The speaker's ideal entertainments

by George M. Vickers

JUVENILES.

The Boy and the Boot.

“Bother!” was all that John Clatterby said;

His breath came quick and his cheeks were red,

He flourished his elbows and looked absurd,

While, over and over, his “Bother!” I heard.

Harder and harder he tugged and worked;

Vainly and savagely still he jerked;

The boot, half on, would dawdle and flap,

“Bother!” and then he burst the strap.

Redder than ever his hot cheek flamed;

Louder than ever he fumed and blamed;

He wiggled his heel and he tugged at the leather

Till his knees and his chin came bumping together.

“My boy,” said I, in a voice like a flute,

“Why not first try your troublesome boot

On the other foot?” “I’m a goose!” laughed John,

As he stood, in a flash, with his two boots on.

In half the affairs of this every-day life

(As that same day I said to my wife),

Our troubles come from trying to put

The left-hand boot on the right-hand foot.

Farewell Old Shoe.

To be addressed to an old shoe which the speaker holds in his hand.

Adieu! adieu!

My poor old shoe!

What comfort I have had with you!

My sole companion day by day,

You’ve cheered and soothed my weary way!

A fond adieu,

My dear old shoe!

Most faithful friend I’ve found in you!

Alike, midst fair or wintry weather,

We’ve shared life’s pilgrimage together.

Now rent and torn,

And sadly worn,

Of every trace of beauty shorn.

’Tis with an honest, heart-felt sigh

I feel that I must throw you by.

A sad adieu!

Poor worn-out shoe!

What sorry plights you’ve borne me through!

And, oh! it tears my tender heart

To think that you and I must part.

Once more, adieu!

My faithful shoe!

I ne’er shall find the likes o’ you,

And I will bless your memory

For all the good you’ve been to me.

No other boot

Can ever suit

As you have done my crippled feet!

No other shoe can ever be

The tried, true friend you’ve been to me.

A last adieu,

Dear cast-off shoe!

Whatever may become of you,

Accept, dear, easiest, best of shoes,

This farewell offering of my muse.

Tale of a Dog and a Bee.

Great big dog,

Head upon his toes;

Tiny little bee

Settles on his nose.

Great big dog

Thinks it is a fly,

Never says a word,

Winks mighty sly.

Tiny little bee

Tickles doggie’s nose—

Thinks like as not

’Tis a blooming rose.

Dog smiles a smile,

Winks his other eye,

Chuckles to himself

How he’ll catch a fly.

Then he makes a snap,

Mighty quick and spry,

Gets the little bug,

But doesn’t catch the fly.

Tiny little bee,

Alive and looking well,

Great big dog,

Mostly gone to swell.

MORAL.

Dear friends and brothers all,

Don’t be too fast and free,

And when you catch a fly

Be sure it ain’t a bee.

Little Foxes.

Among my tender vines I spy,

A little fox named “By-and-By.”

Then set upon him, quick, I say,

The swift young hunter “Right Away.”

Around each tender vine I plant,

I find the little fox “I Can’t!”

Then fast as ever hunter ran,

Chase him with brave and bold “I Can.”

“No Use in Trying!” lags and whines,

This fox among my tender vines.

Then drive him low and drive him high,

With this good hunter, named “I’ll Try.”

Among the vines in my small lot,

Creeps in the fox “Oh, I Forgot.”

Then hunt him out and to his den,

With “I-Will-Not-Forget-Again.”

A little fox is hidden there

Among my vines, named “I Don’t Care.”

Then let “I’m Sorry,” hunter true,

Chase him far from vines and you.

For a Little Girl.

I love my papa, that I do,

And mamma says she loves him too;

And both of them love me, I know,

A thousand ways their love they show.

But papa says he fears some day

With some mean scamp I’ll run away.

An Oration for a Boy.

I rise to make this short oration,

Without the least equivocation,

Or any false exaggeration,

And hope to win your approbation—

If not your warmest admiration.

I want to make a revelation,

Just for the sake of exultation,

Without a long enumeration,

In reference to education;

For, since our school association

We feel a high appreciation

Of teachers’ kind administration.

Whate’er may be our destination,

We’ll have the pleasing consolation

Of living in high estimation

With all our teachers, in relation

With every day’s assimilation.

