THE BOOK OF
JOYOUS CHILDREN
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
THE BOOK OF
JOYOUS CHILDREN
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Illustrated by J.W. VAWTER
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1902
———————
Published October, 1902
THE BOOK OF
JOYOUS CHILDREN
"Not in classic lore, but rich in
the child-sagas of the kitchen."
GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY
INSCRIBED
TO
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
You who to the rounded prime
Of a life of toil and stress,
Still have kept the morning-time
Of glad youth in heart and spirit,
So your laugh, as children hear it,
Seems their own, no less,—
Take this book of childish rhyme—
The Book of Joyous Children.
Their first happiness on earth
Here is echoed—their first glee:
Rich, in sooth, the volume's worth—
Not in classic lore, but rich in
The child-sagas of the kitchen;—
Therefore, take from me
To your heart of childish mirth
The Book of Joyous Children.
CONTENTS
[x] [FOOL-YOUNGENS]
[IN FERVENT PRAISE OF PICNICS]
[THE GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLE]
A SESSION WITH UNCLE SIDNEY:
[III SINGS A "WINKY-TOODEN" SONG]
[3 THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS]
SOME SONGS AFTER MASTER-SINGERS:
[OLD MAN WHISKERY-WHEE-KUM-WHEEZE]
[LITTLE-GIRL-TWO-LITTLE-GIRLS]
[THE TREASURE OF THE WISE MAN]
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
[NOT IN CLASSIC LOOK, BUT RICH IN THE CHILD-SAGAS OF THE KITCHEN]
[KNEEL, ALL GLOWING, TO THE COOL SPRING]
[NO BOY KNOWS WHEN HE GOES TO SLEEP]
[WHILE ALL THE ARMY, FOLLOWING, IN CHORUS CHEERS AND SINGS]
[WHERE IT GOES WHEN THE FIRE GOES OUT?]
[THE FAIRY QUEEN OF THE SEASONS]
[SQUINT' OUR EYES AN' LAUGH' AGAIN]
[HE'S A-MARCHIN' ROUND THE ROOM]
[THE OLD TREE SAYS HE'S ALL OUR TREE]
[SHE'S BUT A RACING SCHOOL-GIRL]
[xiv] [THEY WAS GOD'S PEOPLE]
[THEM WUZ THE BEST TIMES EVER WUZ]
[HE'S GO' HITCH UP, CHRIS'MUS-DAY, AN' COME TAKE ME BACK AGAIN]
[A BIG, HOLLOW, OLD OAK-TREE, WHICH HAD BEEN BLOWN DOWN BY A STORM]
[THE YOUNG FOXES IN IT, ON THE HEARTH BESIDE HER]
[AN' ALL BE POETS AN' ALL RECITE]
[ALONG THE BRINK OF WILD BROOK-WAYS]
[WHILE KATE PICKS BY, YET LOOKS NOT THERE]
[LEND ME THE BREATH OF A FRESHENING GALE]
[BOW TO ME IN THE WINDER THERE]
[THE CHILDISH DREAMS IN HIS WISE OLD HEAD]
THE BOOK OF
JOYOUS CHILDREN
THE BOOK OF
JOYOUS CHILDREN
Bound and bordered in leaf-green,
Edged with trellised buds and flowers
And glad Summer-gold, with clean
White and purple morning-glories
Such as suit the songs and stories
Of this book of ours,
Unrevised in text or scene,—
The Book of Joyous Children.
Wild and breathless in their glee—
Lawless rangers of all ways
Winding through lush greenery
Of Elysian vales—the viny,
Bowery groves of shady, shiny
Haunts of childish days.
Spread and read again with me
The Book of Joyous Children.
What a whir of wings, and what
Sudden drench of dews upon
The young brows, wreathed, all unsought,
With the apple-blossom garlands
Of the poets of those far lands
Whence all dreams are drawn
Set herein and soiling not
The Book of Joyous Children.
