OLD-FASHIONED POEMS
THE MAN IN THE MOON
Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon,
"My!
Sakes!
What a lot o' mistakes
Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon!
But people that's been up to see him like Me,
And calls on him frequent and intimutly,
Might drop a few hints that would interest you
Clean!
Through!
If you wanted 'em to—
Some actual facts that might interest you!
"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back;
Whee!
Whimm!
Ain't you sorry for him?
And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;
And his eyes are so weak that they water and run
If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun,—
So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise—
My!
Eyes!
But isn't he wise—
To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?
"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear—
Whee!
Whing!
What a singular thing!
I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,—
There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,—
He calls it a dimple—but dimples stick in—
Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!
Whang!
Ho!
Why certainly so!—
It might be a dimple turned over, you know:
"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,
Gee!
Whizz!
What a pity that is!
And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.
So whenever he wants to go North he goes South,
And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth,
And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan,
Whing!
Whann!
What a marvelous man!
What a very remarkably marvelous man!
"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man,
"Gits!
So!
Sullonesome, you know!
Up there by himself since creation began!—
That when I call on him and then come away,
He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,—
Till—well, if it wasn't for Jimmy-cum-Jim,
Dadd!
Limb!
I'd go pardners with him!
Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"
James Whitcomb Riley
(From "The Raggedy Man," copyright 1907.
Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.)
SAGE COUNSEL
The lion is the beast to fight,
He leaps along the plain,
And if you run with all your might,
He runs with all his mane.
I'm glad I'm not a Hottentot,
But if I were, with outward cal-lum
I'd either faint upon the spot
Or hie me up a leafy pal-lum.
The chamois is the beast to hunt;
He's fleeter than the wind,
And when the chamois is in front,
The hunter is behind.
The Tyrolese make famous cheese
And hunt the chamois o'er the chaz-zums:
I'd choose the former if you please,
For precipices give me spaz-zums.
The polar bear will make a rug
Almost as white as snow;
But if he gets you in his hug,
He rarely lets you go.
And Polar ice looks very nice,
With all the colors of a pris-sum;
But, if you'll follow my advice,
Stay home and learn your catechis-sum.
Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch
LIMERICKS
There was an Old Man in a tree,
Who was horribly bored by a Bee;
When they said, "Does it buzz?" he replied,
"Yes, it does!
It's a regular brute of a Bee."
There was an Old Man on some rocks,
Who shut his Wife up in a box:
When she said, "Let me out," he exclaimed,
"Without doubt
You will pass all your life in that box."
There was an Old Man who said "How
Shall I flee from this horrible Cow?
I will sit on this stile, and continue to smile,
Which may soften the heart of that Cow."
There was an Old Man who said, "Hush!
I perceive a young bird in this bush!"
When they said, "Is it small?" he replied, "Not at all;
It is four times as big as the bush!"
There was once an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
Two Owls and a Hen,
Four Larks and a Wren
Have all built their nests in my beard."
There was an old person of Ware
Who rode on the back of a bear;
When they said, "Does it trot?"
He said, "Certainly not,
It's a Moppsikon Floppsikon bear."
There was a young lady in blue,
Who said, "Is it you? Is it you?"
When they said, "Yes, it is," she replied only,
"Whizz!"
That ungracious young lady in blue.
Edward Lear
MORE LIMERICKS
There was a small boy of Quebec,
Who was buried in snow to his neck;
When they said. "Are you friz?"
He replied, "Yes, I is—
But we don't call this cold in Quebec."
Rudyard Kipling
There was a young lady of Niger
Who smiled as she rode on a Tiger;
They came back from the ride
With the lady inside,
And the smile on the face of the Tiger.
There was a young maid who said, "Why
Can't I look in my ear with my eye?
If I give my mind to it,
I'm sure I can do it—
You never can tell till you try."
Anonymous
THE DEAD DOLL
You needn't be trying to comfort me—I tell you my dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't, with a crack like that in her head.
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day;
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.
And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue:
As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
You might make her look all mended—but what do I care for looks?
Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys and the backs of books!
My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf.
Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself!
I think you must be crazy—you'll get her another head!
What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!
And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new spring hat!
And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat!
When my mamma gave me that ribbon—I was playing out in the yard—
She said to me, most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;
But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"
But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.
But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course:
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I'll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in this, you see—
This dear little box—and we'll bury her there out under the maple-tree.
