V

Then they whispered to each other,
"O delightful little brother,
What a lovely walk we've taken!
Let us dine on beans and bacon."
So the Ducky and the leetle
Browny-Mousy and the Beetle
Dined, and danced upon their heads
Till they toddled to their beds.

Edward Lear.

Feeding the Fairies

Fairies, fairies, come and be fed,
Come and be fed like hens and cocks;
Hither and thither with delicate tread,
Flutter around me in fairy flocks.
Come, little fairies, from far and near;
Come, little fairies, I know you can fly;
Who can be dear if you are not dear?
And who is so fond of a fairy as I?

Fairies, fairies, come if you please,
Nod your heads and ruffle your wings,
Marching in order or standing at ease,
Frolicsome fairies are dear little things!
Golden the grain and silver the rice,
Pleasant the crumbs from Mama's own bread,
Currants pick'd out of the pudding are nice—
Fairies, fairies, come and be fed!

Hushaby, oh! hushaby, oh!
Hide by the door—keep very still—
I must be gentle, I must speak low,
Or frighten the fairies I certainly will.
Fairies are easily frighten'd, I know;
They are so small, we must pity their fears.
Hushaby, oh! hushaby, oh!
Coax them and humour them—poor little dears!

Fairies, fairies, why don't you come?
Fairies, fairies, wherefore delay?
In a few minutes I must run home—
Cross little creatures! you know I can't stay!
See how I scatter your beautiful food—
Good little fairies would come when I call;
Fairies, fairies, won't you be good?
What is the use of my speaking at all?

"Two Friends."

The Fairy

Oh, who is so merry
As the light-hearted fairy?
He dances and sings
To the sound of his wings,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!

Oh, who is so merry
As the light-hearted fairy?
His nectar he sips
From the primrose's lips,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!

Oh, who is so merry
As the light-hearted fairy?
His night is the noon,
And his sun is the moon,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!

Unknown.

V

THE QUEEN-MOTHER'S COUNSEL

A Thought[7]

It is very nice to think
The world is full of meat and drink,
With little children saying grace
In every Christian kind of place.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

[7] From "Poems and Ballads," copyright, 1895, 1896, by Chas. Scribner's Sons.

Inscription for My Little Son's Silver Plate[8]

When thou dost eat from off this plate,
I charge thee be thou temperate;
Unto thine elders at the board
Do thou sweet reverence accord;
And, though to dignity inclined,
Unto the serving-folk be kind;
Be ever mindful of the poor,
Nor turn them hungry from the door;
And unto God, for health and food
And all that in thy life is good,
Give thou thy heart in gratitude.

Eugene Field.

[8] From "The Book of Joyous Children," copyright, 1902, by Chas. Scribner's Sons.

Praise God

Praise God for wheat, so white and sweet.
Of which to make our bread!
Praise God for yellow corn, with which
His waiting world is fed!
Praise God for fish and flesh and fowl
He gave to men for food!
Praise God for every creature which
He made and called it good!

Praise God for winter's store of ice,
Praise God for summer's heat!
Praise God for fruit trees bearing seed,
"To you it is for meat!"
Praise God for all the bounty
By which the world is fed!
Praise God, ye children all, to whom
He gives your daily bread!

Unknown.

The Eyes of God

God watches o'er us all the day,
At home, at school, and at our play;
And when the sun has left the skies
He watches with a million eyes.

Gabriel Setoun.

Kindness to Animals

Little children, never give
Pain to things that feel and live:
Let the gentle robin come
For the crumbs you save at home,—
As his meat you throw along
He'll repay you with a song;
Never hurt the timid hare
Peeping from her green grass lair,
Let her come and sport and play
On the lawn at close of day;
The little lark goes soaring high
To the bright windows of the sky,
Singing as if 'twere always spring,
And fluttering on an untired wing,—
Oh! let him sing his happy song,
Nor do these gentle creatures wrong.

Unknown.

How Doth the Little Busy Bee

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flow'r!

How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for ev'ry day
Some good account at last.

Isaac Watts.

Deeds of Kindness

Suppose the little cowslip
Should hang its golden cup,
And say, "I'm such a tiny flower,
I'd better not grow up."
How many a weary traveller
Would miss its fragrant smell!
How many a little child would grieve
To lose it from the dell!

