got to Bumpville! + + + + +THE BROOK + + + I looked in the brook and saw a face-- + Heigh-ho, but a child was I! + There were rushes and willows in that place, + And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by; + And the brook it ran its own sweet way, + As a child doth run in heedless play, + And as it ran I heard it say: + “Hasten with me + To the roistering sea + That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!” + + I look in the brook and see a face-- + Heigh-ho, but the years go by! + The rushes are dead in the old-time place, + And the willows I knew when a child was I. + And the brook it seemeth to me to say, + As ever it stealeth on its way-- + Solemnly now, and not in play: + “Oh, come with me + To the slumbrous sea + That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!” + + _Heigh-ho, but the years go by-- + I would to God that a child were I!_ + + + + +PICNIC-TIME + + + It’s June ag’in, an’ in my soul I feel the fillin’ joy + That’s sure to come this time o’ year to every little boy; + For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen, + Where “fields beyont the swellin’ floods stand dressed in livin’ + green”; + Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and + ants, + An’ little boys get grass-stains on their go-to-meetin’ pants. + It’s June ag’in, an’ with it all what happiness is mine-- + There’s goin’ to be a picnic, an’ I’m goin’ to jine! + + One year I jined the Baptists, an’ goodness! how it rained! + (But grampa says that that’s the way “baptizo” is explained.) + And once I jined the ’Piscopils an’ had a heap o’ fun-- + But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyteriun! + They had so many puddin’s, sallids, sandwidges, an’ pies, + That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes! + Oh, yes, the eatin’ Presbyteriuns give yer is so fine + That when _they_ have a picnic, you bet _I’m_ goin’ to jine! + + But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me, + For they’re goin’ to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.; + Why should a liberal Universalist like me object + To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect? + However het’rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be, + Their doctrine of fried chick’n is a savin’ grace to me! + So on the 21st of June, the weather bein’ fine, + They’re goin’ to give a picnic, and I’m goin’ to jine! + + + + +SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS + + + Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks + Sit together, building blocks; + Shuffle-Shoon is old and gray, + Amber-Locks a little child, + But together at their play + Age and Youth are reconciled, + And with sympathetic glee + Build their castles fair to see. + + “When I grow to be a man” + (So the wee one’s prattle ran), + “I shall build a castle so-- + With a gateway broad and grand; + Here a pretty vine shall grow, + There a soldier guard shall stand; + And the tower shall be so high, + Folks will wonder, by and by!” + + [Illustration: _Shuffle-shoon and Amber-locks_] + + Shuffle-Shoon quoth: “Yes, I know; + Thus I builded long ago! + Here a gate and there a wall, + Here a window, there a door; + Here a steeple wondrous tall + Riseth ever more and more! + But the years have levelled low + What I builded long ago!” + + So they gossip at their play, + Heedless of the fleeting day; + One speaks of the Long Ago + Where his dead hopes buried lie; + One with chubby cheeks aglow + Prattleth of the By and By; + Side by side, they build their blocks-- + Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks. + + + + +THE SHUT-EYE TRAIN + + + Come, my little one, with me! + There are wondrous sights to see + As the evening shadows fall; + In your pretty cap and gown, + Don’t detain + The Shut-Eye train-- + “Ting-a-ling!” the bell it goeth, + “Toot-toot!” the whistle bloweth, + And we hear the warning call: + “_All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_” + + Over hill and over plain + Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train! + Through the blue where bloom the stars + And the Mother Moon looks down + We’ll away + To land of Fay-- + Oh, the sights that we shall see there! + Come, my little one, with me there-- + ’Tis a goodly train of cars-- + _All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_ + + Swifter than a wild bird’s flight, + Through the realms of fleecy light + We shall speed and speed away! + Let the Night in envy frown-- + What care we + How wroth she be! + To the Balow-land above us, + To the Balow-folk who love us, + Let us hasten while we may-- + _All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_ + + Shut-Eye Town is passing fair-- + Golden dreams await us there; + We shall dream those dreams, my dear, + Till the Mother Moon goes down-- + See unfold + Delights untold! + And in those mysterious places + We shall see beloved faces + And beloved voices hear + _In the grace of Shut-Eye Town_. + + Heavy are your eyes, my sweet, + Weary are your little feet-- + Nestle closer up to me + In your pretty cap and gown; + Don’t detain + The Shut-Eye train! + “Ting-a-ling!” the bell it goeth, + “Toot-toot!” the whistle bloweth, + Oh, the sights that we shall see! + _All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_ + + + + +LITTLE-OH-DEAR + + + See, what a wonderful garden is here, + Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear! + Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown-- + Search ye the country and hunt ye the town + And never ye’ll meet with a garden so queer + As this one I’ve made for my Little-Oh-Dear! + + Marigolds white and buttercups blue, + Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew, + The cactus that trails over trellis and wall, + Roses and pansies and violets--all + Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer + When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear. + + And up at the top of that lavender-tree + A silver-bird singeth as only can she; + For, ever and only, she singeth the song + “I love you--I love you!” the happy day long;-- + Then the echo--the echo that smiteth me here! + “I love you, I love you,” my Little-Oh-Dear! + + The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly-- + But what careth my little precious, or I? + From her pathway of flowers that in springtime upstart + She walketh the tenderer way in my heart + And, oh, it is always the summer-time _here_ + With that song of “I love you,” my Little-Oh-Dear! + + + + +SWING HIGH AND SWING LOW + + + Swing high and swing low + While the breezes they blow-- + It’s off for a sailor thy father would go; + And it’s here in the harbor, in sight of the sea, + He hath left his wee babe with my song and with me + _“Swing high and swing low_ + _While the breezes they blow!”_ + + Swing high and swing low + While the breezes they blow-- + It’s oh for the waiting as weary days go! + And it’s oh for the heartache that smiteth me when + I sing my song over and over again: + _“Swing high and swing low_ + _While the breezes they blow!”_ + + “Swing high and swing low”-- + The sea singeth so, + And it waileth anon in its ebb and its flow; + And a sleeper sleeps on to that song of the sea + Nor recketh he ever of mine or of me! + _“Swing high and swing low_ + _While the breezes they blow--_ + _’Twas off for a sailor thy father would go!”_ + + + + +WHEN I WAS A BOY + + + Up in the attic where I slept + When I was a boy, a little boy, + In through the lattice the moonlight crept, + Bringing a tide of dreams that swept + Over the low, red trundle-bed, + Bathing the tangled curly head, + While moonbeams played at hide-and-seek + With the dimples on the sun-browned cheek-- + When I was a boy, a little boy! + + And oh! the dreams--the dreams I dreamed! + When I was a boy, a little boy! + For the grace that through the lattice streamed + Over my folded eyelids seemed + To have the gift of prophecy, + And to bring me glimpses of times to be + When manhood’s clarion seemed to call-- + Ah! _that_ was the sweetest dream of all, + When I was a boy, a little boy! + + I’d like to sleep where I used to sleep + When I was a boy, a little boy! + For in at the lattice the moon would peep, + Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep + The crosses and griefs of the years away + From the heart that is weary and faint to-day; + And those dreams should give me back again + A peace I have never known since then-- + When I was a boy, a little boy! + + + + +AT PLAY + + + Play that you are mother dear, + And play that papa is your beau; + Play that we sit in the corner here, + Just as we used to, long ago. + Playing so, we lovers two + Are just as happy as we can be, + And I’ll say “I love you” to you, + And you say “I love you” to me! + “I love you” we both shall say, + All in earnest and all in play. + + Or, play that you are that other one + That some time came, and went away; + And play that the light of years agone + Stole into my heart again to-day! + Playing that you are the one I knew + In the days that never again may be, + I’ll say “I love you” to you, + And you say “I love you” to me! + “I love you!” my heart shall say + To the ghost of the past come back to-day! + + Or, play that you sought this nestling-place + For your own sweet self, with that dual guise + Of your pretty mother in your face + And the look of that other in your eyes! + So the dear old loves shall live anew + As I hold my darling on my knee, + And I’ll say “I love you” to you, + And you say “I love you” to me! + Oh, many a strange, true thing we say + And do when we pretend to play! + + + + +A VALENTINE + + + Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell + I love her well. + Yes, though she tramples on my heart + And rends that bleeding thing apart; + And though she rolls a scornful eye + On doting me when I go by; + And though she scouts at everything + As tribute unto her I bring-- + Apple, banana, caramel-- + Haste, Cupid, to my love and tell, + In spite of all, I love her well! + + And further say I have a sled + Cushioned in blue and painted red! + The groceryman has promised I + Can “hitch” whenever he goes by-- + Go, tell her that, and, furthermore, + Apprise my sweetheart that a score + Of other little girls implore + The boon of riding on that sled + Painted and hitched, as aforesaid;-- + And tell her, Cupid, only she + Shall ride upon that sled with me! + Tell her this all, and further tell + I love her well. + + + + +LITTLE ALL-ALONEY + + + Little All-Aloney’s feet + Pitter-patter in the hall, + And his mother runs to meet + And to kiss her toddling sweet, + Ere perchance he fall. + He is, oh, so weak and small! + Yet what danger shall he fear + When his mother hovereth near, + And he hears her