I hope you’ll have the penetration

To see this is my own creation,

And quite a novel adaptation.

Please pardon the conglomeration,

For I’m scared like all the nation,

Therefore accept my resignation.

“Blessed mother, save my brain!”

“They Say.”

The subject of my speech is one

We hear of every day—

’Tis simply all about the fear

We have of what “they say!”

How happy all of us could be,

If, as we go our way,

We did not stop to think and care

So much for what “they say.”

We never dress to go outside,

To church, to ball, or play,

But everything we wear or do

Is ruled by what “they say.”

Half of the struggles we each make

To keep up a display,

Might be avoided, were it not

For dread of what “they say.”

The half of those who leave their homes

For Long Branch and Cape May

Would never go, if it were not

For fear of what “they say.”

One reason why I’m now so scared

(Pardon the weakness, pray!)

Is that I’m thinking all the while,

“Of me what will ‘they say?’”

But so ’twill be, I judge, as long

As on the earth folks stay—

There’ll always be, with wise and fools,

That dread of what “they say.”

Nobody’s Dog.

Only a dirty black and white dog!

You can see him any day,

Trotting meekly from street to street.

He almost seems to say,

As he looks in your face with wistful eye,

“I don’t mean to be in your way.”

His tail hangs drooping between his legs;

His body is thin and spare;

How he envies the sleek and well-fed dogs

That thrive on their masters’ care!

And he wonders what they must think of him,

And grieves at his own hard fare.

Sometimes he sees a friendly face—

A face that he seems to know;

And he thinks he may be the master

That he lost so long ago;

And even dares to follow him home,

For he loved his master so.

Poor Jack! He’s only mistaken again,

And stoned and driven back;

But he’s used to disappointments now,

And takes up his beaten track;

Nobody’s dog, for nobody cares

For poor, unfortunate Jack.

Johnny’s Soliloquy.

It seems to be father’s greatest joy

To tell what he did when he was a boy.

Nothing very wonderful, so far’s I can see;

And it seems pretty rough on a fellow like me,

When I’ve worked like a man all the long summer day—

And boys can get tired, I don’t care what they say—

To have father declare, in his evening chat,

“When I was a boy I did better than that.

“I was bound out when I was a boy,

Had never a play-day, a book, or a toy.

I earned my first suit when I was of age,

By working at odd hours for old Deacon Gage;

I often went barefoot, having seldom a hat,

And as for a coat, I was too poor for that.

Of course I had extra clothes for cold weather,

But the clothes were not broadcloth, nor the boots patent leather.”

Then he talks of this and that wonderful feat,

With little to wear and little to eat;

How he never went either to church or to school,

Just picked up his learning without guide or rule.

And says: “John, to be sure, is easy to learn,

And always stands first at the close of the term.

But if I’d his chance at books in my day,

I don’t think you’d have found me always at play.”

Now I am just as willing as can be to work,

Nobody can call me a bit of a shirk;

I don’t ask for fine clothes or frequent play-days,

For I know father’s money has plenty of ways:

But when I’ve done as well as I can,

They might treat me as though I’d some day be a man.

I’m so tired of the song father always has sung:

“I did better than that when I was young.”

The Wind in a Frolic.

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,

Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap!

Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!

I’ll make a commotion in every place!”

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,

Creaking the signs, and scattering down

Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,

Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread stalls;

There never was heard a much lustier shout,

As the apples and oranges tumbled about;

And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes

Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,

And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;

It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows,

And tossed the colts’ manes all over their brows,

Till, offended at such a familiar salute,

They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute.

So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks,

Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks,

Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,

O’er the traveler’s grave on the king’s highway.

It was not too nice to hustle the bags

Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;

’Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke

With the doctor’s wig or the gentleman’s cloak.

Through the forest it roared, and cried, gayly, “Now,

You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you bow!”

And it made them bow without more ado,

Or cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster, on cottage and farm,

Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm,

So they ran out like bees when threatened with harm.

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,

And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;

There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,

Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind it swept on, and met in a lane

With a school-boy, who panted and struggled in vain:

For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood

With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.

Then away went the wind in its holiday glee!

And now it was far on the billowy sea;

And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,

And the little boats darted to and fro:—

But lo! night came, and it sank to rest

On the sea-bird’s rock in the gleaming west,

Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,

How little of mischief it had done!