In their blithe companionship
Taste again, these pages through,
The hot honey on your lip
Of the sun-smit wild strawberry,
Or the chill tart of the cherry;
Kneel, all glowing, to
The cool spring, and with it sip
The Book of Joyous Children.
As their laughter needs no rule,
So accept their language, pray.—
Touch it not with any tool:
Surely we may understand it,—
As the heart has parsed or scanned it
Is a worthy way,
Though found not in any School
The Book of Joyous Children.
"Kneel, all glowing, to the cool spring."
Be a truant—know no place
Of prison under heaven's rim!
Front the Father's smiling face—
Smiling, that you smile the brighter
For the heavy hearts made lighter,
Since you smile with Him.
Take—and thank Him for His grace—
The Book of Joyous Children.
AN IMPROMPTU FAIRY-TALE
When I wuz ist a little bit
o' weenty-teenty kid
I maked up a Fairy-tale,
all by myse'f, I did:—
I
Wunst upon a time wunst
They wuz a Fairy King,
An' ever'thing he have wuz gold—,
His clo'es, an' ever'thing!
An' all the other Fairies
In his goldun Palace-hall
Had to hump an' hustle—
'Cause he wuz bosst of all!
II
He have a goldun trumput,
An' when he blow' on that,
It's a sign he want' his boots,
Er his coat er hat:
They's a sign fer ever'thing,—
An' all the Fairies knowed
Ever' sign, an' come a-hoppin'
When the King blowed!
III
Wunst he blowed an' telled 'em all:
"Saddle up yer bees—
Fireflies is gittin' fat
An' sassy as you please!—
Guess we'll go a-huntin'!"
So they hunt' a little bit,
Till the King blowed "Supper-time,"
Nen they all quit.
IV
Nen they have a Banqut
In the Palace-hall,
An' ist et! an' et! an' et!
Nen they have a Ball;
An' when the Queen o' Fairyland
Come p'omenadin' through,
The King says an' halts her,—
"Guess I'll marry you!"
DREAM-MARCH
"Wasn't it a funny dream!—perfectly bewild'rin'!—
Last night, and night before, and night before that,
Seemed like I saw the march o' regiments o' children,
Marching to the robin's fife and cricket's rat-ta-tat!
Lily-banners overhead, with the dew upon 'em,
On flashed the little army, as with sword and flame;
Like the buzz o' bumble-wings, with the honey on 'em,
Came an eerie, cheery chant, chiming as it came:—
Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling!
Where go the children, travelling ahead?
Some go to kindergarten; some go to day-school;
Some go to night-school; and some go to bed!
Smooth roads or rough roads, warm or winter weather,
On go the children, tow-head and brown,
Brave boys and brave girls, rank and file together,
Marching out of Morning-Land, over dale and down:
Some go a-gypsying out in country places—
Out through the orchards, with blossoms on the boughs
Wild, sweet, and pink and white as their own glad faces;
And some go, at evening, calling home the cows.
Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling!
Where go the children, travelling ahead?
Some go to foreign wars, and camps by the firelight—
Some go to glory so; and some go to bed!
Some go through grassy lanes leading to the city—
Thinner grow the green trees and thicker grows the dust;
Ever, though, to little people any path is pretty
So it leads to newer lands, as they know it must.
Some go to singing less; some go to list'ning;
Some go to thinking over ever-nobler themes;
Some go anhungered, but ever bravely whistling,
Turning never home again only in their dreams.
Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling!
Where go the children, travelling ahead?
Some go to conquer things; some go to try them;
Some go to dream them; and some go to bed!
ELMER BROWN
Awf'lest boy in this-here town
Er anywheres is Elmer Brown!
He'll mock you—yes, an' strangers, too,
An' make a face an' yell at you,—
"Here's the way you look!"
Yes, an' wunst in School one day,
An' Teacher's lookin' wite that way,
He helt his slate, an' hide his head,
An' maked a face at her, an' said,—
"Here's the way you look!"
