Chapter II: Other Children

THE APPLE-BLOSSOM SWITCH

It was the daughter of a fairy witch,--
A sweet, though wayward child.
"Go, naughty Elfinella, bring a switch
From yonder fruit tree wild!"

(It was the charming time of all the year,--
The darling month of May
And every bush and thicket, far and near,
With leaves and flowers was gay.)

Poor Elfinella heard, and off she went,
With lagging steps and slow,
To where, amidst the wild, a fruit tree bent,
Her branches spreading low.

With blossomy boughs the motherly old tree
The tearful child begirt:
"My twigs are clothed with flowers; and you will see
The switch will never hurt!"

She broke a branch, with blossoms thickly set,
And lightly homeward tripped,--
The switch was used--but little did she fret;
For she with flowers was whipped!

THE INDIGNANT BABY

Baby was out with Papa for a walk.
When their friends they met, it was "Oh!" and "Ah!"
"What a darling she is!" "Can the little kid talk?"
"Well--no; I don't think that she can," said Papa,
"Though she seems to understand."

She was only two, but she understood,
And her small, rosy mouth was made up to cry--
But no! she would _talk_--she would show that she could.
And, "Mamma," and "pretty," and "laly"--"by-by,"
She said with a wave of her hand!

A QUESTION OF SPELLING

They were looking through their book
With pictures of the Zoo;
Both too young to read the text,
But each the pictures knew.

Will was three, and Ray was five--
And five years old is _old_!
When his wiser brother spoke,
Will did as he was told!

"Look! I've found the _efalunt_!"
"Don't say _efalunt_," said Ray.
Said their mother: "You should tell
Little brother what to say."

"Don't say efalunt--that's wrong;
It's _efalint_!" said Ray.
"_Efalint_!" said little Will,
In his confiding way.

"YOURS SEVERELY"

(_The Letter of a Five Year Old_)

Once more she dipped her pen in ink,
And wrote: "I love you dearly."
"And now," she said, and stopped to think,
"I'll put, 'I'm
_Yours severely_.'"

A LACK OF ATTENTION

She had folded her hands, and had never stirred
Nor even spoken one little word.
In fact, she was good as good could be,
While the grown folks talked, and sipped their tea
At last, a small voice from the corner we heard:
"Nobody pays any pension to me!"

"I OUGHT TO MUSTN'T"

The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low,
And I opened the door just in time to see
The last of the coveted caramels go,
While a look imploring was cast on me,
"I ought to mustn't, I know!"

The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low,--
To punish, alas! no courage I had:
And I did as, perhaps, you yourself might do,--
I kissed her, right there, so sweet and so bad!
But "I ought to mustn't," I knew!

A VAIN REGRET

He was six years old, just six that day,
And I saw he had something important to say,
As he held in his hand a broken toy:
He looked in my face for an instant, and then
He said, with a sigh, and a downcast eye,
"If I could live my life over again,
I think I could be a better boy!"

IN THE DARK LITTLE FLAT AT THE END OF THE COURT

What can the children in cities do,
The children shut in from wholesome sport--
The children that live, all winter through,
In the dark little flat at the end of the court?

Yet a comfort they have (and a beautiful one!),
Though the days are chill and the days are short;
At noon, for a moment, looks in the sun,
In the dark little flat at the end of the court.

Then, the dazzled baby drops his toy,
Down tumbles the four-year-old's tottering fort--
"Sunshine!" they all cry out, in their joy,
In the dark little flat at the end of the court.

THE LITTLE GIRL FROM TOWN

Us children liked her, though she was so queer,
When she came out to Pleasantville, last year;
She "mustn't walk upon the grass," she said:
We asked her _why_?--and she just shook her head!

Oh, yes, us children liked the little kid,
Although she didn't know one thing _we_ did,
And said the oddest things you ever heard;
She saw a goose, and asked, "_What kind o' bird?_"

Us children liked the little kid, oh, yes!
She wa'n't a bit afraid to tear her dress;
One day, when she went barefoot, just like us,
She got a stone-bruise; but she didn't _fuss_!

Oh, yes! us children liked her, but oh, my!
We had to teach her how to play "high spy";
She came to see us,--called our house "_a flat_"--
I wonder now--what _could_ she mean by that?

