Recitations for Children.
The perplexing question of obtaining something suitable for the “little tots” to recite, is solved by the choice collection of pieces here presented. The pathetic, the humorous, the beautiful, in short, every variety of recitation for the young people, may be found in the following pages, including drills and motion recitals, and selections for special occasions, all of which are entertaining and admirably suited to the little folks.
TWO LITTLE MAIDENS
A sorry little maiden
Is Miss Fuss-and-Feather,
Crying for the golden moon,
Grumbling at the weather;
The sun will fade her gown,
The rain will spoil her bonnet,
If she ventures out,
And lets it fall upon it.
A merry little maiden
Is Miss Rags-and-Tatters,
Chatting of the twinkling stars
And many other matters;
Dancing in the sunshine,
Pattering through the rain,
Her clothes never cause her
A single thought or pain.
Agnes Carr.
THE WAY TO SUCCEED.
Drive the nail aright, boys,
Hit it on the head;
Strike with all your might, boys,
While the iron’s red.
When you’ve work to do, boys,
Do it with a will;
They who reach the top, boys,
First must climb the hill.
Standing at the foot, boys,
Gazing at the sky,
How can you ever get up, boys,
If you never try?
Though you stumble oft, boys,
Never be downcast;
Try, and try again, boys—
You’ll succeed at last.
WHEN PA BEGINS TO SHAVE.
When Sunday mornin’ comes around
My pa hangs up his strop,
An’ takes his razor out an’ makes
It go c’flop! c’flop!
An’ then he gits his mug an’ brush
An’ yells t’ me, “Behave!”
I tell y’u, things is mighty still—
When pa begins t’ shave.
Then pa he stirs his brush around
An’ makes th’ soapsuds fly;
An’ sometimes, when he stirs too hard,
He gits some in his eye.
I tell y’u, but it’s funny then
To see pa stamp and rave;
But y’u mustn’t git ketched laffin’—
When pa begins t’ shave.
Th’ hired hand he dassent talk,
An’ even ma’s afeard,
An’ y’u can hear th’ razor click
A-cuttin’ through pa’s beard!
An’ then my Uncle Bill he laffs
An’ says: “Gosh! John, you’re brave,”
An’ pa he swears, an’ ma jest smiles—
When pa begins t’ shave.
When pa gits done a-shavin’ of
His face, he turns around,
And Uncle Bill says: “Why, John,
Yu’r chin looks like plowed ground!”
An’ then he laffs—jest laffs an’ laffs,
But I got t’ behave,
Cos things’s apt to happen quick—
When pa begins t’ shave.
Harry Douglass Robbins.
A BOY’S VIEW.
Girl is very nice! Everybody who has not the misfortune to be girl will allow this. Nice girl will allow it also as far as itself is concerned. Strange girl is objectionable in the eyes of girl generally.
Powder improves girl sometimes, but it seldom finds this out until it is suggested to it by one of experience.
Healthy girl costs its parents less money for doctors’ bills, but persons who write romantic tales for circulating libraries choose unhealthy and pasty faced girl to write about—the swooning kind preferred.
If I were not boy I think I should like to be girl. It’s best fun to be boy when there’s plenty of girl about.
MAMMY’S CHURNING SONG.
Set still, honey, let ole Mammy tell yer ’bout de churn,
Wid de cream en clabber dashin’,
En de buttermilk er-splashin’.
Dis de chune hit am er-singin’ ’fore hit ’gin ter turn:
Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Massa give old nigger some.
Jump down, honey, en fotch me dat rag fum de table, fer ter wipe off dis hyah led. Tole yer so, dat milk gwine ter splatter up hyah ’reckly! Dar now, dat’s er good chile, git back in mer lap.
Now de cream, en milk, en clabber’s churnin’ up so fas’,
Hyah hit splatterin’ en er-splutterin’,
En er-mixin’, en er-mutterin’,
In de churn en roun’ de dasher, singin’ ter de las’;
Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Massa gib old nigger some.
Uh-er! Teck kyah, honey, keep dem fingers way fum dar! Butter mos’ come now: set still jis’ er leetle w’ile longer.
Sooen de lumps ob butter ’ll be er-floatin’ on de top—
Now de ole churn’s fa’rly hummin’,
Tell yer wot, de butter comin’—
Done come! Mammy’s arm so ti-yerd, now she’s gwine ter stop.
Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,
Bum-bum-bum,
But-ter-come,
Mammy ’ll gib de baby some.
Dar now! [removing the top and giving the dasher a circular motion] jis’ peep in dar en see de lumps ob yaller butter er-huddlin’ tergedder. Now run fotch yer leetle blue mug, en Mammy ’ll gib yer some nice sweet buttermilk right outen dis hyah churn.
Edward A. Oldham.
THE TWENTY FROGS!
Twenty froggies went to school,
Down beside a rushy pool;
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.
“We must be in time,” said they;
“First we study, then we play;
That is how we keep the rule
When we froggies go to school.”
Master Bullfrog, grave and stern,
Called the classes in their turn;
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Likewise how to leap and dive.
From his seat upon the log,
Taught them how to say “Ker-chug,”
Also how to dodge a blow
From the sticks which bad boys throw.
Twenty froggies grew up fast;
Bullfrogs they became at last;
Not one dunce among the lot,
Not one lesson they forgot;
Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be;
Now they sit on other logs,
Teaching other little frogs.
ONLY A BIRD.
Only a bird! and a vagrant boy
Fits a pebble with a boyish skill
Into the fold of a supple sling.
“Watch me hit him. I can an’ I will.”
Whirr! and a silence chill and sad
Falls like a pall on the vibrant air,
From a birchen tree, whence a shower of song
Has fallen in ripples everywhere.
Only a bird! and the tiny throat
With quaver and trill and whistle of flute,
Bruised and bleeding and silent lies
There at his feet. Its chords are mute.
And the boy, with a loud and boisterous laugh,
Proud of his prowess and brutal skill,
Throws it aside with a careless toss—
“Only a bird! it was made to kill.”
Only a bird! yet far away
Little ones clamor and cry for food—
Clamor and cry, and the chill of night
Settles over the orphan brood.
Weaker and fainter the moaning call
For a brooding breast that shall never come.
Morning breaks o’er a lonely nest,
Songless and lifeless; mute and dumb.
Mary Morrison.
THE WAY TO DO IT.
Teach the child to make all the gestures and facial expressions. This is a captivating recital for any “little tot” who can do it well, and this will require patient practice.
I’ll tell you how I speak a piece:
First, I make my bow;
Then I bring my words out clear
And plain as I know how.
Next, I throw my hands up—so!
Then I lift my eyes:
That’s to let my hearers know
Something doth surprise.
Next, I grin and show my teeth,
Nearly every one,
Shake my shoulders, hold my sides:
That’s the sign of fun.
Next, I start, and knit my brows,
Hold my head erect:
Something’s wrong, you see, and I
Decidedly object.
Then I wabble at my knees,
Clutch at shadows near,
Tremble well from top to toe:
That’s the sign of fear.
Now I start, and with a leap,
Seize an airy dagger.
“Wretch!” I cry: that’s tragedy
Every soul to stagger.
Then I let my voice grow faint,
Gasp, and hold my breath,
Tumble down and plunge about:
That’s a villain’s death.
Quickly then I come to life,
Perfectly restored;
With a bow my speech is done.
Now you’ll please applaud.
Mary Mapes Dodge.
WE MUST ALL SCRATCH.
For five little children and one older, a girl, who takes the part of the mother. They stand in a row and each steps forward and recites the verse.
Said the first little chicken,
With a queer little squirm,
“I wish I could find
A fat little worm.”
Said the next little chicken,
With an odd little shrug,
“I wish I could find
A fat little bug,”
Said the third little chicken,
With a sharp little squeal,
“I wish I could find
Some nice yellow meal.”
Said the fourth little chicken,
With a small sigh of grief,
“I wish I could find
A green little leaf.”
Said the fifth little chicken,
With a faint little moan,
“I wish I could find
A wee gravel stone.”
“Now, see here,” said the mother,
From the green garden patch,
“If you want any breakfast,
Just come here and scratch.”
KITTY AT SCHOOL.
Come, Kitty dear, I’ll tell you what
We’ll do this rainy day;
Just you and I, all by ourselves,
At keeping school, will play.
