Page 18—Girl Land

My Girl
A little corner with it's crib.
A little mug, a spoon, a bib,
A little tooth so pearly white,
A little rubber-ring to bite.
A little plate all lettered round,
A little rattle to resound,
A little creeping—see! she stands!
A little step 'twixt outstretched hands.
A little doll with flaxen hair.
A little willow rocking chair,
A little dress of richest hue,
A little pair of gaiters blue.
A little school day after day,
A little "schoolma'am" to obey,
A little study—soon 'tis past—
A little graduate at last.
A little muff for wintry weather,
A little jockey-hat and feather,
A little sac with funny pockets,
A little chain, a ring, and lockets.
A little while to dance and bow,
A little escort homeward now,
A little party somewhat late,
A little lingering at the gate.
A little walk in leafy June,
A little talk while shines the moon,
A little reference to papa,
A little planning with mamma.
A little ceremony grave,
A little struggle to be brave,
A little cottage on the lawn,
A little kiss—my girl was gone!
Good and Bad
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
When she was good
She was very good,
But when she was bad, she was horrible.
My little Daughter's Shoes
Two little rough-worn, stubbed shoes
A plump, well-trodden pair;
With striped stockings thrust within,
Lie just beside my chair.
Of very homely fabric they,
A hole is in each toe,
They might have cost, when they were new,
Some fifty cents or so.
And yet this little, worn-out pair
Is richer far too me
Than all the jewelled sandals are
Of Eastern luxury.
This mottled leather, cracked with use,
Is satin in my sight;
These little tarnished buttons shine
With all a diamond's light.
Search through the wardrobe of the world!
You shall not find me there
So rarely made, so richly wrought,
So glorious a pair.
And why? Because they tell of her,
Now sound asleep above,
Whose form is moving beauty, and
Whose heart is beating love.
They tell me of her merry laugh;
Her rich, whole-hearted glee;
Her gentleness, her innocence,
And infant purity.
They tell me that her wavering steps
Will long demand my aid;
For the old road of human life
Is very roughly laid.
High hills and swift descents abound;
And, on so rude a way,
Feet that can wear these coverings
Would surely go astray.
Sweet little girl! be mine the task
Thy feeble steps to tend!
To be thy guide, thy counsellor,
Thy playmate and thy friend!
And when my steps shall faltering grow,
And thine be firm and strong,
Thy strength shell lead my tottering age
In cheerful peace along.
The Old Cradle
And this was your cradle?
Why, surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions
Go somewhat to show
You were a delightfully
Small picaninny
Some nineteen or twenty
Short summers ago.
Your baby-day flowed
In a much troubled channel;
I see you as then
In your impotent strife,
A tight little bundle
Of wailing and flannel,
Perplexed with that
Newly-found fardel called Life,
To hint at an infantine
Frailty is scandal;
Let bygones be bygones—
And somebody knows
It was bliss such a baby
To dance and to dandle,
Your cheeks were so velvet,
So rosy your toes.
Ay, here is your cradle,
And Hope, a bright spirit,
With love now is watching
Beside it, I know.
They guard the small nest
You yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty
Short summers ago.
It is Hope gilds the future—
Love welcomes it smiling;
Thus wags this old world,
Therefore stay not to ask,
"My future bids fair,
Is my future beguiling?"
If masked, still it pleases—
Then raise not the mask.
Is life a poor coil
Some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste
Who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep
From cradle to coffin—
From a spoonful of pap
To a mouthful of dust.
Then smile as your future
Is smiling, my Jenny!
Tho' blossoms of promise
Are lost in the rose,
I still see the face
Of my small picaninny
Unchang'd, for these cheeks
Are as blooming as those.
Ay, here is your cradle!
Much, much to my liking,
Though nineteen or twenty
Long winters have sped;
But, hark! as I'm talking
There's six o'clock striking,
It is time Jennie's baby
Should be in its bed.
Frederick Locker
A Little Goose
The chill November day was done,
The working world home a-faring,
The wind came roaring through the streets,
And set the gas lamps flaring.
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The seared old leaves were flying,
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying,
And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four or over;
No hat nor cloak her small soft arms
Or wind-blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She crushed within her wee, cold hands
A bunch of faded clover.
And one hand round her treasures,
While she slipped in mine the other,
Half-scared, half-confidential, said
"Oh! please, I want my mother."
"Tell me your street name and number, pet;
Don't cry, I'll take you to it,"
Sobbing, she answered, "I forget—
The organ made me do it."
"He came and played at Miller's steps;
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
That monkey was so funny.
I've walked about a hundred hours,
From one street to another;
The monkey's gone; I've spoiled my flowers:
Oh! please, I want my mother."
"But what's your mother's name?
And what's the street? now think a minute."
"My mother's name is mamma dear,
The street—I can't begin it."
"But what is strange about the house,
Or new—not like the others?"
I guess you mean my trundle bed—
Mine and my little brother's.
Oh! dear, I ought to be at home,
to help him say his prayers;
He's such a baby, he forgets,
And we are both such players.
"And there's a bar between, to keep
From pitching on each other;
For Harry rolls when he's asleep—
Oh! dear, I want my mother."
The sky grew stormy, people passed,
All muffled, homeward faring;
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
I said at last, despairing.
I spied a ribbon about her neck.
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
"Why, don't you know?" she smiling asked,
And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street, and name!
My eyes astonished, met it.
"For," said the little one, "you see
I might some tome forget it.
And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it;
For mother says she's very sure
I might get lost without it.
Eliza S. Turner

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