FOR EVERY DAY

A flower for every day
That slips the sheath of jealous Night in May!
The violet at our feet,
The lilac's honeyed bough,
The wind-flower frail and sweet,
The apple-blossom now--
Each keeps its promise, as Love keeps its vow:
A flower for every day in flowerful May!

A song for every day
That breaks in music from the heart of May!
The warbler mid new leaves,
The lark in fields remote,
The housewren at our eaves,
The oriole's haunting note
When orchard blooms down fitful zephyrs float:
A song for every day in songful May!

A joy for every day
That stirs the heart to count its joys in May!
Now Fear and Doubt take flight,
Borne down the season's stream;
Grief grows a shape of light,
And melts, a tender dream!
Now but to be alive is boon supreme--
A joy for every day in joyful May!

Be thanks for every day
That from thy heaven thou dost send in May!
My morn an anthem wake,
My noon sweet incense bear
Of labor for thy sake,
My evening breath a prayer.
For bloom--for song--for joy--shed everywhere,
Be thanks to thee each day in thankful May!

THE DAY-DREAMER

There's a day-dream strange and sweet,
Softly hovering in the air:
Now it stays the restless feet,
Now, it smoothes the wayward hair.

Now, it droops the curly head,
Propped upon the window-sill--
Parts the lips of rosebud red,
While the eyes with fancies fill.

Sunbeams from the summer sky
Kiss the arm so round and bare:
There's a day-dream sweet and shy,
Softly hovering in the air!

Is that dream of field or wood,
Mossy bank, or violet dell,
Thrush's nest, with downy brood
Lately prisoned in the shell?

Comes that dream from fairyland,
Blown about in wondrous ways,
Like a skein of gossamer fanned
By a troop of laughing fays?

Or, upon some elfin brook,
Wing of dragon-fly for sail,
Passing many a wildflower nook
Did it drift so light and frail?

Little dreamer, if I dared,
I would say, "your day-dream tell!"
But it never can be shared,
And one word would break its spell!

BORN DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND

(_At an Asylum_)

A flower-soft hand once took my own,--
That touch I never shall forget!
A strange voice spoke--so strange a tone
Mine ear had never met!

It said, "Come--see--my--garden,--Come!"
(The flower-soft fingers closer twined):
The voice of one born deaf and dumb,
The touch of one born blind!

They thrilled me so, the tears came fast;
But in glad haste she led the way;
Through hall and open door we passed
Into a garden gay.

Her share was but a little space.
It bloomed with pansies dark and bright;
And each looked up with elfin grace,
As though to win her sight.

She smiled--the pansy-faces smiled
Through tears--or was it morning dew?
Down knelt the deaf and dumb, blind child
"I do--give--all--to--you!"

I could not stay those fingers swift,
She plucked me all the flowers she had!
I never shall have any gift
So sweet as this,--so sad!

THE CRADLE-CHILD

Forgotten, in a chamber lone,
The hooded Cradle, brown and old,
Began to rock, began to moan,
"Where are the babes I used to hold?"

"To men and women they are grown,
And through the world their way must make."
The Cradle rocked and made its moan,
"My babes no single step could take!"

"A helmsman one, on wide seas blown,
His sinewy hands the wheel employs."
The Cradle rocked and made its moan,
"My babes could scarcely grasp their toys."

"And one, with words of winning tone,
God's shepherd, goes the lost to seek."
The Cradle rocked and still made moan,
"The babes I held no word could speak!"

"And one, with children of her own,--
Her life is toil and love and prayer!"
The Cradle rocked and still made moan,
"My babes of babes could take no care!"

"Now all that once were mine are flown
But one, that still with me shall bide"--
(The Cradle ceased to rock, to moan)--
"The sweetest one--the babe who died!"

SOME LADIES OF THE OLDEN TIME

A long time ago in Childhood's Land,
A troop of sweet ladies I knew,
If the truth must be told, I myself
Was their lady's maid, patient and true!

I served them, I dressed them, I took them to walk,
I made the fine clothes that they wore;
Very dainty,--and delicate, too, were they all,
For they never arose until four!

Wide were their flounces of crimson or white,
A little old fashioned for now;
Prim were their figures--ah, yes, I must own,
Their heads they never could bow!

