“Take this,” he said. “I have more than I want. It will last you and your mother a year.”
The little girl took the package and ran home in glee.
“Oh, see, mama!” she cried. “A gentleman gave me this. He said it would last us a whole year.”
The pale woman unrolled the package with trembling hands.
It was a nice new calendar.
Eugene Field
No gift his genius might have had
Of titles high, in church and state,
Could charm him as the one he bore,
Of children’s poet-laureate.
He smilingly pressed aside his bays
And laurel garlands that he won,
And bowed his head for baby hands
To place a daisy wreath upon.
He found his kingdom in the ways,
Of little ones he loved so well,
For them he tuned his lyre and sang.
Sweet simple songs of magic spell.
Ah! greater feat to storm the gates
Of children’s pure and cleanly hearts,
Than to subdue a warring world
By stratagems and doubtful arts.