It was an old, old, old, old lady
And a boy that was half-past three,
And the way that they played together
Was beautiful to see.
She couldn't go romping and jumping,
And the boy, no more could he;
For he was a thin little fellow,
With a thin little twisted knee.
They sat in the yellow sunlight,
Out under the maple tree,
And the game that they played I'll tell you,
Just as it was told to me.
It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing.
Though you'd never have known it to be—
With an old, old, old, old lady
And a boy with a twisted knee.
The boy would bend his face down
On his little sound right knee.
And he guessed where she was hiding
In guesses One, Two, Three.
"You are in the china closet!"
He would cry and laugh with glee—
It wasn't the china closet,
But he still had Two and Three.
"You are up in papa's big bedroom,
In the chest with the queer old key,"
And she said: "You are warm and warmer;
But you are not quite right," said she.
"It can't be the little cupboard
Where mamma's things used to be—
So it must be in the clothes press, Gran'ma,"
And he found her with his Three.
Then she covered her face with her fingers,
That were wrinkled and white and wee,
And she guessed where the boy was hiding,
With a One and a Two and a Three.
And they never had stirred from their places
Right under the maple tree—
This old, old, old, old lady
And the boy with the lame little knee—
This dear, dear, dear old lady
And the boy who was half-past three.
Henry C. Bunner.
What May Happen to a Thimble
Come about the meadow,
Hunt here and there,
Where's mother's thimble?
Can you tell where?
Jane saw her wearing it,
Fan saw it fall,
Ned isn't sure
That she dropp'd it at all.
Has a mouse carried it
Down to her hole—
Home full of twilight,
Shady, small soul?
Can she be darning there,
Ere the light fails,
Small ragged stockings—
Tiny torn tails?
Did a finch fly with it
Into the hedge,
Or a reed-warbler
Down in the sedge?
Are they carousing there,
All the night through?
Such a great goblet,
Brimful of dew!
Have beetles crept with it
Where oak roots hide?
There have they settled it
Down on its side?
Neat little kennel,
So cosy and dark,
Has one crept into it,
Trying to bark?
Have the ants cover'd it
With straw and sand?
Roomy bell-tent for them,
So tall and grand;
Where the red soldier-ants
Lie, loll, and lean—
While the blacks steadily
Build for their queen.
Has a huge dragon-fly
Borne it (how cool!)
To his snug dressing-room,
By the clear pool?
There will he try it on,
For a new hat—
Nobody watching
But one water-rat?
Did the flowers fight for it,
While, undecried,
One selfish daisy
Slipp'd it aside;
Now has she plunged it in
Close to her feet—
Nice private water-tank
For summer heat?
Did spiders snatch at it
Wanting to look
At the bright pebbles
Which lie in the brook?
Now are they using it
(Nobody knows!)
Safe little diving-bell,
Shutting so close?
Hunt for it, hope for it,
All through the moss;
Dip for it, grope for it—
'Tis such a loss!
Jane finds a drop of dew,
Fan finds a stone;
I find the thimble,
Which is mother's own!
Run with it, fly with it—
Don't let it fall;
All did their best for it—
Mother thanks all.
Just as we give it her,—
Think what a shame!—
Ned says he's sure
That it isn't the same!
"B."
Discontent
Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped that pleasant weather.
A robin, who had flown too high,
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.
For daisies grew so trig and tall!
She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck,
In just the daisies' fashion.
And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome color;
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.
"Dear robin," said the sad young flower,
"Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me,
Some day when you are flying?"
"You silly thing!" the robin said,
"I think you must be crazy:
I'd rather be my honest self,
Than any made-up daisy.
"You're nicer in your own bright gown;
The little children love you:
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.
"Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places:
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.
"Look bravely up into the sky,
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing."
Sarah Orne Jewett.