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he'll put what I tell him on it—yes, every single word!
I shall say: "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."
Margaret Vandergrift
LITTLE THINGS
Little drops of water
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean,
And the pleasant land.
Thus the little moments,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.
Thus our little errors
Lead the soul away
From the path of virtue,
Off in sin to stray.
Little deeds of kindness,
Little words of love,
Make our earth an Eden,
Like the heaven above.
Ascribed to Julia A. F. Carney
THE GOLDEN RULE
To do to others as I would
That they should do to me,
Will make me gentle, kind, and good,
As children ought to be.
Unknown
DO THE BEST YOU CAN
If I was a cobbler it should be my pride
The best of all cobblers to be;
If I was a tinker, no tinker beside
Should mend an old kettle like me.
Unknown
THE VOICE OF SPRING
I am coming, I am coming!
Hark! the little bee is humming;
See, the lark is soaring high
In the blue and sunny sky;
And the gnats are on the wing,
Wheeling round in airy ring.
See, the yellow catkins cover
All the slender willows over!
And on the banks of mossy green
Star-like primroses are seen;
And, their clustering leaves below,
White and purple violets grow.
Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating
And the cawing rooks are meeting
In the elms,—a noisy crowd;
All the birds are singing loud;
And the first white butterfly
In the sunshine dances by.
Look around thee, look around!
Flowers in all the fields abound;
Every running stream is bright;
All the orchard trees are white;
And each small and waving shoot
Promises sweet flowers and fruit.
THE LARK AND THE ROOK
"Good night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark.
"The daylight fades; it will soon be dark;
I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;
I've sung my hymn to the parting day;
So now I haste to my quiet nook
In yon dewy meadow—good night, Sir Rook!"
"Good night, poor Lark," said his titled friend
With a haughty toss and a distant bend;
"I also go to my rest profound,
But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.
The fittest place for a bird like me
Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree.
"I opened my eyes at peep of day
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams;
Soaring too high to be seen or heard;
And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'
"I trod the park with a princely air,
I filled my crop with the richest fare;
I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,
And I made more noise in the world than you!
The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;
I looked and wondered—good night, poor thing!"
"Good night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice.
"I see no cause to repent my choice;
You build your nest in the lofty pine,
But is your slumber more sweet than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I,
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"
Unknown
THANKSGIVING DAY
Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river and through the wood—
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
"Ting-a-ling-ding!"
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting-hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate
We seem to go
Extremely slow,—
It is so hard to wait!
Over the river and through the wood—
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie?
Lydia Maria Child
THE MAGPIE'S NEST
A FABLE
When the Arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis express'd
A wise magpie constructed that rare
Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.
This was talk'd of the whole country round;
You might hear it on every bough sung,
"Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young:"
"For the magpie with exquisite skill
Has invented a moss-cover'd cell
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell."
Unknown
THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW
A MIDSUMMER LEGEND
"And where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?"
"I've been to the top of the Caldon Low,
The midsummer-night to see."
"And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon Low?"
"I saw the glad sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow."
"And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon hill?"
"I heard the drops of the water made.
And the ears of the green corn fill."
"Oh! tell me all, my Mary—
All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies,
Last night on the Caldon Low."
"Then take me on your knee, mother;
And listen, mother of mine:
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine;"
"And their harp-strings rung so merrily
To their dancing feet so small;
But oh! the words of their talking
Were merrier far than all."
"And what were the words, my Mary,
That then you heard them say?"
"I'll tell you all, my mother;
But let me have my way.
"Some of them played with the water,
And rolled it down the hill;
'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn
The poor old miller's mill;
"'For there has been no water
Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man will the miller be
At dawning of the day.
"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh
When he sees the mill-dam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh
Till the tears fill both his eyes!'
"And some they seized the little winds
That sounded over the hill;
And each put a horn unto his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill;
"'And there,' they said, 'the merry winds go
Away from every horn;
And they shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow's corn.
"'Oh! the poor, blind widow,
Though she has been blind so long,
She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone,
And the corn stands tall and strong.'
"And some they brought the brown lint-seed,
And flung it down from the Low;
'And this,' they said, 'by sunrise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow.
"'Oh! the poor, lame weaver,
How will he laugh outright
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!'
"And then outspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin;
'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,
'And I want some more to spin.
"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another;
A little sheet for Mary's bed,
And an apron for her mother.