An' sir! when Rosie Wheeler smile
One morning at him 'crosst the aisle,
He twist his face all up, an' black
His nose wiv ink, an' whisper back,—
"Here's the way you look!"
Wunst when his Aunt's all dressed to call,
An' kiss him good-bye in the hall,
An' latch the gate an' start away,
He holler out to her an' say,—
"Here's the way you look!"
An' when his Pa he read out loud
The speech he maked, an' feel so proud
It's in the paper—Elmer's Ma
She ketched him—wite behind his Pa,—
"Here's the way you look!"
Nen when his Ma she slip an' take
Him in the other room an' shake
Him good! w'y, he don't care—no-sir!—
He ist look up an' laugh at her,—
"Here's the way you look!"
NO BOY KNOWS
There are many things that boys may know—
Why this and that are thus and so,—
Who made the world in the dark and lit
The great sun up to lighten it:
Boys know new things every day—
When they study, or when they play,—
When they idle, or sow and reap—
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
Boys who listen—or should, at least,—
May know that the round old earth rolls East;—
And know that the ice and the snow and the rain—
Ever repeating their parts again—
Are all just water the sunbeams first
Sip from the earth in their endless thirst,
And pour again till the low streams leap.—
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
A boy may know what a long glad while
It has been to him since the dawn's first smile,
When forth he fared in the realm divine
Of brook-laced woodland and spun-sunshine;—
He may know each call of his truant mates,
And the paths they went,—and the pasture-gates
Of the 'cross-lots home through the dusk so deep.—
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
O I have followed me, o'er and o'er,
From the flagrant drowse on the parlor-floor,
To the pleading voice of the mother when
I even doubted I heard it then—
To the sense of a kiss, and a moonlit room,
And dewy odors of locust-bloom—
A sweet white cot—and a cricket's cheep.—
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
"No boy knows when he goes to sleep."
WHEN WE FIRST PLAYED "SHOW"
Wasn't it a good time,
Long Time Ago—
When we all were little tads
And first played "Show"!—
When every newer day
Wore as bright a glow
As the ones we laughed away—
Long Time Ago!
Calf was in the back-lot;
Clover in the red;
Bluebird in the pear-tree;
Pigeons on the shed;
Tom a-chargin' twenty pins
At the barn; and Dan
Spraddled out just like "The
'Injarubber'-Man!"
Me and Bub and Rusty,
Eck and Dunk and Sid,
'Tumblin' on the sawdust
Like the A-rabs did;
Jamesy on the slack-rope
In a wild retreat,
Grappling back, to start again—
When he chalked his feet!
Wasn't Eck a wonder,
In his stocking-tights?
"Jamesy on the slack-rope."
Wasn't Dunk—his leaping lion—
Chief of all delights!
Yes, and wasn't "Little Mack"
Boss of all the Show,—
Both Old Clown and Candy-Butcher—
Long Time Ago!
Sid the Bareback-Rider;
And—oh-me-oh-my!—
Bub, the spruce Ring-master,
Stepping round so spry!—
In his little waist-and-trousers
All made in one,
Was there a prouder youngster
Under the sun!
And NOW—who will tell me,—
Where are they all?
Dunk's a sanatorium doctor,
Up at Waterfall;
Sid's a city street-contractor;
Tom has fifty clerks;
And Jamesy he's the "Iron Magnate"
Of "The Hecla Works."
And Bub's old and bald now,
Yet still he hangs on,—
Dan and Eck and "Little Mack,"
Long, long gone!
But wasn't it a good time,
Long Time Ago—
When we all were little tads
And first played "Show"!
A DIVERTED TRAGEDY
Gracie wuz allus a careless tot;
But Gracie dearly loved her doll,
An' played wiv it on the winder-sill
'Way up-stairs, when she ought to not,
An' her muvver telled her so an' all;
But she won't mind what she say—till,
First thing she know, her dolly fall
Clean spang out o' the winder plumb
Into the street! An' here Grace come
Down-stairs, two at a time, ist wild
An' a-screamin', "Oh, my child! my child!"