The teacher, Kitty, I will be;
And you shall be the class;
And you must close attention give,
If you expect to pass.
Now, Kitty, “C-A-T” spells cat.
Stop playing with your tail!
You are so heedless, I am sure
In spelling you will fail.
“C-A” oh, Kitty! do sit still!
You must not chase that fly!
You’ll never learn a single word,
You do not even try.
I’ll tell you what my teacher says
To me most ev’ry day—
She says that girls can never learn
While they are full of play.
So try again—another word;
“L-A-C-E” spells “lace.”
Why, Kitty, it is not polite
In school to wash your face!
You are a naughty, naughty puss,
And keep you in I should;
But then, I love you, dear, so much
I don’t see how I could!
O, see! the sun shines bright again!
We’ll run out doors and play;
We’ll leave our school and lessons for
Another rainy day.
Kate Ulmer.
A FELLOW’S MOTHER.
“A fellow’s mother,” said Fred the wise,
With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes,
“Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt
By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the dirt.
“A fellow’s mother has bags and strings,
Rags and buttons, and lots of things;
No matter how busy she is, she’ll stop
To see how well you can spin your top.
“She does not care—not much, I mean—
If a fellow’s face is not always clean;
And if your trousers are torn at the knee
She can put in a patch that you’d never see.
“A fellow’s mother is never mad,
But only sorry if you are bad,
And I’ll tell you this, if you’re only true,
She’ll always forgive whate’er you do.
“I’m sure of this,” said Fred the wise,
With a manly look in his laughing eyes,
“I’ll mind my mother, quick, every day,
A fellow’s a baby that don’t obey.”
M. E. Sangster.
THE STORY KATIE TOLD.
Now, stay right still and listen, kitty-cat, and I’ll tell you a story.
Once there was a girl.
She was a pretty good little girl, and minded her papa ’n’ mamma everything they said, only sometimes she didn’t, and then she was naughty; but she was always sorry, and said she wouldn’t do so any more, and her mamma’d forgive her.
She was going to hang up her stocking.
“You’ll have to be pretty good, ’lest ’twon’t be filled,” said her mamma.
“’Less maybe there’ll be a big bunch of sticks in it,” said her papa.
Do you think that’s a nice way to talk, kitty-cat? I don’t.
So the little girl was good as she could be, ’less she was bigger, and didn’t cry and slap her little sister hardly any at all, and always minded her mamma when she came where the chimney was, ’specially much.
So she hung up her stocking.
And in the night she got awake, and wanted it to come morning; but in the morning she didn’t get awake till ’twas all sunshiny out doors.
Then she ran quick as she could to look at her stocking where she’d hung it; and true’s you live, kitty-cat, there wasn’t the leastest thing in it—not the leastest bit of a scrimp!
Oh, the little girl felt dreadfully! How’d you feel, s’pose it had been you, kitty-cat?
She ’menced to cry, the little girl did, and she kept going harder ’n harder, till by’mby she screeched orfly, and her mamma came running to see what the matter was.
“Mercy me!” said her mamma. “Look over by the window ’fore you do that any more, Kathie.”
That little girl’s name was Kathie too, kitty-cat, just the same’s mine.
So she looked over by the window, the way her mamma said, and—oh! there was the loveliest dolly’s house you ever saw in all your born life.
It had curtains to pull to the sides when you wanted to play, and pull in front when you didn’t.
There was a bed-room, kitty-cat, and a dinner-room, and a kitchen, and a parlor, and they all had carpets on.
And there was the sweetest dolly in the parlor, all dressed up in blue silk! Oh, dear! And a penano, to play real little tunes on, and a rocking-chair, and—O kitty-cat! I can’t begin to tell you half about it.
I can’t about the bed-room, either, and the dinner-room.
But the kitchen was the very bestest of all. There was a stove—a teeny tonty mite of a one, kitty-cat,—with dishes just zactly like mamma’s, only littler, of course, and fry-pans and everything; and spoons to stir with, and a rolling-pin, and two little cutters-out, and the darlingest baker-sheet ever you saw!
And the first thing that little girl did was to make some teenty mites of cookies, ’cause her mamma let her; and if you’ll come right down stairs, kitty-cat, I’ll give you one.
’Cause I was that little girl, kitty-cat, all the time.
A LITTLE ROGUE.
Grandma was nodding, I rather think;
Harry was sly and quick as a wink;
He climbed in the back of her great arm-chair,
And nestled himself very snugly there;
Grandma’s dark locks were mingled with white,
And quick this fact came to his sight;
A sharp twinge soon she felt at her hair,
And woke with a start, to find Harry there.
“Why, what are you doing, my child?” she said;
He answered, “I’se pulling a basting fread?”
MATTIE’S WANTS AND WISHES.
I wants a piece of cal’co
To make my doll a dess;
I doesn’t want a big piece;
A yard’ll do, I guess.
I wish you’d fred my needle,
And find my fimble, too—
I has such heaps o’ sewin’
I don’t know what to do.
I wants my Maud a bonnet;
She hasn’t none at all;
And Fred must have a jacket;
His ozzer one’s too small.
I wants to go to grandma’s;
You promised me I might.
I know she’d like to see me;
I wants to go to-night.
She lets me wipe the dishes,
And see in grandpa’s watch—
I wish I’d free, four pennies
To buy some butter-scotch.
My Hepsy tored her apron
A tum’lin’ down the stair,
And Cæsar’s lost his pantloons.
And needs anozzer pair.
I wants some newer mittens—
I wish you’d knit me some,
’Cause most my fingers freezes,
They leaks so in the fum.
I wored ’em out last summer,
A pullin’ George’s sled;
I wish you wouldn’t laugh so—
It hurts me in my head.
I wish I had a cookie;
I’m hungry’s I can be.
If you hasn’t pretty large ones,
You’d better bring me free.
I wish I had a p’ano—
Won’t you buy me one to keep?
O, dear! I feels so tired,
I wants to go to sleep.
Grace Gordon.
WON’T AND WILL.
Sha’n’t and Won’t were two little brothers,
Angry, and sullen, and gruff;
Try and Will are dear little sisters,
One can scarcely love them enough.
Sha’n’t and Won’t looked down on their noses,
Their faces were dismal to see;
Try and Will are brighter than roses
In June, and as blithe as a bee.
Sha’n’t and Won’t are backward and stupid,
Little, indeed, did they know;
Try and Will learn something new daily,
And seldom are heedless or slow.
Sha’n’t and Won’t loved nothing, no, nothing,
So much as to have their own way;
Try and Will give up to their elders,
And try to please others at play.
Sha’n’t and Won’t came to terrible trouble:
Their story is awful to tell;
Try and Will are in the schoolroom,
Learning to read and spell.
WILLIE’S BREECHES.
The boy’s garments should suit the description contained in the piece. In reciting the last two lines he should point to his head, stretch out his hands to show them, look down at his feet, and then catch hold of his pants and spread them out on the sides, putting on at the same time a look of pride.
I’m just a little boy, you know,
And hardly can remember,
When people ask how old I am,
To tell ’em four last ’vember.
And yet for all I am so small,
I made so many stitches
For mamma’s fingers, that she put
Her little boy in breeches.
You may be sure that I was glad;
I marched right up and kissed her,
Then gave my bibs and petticoats,
And all, to baby sister.
I never whine, now I’m so fine,
And don’t get into messes;
For mamma says, if I am bad,
She’ll put me back in dresses!
There’s buttons up and down my legs,
And buttons on my jacket;
I’d count ’em all, but baby makes
Just now, an awful racket.
She’s sitting there, behind the chair,
With blocks, and dolls, and kitty,
A playing “go to gran’ma’s house,”
Alone, ’n that’s a pity.
I think I’ll go and help her some,
I’m sure it would amuse me;
So I won’t bother any more
To talk—if you’ll excuse me.
But first I’ll stand before the glass,
From top to toe it reaches;
Now look! there’s head, and hands, and feet,
But all the rest is breeches!
Etta G. Salsbury.
LITTLE DORA’S SOLILOQUY.
I tan’t see what our baby boy is dood for anyway:
He don’t know how to walk or talk, he don’t know how to play;
He tears up ev’ry single zing he posser-bil-ly tan,
An’ even tried to break, one day, my mamma’s bestest fan.
He’s al’ays tumblin’ ’bout ze floor, an’ gives us awful scares,
An’ when he goes to bed at night, he never says his prayers.