"With that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon Low
There was no one left but me.
"And on the top of the Caldon Low
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.
"But, coming down from the hill-top,
I heard afar below,
How busy the jolly miller was,
And how the wheel did go.
"And I peeped into the widow's field,
And, sure enough, were seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn,
All standing stout and green.
"And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were sprung;
And I met the weaver at his gate,
With the good news on his tongue.
"Now this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother,
For I'm tired as I can be."
Mary Howitt
THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing.
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.
Robert Louis Stevenson
A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS
'T was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,—
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid, on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys,—and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
Clement Clarke Moore
LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' 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-an'-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!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,—
So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubbyhole, an press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!
An' the Gobble-uns 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' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist 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 yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
James Whitcomb Riley
(From "Riley Child Rhymes," copyright, 1899.
Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.)
THE CHATTERBOX
From morning to night 't was Lucy's delight
To chatter and talk without stopping;
There was not a day but she rattled away,
Like water forever a-dropping!
As soon as she rose, while she put on her clothes,
'Twas vain to endeavor to still her;
Nor once did she lack to continue her clack,
Till again she lay down on her pillow.
You'll think now, perhaps, there would have been gaps,
If she hadn't been wonderful clever;
That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate
That it would be forthcoming forever.
But that's quite absurd; for have you not heard,
Much tongue and few brains are connected,
That they are supposed to think least who talk most,
And their wisdom is always suspected?
While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue
With a little good sense and exertion,
Who knows but she might have been our delight,
Instead of our jest and aversion?
Ann Taylor
THE VOICE OF SPRING
I come, I come! ye have called me long;
I come o'er the mountains, with light and song.
Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veiled with wreathes on Italian plains;
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main.
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
THE HISTORY LESSON
There was a monkey climbed up a tree,
When he fell down, then down fell he.
There was a crow sat on a stone,
When he was gone, then there was none.
There was an old wife did eat an apple,
When she had eat two, she had eat a couple.
There was a horse going to the mill,
When he went on, he stood not still.
There was a butcher cut his thumb,
When it did bleed, then blood did come.
There was a lackey ran a race,
When he ran fast, he ran apace.
There was a cobbler clouting shoon,
When they were mended, they were done.
There was a chandler making candle,
When he them strip, he did them handle.
There was a navy went into Spain,
When it returned, it came again.
Anonymous
SONG OF LIFE
A traveller on a dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening-time,
To breathe its early vows;
And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore—
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well
Where weary men might turn,
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle on the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again; and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parchéd tongues,
And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid the crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied from the heart,
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath,
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But mighty at the last.
Charles Mackay
THE GOOD TIME COMING
There's a good time coming, boys.
A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought's a weapon stronger;
We'll win our battle by its aid;—
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;—
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys
A good time coming:
War in all men's eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity
In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger;
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake;—
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp;—
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
And a poor man's family
Shall not be his misery
In the good time coming.
Every child shall be a help
To make his right arm stronger;
The happier he, the more he has:—
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Little children shall not toil
Under, or above, the soil
In the good time coming;
But shall play in healthful fields,
Till limbs and mind grow stronger;
And every one shall read and write;—
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate,
In the good time coming.
They shall use, and not abuse,
And make all virtue stronger;
The reformation has begun;—
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,
The good time coming:
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger;
'T will be strong enough one day;—
Wait a little longer.
Charles Mackay
WINDY NIGHTS
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet.
A man goes riding by,
Late at night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
Robert Louis Stevenson
THE WONDERFUL WORLD
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast,
World, you are beautifully drest.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree—
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the top of the hills.
You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,
I hardly can think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,
"If the wonderful World is great to you,
And great to father and mother, too,
You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"
William Brighty Rands
HARK! HARK! THE LARK
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phœbus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise.
William Shakespeare
JOG ON, JOG ON
Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
William Shakespeare
SWEET STORY OF OLD
I think when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men,
How He call'd little children as lambs to His fold,
I should like to have been with them then.
I wish that His hands had been placed on my head,
That His arm had been thrown around me,
And that I might have seen His kind look when He said,
"Let the little ones come unto me."
Yet still to His footstool in prayer I may go,
And ask for a share in His love;
And if I thus earnestly seek Him below,
I shall see Him and hear Him above;
In that beautiful place He has gone to prepare
For all who are washed and forgiven;
And many dear children shall be with Him there,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven.