Jule wuz a-bringin' their basket o' clo'es
Ist then into their hall down there,—
An' she ist stop' when Gracie bawl,
An' Jule she say "She ist declare
She's ist in time!" An' what you s'pose?
She sets her basket down in the hall,
An' wite on top o' the snowy clo'es
Wuz Gracie's dolly a-layin' there
An' ist ain't bu'st ner hurt a-tall!
Nen Gracie smiled—ist sobbed an' smiled—
An' cried, "My child! my precious child!"
THE RAMBO-TREE
When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—
The bird sings low as the bumble-bee—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—
The poor shote-pig he says, says he:
"When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree
There's enough for you and enough for me."—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.
For just two truant lads like we,
When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree
There's enough for you and enough for me—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.
When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—
The mole digs out to peep and see—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—
The dusk sags down, and the moon swings free,
There's a far, lorn call, "Pig-gee! 'Pig-gee!"
And two boys—glad enough for three.—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.
For just two truant lads like we,
When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree
There's enough for you and enough for me—
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.
"Across the orchard."
FIND THE FAVORITE
Our three cats is Maltese cats,
An' they's two that's white,—
An' bofe of 'em's deef—an' that's
'Cause their eyes ain't right.—
Uncle say that Huxley say
Eyes of white Maltese—
When they don't match thataway—
They're deef as you please!
Girls, they like our white cats best,
'Cause they're white as snow,
Yes, an' look the stylishest—
But they're deef, you know!
They don't know their names, an' don't
Hear us when we call
"Come in, Nick an' Finn!"—they won't
Come fer us at all!
But our other cat, he knows
Mister Nick an' Finn,—
Mowg's his name,—an' when he goes
Fer 'em, they come in!
Mowgli's all his name—the same
Me an' Muvver took
Like the Wolf-Child's other name,
In "The Jungul Book."
I bet Mowg's the smartest cat
In the world!—He's not
White, but mousy-plush, with that
Smoky gloss he's got!
All's got little bells to ring,
Round their neck; but none
Only Mowg knows anything—
He's the only one!
I ist 'spect sometimes he hate
White cats' stupid ways:—
He won't hardly 'sociate
With 'em, lots o' days!
Mowg wants in where we air,—well,
He'll ist take his paw
An' ist ring an' ring his bell
There till me er Ma
Er somebody lets him in
Nen an' shuts the door.—
An', when he wants out ag'in,
Nen he'll ring some more.
Ort to hear our Katy tell!
She sleeps 'way up-stairs;
An' last night she hear Mowg's bell
Ringin' round somewheres...
Trees grows by her winder.—So,
She lean out an' see
Mowg up there, 'way out, you know,
In the clingstone-tree;—
An'-sir! he ist hint an' ring,—
Till she ketch an' plat
Them limbs;—nen he crawl an' spring
In where Katy's at!
THE BOY PATRIOT
I want to be a Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band;
I want to hear, high overhead, The Old Flag flap her wings
While all the Army, following, in chorus cheers and sings;
I want to hear the tramp and jar
Of patriots a million,
As gayly dancing off to war
As dancing a cotillion.
I want to be a Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band.
I want to see the battle!—
The battle!—
The battle!—
I want to see the battle, and be in it to the end;—
I want to hear the cannon clear their throats and catch the prattle
Of all the pretty compliments the enemy can send!—
And then I know my wits will go,—and where I should'nt be—
Well, there's the spot, in any fight, that you may search for me.
So, when our foes have had their fill,
Though I'm among the dying,
To see The Old Flag flying still,
I'll laugh to leave her flying!
I want to be a Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band.
"While all the army, following, in chorus cheers and sings."
EXTREMES
I
A little boy once played so loud
That the Thunder, up in a thunder-cloud,
Said, "Since I can't be heard, why, then
I'll never, never thunder again!"