On Sunday, too, he musses up my go-to-meetin’ clothes,
An’ once I foun’ him hard at work a-pinc’in’ Dolly’s nose;
An’ ze uzzer day zat naughty boy (now what you s’pose you zink?)
Upset a dreat big bottle of my papa’s writin’ ink;
An’, ’stead of kyin’ dood an’ hard, as course he ought to done,
He laughed and kicked his head ’most off, as zough he zought ’twas fun.
He even tries to reach up high, an’ pull zings off ze shelf,
An’ he’s al’ays wantin’ you, of course, jus’ when you wants you’self.
I rather dess, I really do, from how he pulls my turls,
Zey all was made a-purpose for to ’noy us little dirls;
An’ I wish zere wasn’t no such zing as naughty baby boys
Why—why, zat’s him a-kyin’ now; he makes a drefful noise,
I dess I better run and see, for if he has—boo-hoo!—
Felled down ze stairs and killed his-self, whatever s-s-s’all I do!
THE SQUIRREL’S LESSON.
Two little squirrels, out in the sun,
One gathered nuts, and the other had none;
“Time enough yet,” his constant refrain;
“Summer is still just on the wane.”
Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate:
He roused him at last, but he roused him too late;
Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud,
And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud.
Two little boys in a school-room were placed,
One always perfect, the other disgraced;
“Time though yet for my learning,” he said;
“I will climb, by and by, from the foot to the head.”
Listen, my darling; their locks are turned gray;
One as a Governor sitteth to-day;
The other, a pauper, looks out at the door
Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of yore.
Two kinds of people we meet every day;
One is at work, the other at play,
Living uncared for, dying unknown—
The busiest hive hath ever a drone.
LITTLE KITTY.
Once there was a little kitty,
Whiter than snow;
In the barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago;
In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro;
For she heard the kitty coming,
Long time ago.
Two black eyes had little kitty,
Black as a sloe;
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Nine pearl teeth had little kitty,
All in a row;
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.
When the teeth bit little mousie,
Little mousie cried, “Oh!”
But she got away from kitty,
Long time ago.
Kitty White so shyly comes,
To catch the mousie Gray;
But mousie hears her softly step
And quickly runs away.
LABOR SONG.
This is a charming exercise for boys and girls. Each should be dressed in the costume of the character to be represented, and, as far as possible, should go through the motions called for by the part. The properties can all be placed on the stage before the performance begins. Each character comes in alone, those who have already entered remaining until the close. All unite in singing the chorus, after each performer has spoken or sung (according to choice) the part he or she is to act. Music suitable for this selection is herewith furnished. Come in promptly and avoid long pauses.
The Farmer (with scythe and dressed like a farmer.)
I’m glad I am a husbandman,
My acres broad to till,
And in the Autumn of the year
My many barns to fill.
How happy is the farmer’s life,
’Tis one of peace and joy,
To reap and sow, and plow and mow,
And thus the time employ.
Chorus.
How happy is the laborer,
For when the day is o’er,
The evening shadows gather round,
That he may work no more;
How happy is the laborer,
His heart is light and gay,
And merrily his song rings out,
Throughout the livelong day.
The Farmer’s Wife (kneading bread).
I’m glad I am a farmer’s wife,
The wheaten bread to knead,
And when the men come home from work
Their hungry mouths to feed.
I keep my house in perfect trim,
I sweep and dust and bake,
And when the busy day is done,
Sweet is the rest I take.—Chorus.
The Farmer’s Girl (with broom and milk pail)
I’m glad I am a farmer’s girl,
I love the farmer’s life,
And if I ever wed at all,
I’ll be a farmer’s wife.
My milking pails make music sweet,
I’m happy all the day,
Work gives my cheek the glow of health,
And drives dull care away.—Chorus.
The Farmer’s Boy (with rake).
I’m glad I am a farmer’s boy,
To plant and rake and hoe—
I get upon old Dobbin’s back,
And don’t I make him go?
I shout and make the welkin ring,
I sing my merry song,
And, roaming through the fields and woods,
I’m jolly all day long. [Boy whistles Chorus.
Dairy Maid (with churn.)
I’m glad I am a dairy maid,
My butter is so yellow;
I know the lad that catches me
Will be a lucky fellow.
I’m glad I am a dairy maid,
My heart is light and gay,
And with my milk and cream and churn,
I’m happy all the day.—Chorus.
Washerwoman (with tub and washboard).
I’m glad I am a washerwoman,
Ye know me by my look,
I’ll wash and starch your snowy clothes,
And fold them like a book;
Then sind me in your orders quick
For I’ve no time for fooling;
(Spoken).
I’ll do thim to the best of my ability,
Ontirely sure.—Chorus.
The Shoemaker (shoe, last and hammer).
I’m glad I am a shoemaker,
With hammer, last and shoe;
Without the slippers that I make,
What would the ladies do?
I cut the leather, fit the last—
To me, my work is play—
From morn to night, with heart so light,
I sing and peg away.—Chorus.
The Blacksmith (with anvil and hammer).
I’m glad I am a blacksmith,
A noble horse to shoe,
I hold within my lap his hoof,
And whack the shoe-nail through;
I swing the hammer and I know
Just how to make a hit,
And indigestion, if you please,
Don’t trouble me a bit.—Chorus.
The School-Teacher (with slate, hook and rule;
three or four children to take part of scholars).
I’m glad I am a school-teacher,
With slate and book and rule,
To teach the young idea to shoot,
And extirpate the fool.
The heights of knowledge I point out,
And upward lead the way,
And with my pupils pressing on,
I’m happy every day.—Chorus.
WHAT BABY SAID.
I am here. And if this is what they call the world, I don’t think much of it. It’s a very flannelly world and smells of paregoric awfully. It’s a dreadful light world, too, and makes me blink, I tell you. And I don’t know what to do with my hands; I think I’ll dig my fists in my eyes. No, I won’t. I’ll scratch at the corner of my blanket and chew it up, and then I’ll holler; whatever happens, I’ll holler. And the more paregoric they give me, the louder I’ll yell. That old nurse puts the spoon in the corner of my mouth, sidewise like, and keeps tasting my milk herself all the while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and when I hollered she trotted me. That comes of being a two-days-old baby. Never mind; when I’m a man, I’ll pay her back good.
There’s a pin sticking in me now, and if I say a word about it, I’ll be trotted or fed; and I would rather have catnip-tea. I heard folks say, “Hush! don’t wake up Emeline’s baby;” and I suppose that pretty, white-faced woman on the pillow is Emeline.
No, I was mistaken; for a chap was in here just now and wanted to see Bob’s baby and looked at me and said I was a funny little toad, and looked just like Bob. He smelt of cigars. I wonder who else I belong to! Yes, there’s another one—that’s “Gamma.” “It was Gamma’s baby, so it was.” I declare, I don’t know who I belong to; but I’ll holler, and maybe I’ll find out. There comes snuffy with catnip tea. I’m going to sleep. I wonder why my hands won’t go where I want them to!
ONE LITTLE ACT.
I saw a man, with tottering steps,
Come down a graveled walk, one day;
The honored frost of many years
Upon his scattered thin locks lay.
With trembling hands he strove to raise
The latch that held the little gate,
When rosy lips looked up and smiled,—
A silvery child-voice said, “Please wait.”
A little girl oped wide the gate,
And held it till he passed quite through,
Then closed it, raising to his face
Her modest eyes of winsome blue.
“May Heaven bless you, little one,”
The old man said, with tear-wet eyes;
“Such deeds of kindness to the old
Will be rewarded in the skies.”
’Twas such a little thing to do—
A moment’s time it took—no more;
And then the dancing, graceful feet
Had vanished through the school-room door.
And yet I’m sure the angels smiled,
And penned it down in words of gold;
’Tis such a blessed thing to see
The young so thoughtful of the old.
THE LITTLE ORATOR.
Lines written for Edward Everett, when a child.
Pray, how should I, a little lad,
In speaking make a figure?
You’re only joking, I’m afraid—
Do wait till I am bigger.
But, since you wish to hear my part,
And urge me to begin it,
I’ll strive for praise, with all my heart,
Though small the hope to win it.
I’ll tell a tale how Farmer John
A little roan colt bred, sir,
And every night and every morn
He watered and he fed, sir.
Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John,
“Aren’t you a silly dolt, sir,
To spend such time and care upon
A little useless colt, sir?”
Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe,
“I bring my little roan up,
Not for the good he now can do,
But will do when he’s grown up.”
The moral you can well espy,
To keep the tale from spoiling;
The little colt, you think, is I—
I know it by your smiling.
And now, my friends, please to excuse
My lisping and my stammers;
I, for this once, have done my best,
And so—I’ll make my manners.
Thaddeus Mason Harris.
A GENTLEMAN.
I knew him for a gentleman
By signs that never fail;
His coat was rough and rather worn,
His cheeks were thin and pale—
A lad who had his way to make,
With little time for play;
I knew him for a gentleman
By certain signs to-day.
He met his mother on the street;
Off came his little cap.
My door was shut; he waited there
Until I heard his rap.
He took the bundle from my hand,
And when I dropped my pen,
He sprang to pick it up for me—
This gentleman of ten.
He does not push and crowd along;
His voice is gently pitched;
He does not fling his books about
As if he were bewitched,
He stands aside to let you pass;
He always shuts the door;
He runs on errands willingly
To forge and mill and store.
He thinks of you before himself,
He serves you if he can;
For, in whatever company,
The manners make the man.
At ten or forty, ’tis the same;
The manner tells the tale,
And I discern the gentleman
By signs that never fail.
Margaret E. Sangster.
BABIES AND KITTENS.
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,
And grandma said with a frown:
“It never will do to keep them both,
The black one we had better drown.”
“Don’t cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess,
“One kitten is enough to keep,
Now run to nurse, for ’tis growing late
And time you were fast asleep.”
The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet,
Came little Bess from her nap,
The nurse said, “Go in mamma’s room,
And look in grandma’s lap.”
“Come here,” said grandma, with a smile,
From the rocking-chair, where she sat,
“God has sent you two little sisters,
What do you think of that?”
Bess looked at the babies a moment,
With their wee heads, yellow and brown,
And then to grandma soberly said:
“Which one are you going to drown?”
L. M. Hadley.
A DISSATISFIED CHICKEN.
There was a little chicken that was shut up in a shell,
He thought to himself, “I’m sure I cannot tell
What I am walled in here for—a shocking coop I find,
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”
He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in May,
Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only proper way;
“This yard is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”
He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a crack,
The world stretched wide before him, and just as widely back;
“This world is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.
“I should like to have ideals, I should like to tread the stars,
To get the unattainable, and free my soul from bars;
I should like to leave this dark earth, and some other dwelling find
More fitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.
“There’s a place where ducks and pleasure boats go sailing to and fro,
There’s one world on the surface and another world below.”
The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink inclined,
They swallowed up the chicken with an enterprising mind.
A. G. Waters.
THE LITTLE TORMENT.
My name’s Jack. I’m eight years old. I’ve a sister Arathusa, and she calls me a little torment. I’ll tell you why: You know Arathusa has got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas ’way, ’way down ’till you can’t hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night.
I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went to the door to let Alphonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa, and I couldn’t hear nothing but smack! smack! smack! Then I reached out and jerked Arathusa’s foot. Then she jumped and said, “Oh, mercy, what’s that?” and Alphonso said she was a “timid little creature.” “Oh, Alphonso, I’m happy by your side, but when I think of your going away it almost breaks my heart.”
Then I snickered right out, I couldn’t help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the keyhole and said, “I do believe that’s Jack, nasty little torment, he’s always where he isn’t wanted.” Do you know this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa and stood up before her and said, “You think you are smart because you have got a beau. I guess I know what you’ve been doing; you’ve been sitting on Alphonso’s lap, and letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If it hadn’t been for that old false front of yours, Pa would have let me have a bicycle like Tom Clifford’s. You needn’t be grinding them false teeth of yours at me, I ain’t a-going out of here. I ain’t so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don’t care if you are 28 years old, you ain’t no boss of me!”
THE REASON WHY.
A Boston master said, one day,
“Boys, tell me, if you can, I pray,
Why Washington’s birthday should shine
In to-day’s history, more than mine?”
At once such stillness in the hall
You might have heard a feather fall;
Exclaims a boy not three feet high,
“Because he never told a lie!”
A CHILD’S REASONING.
She was ironing dolly’s new gown,
Maid Marian, four years old,
With her brows puckered down
In a painstaking frown
Under her tresses of gold.
’Twas Sunday, and nurse coming in
Exclaimed in a tone of surprise:
“Don’t you know it’s a sin
Any work to begin
On the day that the Lord sanctifies?”
Then, lifting her face like a rose,
Thus answered this wise little tot:
“Now, don’t you suppose
The good Lord He knows
This little iron ain’t hot?”
A SWELL DINNER.
A plain, grave man once grew quite celebrated;
Dame Grundy met him with her blandest smile,
And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much feted,
Gave him a dinner in her swellest style.
Her dining-table was a blaze of glory;
Soft light from many colored candles fell
Upon the young, the middle aged, and hoary—
On beauty and on those who “made up” well.
Her china was a miracle of beauty—
No service like it ever had been sold,
And, being unsmuggled, with the price and duty,
Was nearly worth its weight in gold.
The flowers were wonderful—I think that maybe
Only another world has flowers more fair;
Each rose was big enough to brain a baby,
And there were several bushels of them there.
The serving was the acme of perfection;
Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet;
Their manners seemed a reverent affection
And oh! what stacks of things there were to eat!
And yet the man, for all this honor singled,
Would have exchanged it with the greatest joy
For one plain meal of pork and cabbage mingled,
Cooked by his mother when he was a boy.
LITTLE JACK.
He wore a pair of tattered pants,
A ragged roundabout,
And through the torn crown of his hat
A lock of hair stuck out;
He had no shoes upon his feet,
No shirt upon his back;
His home was on the friendless street,
His name was “Little Jack.”
One day a toddling baby-boy
With head of curly hair
Escaped his loving mother’s eyes,
Who, busy with her care,
Forgot the little one, that crept
Upon the railroad near
To play with the bright pebbles there,
Without a thought of fear.
But see! around the curve there comes
A swiftly flying train—
It rattles, roars! the whistle shrieks
With all its might and main;
The mother sees her child, but stands
Transfixed with sudden fright!
The baby clasps his little hands
And laughs with low delight.
Look! look! a tattered figure flies
Adown the railroad track!
His hat is gone, his feet are bare!
’Tis ragged “Little Jack!”
He grasps the child, and from the track
The babe is safely tossed—
A slip! a cry! the train rolls by—
Brave “Little Jack” is lost.
They found his mangled body there,
Just where he slipped and fell,
And strong men wept who never cared
For him when he was well.
If there be starry crowns in heaven
For little ones to wear,
The star in “Little Jack’s” shall shine
As bright as any there!
Eugene J. Hall.
A STORY OF AN APPLE.
Little Tommy and Peter and Archy and Bob
Were walking one day, when they found
An apple; ’twas mellow and rosy and red,
And lying alone on the ground.
Said Tommy: “I’ll have it.” Said Peter: “’Tis mine.”
Said Archy: “I’ve got it; so there!”
Said Bobby: “Now let us divide in four parts,
And each of us boys have a share.”
“No, no!” shouted Tommy, “I’ll have it myself.”
Said Peter: “I want it, I say.”
Said Archy: “I’ve got it, and I’ll have it all;
I won’t give a morsel away.”
Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he fought,
(’Tis sad and distressing to tell!)
And Archy held on with his might and his main,
Till out of his fingers it fell.
Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew,
And then down a green little hill
That apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolled
As if it would never be still.
A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass
And switching her tail at the flies,
When all of a sudden the apple rolled down
And stopped just in front of her eyes.
She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—
That apple was seen nevermore!
“I wish,” whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom,
“We’d kept it and cut it in four.”
Sydney Dayre.
IDLE BEN.
Idle Ben was a naughty boy;
(If you please, this story’s true;)
He caused his teachers great annoy,
And his worthy parents, too.
Idle Ben, in a boastful way,
To his anxious parents told,
That, while he was young, he thought he’d play,
And he’d learn when he grew old.
“Ah, Ben!” said his mother, and dropped a tear,
“You’ll be sorry for this by-and-by.”
Says Ben, “To me, that’s not very clear,
But at any rate I’ll try.”