Suppose the glistening dewdrop
Upon the grass should say,
"What can a little dewdrop do?
I'd better roll away."
The blade on which it rested,
Before the day was done,
Without a drop to moisten it,
Would wither in the sun.

Suppose the little breezes,
Upon a summer's day,
Should think themselves too small to cool
The traveller on his way:
Who would not miss the smallest
And softest ones that blow,
And think they made a great mistake,
If they were talking so?

How many deeds of kindness
A little child may do,
Although it has so little strength,
And little wisdom too!
It wants a loving spirit,
Much more than strength, to prove
How many things a child may do
For others by its love.

F. P.

Good Advice

Seldom "can't,"
Seldom "don't";
Never "shan't,"
Never "won't."

Christina G. Rossetti.

I'll Try

Two Robin Redbreasts built their nest
Within a hollow tree;
The hen sat quietly at home,
The cock sang merrily;
And all the little robins said:
"Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee."

One day the sun was warm and bright,
And shining in the sky,
Cock Robin said: "My little dears,
'Tis time you learned to fly";
And all the little young ones said:
"I'll try, I'll try, I'll try."

I know a child, and who she is
I'll tell you by and by,
When mother says "Do this," or "that,"
She says "What for?" and "Why?"
She'd be a better child by far
If she would say "I'll try."

Unknown.

Clothes

Although my clothes are fine and gay
They should not make me vain,
For Nurse can take them all away,
And put them on again.

Each flower grows her pretty gown,
So does each little weed,
Their dresses are their very own,
They may be proud indeed!

Abbie Farwell Brown.

A Music Box

I am a little Music Box
Wound up and made to go,
And play my little living-tune
The best way that I know.

If I am naughty, cross, or rude
The music will go wrong,
My little works be tangled up,
And spoil the pretty song.

I must be very sweet and good
And happy all the day,
And then the little Music Box
In tune will always play.

Abbie Farwell Brown.

If Ever I See

If ever I see,
On bush or tree,
Young birds in their pretty nest,
I must not in play,
Steal the birds away,
To grieve their mother's breast.

My mother, I know,
Would sorrow so,
Should I be stolen away;
So I'll speak to the birds
In my softest words,
Nor hurt them in my play.

And when they can fly
In the bright blue sky,
They'll warble a song to me;
And then if I'm sad
It will make me glad
To think they are happy and free.

Lydia Maria Child.

Employment

Who'll come and play with me here under the tree,
My sisters have left me alone;
My sweet little Sparrow, come hither to me,
And play with me while they are gone.

O no, little lady, I can't come, indeed,
I've no time to idle away,
I've got all my dear little children to feed,
And my nest to new cover with hay.

Pretty Bee, do not buzz about over the flower,
But come here and play with me, do:
The Sparrow won't come and stay with me an hour
But stay, pretty Bee—will not you?

O no, little lady, for do not you see,
Those must work who would prosper and thrive,
If I play, they would call me a sad idle bee,
And perhaps turn me out of the hive.

Stop! stop! little Ant—do not run off so fast,
Wait with me a little and play:
I hope I shall find a companion at last,
You are not so busy as they.

O no, little lady, I can't stay with you,
We're not made to play, but to labor:
I always have something or other to do,
If not for myself, for a neighbor.

What then, have they all some employment but me,
Who lie lounging here like a dunce?
O then, like the Ant, and the Sparrow, and Bee,
I'll go to my lesson at once.

Jane Taylor.

Stitching

A pocket handkerchief to hem—
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
How many stitches it will take
Before it's done, I fear.

Yet set a stitch and then a stitch,
And stitch and stitch away,
Till stitch by stitch the hem is done—
And after work is play!

Christina G. Rossetti.

Learning to Play

Upon a tall piano stool
I have to sit and play
A stupid finger exercise
For half an hour a day.

They call it "playing," but to me
It's not a bit of fun.
I play when I am out of doors,
Where I can jump and run.

But Mother says the little birds
Who sing so nicely now,
Had first to learn, and practice too,
All sitting on a bough.