II
And a little girl once kept so still
That she heard a fly on the window-sill
Whisper and say to a lady-bird,—
"She's the stilliest child I ever heard!"
INTELLECTUAL LIMITATIONS
Parunts knows lots more than us,
But they don't know all things,—
'Cause we ketch 'em, lots o' times,
Even on little small things.
One time Winnie ask' her Ma,
At the winder, sewin',
What's the wind a-doin' when
It's a-not a-blowin'?
Yes, an' 'Del', that very day,
When we're nearly froze out,
He ask' Uncle where it goes
When the fire goes out?
Nen I run to ask my Pa,
That way, somepin' funny;
But I can't say ist but "Say,"
When he turn to me an' say,
"Well, what is it, Honey?"
"Where it goes
when the fire goes out?"
A MASQUE OF THE SEASONS
Scene.—A kitchen.—Group of Children, popping corn.—The Fairy Queen of the Seasons discovered in the smoke of the corn-popper.—Waving her wand, and, with eerie, sharp, imperious ejaculations, addressing the bespelled auditors, who neither see nor hear her nor suspect her presence.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,—
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE JASPER
When I'm dressed warm as warm can be,
And with boots, to go
Through the deepest snow,
Winter-time is the time for me!
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,—
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MILDRED
I like blossoms, and birds that sing;
The grass and the dew,
And the sunshine, too,—
So, best of all I like the Spring.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,—
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MANDEVILLE
O little friends, I most rejoice
When I hear the drums
As the Circus comes,—
So Summer-time's my special choice.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,—
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE EDITH
Apples of ruby, and pears of gold,
And grapes of blue
That the bee stings through.—
Fall—it is all that my heart can hold!
"The fairy queen of the seasons."
QUEEN
Soh! my lovelings and pretty dears,
You've each a favorite, it appears,—
Summer and Winter and Spring and Fall.—
That's the reason I send them all!
THOMAS THE PRETENDER
Tommy's alluz playin' jokes,
An' actin' up, an' foolin' folks;
An' wunst one time he creep
In Pa's big chair, he did, one night,
An' squint an' shut his eyes bofe tight,
An' say, "Now I 'm asleep."
An' nen we knowed, an' Ma know' too,
He ain't asleep no more 'n you!
An' wunst he clumbed on our back'fence
An' flop his arms an' nen commence
To crow, like he's a hen;
But when he failed off, like he done,
He didn't fool us childern none,
Ner didn't crow again.
An' our Hired Man, as he come by,
Says, "Tom can't crow, but he kin cry."
"Pore Pa! Pore Pa!"
LITTLE DICK AND THE CLOCK
When Dicky was sick
In the night, and the clock,
As he listened, said "Tick-
Atty—tick-atty—tock!"
He said that it said,
Every time it said "Tick,"
It said "Sick," instead,
And he heard it say "Sick!"
And when it said "Tick-
Atty—tick-atty—tock,"
He said it said "Sick-
Atty—sick-atty—sock!"
And he tried to see then,
But the light was too dim,
Yet he heard it again—
And't was talking to him!
And then it said "Sick-
Atty—sick-atty—sick
You poor little Dick-
Atty—Dick-atty—Dick!—
Have you got the hick-
Atties? Hi! send for Doc"
To hurry up quick
Atty—quick-atty—quock,
And heat a hot brick-
Atty—brick-atty—brock,
And rikle-ty wrap it
And clickle-ty clap it
Against his cold feet-
Al-ty—weep-aty—eepaty—
There he goes, slapit-
Ty—slippaty—sleepaty!"
FOOL-YOUNGENS
Me an' Bert an' Minnie-Belle
Knows a joke, an' we won't tell!
No, we don't—'cause we don't know
Why we got to laughin' so;
But we got to laughin' so,
"We ist kep' a-laughin'.