So Idle Ben, he refused to learn,
Thinking that he could wait;
But, when he had his living to earn,
He found it was just too late.
Little girls, little boys, don’t delay your work;
Some day you’ll be women and men:
Whenever your task you’re inclined to shirk,
Take warning by Idle Ben.
BABY ALICE’S RAIN.
The drouth had been long—oh, very long—
The whole long month of blithesome May;
The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong,
From the pinched, brown land so far away:
Leaves fell; and the blue-birds hushed their song,
As field and forest grew dim and gray.
Then one night the clouds had gathered: the wind
Came in from the east; but it needed trust
To believe that the soft rain lurked behind,
To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust:
So soon we forget that God is kind!
So easily cease to hope and to trust!
But it rained at morning: oh, welcome fall
Of the drops from heaven, that had such need!
Those drops that have fallen alike on all,
Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed,
Since the plant of life was so tiny and small
When the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed.
Did we wonder, to see it come at last—
This coveted blessing?—wee Alice did not,
As quick to the window all dimpled she passed,
Springing up in glee from her little cot,
And bearing a love so holy and vast
In such limited space—dear baby tot!
“Look, mamma! look, papa!—oh yes, it yanes!
“I tought dere ood be some ’ittle showers!
“Detoration Day—Dod take such pains!
“Don’t ’u see Dod’s waterin’ de soldiers’ f’owers?”
Oh, lips of the children!—there’s something remains
Yet, of Eden’s prime, in this world of ours.
John Hay Furness.
GIVE US LITTLE BOYS A CHANCE.
Here we are! don’t leave us out,
Just because we’re little boys!
Though we’re not so bold and stout,
In the world we’ll make a noise.
You are many a year ahead,
But we’ll step by step advance;
All the world’s before you spread—
Give us little boys a chance!
Never slight us in our play;
You were once as small as we;
We’ll be big, like you, some day,
Then perhaps our power you’ll see.
We will meet you, when we’re grown
With a brave and fearless glance;
Don’t think all this world’s your own—
Give us little boys a chance!
Little hands will soon be strong
For the work that they must do;
Little lips will sing their song
When these early days are through.
So, you big folks, if we’re small,
On our toes you needn’t dance;
There is room enough for all—
Give us little boys a chance!
PUSS IN THE OVEN.
While sitting at our breakfast rather late
One winter’s morn a little after eight,
We heard a noise;
But from the shuffling of feet and legs,
Of drinking coffee and of eating eggs,
We girls and boys
Thought little of it, but looked at one another;
Fred looked at Polly—Polly at her brother.
Just then we heard a feeble cry, so wee,
Where could it come from—and what could it be?
“It’s puss,” cried one, “she must be in the ‘aery.’”
And so we went with footsteps soft and wary.
But, no; Puss in the aery was not found,
And once again we heard the plaintive sound,
“M-e-o-w, M-e-w,”
What could we do?
We looked again and Clara searched the house;
Was pussy in the coal-hole, with a mouse?
“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”
Much louder now.
“She’s in the cupboard,” so, we search the shelves,
But find no pussy. Have some fairy elves
Been imitating puss? But once again
Poor pussy gives a cry as if in pain;
The drawers are searched; in every little nook
Where puss could hide we take a hasty look.
“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”
Still louder now,
We all look frightened, so while one declares
That pussy’s hidden underneath the stairs;
And while we stood upon the kitchen rug,
Wondering where pussy was so nice and snug,
The oven door was opened just a bit
To warm some toast, when out jumped little Kit!
And as she shook her furry brindled form,
She seemed to say, “My bed was rather warm.”
WHAT WAS IT?
Guess what he had in his pocket.
Marbles and tops and sundry toys
Such as always belong to boys,
A bitter apple, a leathern ball?—
Not at all.
What did he have in his pocket?
A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw,
A brassy watch-key, broken in two.
A fish-hook in a tangle of string?—
No such thing.
What did he have in his pocket?
Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made,
Buttons, a knife with a broken blade,
A nail or two and a rubber gun?—
Neither one.
What did he have in his pocket?
Before he knew it slyly crept
Under the treasures carefully kept,
And away they all of them quickly stole—
’Twas a hole!
Sidney Dayre.
THE COBBLER’S SECRET.
A waggish cobbler once in Rome,
Put forth this proclamation,
That he was willing to disclose
For due consideration,
A secret which the cobbling world
Could ill afford to lose;
The way to make in one short day
A hundred pairs of shoes.
From every quarter soon there came
A crowd of eager fellows;
Tanners, cobblers, bootmen, shoemen,
Jolly leather sellers,
All redolent of beef and smoke,
And cobbler’s wax and hides;
Each fellow paid his thirty pence
And called it cheap besides.
Silence! The cobbler enters
And casts around his eyes,
Then curls his lips—the rogue!—then frowns
And looks most wondrous wise;
“My friends,” he says, “’tis simple quite,
The plan that I propose;
And every man of you, I think,
Might learn it if he chose.
A good sharp knife is all you need
In carrying out my plan;
So easy is it none can fail
Let him be child or man,
To make a hundred pairs of shoes,
Just go back to your shops,
And take a hundred pairs of boots
And cut off all their tops!”
A SAD CASE.
I’m a poor little kitty,
And alas! when born, so pretty,
That the morning I was found,
Instead of being drowned,
I was saved to be the toy
Of a dreadful baby-boy,
Who pinches and who pokes me,
Holds me by my throat and chokes me,
And when I could vainly try
From his cruel clutch to fly,
Grabs my tail, and pulls so hard
That some day, upon my word!
I am sure ’twill broken be,
And then everybody’ll see
Such a looking Kitty!
That baby has no pity!
Thinks I’m “only a kitty”—
I won’t stand it, nor would you!
’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w!
Listen! Some day I shall scratch,
And he’ll find he’s met his match;
That within my little paws
There are ever so many claws!
And it won’t be very long,
If this sort of thing goes on,
Till there’ll be a kitten row
Such as has not been till now;
Then, my lad, there will be found,
Left upon that battle-ground,
Such a looking Baby!
Clara D. Bates.
THE HEIR APPARENT.
A small boy who can adopt the air and demeanor of the “afflicted parent” will make this soliloquy very amusing.
A Baby! Yes—a baby—a real, definite, unquestionable baby! What of it? do you ask. Well, that’s queer. Don’t know what a baby is? I’m sorry for you. My advice is—go and get one.
Heigho! I’m weighted down with my responsibility. Solferino in color—no hair on its head—kicks—yowls—mews—whines-sneezes—squints—makes up mouths—it’s a singular circumstance—that baby is, and—but never mind.
Cross? I guess that’s a beginning of the truth, so far as it’s concerned, but, why did it happen along just at the moment when muslin, linen and white flannel were the highest they had been since Adam built a hen-house for Mrs. Eve’s chickens? when the doctors charge two dollars a squint, four dollars a grunt, and, on account of the scarcity in the country, take what is left in a man’s pocket, no discount for cash, and send bill for balance, Jan. 1st? Queer, isn’t it? (A pause.)
A queer little thing is that baby; a speck of a nose like a wart, head as bald as a squash, and no place to hitch a waterfall; a mouth just situated to come the gum-game and chew milk. Oh! you should hear her sing. I have stuffed my fur cap down its throat, given it the smoothing-iron to play with; but that little red lump that looks as if it couldn’t hold blood enough to keep a musketo from fainting, persists to swallow its fists, and the other day they dropped down its throat, to the crook in its elbows. That stopped its music, and I was happy for one and a half minutes.
It is a pleasant thing to have a baby in the house—one of your achy kind. Think of the pleasures of a father in his night costume, trembling in the midnight hour, with his warm feet upon a square yard of oilcloth, dropping paregoric in a teaspoon, by moonlight, the nurse thumping at the door, and the wife of your bosom crying “hurray,” and the baby yelling till the fresco drops from the ceiling. It’s a nice time to think of dress coats, pants, ties, and white kids.
Its mother says the darling is troubled with—oh, don’t mention it. I have got to get up in the cold and shiver while the milk warms—it uses the bottle. I tried to stop its growth the other night; it was no go. I rocked so hard that I missed stays, and sent it slap clear across the room, upsetting the flower-stand. It didn’t make any noise then! Oh, no! I was a happy man. Oh, yes. (A pause.) That baby’s mother says only wait until it gets bleached (it’s been vaccinated) and old enough to crawl about and feed on pins. Yes, I’m going to wait. Won’t it be delightful?