But thousands and thousands who wander and fall,
Never heard of that heavenly home;
I wish they could know there is room for them all,
And that Jesus has bid them to come.
Jemima Luke
MY SHADOW
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see,
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed!
Robert Louis Stevenson
BY COOL SILOAM'S SHADY RILL
By cool Siloam's shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's dewy rose!
Lo, such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God.
By cool Siloam's shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man's maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,
And stormy passion's rage.
O Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father's shrine,
Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned,
Were all alike divine;
Dependent on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still thine own.
Reginald Heber
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 madcap 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 fields it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.
It plucked by their tails the grave, matronly cows,
And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows,
Till, offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.
So on it went, capering and playing its pranks;
Whistling with reeds on the broad river banks;
Puffing the birds, as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveler grave on the King's highway.
It was not too nice to bustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags,
'T was so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig, and 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 it cracked their great branches through and through.
Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm,
Striking their inmates with sudden alarm;
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.
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 had passed on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy, 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.
William Howitt
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair, sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight:
Where are those sleepers now?
One, midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one;
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;
He wrapped the colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one—o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers—
The last of that fair band.
And parted thus, they rest who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee.
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth;
Alas for love! if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O earth!
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
WE ARE SEVEN
. . . A simple child
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage-girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were bright, and very fair—
Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wond'ring looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven?—I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be?"
Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive:
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied;
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit—
I sit and sing to them.
"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.
"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
The little maiden did reply,
"O master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; these two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'T was throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
William Wordsworth
THE BETTER LAND
"I hear thee speak of the better land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fireflies dance through the myrtle boughs?"—
"Not there, not there my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"—
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"—
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy;
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,—
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!"
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
THE JUVENILE ORATOR
You'd scarce expect one of my age
To speak in public, on the stage;
And if I chance to fall below
Demosthenes or Cicero,
Don't view me with a critic's eye,
But pass my imperfections by.
Large streams from little fountains flow;
Tall oaks from little acorns grow;
And though I now am small and young,
Of judgment weak, and feeble tongue,
Yet all great learned men—like me—
Once learned to read their A, B, C.
And why may not Columbia's soil
Rear men as great as Britain's isle,
Exceed what Greece and Rome have done,
Or any land beneath the sun?
May n't Massachusetts prove as great
As any other sister state?
Or, where's the town, go far or near,
That does not find a rival here?
Or, where 's the boy but three feet high
Who's made improvement more than I?
Those thoughts inspire my youthful mind
To be the greatest of mankind;
Great, not like Cæsar, stained with blood;
But only great, as I am good.
David Everett
THE FOX AND THE CROW
A FABLE
The fox and the crow,
In prose, I well know,
Many good little girls can rehearse:
Perhaps it will tell
Pretty nearly as well,
If we try the same fable in verse.
In a dairy a crow,
Having ventured to go,
Some food for her young ones to seek,
Flew up in the trees,
With a fine piece of cheese,
Which she joyfully held in her beak.
A fox, who lived by,
To the tree saw her fly,
And to share in the prize made a vow;
For having just dined,
He for cheese felt inclined,
So he went and sat under the bough.
She was cunning, he knew,
But so was he too,
And with flattery adapted his plan;
For he knew if she'd speak,
It must fall from her beak,
So, bowing politely, began.
"'T is a very fine day"
(Not a word did she say):
"The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south:
A fine harvest for peas:"
He then looked at the cheese,
But the crow did not open her mouth.
Sly Reynard, not tired,
Her plumage admired,
"How charming! how brilliant its hue!
The voice must be fine,
Of a bird so divine,
Ah, let me just hear it, pray do.
"Believe me, I long
To hear a sweet song!"
The silly crow foolishly tries:
She scarce gave one squall,
When the cheese she let fall,
And the fox ran away with the prize.
MORAL
Ye innocent fair,
Of coxcombs beware,
To flattery never give ear;
Try well each pretense,
And keep to plain sense,
And then you have little to fear.
Little B. (Taylor?)
THE USE OF FLOWERS
God might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.
The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night,—
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountain high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by?
Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?—
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth;
To comfort man, to whisper hope
Whene'er his faith is dim;
For Whoso careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him.
