My Papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading for
books;
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa,—I know by his
looks.
So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk all
the day,
And they only say, "Do stop that child!" or, "Nurse, take Miss Edith
away."
But Papa said if I was good I could ask you—alone by myself—
If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.
I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make THEM you've got to
be smart
But the reading that runs all around them, you know,—just the
easiest part.
You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but me,
And Jane,—that's my nurse,—and John,—he's the coachman,—just
only us three.
You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold and
all that;
And then you're to write, if you please, something good—very good—
of a cat!
This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, and
mild,
And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such a bad
child;
And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress—that's me—
was so bad,
And blink, just as if she would say, "Oh, Edith! you make my heart
sad."
And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic cat
Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, she'd
get at.
And when John drank my milk,—don't you tell me! I know just the
way it was done,—
They said 'twas the cat,—and she sitting and washing her face in
the sun!
And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left its cage open one
day,
They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that the bird
flew away.
And why? Just because she was playing with a feather she found on
the floor.
As if cats couldn't play with a feather without people thinking
'twas more!
Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down a vase from
the shelf,
That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it herself;
And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came out until
tea,—
So they say, for they sent ME to bed, and she never came even to me.
No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of that cat.
Why, once when I tore my apron,—she was wrapped in it, and I called
"Rat!"—
Why, they blamed that on HER. I shall never—no, not to my dying
day—
Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped ME and
took me away.
Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is as lovely
as that:
She wasted quite slowly away; it was goodness was killing that cat.
I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly nice;
But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad cold
from the ice.
And you'll promise to make me a book like that little one up on the
shelf,
And you'll call her "Naomi," because it's a name that she just gave
herself;
For she'd scratch at my door in the morning, and whenever I'd call
out, "Who's there?"
She would answer, "Naomi! Naomi!" like a Christian, I vow and declare.
And you'll put me and her in a book. And mind, you're to say I was
bad;
And I might have been badder than that but for the example I had.
And you'll say that she was a Maltese, and—what's that you asked?
"Is she dead?"
Why, please, sir, THERE AIN'T ANY CAT! You're to make one up out of
your head!
MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK
"Crying!" Of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying,
too,
If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, about YOU.
Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you didn't care
how,
And get your brains softened like uncle's. Dr. Jones says you're
gettin' it now.
Why don't you say "Stop!" to Miss Ilsey? She cries twice as much as
I do,
And she's older and cries just from meanness,—for a ribbon or
anything new.
Ma says it's her "sensitive nature." Oh my! No, I sha'n't stop my
talk!
And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want to go take a
walk!
I know why you're mad! Yes, I do, now! You think that Miss Ilsey
likes YOU,
And I've heard her REPEATEDLY call you the bold-facest boy that she
knew;
And she'd "like to know where you learnt manners." Oh yes! Kick
the table,—that's right!
Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma that I look
like a fright!
What stories? Pretend you don't know that they're saying I broke
off the match
Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called him
"Crosspatch,"
When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was, she
Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, Jack, you
said that to me.
And it's true! But it's ME, and I'm scolded, and Pa says if I keep
on I might
By and by get my name in the papers! Who cares? Why, 'twas only
last night
I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some lots, and
it's plain
If it's awful to be in the papers, why, Papa would go and complain.
You think it ain't true about Ilsey? Well, I guess I know girls,
and I say
There's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you, anyway!
I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat after one
boy
Goes and changes its name to another's. And she's done it—and I
wish you joy!
MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND
Oh, you're the girl lives on the corner? Come in—if you want to—
come quick!
There's no one but me in the house, and the cook—but she's only a
stick.
Don't try the front way, but come over the fence—through the
window—that's how.
Don't mind the big dog—he won't bite you—just see him obey me!
there, now!
What's your name? Mary Ellen? How funny! Mine's Edith—it's
nicer, you see;
But yours does for you, for you're plainer, though maybe you're
gooder than me;
For Jack says I'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all folks, needn't
talk,
For I don't call the seamstress an angel till Ma says the poor thing
must "walk."
Come in! It's quite dark in the parlor, for sister will keep the
blinds down,
For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she isn't as
brown;
Though Jack says that isn't the reason she likes to sit here with
Jim Moore.
Do you think that he meant that she kissed him? Would you—if your
lips wasn't sore?
If you like, you can try our piano. 'Tain't ours. A man left it
here
To rent by the month, although Ma says he hasn't been paid for a
year.
Sister plays—oh, such fine variations!—why, I once heard a
gentleman say
That she didn't mind THAT for the music—in fact, it was just in her
way!
Ain't I funny? And yet it's the queerest of all that, whatever I
say,
One half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest, they all look
t'other way.
And some say, "That child!" Do they ever say that to such people as
you?
Though maybe you're naturally silly, and that makes your eyes so
askew.
Now stop—don't you dare to be crying! Just as sure as you live, if
you do,
I'll call in my big dog to bite you, and I'll make my Papa kill you,
too!
And then where'll you be? So play pretty. There's my doll, and a
nice piece of cake.
You don't want it—you think it is poison! Then I'LL eat it, dear,
just for your sake!
WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FROM HER WINDOW
Our window's not much, though it fronts on the street;
There's a fly in the pane that gets nothin' to eat;
But it's curious how people think it's a treat
For ME to look out of the window!
Why, when company comes, and they're all speaking low,
With their chairs drawn together, then some one says, "Oh!
Edith dear!—that's a good child—now run, love, and go
And amuse yourself there at the window!"
Or Bob—that's my brother—comes in with his chum,
And they whisper and chuckle, the same words will come.
And it's "Edith, look here! Oh, I say! what a rum
Lot of things you can see from that window!"
And yet, as I told you, there's only that fly
Buzzing round in the pane, and a bit of blue sky,
And the girl in the opposite window, that I
Look at when SHE looks from HER window.
And yet, I've been thinking I'd so like to see
If what goes on behind HER, goes on behind ME!
And then, goodness gracious! what fun it would be
For us BOTH as we sit by our window!
How we'd know when the parcels were hid in a drawer,
Or things taken out that one never sees more;
What people come in and go out of the door,
That we never see from the window!
And that night when the stranger came home with our Jane
I might SEE what I HEARD then, that sounded so plain—
Like when my wet fingers I rub on the pane
(Which they won't let ME do on my window).
And I'd know why papa shut the door with a slam,
And said something funny that sounded like "jam,"
And then "Edith—where are you?" I said, "Here I am."
"Ah, that's right, dear, look out of the window!"
They say when I'm grown up these things will appear
More plain than they do when I look at them here,
But I think I see some things uncommonly clear,
As I sit and look down from the window.
What things? Oh, the things that I make up, you know,
Out of stories I've read—and they all pass below.
Ali Baba, the Forty Thieves, all in a row,
Go by, as I look from my window.
That's only at church time; other days there's no crowd.
Don't laugh! See that big man who looked up and bowed?
That's our butcher—I call him the Sultan Mahoud
When he nods to me here at the window!
And THAT man—he's our neighbor—just gone for a ride
Has three wives in the churchyard that lie side by side.
So I call him "Bluebeard" in search of his bride,
While I'm Sister Anne at the window.
And what do I call you? Well, here's what I DO:
When my sister expects you, she puts me here, too;
But I wait till you enter, to see if it's you,
And then—I just OPEN the window!
"Dear child!" Yes, that's me! "Oh, you ask what that's for?
Well, Papa says you're 'Poverty's self,' and what's more,
I open the window, when YOU'RE at the door,
To see Love fly out of the window!"