John, run for the doctor; it’s fallen into the slop pail; it’s choking with a peach-skin; or it has fallen down stairs; or has swallowed the tack-hammer; or shows signs of the mumps, croup, whooping cough, small pox, cholera infantum, or some other curious thing to let the doctor take the money laid by for my winter’s donation to the poor.
Shampooing, curling my hair, wearing nice clothes, going to parties? Oh, no more of that! No—more—of—that. A baby—oh! I’m an old fellow now. Adieu, vain world!
AN EGG A CHICKEN.
“An egg a chicken! Don’t tell me!
For didn’t I break an egg to see?
There was nothing inside but a yellow ball,
With a bit of mucillage round it all—
Neither beak nor bill,
Nor toe nor quill,
Not even a feather
To hold it together;
Not a sign of life could any one see.
An egg a chicken? You can’t fool me!
“An egg a chicken! Didn’t I pick
Up the very shell that had held the chick—
So they said?—and didn’t I work half a day
To pack him in where he couldn’t stay?
Let me try as I please,
With squeeze upon squeeze,
There is scarce space to meet
His head and his feet.
No room for any of the rest of him—so
That egg never held that chicken I know.”
Mamma heard the logic of her little man,
Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can!
Took an egg from the nest—it was smooth and round:
“Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?”
Faint and low, tap, tap;
Soft and slow, rap, rap;
Sharp and quick,
Like a prisoner’s pick.
“Hear it peep, inside there!” cried Tom, with a shout;
“How did it get in, and how can it get out?”
Tom was eager to help—he could break the shell.
Mamma smiled and said, “All’s well that ends well.
Be patient awhile yet my boy.” Click, click,
And out popped the bill of a dear little chick.
No room had it lacked.
Though snug it was packed,
There it was, all complete,
From its head to its feet.
The softest of down and the brightest of eyes,
And so big—why, the shell wasn’t half its size.
Tom gave a long whistle, “Mamma, now I see
That an egg is a chicken—though the how beats me,
An egg isn’t a chicken, that I know and declare;
Yet an egg isn’t a chicken—see the proof of it there.
Nobody can tell
How it came in that shell;
Once out all in vain
Would I pack it again.
I think ’tis a miracle, mamma mine,
As much as that of the water and wine.”
ONE OF GOD’S LITTLE HEROES.
The patter of feet was on the stair,
As the Editor turned in his sanctum chair,
And said—for weary the day had been—
“Don’t let another intruder in.”
But scarce had he uttered the words, before
A face peered in at the half-closed door,
And a child sobbed out—“Sir, mother said
I should come and tell you that Dan is dead.”
“And pray who is ‘Dan’?” The streaming eyes
Looked questioning up, with a strange surprise:
“Not know him?—Why, sir, all day he sold
The papers you print, through wet and cold.
“The newsboys say that they could not tell
The reason his stock went off so well:
I knew!—with a voice so weak and low,
Could any one bear to say him ‘No?’
“And the money he made, whatever it be,
He carried straight home to mother and me:
No matter about his rags, he said,
If only he kept us clothed and fed.
“And he did it, sir—trudging through rain and cold,
Nor stopped till the last of his sheets was sold;
But he’s dead—he’s dead! and we miss him so!
And mother—she thought you might like to know!”
In the paper, next morning, as “leader,” ran
A paragraph thus: “The newsboy Dan,
One of God’s little heroes, who
Did nobly the duty he had to do—
For mother and sister earning bread,
By patient endurance and toil—is dead.”
Margaret J. Preston.
WHAT THE COWS WERE DOING.
Little Rosie, walking slowly
Past the verdant meadow, sees
Many cows, and some are standing,
Others lying ’neath the trees.
In the road stands little Rosie,
Caring not for dust or mud,
While her eyes are bent upon them
As they calmly chew their cud.
Great surprise her face expresses,
For awhile her lips are dumb;
Then she cries out, “Mamma! Mamma!
All the cows are chewing gum!”
MAMMA’S HELP.
“Yes, Bridget has gone to the city,
And papa is sick, as you see,
And mamma has no one to help her
But two-year old Lawrence and me.
“You’d like to know what I am good for,
’Cept to make work and tumble things down;
I guess there aren’t no little girlies
At your house at home, Dr. Brown.
“I’ve brushed all the crumbs from the table,
And dusted the sofa and chairs,
I’ve polished the hearthstone and fender,
And swept off the area stairs.
“I’ve wiped all the silver and china,
And just dropped one piece on the floor,
Yes, Doctor, it broke in the middle,
But I ’spect it was cracked before.
“And the steps that I saved precious mamma!
You’d be s’prised, Doctor Brown, if you knew.
She says if it wasn’t for Bessie
She couldn’t exist the day through!
“It’s ‘Bessie, bring papa some water!’
And ‘Bessie dear, run to the door!’
And ‘Bessie love, pick up the playthings
The baby has dropped on the floor!’
“Yes, Doctor, I’m ’siderably tired,
I’ve been on my feet all the day;
Good-bye! well, perhaps I will help you
When your old Bridget ‘goes off to stay!’”
HOW TWO BIRDIES KEPT HOUSE.
The morning was sunshiny, lovely, and clear,
And two little wrens were both hovering near,
Chirping and warbling with wonderful zest,
Looking for some place to build them a nest.
They searched the veranda, examined the trees,
But never a place could they find that would please;
Till Mabel, whose eyes were as blue as the sky,
And very observing, their trouble did spy.
Then, quick as the thought darted through her wee head,
“I’ll help you, dear birdies,” she lispingly said;
“You just wait a minute, I’ll give you my shoe;
’Twill make you a nice nest—as good as if new.”
With much toil and trouble she undid the knot,
Took off the small shoe, and picked out a spot
Behind a large pillar: there tucked it away;
And soon she forgot it in innocent play.
But the wrens chirped, “Why, here’s a nest ready-made,
In the very best place, too, and quite in the shade!”
They went to work quickly, without more ado,
To keep house like the woman “that lived in a shoe.”
When evening shades came, at the close of the day,
And dear little Mable was tired of play,
She thought of the birdies, and went off alone,
To see, if she could, what the birdies had done,
With heads under their wings the wrens were asleep;
Side by side, in the shoe, they were cuddled down deep,
Then, clapping her hands, Mable said, “Keep my shoe;
My new ones I’ll wear, and this one’s for you.”
WHY HE WOULDN’T DIE.
Listen, my boy, and you shall know
A thing that happened a long time ago,
When I was a boy not as large as you,
And the youngest of all the children, too.
I laugh even now as I think it o’er,
And the more I think I laugh the more.
’Twas the chilly eve of an autumn day;
We were all in the kitchen, cheery and gay;
The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth,
And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth.
My elder sister, addressing me,
“To-morrow’s Thanksgiving, you know,” said she;
“We must kill the chickens to-night, you see.
Now light the lantern and come with me;
I will wring their necks until they are dead,
And have them all dressed ere we go to bed.”
My sister, unused to sights of blood,
And, pale with excitement, trembling stood;
But summoning courage, she laid her plans,
And seized the old rooster with both her hands,
And, with triumph written all over her face,
Her victim bore to the open space.
Then she wrung and wrung with might and main,
And wrung and twisted and wrung again,
’Till, sure that the spark of life had fled,
She threw him down on the ground for dead.
But the rooster would not consent to die,
And be made up into chicken-pie,
So he sprang away with a cackle and bound,
Almost as soon as he touched the ground,
And hiding away from the candle’s light,
Escaped the slaughter of that dark night.
My sister, thus brought to sudden stand,
And looking at what she held in her hand,
Soon saw why the rooster was not dead—
She had wrung off his tail instead of his head!
THE SICK DOLLY.
It needs a cute little girl who can make appropriate gestures to recite this piece.
My dolly is very sick!
I don’t know what to do;
Her little forehead it scowls quite horrid,
Her lips are turning blue.
She’s got a dreadful pain,
I know it from her face;
I’ll fetch a pellet and make her smell it,
From mamma’s medicine-case.
There, there, my child, lie still;
That’s sure to do you good.
Now don’t be ugly, I’ll wrap you snugly
All in your scarlet hood.
I know what made her sick!