And maybe if I practice hard,
Like them, I too, some day,
Shall make the pretty music sound;
Then I shall call it "play."

Abbie Farwell Brown.

In Trust[9]

It's coming, boys,
It's almost here;
It's coming, girls,
The grand New Year!

A year to be glad in,
Not to be bad in;
A year to live in,
To gain and give in;
A year for trying,
And not for sighing;
A year for striving
And hearty thriving;
A bright new year.
Oh! hold it dear;
For God who sendeth
He only lendeth.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

[9] From "Rhymes and Jingles," copyright, 1874, 1904, by Chas. Scribner's Sons.

VI

THE PALACE BED-TIME

Watching Angels

Angels at the foot,
And Angels at the head,
And like a curly little lamb
My pretty babe in bed.

Christina G. Rossetti.

The Story of Baby's Blanket

Once a little Baby,
On a sunny day,
Out among the daisies
Took his happy way.
Little lambs were frisking
In the fields so green,
While the fleecy mothers
All at rest were seen.

For a while the Baby
Played and played and played;
Then he sat and rested
In the pleasant shade.
Soon a Sheep came near him,
Growing very bold,
And this wondrous story
To the Baby told:

"Baby's little blanket,
Socks and worsted ball,
Winter cap and mittens,
And his flannels all,
And his pretty afghan
Warm and soft and fine,
Once as wool were growing
On this back of mine!

"And the soft bed blankets,
For his cosey sleep,
These were also given
By his friends, the sheep."
Such the wondrous story
That the Baby heard:
Did he understand it?
Not a single word!

Emilie Poulsson.

The Story of Baby's Pillow

These are the Eggs that were put in a nest;
These are the Goslings in yellow down drest.

This is the Farmyard where, living in peace,
All the young Goslings grew up to be Geese.

Here's the Goose family waddling about—
In a procession they always walk out.

This is the Farmer who said, "Every Goose
Now has some feathers on, ready for use."

This is the Farmer's Wife, plucking with care
All of the feathers the Geese can well spare.

This is the Pillow the Merchant displayed:
"Yes, of the finest Goose-feathers 'tis made."

This is the Mother who put on its case,
Laid the wee Pillow away in its place.

This is the Crib with its furnishings white,
This the dear Baby who bids you "Good-night."

Emilie Poulsson.

The New Moon

Dear mother, how pretty
The moon looks to-night!
She was never so cunning before;
Her two little horns
Are so sharp and so bright,
I hope she'll not grow any more.

If I were up there
With you and my friends,
I'd rock in it nicely, you see;
I'd sit in the middle
And hold by both ends;
O, what a bright cradle 'twould be!

I would call to the stars
To keep out of the way,
Lest we should rock over their toes,
And there I would rock
Till the dawn of the day,
And see where the pretty moon goes.

And there we would stay
In the beautiful skies,
And through the bright clouds we would roam;
We would see the sun set,
And see the sun rise,
And on the next rainbow come home.

Eliza Lee Follen.

Lady Moon

Lady moon, lady moon,
Sailing so high!
Drop down to baby
From out the clear sky;
Babykin, babykin,
Down far below,
I hear thee calling,
But I cannot go.

But lady moon sendeth thee
Soft shining rays;
Moon loves the baby,
The moonlight says.
In her house dark and blue,
Though she must stay,
Kindly she'll watch thee
Till dawns the new day.

Kate Kellogg.

The Star

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveller in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark:
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark-blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveller in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Unknown.

The Child's Star

The star that watched above your sleep has just put out his light.
"Good day, to you on earth," he said, "is here in heav'n, good night."
"But tell the child when he awakes, to watch for my return,
For I'll hang out my lamp again, when his begins to burn."

John B. Tabb.

Do You Know How Many Stars?

Do you know how many stars
There are shining in the skies?
Do you know how many clouds
Ev'ry day go floating by?
God in heaven has counted all,
He would miss one should it fall.

Do you know how many children
Go to little beds at night,
And without a care or sorrow,
Wake up in the morning light?
God in heaven each name can tell,
Loves you, too, and loves you well.

From the German.

Where Do All the Daisies Go?

Where do all the daisies go?
I know, I know!
Underneath the snow they creep,
Nod their little heads and sleep,
In the springtime out they peep;
That is where they go!

