THEIR FIRST KISS

Land of Play

Verses—Rhymes—Stories

Selected by
Sara Tawney Lefferts

Illustrated by
M. L. Kirk & Florence England Nosworthy

New York
Cupples & Leon Company

Copyright, 1911, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

Printed in U.S.A.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Acknowledgment is due the following publishers and authors, for their courteous permission to use material on which they hold copyright:

Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for permission to use “Hiawatha’s Childhood,” “The Heights by Great Men Reached,” by Henry W. Longfellow; “Barefoot Boy,” by John G. Whittier; “Chippy Chirio,” by John Burroughs; “What the Winds Bring,” by Edmund Clarence Stedman; “Fable,” “Duty,” by Emerson; “The Brown Thrush,” by Lucy Larcom; “April,” by Alice Cary.

The Century Co., for permission to use “The Little Elf,” by John Kendrick Bangs.

Small, Maynard & Co., for permission to use “The Tax Gatherer,” by John B. Tabb.

Harper & Brothers, for permission to use “A Child’s Laughter,” from The Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Little, Brown & Co., for permission to use “The Swallow,” “There’s Nothing Like the Rose,” by Christina G. Rossetti; “Boys and Girls,” by Louisa M. Alcott.

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., for permission to use “Follow Me,” by Eliza Lee Follen.

New England Publishing Co., for permission to use “Our Mother,” from The American Primary Teacher.

The Reilly & Britton Co., for permission to use “The Christmas Stocking,” by L. Frank Baum (copy. 1905).

Sarah J. Day, for permission to use “Buttercups,” from “Mayflowers to Mistletoe” (G. P. Putnam’s Sons).

Kate Upson Clark, for permission to use “Charlie’s Story,” “Marjorie’s Bath,” “Good Listening.”

Good Housekeeping Magazine, for permission to use “A Dutch Lullaby,” “A Dutch Winter,” by Ella Broes van Heekeren.

Newson & Co., for permission to reprint “A Story of Washington.”

Charles Scribner’s Sons, for permission to use “Extremes,” by James Whitcomb Riley, from “The Book of Joyous Children”; “My Ship and I,” “The Little Land,” from “A Child’s Garden of Verses,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, and “The Duel,” by Eugene Field.

I have just to shut my eyes

To go sailing through the skies—

To go sailing far away

To the pleasant Land of Play.

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

Knowing how much good books are enjoyed by those who travel through what Stevenson calls “The Land of Play,” it has been a pleasure to select from the verse and prose of our best writers, old and new, the contents of this pictured volume for “The Little People,” and perchance for some older traveller who may wish to be,—

“A sailor on the rain-pool sea,

A climber in the clover tree;

And just come back a sleepy-head,

Late at night to go to bed.”

—S. T. L.

HIE AWAY.

Hie away, hie away!

Over bank and over brae,

Where the copsewood is the greenest,

Where the fountains glisten sheenest,

Where the lady fern grows strongest,

Where the morning dew lies longest,

Over bank and over brae,

Hie away, hie away!

—Sir Walter Scott.

CHARLIE’S STORY.

I was sitting in the twilight,

With my Charlie on my knee,—

Little two-year-old, forever

Teasing, “Talk a ’tory p’ease to me.”

“Now,” I said, “talk me a ’tory.”

“Well,” all smiles,—“now, I will ’mence.

Mamma, I did see a kitty,—

Great—big—kitty,—on the fence.”

Mamma smiles. Five little fingers

Cover up her laughing lips.

“Is ’oo laughing?” “Yes,” I tell him,

But I kiss the finger-tips;

And I beg him tell another.

“Well,” reflectively, “I’ll ’mence.

Mamma, I did see a doggie,—

Great—big—doggie,—on the fence.”

“Rather similar,—your stories,—

Aren’t they, dear?” A sober look

Swept across the pretty forehead;

Then he sudden courage took.

“But I know a nice, new ’tory,—

’Plendid mamma! Hear me ’mence.

Mamma, I did see a elfunt,—

Great—big—elfunt,—on a fence.”

—Kate Upson Clark.

Old King Cole.

Old King Cole

Was a merry old soul,

And a merry old soul was he;

He called for his pipe,

And he called for his bowl,

And he called for his fiddlers three.

Every fiddler, he had a fiddle,

And a very fine fiddle had he;

Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers.

Oh, there’s none so rare,

As can compare

With King Cole and his fiddlers three!

Rub-a-Dub-Dub.

Rub-a-dub-dub,

Three men in a tub,

And who do you think they be?

The butcher, the baker,

The candlestick-maker;

Turn ’em out, knaves all three!

There Was a Little Man.

There was a little man, and he had a little gun,

And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;

He went to the brook, and saw a little duck,

And shot it through the head, head, head.

He carried it home to his old wife Joan,

And bade her a fire to make, make, make,

To roast the little duck he had shot in the brook,

And he’d go and fetch the drake, drake, drake.

Fiddle-de-dee.

Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee,

The fly shall marry the humble-bee,

They went to the church, and married was she,

The fly has married the humble-bee.

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There’s no rain left in heaven;

I’ve said my “seven times” over and over—

Seven times one are seven.

I am old! so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always, they know no better;

They are only one time one.

Oh, moon! in the night I have seen you sailing,

And shining so round and low;

You were bright! Ah, bright! but your light is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven,

And shine again in your place.

O, velvet Bee! you’re a dusty fellow,

You’ve powdered your legs with gold;

O, brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow!

Give me your money to hold.