Mary Howitt
CONTENTED JOHN
One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,
Although he was poor, did not want to be richer;
For all such vain wishes in him were prevented
By a fortunate habit of being contented.
Though cold was the weather, or dear was the food,
John never was found in a murmuring mood;
For this he was constantly heard to declare,—
What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.
"For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said;
"If I cannot get meat, I can surely get bread;
And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper,
It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper."
If John was afflicted with sickness or pain,
He wished himself better, but did not complain,
Nor lie down and fret in despondence and sorrow,
But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.
If any one wronged him or treated him ill,
Why, John was good-natured and sociable still;
For he said that revenging the injury done
Would be making two rogues when there need be but one,
And thus honest John, though his station was humble,
Passed through this sad world without even a grumble;
And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer,
Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.
Jane Taylor
THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried;
"The few locks which are left you are gray;
You are hale, Father William—a hearty old man:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remembered that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigor at first,
That I never might need them at last."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away;
And yet you lament not the days that are gone:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remembered that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied;
"Let the cause thy attention engage:
In the days of my youth I remembered my God;
And he hath not forgotten my age."
Robert Southey
THE FROST
The frost looked forth on a still, clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
I'll silently take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they!"
He flew up, and powdered the mountain's crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
With diamonds and pearls;—and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A bright coat of mail, that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock was rearing its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepped—
Most beautiful things were seen
By morning's first light! There were flowers and trees,
With bevies of birds and swarms of bright bees;
There were cities—temples, and towers; and these,
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But one thing he did that was hardly fair—
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That none had remembered for him to prepare,
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite their rich basket of fruit," said he,
"This burly old pitcher—I'll burst it in three!
And the glass with the water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"
Hannah Flagg Gould
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
"'T is some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many hereabout;
And often, when I go to plow
The plowshare turns them out!
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 't was all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
While little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 't was a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly:
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then
And new-born baby died:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why 't was a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay—nay—my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"And what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 't was a famous victory."
Robert Southey
THE CHAMELEON
A FABLE
FROM M. DE LAMOTTE
Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes, that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever could be seen,
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The traveled fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow,
I've seen—and sure I ought to know,"
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travelers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed
And on their way in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that,
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter.
Of the chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun.
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace; and then its hue—
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"
"Hold, there," the other quick replies,
"'T is green, I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray:
Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed
And saw it eat the air for food."
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extending in the cooling shade."
"'T is green, 't is green, sir I assure ye!"
"Green!" cries the other in a fury—
"Why, sir!—d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"
"'T were no great loss," the friend replies,
"For, if they always serve you thus,
You'll find them of but little use."
So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows;
When luckily came by a third—
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother!
The creature's neither one nor t' other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candlelight:
I marked it well—'t was black as jet—
You stare—but sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do:
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."
"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."
He said: then full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!—'t was white.
Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise—
"My children," the chameleon cries,
(Then first the creature found a tongue,)
"You are all right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you;
Nor wonder, if you find that none
Prefers your eyesight to his own."
James Merrick
THE BLACKBERRY GIRL
"Why, Phebe, are you come so soon?
Where are your berries, child?
You cannot, sure, have sold them all,
You had a basket piled."
"No, mother, as I climbed the fence,
The nearest way to town,
My apron caught upon the stake,
And so I tumbled down.
"I scratched my arm and tore my hair,
But still did not complain;
And had my blackberries been safe,
Should not have cared a grain.
"But when I saw them on the ground.
All scattered by my side,
I picked my empty basket up,
And down I sat and cried.
"Just then a pretty little Miss
Chanced to be walking by;
She stopped, and looking pitiful,
She begged me not to cry.
"'Poor little girl, you fell,' said she,
'And must be sadly hurt;'
'Oh, no,' I cried; 'but see my fruit,
All mixed with sand and dirt.'
"'Well, do not grieve for that,' she said;
'Go home, and get some more,'
'Ah, no, for I have stripped the vines,
These were the last they bore.
"'My father, Miss, is very poor,
And works in yonder stall;
He has so many little ones,
He cannot clothe us all.
"'I always longed to go to church,
But never could I go;
For when I asked him for a gown,
He always answered, "No.
"'"There's not a father in the world
That loves his children more;
I'd get you one with all my heart,
But, Phebe, I am poor."
"'But when the blackberries were ripe,
He said to me one day,
"Phebe, if you will take the time
That's given you for play,
"'"And gather blackberries enough,
And carry them to town,
To buy your bonnet and your shoes,
I'll try to get a gown."