cheering call: + “All-Aloney”? + + Little All-Aloney’s face + It is all aglow with glee, + As around that romping-place + At a terrifying pace + Lungeth, plungeth he! + And that hero seems to be + All unconscious of our cheers-- + Only one dear voice he hears + Calling reassuringly: + “All-Aloney!” + + Though his legs bend with their load, + Though his feet they seem so small + That you cannot help forebode + Some disastrous episode + In that noisy hall, + Neither threatening bump nor fall + Little All-Aloney fears, + But with sweet bravado steers + Whither comes that cheery call: + “All-Aloney!” + + Ah, that in the years to come, + When he shares of Sorrow’s store,-- + When his feet are chill and numb, + When his cross is burdensome, + And his heart is sore: + Would that he could hear once more + The gentle voice he used to hear-- + Divine with mother love and cheer-- + Calling from yonder spirit shore: + “All, all alone!” + + + + +THE CUNNIN’ LITTLE THING + + + When baby wakes of mornings, + Then it’s wake, ye people all! + For another day + Of song and play + Has come at our darling’s call! + And, till she gets her dinner, + She makes the welkin ring, + And she _won’t_ keep still till she’s had her fill + The cunnin’ little thing! + + When baby goes a-walking, + Oh, how her paddies fly! + For that’s the way + The babies say + To other folk “by-by”; + The trees bend down to kiss her, + And the birds in rapture sing, + As there she stands and waves her hands-- + The cunnin’ little thing! + + When baby goes a-rocking + In her bed at close of day, + At hide-and-seek + On her dainty cheek + The dreams and the dimples play; + Then it’s sleep in the tender kisses + The guardian angels bring + From the Far Above to my sweetest love-- + You cunnin’ little thing! + + + + +THE DOLL’S WOOING + + + The little French doll was a dear little doll + Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses; + Her eyes were of hue + A most delicate blue + And dark as the night were her tresses; + Her dear little mouth was fluted and red, + And this little French doll was so very well bred + That whenever accosted her little mouth said: + “Mamma! mamma!” + + The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg, + Had once been a handsome young fellow, + But now he appeared + Rather frowzy and bleared + In his torn regimentals of yellow; + Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay + In the little toy cart near the window one day + And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say: + “Mamma! mamma!” + + He listened so long and he listened so hard + That anon he grew ever so tender, + For it’s everywhere known + That the feminine tone + Gets away with all masculine gender! + He up and he wooed her with soldierly zest, + But all she’d reply to the love he professed + Were _these_ plaintive words (which perhaps you have guessed): + “Mamma! mamma!” + + Her mother--a sweet little lady of five-- + Vouchsafed her parental protection, + And although stockinet + Wasn’t blue-blooded, yet + She really could make no objection! + So soldier and dolly were wedded one day, + And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way, + I’m sure that I heard a wee baby voice say: + “Mamma! mamma!” + + + + +INSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON’S SILVER PLATE + + + When thou dost eat from off this plate, + I charge thee be thou temperate; + Unto thine elders at the board + Do thou sweet reverence accord; + And, though to dignity inclined, + Unto the serving-folk be kind; + Be ever mindful of the poor, + Nor turn them hungry from the door; + And unto God, for health and food + And all that in thy life is good, + Give thou thy heart in gratitude. + + + + +SEEIN’ THINGS + + + I ain’t afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice, + An’ things ’at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! + I’m pretty brave, I guess; an’ yet I hate to go to bed, + For, when I’m tucked up warm an’ snug an’ when my prayers are said, + Mother tells me “Happy dreams!” and takes away the light, + An’ leaves me lyin’ all alone an’ seein’ things at night! + + Sometimes they’re in the corner, sometimes they’re by the door, + Sometimes they’re all a-standin in the middle uv the floor; + Sometimes they are a-sittin’ down, sometimes they’re walkin’ round + So softly an’ so creepylike they never make a sound! + Sometimes they are as black as ink, an’ other times they’re white-- + But the color ain’t no difference when you see things at night! + + Once, when I licked a feller ’at had just moved on our street, + An’ father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, + I woke up in the dark an’ saw things standin’ in a row, + A-lookin’ at me cross-eyed an’ p’intin’ at me--so! + Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep’ a mite-- + It’s almost alluz when I’m bad I see things at night! + + Lucky thing I ain’t a girl, or I’d be skeered to death! + Bein’ I’m a boy, I duck my head an’ hold my breath; + An’ I am, oh! _so_ sorry I’m a naughty boy, an’ then + I promise to be better an’ I say my prayers again! + Gran’ma tells me that’s the only way to make it right + When a feller has been wicked an’ sees things at night! + + An’ so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, + I try to skwush the Tempter’s voice ’at urges me within; + An’ when they’s pie for supper, or cakes ’at’s big an’ nice, + I want to--but I do not pass my plate f’r them things twice! + No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o’ sight + Than I should keep a-livin’ on an’ seein’ things at night! + +[Illustration: _Seein’ Things_] + + + + +FISHERMAN JIM’S KIDS + + + Fisherman Jim lived on the hill + With his bonnie wife an’ his little boys; + ’Twuz “Blow, ye winds, as blow ye will-- + Naught we reck of your cold and noise!” + For happy and warm were he an’ his, + And he dandled his kids upon his knee + To the song of the sea. + + Fisherman Jim would sail all day, + But, when come night, upon the sands + His little kids ran from their play, + Callin’ to him an’ wavin’ their hands; + Though the wind was fresh and the sea was high, + He’d hear ’em--you bet--above the roar + Of the waves on the shore! + + Once Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay + As the sun went down in a cloudy sky, + And never a kid saw he at play, + And he listened in vain for the welcoming cry. + In his little house he learned it all, + And he clinched his hands and he bowed his head-- + “The fever!” they said. + + ’Twuz a pitiful time for Fisherman Jim, + With them darlin’s a-dyin’ afore his eyes, + A-stretchin’ their wee hands out to him + An’ a-breakin’ his heart with the old-time cries + He had heerd so often upon the sands; + For they thought they wuz helpin’ his boat ashore-- + Till they spoke no more. + + But Fisherman Jim lived on and on, + Castin’ his nets an’ sailin’ the sea; + As a man will live when his heart is gone, + Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly, + Till once in those years they come an’ said: + “Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick-- + Go to him, quick!” + + Then Fisherman Jim says he to me: + “It’s a long, long cruise--you understand-- + But over beyont the ragin’ sea + I kin see my boys on the shinin’ sand + Waitin’ to help this ol’ hulk ashore, + Just as they used to--ah, mate, you know!-- + In the long ago.” + + No, sir! he wuzn’t afeard to die; + For all night long he seemed to see + His little boys of the days gone by, + An’ to hear sweet voices forgot by me! + An’ just as the mornin’ sun come up-- + “They’re holdin’ me by the hands!” he cried, + An’ so he died. + + + + +“FIDDLE-DEE-DEE” + + + There once was a bird that lived up in a tree, + And all he could whistle was “Fiddle-dee-dee”-- + A very provoking, unmusical song + For one to be whistling the summer day long! + Yet always contented and busy was he + With that vocal recurrence of “Fiddle-dee-dee.” + + Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four, + That weird iteration repented him sore; + “I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun, + For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done + That shall presently rid all creation and me + Of that ominous bird and his ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!” + + Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son + His awfully truculent little red gun; + The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin, + The “bang” it came out where the bullet went in-- + The right kind of weapon I think you’ll agree + For slaying all fowl that go “Fiddle-dee-dee”! + + The brave little soldier quoth never a word, + But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird; + And, while that vain creature provokingly sang, + The gun it went off with a terrible bang! + Then loud laughed the youth--“By my Bottle,” cried he, + “I’ve put a quietus on ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!” + + Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: “My son, + Right well have you wrought with your little red gun! + Hereafter no evil at all need I fear, + With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!” + She kissed the dear boy. + [The bird in the tree + Continued to whistle his “Fiddle-dee-dee”!] + + + + +OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY + + + Over the hills and far away, + A little boy steals from his morning play, + And under the blossoming apple-tree + He lies and he dreams of the things to be: + Of battles fought and of victories won, + Of wrongs o’erthrown and of great deeds done-- + Of the valor that he shall prove some day, + Over the hills and far away-- + Over the hills and far away! + + Over the hills and far away + It’s, oh, for the toil the livelong day! + But it mattereth not to the soul aflame + With a love for riches and power and fame! + On, O man! while the sun is high-- + On to the certain joys that lie + Yonder where blazeth the noon of day, + Over the hills and far away-- + Over the hills and far away! + + Over the hills and far away, + An old man lingers at close of day; + Now that his journey is almost done, + His battles fought and his victories won-- + The old-time honesty and truth, + The trustfulness and the friends of youth, + Home and mother--where are they? + Over the hills and far away-- + Over the years and far away! + +* * * * * + + + + +Transcriber’s note + + +Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Formatting +has been standardized. + +Spelling has been retained as originally published except for changes +below: + +Page 68: "Oh, yes, there ’s lots" "Oh, yes, there’s lots" +Page 141: "they ’re running still" "they’re running still" + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75578 *** |