Where do all the birdies go?
I know, I know!
Far away from winter snow
To the fair, warm South they go;
There they stay till daisies blow,
That is where they go!

Where do all the babies go?
I know, I know!
In the glancing firelight warm,
Safely sheltered from all harm,
Soft they lie on mother's arm,
That is where they go!

Unknown.

The Sweetest Place

A meadow for the little lambs;
A honey hive for bees;
And pretty nests for singing birds
Among the leafy trees.
There's rest for all the little ones
In one place or another;
But who has half so sweet a place
As baby with her mother?

The little chickens cuddle close,
Beneath the old hen's wing;
"Peep! Peep!" they say; "we're not afraid
Of dark or any thing."
So, safe and sound, they nestle there,
The one beside the other;
But safer, happier, by far,
Is baby with her mother.

Mary F. Butts.

Good-Night

Little baby, lay your head
On your pretty cradle-bed;
Shut your eye-peeps, now the day
And the light are gone away;
All the clothes are tucked in tight;
Little baby dear, good-night.

Yes, my darling, well I know
How the bitter wind doth blow;
And the winter's snow and rain
Patter on the window-pane:
But they cannot come in here,
To my little baby dear;

For the window shutteth fast,
Till the stormy night is past;
And the curtains warm are spread
Round about her cradle-bed:
So till morning shineth bright,
Little baby dear, good-night.

Jane Taylor.

Nursery Song

As I walked over the hill one day,
I listened, and heard a mother-sheep say,
"In all the green world there is nothing so sweet
As my little lamb, with his nimble feet;
With his eye so bright,
And his wool so white,
Oh, he is my darling, my heart's delight!"
And the mother-sheep and her little one
Side by side lay down in the sun;
And they went to sleep on the hill-side warm,
While my little lammie lies here on my arm.

I went to the kitchen, and what did I see
But the old gray cat with her kittens three!
I heard her whispering soft: said she,
"My kittens, with tails so cunningly curled,
Are the prettiest things that can be in the world.
The bird on the tree,
And the old ewe she,
May love their babies exceedingly;
But I love my kittens there,
Under the rocking-chair.
I love my kittens with all my might,
I love them at morning, noon, and night.
Now I'll take up my kitties, the kitties I love,
And we'll lie down together beneath the warm stove."
Let the kittens sleep under the stove so warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.

I went to the yard, and I saw the old hen
Go clucking about with her chickens ten;
She clucked and she scratched and she bustled away,
And what do you think I heard the hen say?
I heard her say, "The sun never did shine
On anything like to these chickens of mine.
You may hunt the full moon and the stars, if you please,
But you never will find ten such chickens as these.
My dear, downy darlings, my sweet little things,
Come, nestle now cozily under my wings."
So the hen said,
And the chickens all sped
As fast as they could to their nice feather bed.
And there let them sleep, in their feathers so warm,
While my little chick lies here on my arm.

Mrs. Carter.

How They Sleep

Some things go to sleep in such a funny way:
Little birds stand on one leg and tuck their heads away;

Chickens do the same, standing on their perch;
Little mice lie soft and still as if they were in church;

Kittens curl up close in such a funny ball;
Horses hang their sleepy heads and stand still in a stall;

Sometimes dogs stretch out, or curl up in a heap;
Cows lie down upon their sides when they would go to sleep.

But little babies dear are snugly tucked in beds,
Warm with blankets, all so soft, and pillows for their heads.

Bird and beast and babe—I wonder which of all
Dream the dearest dreams that down from dreamland fall!

Unknown.

Baby-Land

Which is the way to Baby-Land?
Any one can tell;
Up one flight,
To your right;
Please to ring the bell.

What can you see in Baby-Land?
Little folks in white,
Downy heads,
Cradle-beds,
Faces pure and bright.

What do they do in Baby-Land?
Dream and wake and play,
Laugh and crow,
Shout and grow,
Jolly times have they.

What do they say in Baby-Land?
Why, the oddest things;
Might as well
Try to tell
What a birdie sings.

Who is the queen of Baby-Land?
Mother kind and sweet;
And her love,
Born above,
Guides the little feet.