She’s had too much to eat!
A piece of cheese, six blackberries
And a little bit of meat!
That’s too much for a doll,
(Hush, Baby dear, don’t cry!)
All those blackberries, besides stewed cherries,
And huckleberry pie.
I ought to be ashamed
(That’s just what mamma said)
To let my dolly commit such folly,
And get a pain in her head.
Some gruel would do her good;
What fun ’twill be to make it!
Just flour and water, and then, my daughter,
You’ll have to wake and take it!
I’d like to be a cook!
How nice the gruel does smell!
Oh, there it goes all over her nose!
Now dolly has got well.
DAYS OF THE WEEK.
For seven little boys and girls. Teacher or some large boy or girl should speak.
The days of the week once talking together
About their housekeeping, their friends and the weather,
Agreed in their talk it would be a nice thing
For all to march, and dance, and sing;
So they all stood up in a very straight row,
And this is the way they decided to go:
(Let seven children stand up, and as day of week is
called, take places, each one equipped with
the things the speaker mentions.)
First came little Sunday, so sweet and good,
With a book in her hand, at the head she stood.
Monday skipped in with soap and a tub,
Scrubbing away with a rub-a-dub-dub;
With board and iron comes Tuesday bright,
Talking to Monday in great delight.
Then Wednesday—the dear little cook—came in,
Riding cock horse on his rolling-pin.
Thursday followed, with broom and brush,
Her hair in a towel, and she in a rush.
Friday appeared, gayly tripping along;
He scoured the knives and then he was gone.
Saturday last, with a great big tub,
Into which we all jump for a very good rub.
(The children march and sing to the tune of
“Good Morning, Merry Sunshine.”)
Children of the week are we,
Happy, busy, full of glee.
Often do we come this way,
And you meet us every day.
Hand in hand we trip along,
Singing, as we go, a song.
Each one may a duty bring,
Though it be a little thing.
(All bow, and, taking up the articles, retire from
the stage in order, Sunday, Monday etc.)
Mary Ely Page.
POPPING CORN.
And there they sat, a popping corn,
John Styles and Susan Cutter—
John Styles as fat as any ox
And Susan fat as butter.
And there they sat and shelled the corn,
And raked and stirred the fire,
And talked of different kinds of care
And hitched their chairs up nigher.
Then Susan she the popper shook,
Then John he shook the popper,
Till both their faces grew as red
As saucepans made of copper.
And then they shelled, and popped and ate,
All kinds of fun a-poking,
While he haw-hawed at her remarks,
And she laughed at his joking.
And still they popped, and still they ate—
John’s mouth was like a hopper—
And stirred the fire and sprinkled salt,
And shook and shook the popper.
The clock struck nine—the clock struck ten,
And still the corn kept popping;
It struck eleven, and then struck twelve,
And still no signs of stopping.
And John he ate, and Sue she thought—
The corn did pop and patter—
Till John cried out, “The corn’s afire!
Why, Susan, what’s the matter?”
Said she, “John Styles, it’s one o’clock;
You’ll die of indigestion;
I’m sick of all this popping corn—
Why don’t you pop the question?”
HOW THE FARMER WORKS.
For Several Boys.
This is the way the happy farmer(1)
Plows his piece of ground,
That from the little seeds he sows
A large crop may abound.
This is the way he sows the seed,(2)
Dropping with careful hand,
In all the furrows well prepared
Upon the fertile land.
This is the way he cuts the grain(3)
When bending with its weight;
And thus he bundles it in sheaves,(4)
Working long and late.
And then the grain he threshes thus,(5)
And stores away to keep;
And thus he stands contentedly(6)
And views the plenteous heap.
1. Arms extended forward as though holding a plow. 2. A motion as of taking seed out of a bag or basket, and scattering with the right hand. 3. Motion as of cutting with a scythe. 4. Arms curved and extended forward. 5. Hands as though grasping a flail. Strike with some force. 6. Erect position arms folded, or hands on the hips.
THE BIRDS’ PICNIC.
The birds gave a picnic, the morning was fine,
They all came in couples, to chat and to dine;
Miss Robin, Miss Wren and the two Misses Jay,
Were dressed in a manner decidedly gay.
And Bluebird, who looks like a handful of sky,
Dropped in with her spouse as the morning wore by;
The yellow-birds, too, wee bundles of sun,
With brave chickadees, came along to the fun.
Miss Phœbe was there, in her prim suit of brown;
In fact, all the birds in the fair leafy town.
The neighbors, of course, were politely invited;
Not even the ants and the crickets were slighted.
The grasshoppers came, some in gray, some in green,
And covered with dust, hardly fit to be seen:
Miss Miller flew in, with her gown white as milk;
And Lady Bug flourished a new crimson silk.
The bees turned out lively, the young and the old,
And proud as could be, in their spencers of gold.
But Miss Caterpillar, how funny of her,
She hurried along in her mantle of fur.
There were big bugs in plenty, and gnats great and small—
A very hard matter to mention them all.
And what did they do? Why, they sported and sang,
Till all the green wood with their melody rang.
Whoe’er gave a picnic so grand and so gay?
They hadn’t a shower, I’m happy to say.
And when the sun fell, like a cherry-ripe red,
The fire-flies lighted them all home to bed.
A VERY SMART DOG.
For a boy eight or ten years old.
I have a pretty little dog, he’s just about so high,(1)
And sometimes you would think he knew as much as you(2) or I;(3)
When e’er a letter I would write, he jumps around in glee,(4)
For then he knows that he can take it to the mail for me,(5)
I hold a stick out in my hands,(6) o’er it he jumps in joy—
He shoulders(7) arms as soberly as any soldier boy—
He jumps on table, box(8) or chair, which e’er I tell him to.
I think he is the smartest dog—now, really do not you?
My little dog will sit up straight(9) and open wide his eyes,
And hold his pretty paws just so,(10) and look so very wise.
If e’er to him I crossly speak(11) I very soon regret,
And just as soon my little dog my anger will forget.
He says bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow,
No word but this alone,
And yet he is the smartest dog that ever I have known.
At place marked 1 hold right hand out, palm downwards, as if measuring height. At place marked 2, point to audience. At 3, the reciter points to himself. At 4, downward motion of hand. At 5, point to right. At 6, hold out both hands, as if holding stick. At 7, double up right arm, with hand in front of shoulder. At 8, point to left. At 9, hold head up very straight. At 10, cross hands on breast. At 11, hold out right hand, with finger pointed, as if in command.
OPPORTUNITY.
ADDRESSED TO THE BOYS OF AMERICA.
A judgeship is vacant, the ermine awaits
The shoulder of youth, brave, honest and true,
Some one will be standing by fame’s open gates,
I wonder, my boys, will it be one of you?
The president’s chair of a great railroad maze,
Is empty to-day, for death claimed his due,
The directors are choosing a man for his place,
I wonder, my boys—Will it be one of you?
A pulpit is waiting for some one to fill,
Of eloquent men there are only a few,
The man who can fill it must have power to thrill;
The best will be chosen—Will it be one of you?
The great men about us will pass to their rest,
The places be filled by the boys who pursue
The search for the highest, the noblest—the best,
I wonder who’ll fill them; I hope ’twill be you.
THE LITTLE LEAVES’ JOURNEY.
A motion exercise for six little girls.
Some little leaves one autumn day
From maple(1) branches high,
Looked down(2) upon the lovely world
And upward(3) at the sky;
Then each one sighed, “Had I(4) but wings,
(5)Away, away I’d fly.”
At last the wind(6) aweary grew
Of hearing them complain,
He(7) shook the sturdy maple boughs
With all his might and main;
He shook(8) the little leaflets all,
And down(9) they fell like rain.
They huddled(10) close in little heaps
To keep all snug and warm,
When Nature(11) came, a tender nurse,
With bed(12) clothes on her arm;
She tucked(13) them ’neath soft snowy folds
And hid(14) them from the storm.
1. Motion upward with right hand. 2. Look downward. 3. Look upward. 4. Wave hands back and forth. 5. Extend right arm. 6. Close eyes, faces expressive of weariness. 7. Double the hands up, moving them quickly backwards and forwards. 8. Same as 7. 9. Move hands downward. 10. Put palms of hands together. 11. Look toward right. 12. Extend right arm, looking at same. 13. Downward motion with right hand. 14. Motion toward the north.