"'Oh, Miss, I fairly jumped for joy,
My spirits were so light;
And so, when I had leave to play,
I picked with all my might.
"'I sold enough to get my shoes,
About a week ago;
And these, if they had not been spilt,
Would buy a bonnet, too.
"'But now they're gone, they all are gone,
And I can get no more,
And Sundays I must stay at home,
Just as I did before.'
"And, mother, then I cried again
As hard as I could cry;
And looking up, I saw a tear
Was standing in her eye.
"She caught her bonnet from her head,
'Here, here,' she cried, 'take this!'
'Oh, no, indeed—I fear your ma
Would be offended, Miss.'
"'My ma! no, never; she delights
All sorrow to beguile;
And 't is the sweetest joy she feels,
To make the wretched smile.
"'She taught me when I had enough,
To share it with the poor;
And never let a needy child,
Go empty from the door.
"'So take it, for you need not fear
Offending her, you see;
I have another, too, at home,
And one's enough for me,'
"So then I took it—here it is—
For pray what could I do?
And, mother, I shall love that Miss
As long as I love you."
Unknown
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY
A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME
PART I
"Arise, my maiden, Mabel,"
The mother said; "arise,
For the golden sun of midsummer
Is shining in the skies.
"Arise, my little maiden,
For thou must speed away,
To wait upon thy grandmother
This livelong summer day.
"And thou must carry with thee
This wheaten cake so fine,
This new-made pat of butter,
This little flask of wine;
"And tell the dear old body,
This day I cannot come,
For the goodman went out yestermorn.
And he is not come home.
"And more than this, poor Amy
Upon my knee doth lie;
I fear me, with this fever pain
The little child will die!
"And thou canst help thy grandmother:
The table thou canst spread;
Canst feed the little dog and bird;
And thou canst make her bed.
"And thou canst fetch the water
From the lady-well hard by;
And thou canst gather from the wood
The fagots brown and dry;
"Canst go down to the lonesome glen,
To milk the mother ewe;
This is the work, my Mabel,
That thou wilt have to do.
"But listen now, my Mabel,
This is midsummer day,
When all the fairy people
From elfland come away.
"And when thou 'rt in the lonesome glen,
Keep by the running burn,
And do not pluck the strawberry flower,
Nor break the lady-fern.
"But think not of the fairy folk,
Lest mischief should befall;
Think only of poor Amy,
And how thou lov'st us all.
"Yet keep good heart, my Mabel,
If thou the fairies see,
And give them kindly answer
If they should speak to thee.
"And when into the fir-wood
Thou goest for fagots brown,
Do not, like idle children,
Go wandering up and down.
"But fill thy little apron,
My child, with earnest speed;
And that thou break no living bough
Within the wood take heed.
"For they are spiteful brownies
Who in the wood abide;
So be thou careful of this thing,
Lest evil should betide.
"But think not, little Mabel,
Whilst thou art in the wood,
Of dwarfish, willful brownies,
But of the Father good.
"And when thou goest to the spring
To fetch the water thence,
Do not disturb the little stream,
Lest this should give offense.
"For the queen of all the fairies,
She loves that water bright;
I've seen her drinking there myself
On many a summer night.
"But she's a gracious lady,
And her thou need'st not fear;
Only disturb thou not the stream,
Nor spill the water clear."
"Now all this I will heed, mother,
Will no word disobey,
And wait upon the grandmother
This livelong summer day."
PART II
Away tripped little Mabel,
With the wheaten cake so fine,
With the new-made pat of butter,
And the little flask of wine.
And long before the sun was hot,
And the summer mist had cleared,
Beside the good old grandmother
The willing child appeared.
And all her mother's message
She told with right good-will,
How that the father was away,
And the little child was ill.
And then she swept the hearth up clean,
And then the table spread;
And next she fed the dog and bird;
And then she made the bed.
"And go now," said the grandmother,
"Ten paces down the dell,
And bring in water for the day,—
Thou know'st the lady-well."
The first time that good Mabel went,
Nothing at all saw she,
Except a bird, a sky-blue bird,
That sat upon a tree.
The next time that good Mabel went,
There sat a lady bright
Beside the well,—a lady small,
All clothed in green and white.
A courtesy low made Mabel,
And then she stooped to fill
Her pitcher at the sparkling spring,
But no drop did she spill.