—William Howitt.

The Speckled Hen.

Dear Brother Ben, I take my pen

To tell you where, and how, and when,

I found the nest of our speckled hen.

She never would lay in a sensible way,

Like other hens, in the barn on the hay;

But here and there and everywhere,

On the stable floor, and the wood-house stair,

And once, on the ground her eggs I found.

But yesterday I ran away,

With mother’s leave, in the barn to play.

The sun shone bright on the seedy floor,

And the doves so white were a pretty sight

As they walked in and out of the open door,

With their little red feet and feathers neat.

Cooing and cooing more and more.

Well, I went out to look about

On the platform wide, where, side by side,

I could see the pig-pens in their pride;

And beyond them both, on a narrow shelf,

I saw the speckled hen hide herself

Behind a pile of hoes and rakes

And pieces of boards and broken stakes.

“Ah, ha! old hen, I have found you now,

But to reach your nest I don’t know how,

Unless I could climb or creep or crawl

Along the edge of the pig-pen wall.”

And while I stood in a thoughtful mood,

The speckled hen cackled as loud as she could,

And flew away, as much as to say,

“For once my treasure is out of your way.”

I didn’t wait a moment then;

I couldn’t be conquered by that old hen!

But along the edge of the slippery ledge

I carefully crept, for the great pigs slept,

And I dared not even look to see

If they were thinking of eating me.

But all at once, oh! what a dunce!

I dropped my basket into the pen,

The one you gave me, Brother Ben;

There were two eggs in it, by the way,

That I found in the manger under the hay,

Then the pigs got up and ran about

With a noise between a grunt and a shout,

And when I saw them rooting, rooting,

Of course I slipped and lost my footing,

And tripped, and jumped, and finally fell

Right down among the pigs, pell-mell.

For once in my life I was afraid,

For the door that led out into the shed

Was fastened tight with an iron hook,

And father was down in the fields by the brook,

Hoeing and weeding his rows of corn,

And here was his Dolly, so scared and forlorn.

But I called him, and called him, as loud as I could,

I knew he would hear me—he must and he should—

“O father! O father! (Get out, you old pig.)

O father! oh! oh!” for their mouths were so big.

Then I waited a minute and called him again,

“O father! O father! I am in the pig-pen!”

And father did hear, and he threw down his hoe,

And scampered as fast as a father could go.

The pigs had pushed me close to the wall,

And munched my basket, eggs and all,

And chewed my sun-bonnet into a ball.

And one had rubbed his muddy nose

All over my apron, clean and white;

And they sniffed at me, and stepped on my toes,

But hadn’t taken the smallest bite,

When father opened the door at last,

And oh! in his arms he held me fast.

—E. W. Denison.

The New Baby.

Muzzer’s bought a baby—

Ittle bits of zing;

Zink I mos’ could put him

Froo my rubber ring.

Ain’t he awful ugly?

Ain’t he awful pink?

Just come down from Heaven!—

Dat’s a fib, I zink.

Doctor told annuzer

Great big awful lie;

Nose ain’t out of joyent—

Dat ain’t why I cry.

Zink I ought to love him?

No, I won’t—so zere!

Nassy, crying baby—

Ain’t got any hair.

Send me off wiz Biddy

Every single day;

“Be a good boy, Charley—

Run away and play.”

Dot all my nice kisses—

Dot my place in bed;

Mean to take my drumstick

And hit him on ze head.

Katie’s Wants.

Me want Christmas tree,

Yes, me do;

Want an orange on it,

Lots of candy, too.

Want some new dishes,

Want a red pail,

Want a rocking-horse

With a very long tail.

Want a little watch

That says, “Tick, tick!”

Want a newer dolly,

’Cause Victoria’s sick.

Want so many things

Don’t know what to do;

Want a little sister,

Little brother, too.

Won’t you buy ’em, mamma?

Tell me why you won’t?

Want to go to bed?

No, me don’t.

—Eva M. Tappan.

Queer Little Stitches.

Oh! queer little stitches,

You surely are witches,

To bother me so!

I’m trying to plant you:

Do stay where I want you,

All straight in a row.

Now keep close together!

I never know whether

You’ll do as I say.

Why can’t you be smaller?

You really grow taller,

Try hard as I may!

There! now my thread’s knotted,

My finger is dotted

With sharp needle-pricks!