Wind wuz blowin' in the tree—
An' wuz only ist us three
Playin' there; an' ever' one
Ketched each other, like we done,
Squintin' up there at the sun
Like we wuz a-laughin'.
Nothin' funny anyway;
But I laughed, an' so did they—
An' we all three laughed, an' nen
Squint' our eyes an' laugh' again:
Ner we didn't ist p'ten'—
We wuz shore-'nough laughin'.
"Squint' our eyes an' laugh' again"
"We ist laugh' an' laugh', tel Bert
Say he can't quit an' it hurt.
Nen I howl, an' Minnie-Belle
She tear up the grass a spell
An' ist stop her yeers an' yell
Like she'd die a-laughin'.
Never sich fool-youngens yit!
Nothin' funny,—not a bit!—
But we laugh' so; tel we whoop'
Purt'-nigh like we have the croup—
All so hoarse we'd wheeze an' whoop
An' ist choke a-laughin'.
THE KATYDIDS
Sometimes I keep
From going to sleep,
To hear the katydids "cheep-cheep!"
And think they say
Their prayers that way;
But katydids don't have to pray!
I listen when
They cheep again
And so, I think, they're singing then!
But, no; I'm wrong,—
The sound's too long
And all-alike to be a song!
I think, "Well, there!
I do declare,
If it is neither song nor prayer,
It's talk—and quite
Too vain and light
For me to listen to all night!"
And so, I smile,
And think,—"Now I'll
Not listen for a little while!"—
Then, sweet and clear,
Next "cheep" I hear
'S a kiss.... Good morning, Mommy dear!
BILLY AND HIS DRUM
Ho! it's come, kids, come!
"With a bim! bam! bum!
Here's little Billy bangin' on his big bass drum!
He's a-marchin' round the room,
With his feather-duster plume
A-noddin' an' a-bobbin' with his bim! bom! boom!
Looky, little Jane an' Jim!
Will you only look at him,
A-humpin' an' a-thumpin' with his bam! bom! bim!
Has the Day o' Judgment come
Er the New Mi-len-nee-um?
Er is it only Billy with his bim! bam! bim!
"He's a-marchin' round the room."
I 'm a-comin'; yes, I am—
Jim an' Sis, an' Jane an' Sam!
We'll all march off with Billy an' his bom! bim! bam!
Come hurrawin' as you come,
Er they'll think you're deef-an'-dumb
Ef you don't hear little Billy an' his big bass drum!
THE NOBLE OLD ELM
O big old tree, so tall an' fine,
Where all us childern swings an' plays,
Though neighbers says you're on the line
Between Pa's house an' Mr. Gray's,—
Us childern used to almost fuss,
Old Tree, about you when we 'd play.—
We'd argy you belonged to us,
An' them Gray-kids the other way!
Till Elsie, one time she wuz here
An' playin' wiv us—Don't you mind,
Old Mister Tree?—an' purty near
She scolded us the hardest kind
Fer quar'llin' 'bout you thataway,
An' say she'll find—ef we'll keep still—
Whose tree you air fer shore, she say,
An' settle it fer good, she will!
"The old tree says he's all our tree."
So all keep still: An' nen she gone
An' pat the Old Tree, an' says she,—
"Whose air you, Tree?" an' nen let on
Like she's a-list'nin' to the Tree,—
An' nen she say, "It's settled,—'cause
The Old Tree says he's all our tree—
His trunk belongs to bofe your Pas,
But shade belongs to you an' me."
THE PENALTY OF GENIUS
"When little 'Pollus Morton he's
A-go' to speak a piece, w'y, nen
The Teacher smiles an' says 'at she's
Most proud, of all her little men
An' women in her school—'cause 'Poll
He allus speaks the best of all.
An' nen she'll pat him on the cheek,
An' hold her finger up at you
Before he speak'; an' when he speak'
It's ist some piece she learn' him to!
'Cause he's her favorite.... An' she
Ain't pop'lar as she ust to be!