"Thou art a handy maiden,"
The fairy lady said;
"Thou hast not spilt a drop, nor yet
The fairy spring troubled!
"And for this thing which thou hast done,
Yet mayst not understand,
I give to thee a better gift
Than houses or than land.
"Thou shalt do well whate'er thou dost,
As thou hast done this day;
Shalt have the will and power to please,
And shalt be loved alway."
Thus having said, she passed from sight,
And naught could Mabel see,
But the little bird, the sky-blue bird,
Upon the leafy tree.
"And now go," said the grandmother,
"And fetch in fagots dry;
All in the neighboring fir-wood
Beneath the trees they lie."
Away went kind, good Mabel,
Into the fir-wood near,
Where all the ground was dry and brown.
And the grass grew thin and sear.
She did not wander up and down,
Nor yet a live branch pull,
But steadily of the fallen boughs
She picked her apron full.
And when the wildwood brownies
Came sliding to her mind,
She drove them thence, as she was told,
With home thoughts sweet and kind.
But all that while the brownies
Within the fir-wood still,
They watched her how she picked the wood,
And strove to do no ill.
"And, oh, but she is small and neat,"
Said one; "'t were shame to spite
A creature so demure and meek,
A creature harmless quite!"
"Look only," said another,
"At her little gown of blue;
At her kerchief pinned about her head,
And at her little shoe!"
"Oh, but she is a comely child,"
Said a third; "and we will lay
A good-luck penny in her path,
A boon for her this day,—
Seeing she broke no living wood;
No live thing did affray!"
With that the smallest penny,
Of the finest silver ore,
Upon the dry and slippery path,
Lay Mabel's feet before.
With joy she picked the penny up,
The fairy penny good;
And with her fagots dry and brown
Went wandering from the wood.
"Now she has that," said the brownies,
"Let flax be ever so dear,
'T will buy her clothes of the very best,
For many and many a year!"
"And go now," said the grandmother,
"Since falling is the dew,
Go down unto the lonesome glen,
And milk the mother ewe!"
All down into the lonesome glen,
Through copses thick and wild,
Through moist rank grass, by trickling streams,
Went on the willing child.
And when she came to the lonesome glen,
She kept beside the burn,
And neither plucked the strawberry flower
Nor broke the lady fern.
And while she milked the mother ewe
Within this lonesome glen,
She wished that little Amy
Were strong and well again.
And soon as she thought this thought,
She heard a coming sound,
As if a thousand fairy folk
Were gathering all around.
And then she heard a little voice,
Shrill as the midge's wing,
That spake aloud,—"A human child
Is here; yet mark this thing,—
"The lady-fern is all unbroke,
The strawberry flower unta'en!
What shall be done for her who still
From mischief can refrain?"
"Give her a fairy cake!" said one;
"Grant her a wish!" said three;
"The latest wish that she hath wished,"
Said all, "whate'er it be!"
Kind Mabel heard the words they spake,
And from the lonesome glen
Unto the good old grandmother
Went gladly back again.
Thus happened it to Mabel
On that midsummer day,
And these three fairy blessings
She took with her away.
'T is good to make all duty sweet,
To be alert and kind;
'T is good, like little Mabel,
To have a willing mind.
Mary Howitt
LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheer'ly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam,
The flower of all his race?
So true, so brave—a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase."
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,
His fav'rite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn passed
(And on went Gelert too),
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood gouts shocked his view!
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained cover rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child—no voice replied;
He searched with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child!
"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured!"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!
Concealed beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kissed!
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,—
Tremendous still in death!
Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue!"
And now a gallant tomb they raised,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Here never could the spearmen pass,
Or forester, unmoved,
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
William Robert Spencer
THE SNOWBIRD'S SONG
The ground was all covered with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snowbird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee.
He had not been singing that tune very long,
Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song:
"Oh, sister, look out of the window," said she;
"Here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee.
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
"Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat if he choose;
I wish he'd come into the parlor and see
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee."
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
"There is one, my dear child, though I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too.
Good morning! Oh, who are so happy as we?"
And away he went singing his chick-a-de-dee.
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
Francis C. Woodworth
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT
Is there for honest poverty
Wha hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,—
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,—
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that—
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,—
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that;
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,—
As come it will for a' that,—
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that,—
When man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that!
Robert Burns