I mean to stop trying;

I cannot help crying;

Oh! dear, what a fix!

Yes, yes, little stitches,

I know you are witches—

I’m sure of it now—

Because you don’t bother

Grown people like mother

When they try to sew.

You love to bewilder

Us poor little “childer”

(As Bridget would say),

By jumping and dancing,

And leaping and prancing,

And losing your way.

Hear the bees in the clover!

Sewing “over and over”

They don’t understand.

I wish I was out there

And playing about there

In that great heap of sand!

The afternoon’s going;

I must do my sewing

Before I can play.

Now behave, little stitches,

Like good-natured witches,

The rest of the day.

I’d almost forgotten

About waxing my cotton,

As good sewers do;

And—oh! what a memory!—

Here is my emery

To help coax it through.

I’m so nicely provided

I’ve really decided

To finish the things.

There’s nothing like trying;

My needle is flying

As if it had wings.

There, good-bye, little stitches!

You obstinate witches,

You’re punished, you know.

You’ve been very ugly,

And now you sit snugly

Along in a row.

The Nose Out of Joint.

Oh! a comical thing is a nose out of joint!

There is a wee chap

Who met this mishap;

He looked very glum,

And grew almost dumb;

Then he stood in a corner to pout,

No doubt,

Decidedly hurt and put out.

Oh! the innocent cause of a nose out of joint!

He tried to appear

In excellent cheer.

In one eye a smile,

A tear all the while

In the other, led one to believe,

And grieve,

That clearly he tried to deceive!

Oh! the innocent cause of the nose out of joint!

Ten pink little toes,

A wee, funny nose,

And eyes, bright and new,

Of robin’s egg blue,

And up-stairs in a soft cradle-nest,

At rest,

With tiniest hands on its breast!

Oh! the wonderful cure of a nose out of joint!

A mother’s fond call,

A gentle footfall;

A sweet word of joy,

A kiss for her boy,

And a shy little brotherly peep,

And deep

Spring, love for the baby asleep.

—George Cooper.

Valedictory.

It now, kind friends, devolves on me

To speak our Val-e-dic-to-ry;

You’ve seen our Exhibition through,

We’ve tried to please each one of you—

And if we’ve failed in any part,

Lay it to head, and not to heart;

For we have striven, night and day,

To study well both speech and play.

We hope, within another year,

Again before you to appear.

But e’er we part—before you go—

We wish you one and all to know

We thank you for your presence here—

Such kindness does our bosoms cheer,

And causes every boy to feel

He ought to study with more zeal;

While all the girls it will inspire

With an ambition to rise higher.

We feel much more than words can tell—

Accept our heart-felt thanks—farewell!

Presentation Speech.

Dear Teacher:

I have been requested by the young ladies of this school (or institution) to offer you a slight token of our affection and regard. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to be the means of conveying to you the expression of our united love. What we offer you is a poor symbol of our feelings, but we know you will receive it kindly, as a simple indication of the attachment which each one of us cherishes for you in her heart of hearts. You have made our lessons pleasant to us—so pleasant that it would be ungrateful to call them tasks. We know that we have often tried your temper and forbearance, but you have dealt gently with us in our waywardness, teaching us, by example as well as precept, the advantages of magnanimity and self-control. We will never forget you. We shall look back to this school (or institution) in after life, not as a place of penance, but as a scene of mental enjoyment,

where the paths of learning were strewn with flowers; and whenever memory recalls our school-days, our hearts will warm toward you as they do to-day. I have been requested by my school-mates not to address you formally, but as a beloved and respected friend. In that light, dear teacher, we all regard you. Please accept, with our little present, our earnest good wishes. May you always be as happy as you have endeavored to make your pupils, and may they—nothing better could be wished for them—be always as faithful to their duties to others as you have been in your duties to them.

Little Millie’s Declamation.

See my pretty ruffled dress!

See my tienty locket!

’Spects I’m most a lady now,

’Cause I got a pocket.

Those down here are my blue shoes,

That I walk my feet in;

’Cause it wouldn’t do to wear

Copper toes to meetin’.

See my pictured hankerfust

Sunday days I has it!

I can blow a noise in church

Most like papa does it.