George Cooper.

Lullaby

Baby wants a lullaby;
Where should mother find it?
In a bird's nest rocked on high;
Birdie, birdie lined it;
Find it under birdie's wing,—
Soft birdie's feather;—
O the downy, downy thing!
O the summer weather!

Baby wants a lullaby;
Where shall sister find it?
In a soft cloud of the sky,
With white wool behind it;
Watch you may, but cannot guess
If the cloud has motion,
Such a perfect calm there is
In the airy ocean.

O the land of Lullabies!
Where shall father find it?
Safe in mother's breast it lies,
With her arms to bind it;
O a soft and sleepy song!
Sleep, baby blossom!
Sleep is short, sleep is long,
Sweet is mother's bosom!

William Brighty Rands.

A Cradle Song

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Good-night Prayer for a Little Child

Father, unto Thee I pray,
Thou hast guarded me all day;
Safe I am while in Thy sight,
Safely let me sleep to-night.

Bless my friends, the whole world bless,
Help me to learn helpfulness;
Keep me ever in Thy sight:
So to all I say Good-night.

Henry Johnstone.

The Sleepy Song[10]

As soon as the fire burns red and low
And the house upstairs is still,
She sings me a queer little sleepy song,
Of sheep that go over the hill.

The good little sheep run quick and soft,
Their colors are gray and white;
They follow their leader nose and tail,
For they must be home by night.

And one slips over, and one comes next,
And one runs after behind;
The gray one's nose at the white one's tail,
The top of the hill they find.

And when they get to the top of the hill
They quietly slip away,
But one runs over and one comes next—
Their colors are white and gray.

And over they go, and over they go,
And over the top of the hill
The good little sheep run quick and soft,
And the house upstairs is still.

And one slips over and one comes next,
The good little, gray little sheep!
I watch how the fire burns red and low,
And she says that I fall asleep.

Josephine Daskam Bacon.

[10] From "Poems," copyright, 1903, by Chas. Scribner's Sons.

Minnie and Winnie

Minnie and Winnie
Slept in a shell.
Sleep, little ladies!
And they slept well.

Pink was the shell within,
Silver without;
Sounds of the great sea
Wandered about.

Sleep, little ladies!
Wake not soon!
Echo on echo
Dies to the moon.

Two bright stars
Peeped into the shell.
"What are they dreaming of?
Who can tell?"

Started a green linnet
Out of the croft;
Wake, little ladies!
The sun is aloft.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Queen Mab

A little fairy comes at night;
Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,
With silver spots upon her wings,
And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand,
And when a good child goes to bed,
She weaves her wand from right to left,
And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things—
Of fountains filled with fairy fish,
And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And bow their branches at a wish;

Of arbors filled with dainty scents
From lovely flowers that never fade,
Bright flies that glitter in the sun,
And glow-worms shining in the shade;

And talking birds with gifted tongues
For singing songs and telling tales,
And pretty dwarfs to show the way
Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

Thomas Hood.

A Boy's Mother[11]

My mother she's so good to me,
Ef I was good as I could be,
I couldn't be as good—no, sir!—
Can't any boy be good as her.

She loves me when I'm glad er sad;
She loves me when I'm good er bad;
An', what's a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.

I don't like her to punish me,—
That don't hurt,—but it hurts to see
Her cryin'.—Nen I cry; an' nen
We both cry an' be good again.

She loves me when she cuts an' sews
My little cloak an' Sund'y clothes;
An' when my Pa comes home to tea,
She loves him most as much as me.

She laughs an' tells him all I said,
An' grabs me up an' pats my head;
An' I hug her, an' hug my Pa,
An' love him purt' nigh much as Ma.

James Whitcomb Riley.

[11] From "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1905, and by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

Our Mother

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky,
Hundreds of shells on the shore together,
Hundreds of birds that go singing by,
Hundreds of birds in the sunny weather,

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn,
Hundreds of bees in the purple clover,
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn,
But only one mother the wide world over.

Unknown.

Said I to myself, here's a chance for me,
The Lilliput Laureate for to be!
And these are the Specimens I sent in
To Pinafore Palace. Shall I win?

William Brighty Rands.

INDEX