ONE day a little boy,
With a poor broken toy,
And ragged clothes, went by.
He looked as if he'd like to cry,
To see my soldiers fine,
In scarlet coats, so straight in line.
Would he have liked to play with me,
Here beneath my shady tree?
I wonder, but I did not call him back again.
I thought he'd come next day the same,
And I would ask him in to play,
And when he had to go away
Give him my nicest toys—
The drum that makes the loudest noise,
My whistle, and perhaps my sword,
Or even my soldier hat with braids and cord.
But though I watch here by the gate
Until it grows quite dark and late,
I never hear his footsteps there,
The little boy is gone somewhere.
THE CHOSEN DREAM
IF I could choose a dream to-night,
I'd choose a splendid dream
About big soldiers in a fight,—
So real that it would seem
A truly one not in a book,
With flags and banners waving high
And horses with a prancing look
And powder smoke that filled the sky,
And lots of swords to flash.
Perhaps this dream would frighten me,
More than a noisy game,
If too much blood should splash,
And any soldiers die.
And yet I think I'd choose it just the same
And then wake up and cry.
HOME
YOU think my home is up the street
In that big house with lots of steps,
All worn in places by our feet—
With tracks that look like mine and Jep's.
You think it's where I always eat,
Where I can find my spoon and bowl,
My napkin folded clean and neat,
And milk, and sometimes jelly-roll.
You think it's where I always sleep,
Where I get in my puffy bed,
And fall right in a comfy heap,
Some nights before my prayers are said.
But that's not home—just roof and walls,
A place that anybody buys,
With shiny floors and stairs and halls.—
My home is in my mother's eyes.