THE BROOM DRILL.
Marches and drills by the little folks are always very attractive and entertaining. The preparation for these benefits young people by requiring them to move the body quickly and gracefully, assuming an erect attitude, then other positions at the word of command. Such exercises also aid in forming a habit of strict attention.
The Broom Drill is one of the most entertaining, and can readily be learned. It should be practiced until it can be performed promptly and without any mistakes. Twelve or sixteen girls—in fact, any even number, according to the size of the stage—may take part in it.
All should be dressed alike, in blouse waist of Turkey red chintz, sleeves and collar trimmed with white braid; skirt made of white cheese cloth, trimmed above the hem with band of red chintz, four or five inches wide; a red cap completes the costume.
During the marching there should be music, and the notes of the piano should be struck sharply. Any good march will answer for the music. The following exercises conform very nearly to the “Manual of Arms” used in the army. The cuts will be found very serviceable in showing the different positions.
Standing in rank near the front side of the stage, the teacher gives the command to “present arms,” “carry arms,” “trail arms,” etc. Each command consists of two words: the first is to indicate what the pupil is to do, and on the second word the movement is made, all acting in concert.
The following exercises are suitable for this drill, and always prove very entertaining to the audience.
Carry—Arms!—The broom is held in the right hand, handle upward, with the hand clasping the handle where it joins the brush. The left hand hangs at the side. (Fig. 1.)
Fig. 1.
Present—Arms!—Place the broom with the right hand in front of the centre of the body, clasping the handle with the left hand above the right. Hold the broom perfectly perpendicular. (Fig. 2.)
Fig. 2.
Order—Arms!—Let go the handle with the left hand, and carry the broom to the side with the right hand; then drop the broom to the floor. (Fig. 3.)
Fig. 3.
In place—Rest!—Grasp the handle with both hands, the left above the right, and place both hands in front of the lower part of the breast. (Fig. 4.)
Fig. 4.
Trail—Arms!—Grasp the handle with the right hand and incline it forward, the broom behind, resting on the floor. (Fig. 5.)
Fig. 5.
Attention—Charge!—Half face to the right, carrying the heel six inches to the rear and three inches to the right of the left, turning the toes of both feet slightly inward; at the same time drop the stick into the left hand, elbow against the body, point of stick at the height of the chin; right hand grasping the stick just above the brush and supporting it firmly against the right hip. (Fig. 6.)
Fig. 6.
Port—Arms!—Raise and throw the broom diagonally across the body; grasp it smartly with both hands, the right, palm down at the base of the stick; the left, palm up, thumb clasping stick; handle sloping to the left and crossing opposite the middle of left shoulder; right forearm horizontal; forearms and handle near the body. (Fig. 7.)
Fig. 7.
Secure—Arms!—Advance the broom slightly with the right hand, turn the handle to the front with the left hand. At the same time change the position of the right hand, placing it further up the handle, drop the handle to the front, placing the broom where joined with the handle, under the right arm. (Fig. 8.)
Fig. 8.
Reverse—Arms!—Lift the broom vertically with the right hand, clasp the stick with the left hand; then, with the right hand grasp the handle near the brush. Reverse the broom, the handle dropping to the front, the broom passing between the breast and right forearm. Press the handle under the arm with the left hand until the right elbow can hold it in place against the body; pass left hand behind the back and clasp the stick. (Fig. 9.)
Fig. 9.
Inspection—Arms!—This is executed from the “carry arms” position. Lift the broom quickly with the right hand, bringing it in front of the centre of the body; then grasp the handle with the left hand, placed near the chin, and hold it. (Fig. 10.)
Fig. 10.
MOVEMENTS OF ATTACK AND DEFENSE.
These can be executed only with open ranks, the pupils being placed seven or eight feet apart. To so place them, the teacher will give the order—
Right (or Left) open Ranks—March!—The pupils face to the right or left, according to the order given, except the one at the extreme end of the line. The others march, the last of the file halting at every four or five steps from the one in the rear, until all are the same distance apart. They then face front. To close the rank, turn to the right or left and march toward the pupil standing at the end until halted by the one ahead. Then face front.
Attention—Guard!—At the command guard, half face to the right, carry back and place the right foot about twice its length to the rear and nearly the same distance to the right, the feet at little less than a right angle, the right toe pointing squarely to the right, both knees bent slightly, weight of the body held equally on both legs; at the same time throw the end of the stick to the front, at the height of the chin, grasping it lightly with both hands, the right just above the brush, the left a few inches higher; the right hand in line with the left hip and both arms held free from the body and without constraint. (Fig. 11.)
Being at the Guard—Advance!—Move the left foot quickly forward, twice its length; follow with the right foot the same distance.
Fig. 11.
Retire!—Move the right foot quickly to the rear, twice its length; follow with the left foot the same distance.
Front—Pass!—Advance the right foot quickly, fifteen inches in front of the left, keeping right toe squarely to the right; advance the left foot to its relative position in front.
Rear—Pass!—Carry the left foot quickly fifteen inches to the rear of the right; place the right foot in its relative position in rear, keeping the right toe squarely to the right.
Right—Volt!—Face to the right, turning on the ball of the left foot, at the same time carry the right foot quickly to its position in rear.
Left—Volt!—Face to the left, turning on the ball of the left foot, at the same time carry the right foot quickly to its position in rear.
Right rear and left rear volts are similarly executed, facing about on the ball of the left foot.
Quarte—Parry!—Hold the broom in front of the left shoulder with the right hand, handle upward, the fingers of the left hand on the handle, the left elbow touching the right wrist. (Fig. 12.)
Fig. 12.
Seconde—Parry!—Move the point of the broom-handle quickly to the left, describing a semi-circle from left to right, the left elbow in front of the body, the flat of the broom under the right forearm, the right elbow two or three inches higher than the right shoulder. (Fig. 13.)
Fig. 13.
Prime—Parry.—Carry the broom to the left, covering the left shoulder, the handle downward, the left forearm behind the handle, the right arm in front of and above the eyes. (Fig. 14.)
Fig. 14.
THRUSTS.
To Thrust in Tierce.—Straighten the right leg, extend both arms, keeping point of handle at height of the breast, broom at right side of head. (Fig. 15.)
Fig. 15.
Thrust in Quarte.—The same as tierce, but with the broom on the left side of the head.
LUNGES.
The lunges are the same as the thrusts, except that the left foot is extended farther in front. (Fig. 16.)
Fig. 16.
Broom to Front—One!—Raise handle nearly straight up and down, drop it into the hollow of the right shoulder.—Two!—Strike quickly by pushing the broom forward, the handle always resting on the right shoulder. (Fig. 17.)
Fig. 17.
Right Short—Thrust!—One!—Hold the broom with the right hand to the rear, left hand by the right breast, the point of the handle opposite the centre of the body.—Two!—Thrust forward. (Fig. 18.)
Fig. 18.
High Prime—Parry!—Raise the broom with both hands in front of and higher than the head. Hold the handle firmly with the right hand, the broom being to the right; turn the knuckles of the left hand to the front, and let other end of broom handle rest on the thumb and forefinger. (Fig. 19.)
Fig. 19.
To Guard when Kneeling.—Bring the toe of the left foot square in front, plant the right foot to the rear, kneel on the right knee, bending the left, hold the broom at an angle of 45 degrees, pointing directly to the front, the right hand pressed firmly against the side, the left hand holding the point of handle upward. (Fig. 20.)
Fig. 20.
THE MARCH.
There should be music while the pupils are coming upon the stage and leaving. Any spirited march will answer.
Girls enter from right and left sides of stage at the back, eight on each side, and march in single files according to the diagram furnished below.
When they meet at C F, separate and march to L F and R F, then up sides of stage to back, then across back to C B. When they meet at C B, form couples and march in twos forward on centre line. At C F first couple turn to R F, second to L F, third to R F, fourth to L F, etc. March up sides to back, and when couples meet at C B march in fours to C F. First four turn to R F, second four to L F, etc. March up sides to back.
When the fours meet at C B, form eights and march toward front and halt for drill. During the march they “carry brooms” in the right hand, the stick resting against the right shoulder and nearly vertical, the arm hanging at nearly its full length near the body, the hand grasping the handle of the broom just above the sweep (the brush part), which rests flat against the side of skirt. The thumb and forefinger must be in front.