Their heads were so round and so small and so green--
Not clever nor learnèd were they;
But then, they were only Four o'Clock Ladies,
And their life, 'twas a short one and gay!

A WATER LILY

Did I behold the Lady of the Lake
Part the cool water with a slender hand?
And brought she for her loved knight errant's sake
Out of some liquid crypt the magic brand?

I dreamed it was the Lady of the Lake--
I did but dream! Again I looked, and knew
The water lily, white as winter's flake,
But with a heart all gold and fragrant dew.

THE KINDERBANK[4]

THE LITTLE MOTHERS

It was a day in warm July,
It was a far countree;
The bees were humming in the flowers
That filled the linden tree.

The linden made a cooling shade
For many a yard around,
And flecks of sunlight here and there
Did dot the shady ground.

A long, low, easy seat there was
Beneath the linden green;
And _Kinderbank_ across the back
In letters large was seen.

I did not need that word to read,
To know the Children's Seat;
For there the grass was trodden down
By many little feet.

Upon this day the _Kinderbank_
Was full as it could be,
With children sitting in a row,
A pleasant sight to see.

Each little woman bent her head,
Too busy far to speak;
Each had a lock of yellow hair
Slipped down across her cheek.

Each little woman pursed her lips
Into a rosebud small,
And never knew how fast time flew--
So busy were they all.

One made the knitting-needles click,
With shining head bent low,
And earnest eyes intent to see
The winter stocking grow.

Another, toiling at a seam,
The thread drew in and out;
And once she sighed--so hard she tried
To make the stitches stout!

But ever, as they worked away,
And would not look around,
They watched the little ones that played
Before them on the ground.

The little ones they laughed and cooed,
And talked their baby-talk;
Their feet so bare were rosy-fair--
For only one could walk!

His flaxen hair in ringlets stood
Upon his serious head;
His eyes so blue were serious, too;
And, drawing near, I said:

"Whose precious baby boy is this,
So thoughtful and so sweet?"
Then up and spoke a little maid,
Of those upon the seat:

"This baby--he belongs to me.
He goes just where I go;
And I'm his Little Mother--yes,
_My_ mother told me so!

"She said that he was mine 'all day.'
And so it must be true;
I brushed his hair--I take good care,
As she herself would do.

"And I'm quite sure that I can cure,
And drive the pain away,
With kisses, if my baby hurts
His little hand at play!"

"And whose are all these babies here?
"Why--we--oh, don't you know?"
We all are Little Mothers--yes,
_Our_ mothers told us so!"

The Little Mothers all looked up,
And each did nod her head:
"Our mothers told us so!" "Ah, then
'Tis true, indeed," I said.

I left them as I found them, there
Beneath the linden tree;
And often since that day I've thought
I'd like to go and see

If still the Little Mothers sit
Upon the Children's Seat,
And watch their babies as they play
And tumble at their feet.

[4] In German, the Children's Seat.

BUONAMICO

_A Legend of Florence_

I

When Monte Morello is capped with snow,
And the wind from the north comes whistling down,
It is chill to rise with the morning star,
In the "City of Flowers"--in Florence town.

II

Light is the sleep of the old, for they know
How brief are their few remaining days;
But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long,
And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways.

III

So, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light,
But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young,
And his dreaming ears were loath to hear
The daybreak bell's awakening tongue.

IV

For it seemed to speak with old Tafi's voice,
"Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!"
Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor,
Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept.

V

Busy all day with his quick, young hands,--
Busy his thoughts with a project bold.
"The master will find," he said to himself,
"'Tis not well to work in the dark and the cold!"

VI

But the master, unheeding the prentice lad,
Matched the mosaics fine and quaint;
Till his tablets of stone revealed the forms
Of Mother and Child, of cherub and saint.

VII

Buonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks,
And, prying in crevice of wall or ground,
With a patience and skill boys only know,
Thirty great beetles the truant found.

VIII

As many wax tapers, then, he took--
Thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more),
And presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow,
On its broad black back a candle bore.

IX

Next morning, ere dawn, when Tafi awoke,
Ere his lips could frame their usual call,
A sight he beheld that froze his veins--
An impish procession of tapers small!

X

Slowly they came, and slowly went
(And they seemed to pass through a crack 'neath the door):
So slowly they moved, he counted them all,
Thirty they numbered, nor less, nor more!