When 'Pollus Morton speaks, w'y, nen
Ist all the other childern knows
They're smart as him an' smart-again!—
Ef they can't speak an' got fine clo'es,
Their Parunts loves 'em more 'n 'Poll-
Us Morton, Teacher, speech, an' all!
EVENSONG
Lay away the story,—
Though the theme is sweet,
There's a lack of something yet,
Leaves it incomplete:—
There's a nameless yearning—
Strangely undefined—
For a story sweeter still
Than the written kind.
Therefore read no longer—
I've no heart to hear
But just something you make up,
O my mother dear.—
With your arms around me,
Hold me, folded-eyed,—
Only let your voice go on—
I'll be satisfied.
"Therefore read no longer."
"IGO AND AGO"
We're The Twins from Aunt Marinn's,
Igo and Ago.
When Dad comes, the show begins!—
Iram, coram, dago.
Dad he says he named us two
Igo and Ago
For a poem he always knew,
Iram, coram, dago.
Then he was a braw Scotchman—
Igo and Ago.—
Now he's Scotch-Amer-i-can.
Iram, coram, dago.
"Hey!" he cries, and pats his knee,
"Igo and Ago,
My twin bairnies, ride wi' me—
Iram, coram, dago!"
"Here," he laughs, "ye've each a leg,
Igo and Ago,
Gleg as Tam O'Shanter's 'Meg'!
Iram, coram, dago!"
Then we mount, with shrieks of mirth—
Igo and Ago,—
The two gladdest twins on earth!
Iram, coram, dago.
Wade and Silas-Walker cry,—
"Igo and Ago—
Annie's kissin' 'em 'good-bye'!"—
Iram, coram, dago.
Aunty waves us fond farewells.—
"Igo and Ago,"
Granny pipes, "tak care yersels!"
Iram, coram, dago.
THE LITTLE LADY
O The Little Lady's dainty
As the picture in a book,
And her hands are creamy-whiter
Than the water-lilies look;
Her laugh's the undrown'd music
Of the maddest meadow-brook.—
Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady!
Her eyes are blue and dewy
As the glimmering Summer-dawn,—
Her face is like the eglantine
Before the dew is gone;
And were that honied mouth of hers
A bee's to feast upon,
He'd be a bee bewildered, Little Lady!
Her brow makes light look sallow;
And the sunshine, I declare,
Is but a yellow jealousy
Awakened by her hair—
For O the dazzling glint of it
Nor sight nor soul can bear,—
So Love goes groping for The Little Lady.
"She's but a racing school-girl."
And yet she's neither Nymph nor Fay,
Nor yet of Angelkind:—
She's but a racing school-girl, with
Her hair blown out behind
And tremblingly unbraided by
The fingers of the Wind,
As it wildly swoops upon The Little Lady.
"COMPANY MANNERS"
When Bess gave her Dollies a Tea, said she,—
"It's unpolite, when they's Company,
To say you've drinked two cups, you see,—
But say you've drinked a couple of tea."
IN FERVENT PRAISE OF PICNICS
Picnics is fun 'at's purty hard to beat.
I purt'-nigh ruther go to them than eat.
I purt'-nigh ruther go to them than go
With our Charlotty to the Trick-Dog Show.
THE GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLE
When we hear Uncle Sidney tell
About the long-ago
An' old, old friends he loved so well
When he was young—My-oh!—
Us childern all wish we'd 'a' bin
A-livin' then with Uncle,—so
We could a-kindo' happened in
On them old friends he used to know!—
The good, old-fashioned people—
The hale, hard-working people—
The kindly country people
'At Uncle used to know!
They was God's people, Uncle says,
An' gloried in His name,
An' worked, without no selfishness,
An' loved their neighbers same
As they was kin: An' when they biled
Their tree-molasses, in the Spring,
Er butchered in the Fall, they smiled
An' sheered with all jist ever'thing!—
"They was god's people."