Papa’s hitchin’ Jack and Gray,

And they keep a prancin’;

Horses don’t wear Sunday clothes—

They don’t know they’re dancin’.

Grandpa used to go with us—

Now he’s gone to heaven;

Guess he’s at the angel church,

Up where God is livin’.

I don’t take no cakes along—

Never thing of eatin’;

Don’t you want a nice clean kiss

’Fore we go to meetin’.

The Only Child.

Which is my nicest plaything?

I really cannot tell;

I have a china dolly,

I have a silver bell.

I have a string of beads;

My mother often tells me

I have all a baby needs.

But if I had a brother

As big as cousin Ben,

Or if I had a sister

Like little Lilly Fen,

We should have such times together,

’Twould drive the neighbors wild—

Oh! it’s very lonesome

To be an only child!

Lulu’s Complaint.

I’se a poor ’ittle sorrowful baby,

For B’idget is ’way down stairs:

My titten has scatched my fin’er,

And Dolly won’t say her p’ayers.

I hain’t seen my bootiful mamma

Since ever so long ado;

An’ I ain’t her tunninest baby

No londer, for B’idget says so.

Mamma dot anoder new baby,

Dod dived it—He did—yes’erday;

An’ it kies, it kies—oh! so defful!

I wis’ He would take it away.

I don’t want no “sweet ’ittle sister;”

I want my dood mamma, I do;

I want her to tiss me and tiss me,

An’ tall me her p’ecious Lulu.

I dess my dear papa will bin’ me

A ’ittle dood titten some day;

Here’s nurse wid my mamma’s new baby;

I wis’ she would tate it away.

Oh! oh! what tunnin’ red fin’ers!

It sees me ’ite out of its eyes;

I dess we will teep it and dive it

Some can’y whenever it kies.

I dess I will dive it my dolly

To play wid ’mos’ every day;

An’ I dess, I dess—Say, B’idget,

Ask Dod not to tate it away.

Little Tommie’s First Smoke.

I’ve been sick.

Mamma said ’mokin’ was a nasty, dirty, disgraceful habit, and bad for the window curtains.

Papa said it wasn’t. He said all wise men ’moked, and that it was good for rheumatism, and that he didn’t care for the window curtains, not a—that thing what busts and drowns people; I forgot its name. And he said women didn’t know much anyway, and that they couldn’t reason like men.

So next day papa wasn’t nice a bit—that day I frew over the accawarium, and papa ’panked me—and I felt as if I had the rheumatism ever’ time I went to sit down, and so I just got papa’s pipe and loaded it and ’moked it, to cure rheumatism where papa ’panked me.

And they put mustard plaster on my tummick till they most burned a hole in it, I guess.

I fink they fought I was going to die.

I fought so too.

Mamma said I was goin’ to be a little cherub, but I fought I was goin’ to be awful sick. Nurse said I was goin’ to be a cherub, too—then she went to put a nuzzar mustard plaster on. I didn’t want her to, and she called me somefing else. I guess that was ’cause I frew the mustard plaster in her face.

I don’t want to be a cherub anyway; I’d rather be little Tommie for a while yet.

But I wont ’moke any more.

I guess mamma was right. Maybe I’m sumfin’ like a window curtain. ’Mokin’ isn’t good for me.

The Elf-Child.

Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,

An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, and brush the crumbs away,

An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,

An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board and keep;

An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done,

We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun

A-list’nin’ to the witch tales ’at Annie tells about,

An’ the gobble-uns ’at gits you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

Once they was a little boy wouldn’t say his pray’rs—

An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,

His mammy heard him holler, an’ his daddy heard him bawl,

An’ when they turn the kivvers down he wasn’t there at all!

An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,

An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ everywheres, I guess,

But all they ever found was this—his pants an’ round-about—

An’ the gobble-uns ’ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,

An’ make fun of ever’ one an’ all her blood an’ kin.

An’ onct, when they was “company,” an’ old folks was there,

She mocked ’em, an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care!

An’ jist as she kicked her heels an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,

They was two great Big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,

An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’, ’fore she knowed what she’s about!

An’ the gobble-uns ’ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,

An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes Woo-oo!

An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,

An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away—

You better mind your parents and yer teachers fond an’ dear,

An’ cherish them ’at loves you, and dry the orphant’s tear,

An’ he’p the po’ an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about,

Er the gobble-uns ’ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!