O, Columbine! open your folded wrapper

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell;

O, Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper,

That hangs in your clear green bell.

And show me your nest with the young ones in it—

I will not steal them away;

I am old! you must trust me, Linnet, Linnet—

I am seven times one to-day.

—Jean Ingelow.

GOING INTO BREECHES.

Joy to Philip! he this day

Has his long coats cast away,

And (the childish season gone)

Put the manly breeches on.

Sashes, frocks, to those that need ’em,

Philip’s limbs have got their freedom—

He can run, or he can ride,

And do twenty things beside.

Which his petticoats forbade;

Is he not a happy lad?

Baste-the-bear he now may play at;

Leap-frog, foot-ball sport away at;

Show his skill and strength at cricket,

Mark his distance, pitch his wicket;

Run about in winter’s snow

Till his cheeks and fingers glow;

Climb a tree or scale a wall,

Without any fear to fall.

This and more must now be done,

Now the breeches are put on.

—Charles and Mary Lamb.

MR. PEGGOTTY’S HOUSE.

I had known Mr. Peggotty’s quaint house very well in my childhood, and I am sure I could not have been more charmed with it if it had been Aladdin’s palace, roc’s egg and all. It was an old black barge or boat, high and dry on Yarmouth sands, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney. There was a delightful door cut in the side, and it was roofed in, and there were little windows in it. It was beautifully clean, and as tidy as possible. There were some lockers and boxes, and there was a table, and there was a Dutch clock, and there was a chest of drawers, and there was a tea-tray with a painting on it, and the tray was kept from tumbling down by a Bible, and the tray if it had tumbled down, would have Smashed a quantity of cups and saucers and a tea-pot that were grouped around the book.

On the walls were colored pictures of Abraham in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and of Daniel in yellow being cast into a den of roaring green lions. Over the little mantleshelf was a picture of the “Sarah Jane” lugger, built at Sunderland, with a real little wooden stern stuck on it—a work of Art combining composition with carpentry, which I had regarded in my childhood as one of the most enviable possessions the world could afford.

—Charles Dickens.

From the author’s condensation of David Copperfield.

Buff says Buff.

Buff says Buff to all his men,

And I say Buff to you again;

Buff neither laughs nor smiles,

But carries his face

With a very good grace,

And passes the stick to the very next place!

Hark, hark! the Dogs do Bark!

Hark, hark!

The dogs do bark,

The beggars are coming to town;

Some in rags,

Some in jags,

And some in velvet gowns.

APRIL.

The wild and windy March once more

Has closed his gates of sleep,

And given us back our April time,

So fickle and so sweet.

Now blighting with our fears—our hopes,

Now kindling hopes with fears—

Now softly weeping through the smiles,

Now smiling through the tears.

—Alice Cary.

THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR.

I.

Said the Table to the Chair,

“You can hardly be aware,

How I suffer from the heat,

And from chilblains on my feet.

If we took a little walk,

We might have a little talk;

Pray let us take the air,”

Said the Table to the Chair.

II.

Said the Chair unto the Table,

“Now you know we are not able:

How foolishly you talk,

When you know we cannot walk!”

Said the Table with a sigh,

“It can do no harm to try.

I’ve as many legs as you:

Why can’t we walk on two?”

III.

So they both went slowly down,

And walked about the town,

With a cheerful bumpy sound,

As they toddled round and round;

And everybody cried,

As they hastened to their side,

“See! the Table and the Chair!”

IV.

But in going down an alley,

To a castle in a valley,

They completely lost their way,

And wandered all the day;

Till, to see them safely back,

They paid a Ducky-quack,

And a Beetle, and a Mouse,

Who took them to their house.

V.

Then they whispered to each other,

“O, delightful little brother,

What a lovely walk we’ve taken!

Let us dine on beans and bacon.”

So the Ducky and the leetle

Browny-Mousy and the Beetle

Dined, and danced upon their heads

Till they toddled to their beds.

—Edward Lear.

Tom, Tom.

Tom, Tom, the piper’s son,

Stole a pig and away he run!

The pig was eat, and Tom was beat,

And Tom went roaring down the street.

Eye Winker, Tom Tinker.

Eye winker,

Tom tinker,

Nose dropper,

Mouth eater,

Chin chopper,

Chin chopper.

THE BRAVE BROTHER.

I was scared almost to death

When I heard my sister Beth

Screeching loud and crying.

But I ran and took a stick,

And I tell you, pretty quick,

I had taught our goose a trick,

And had sent him flying.

Girls are always frightened stiff,

Just as sister Beth was, if

That cross, ugly gander

Flies across the garden fence.

And they always will commence

Screaming,—’stead of having sense

And showing out some dander.

I made believe, with all my might,

He was a dragon, dressed in white,

With his fiery red mouth grinning,—

Like that one mother read about,

That old St. George marched forth and fought,

And beat and killed him out and out

Almost in the beginning.

And once I heard my father say,

“It’s pretty sure to be the way,

When you’re awful frightened,

If you fight till you’re ’most dead,

Bravely, you’ll come out ahead;”

But sister told me mother said,

“You might,—and then you mightn’t!”

—Lillian Howard Cort.

You’d scarce expect one of my age

To speak in public or on the stage;

And if I chance to fall below

Demosthenes or Cicero,

Don’t view me with a critic’s eye,

But pass my imperfections by.

Large streams from little fountains flow,

Tall oaks from little acorns grow.

—David Everett.

THERE’S NOTHING LIKE THE ROSE.