Chapter LII: Section VII: Poetry (1)

INTRODUCTORY

Many teachers have more difficulty in interesting their pupils in poetry than in any other form of literature. This difficulty may be due to any one of a number of causes. It may be due to a lack of poetic appreciation on the part of the teacher, leading to poor judgment in selecting and presenting poetry. It may be due to the feeling that there is something occult and mysterious about poetry that puts it outside the range of common interests, or to the idea that the technique of verse must in some way be emphasized. The first step in using poetry successfully with children is to brush away all these and other extraneous matters and to realize that poetry is in essence a simple and natural mode of expression, and that all attempts to explain how poetry does its work may be left for later stages of study. It is not necessary even for the teacher to be able to recognize and name all the varieties of rhythm to be able to present poetry enthusiastically and understandingly. Least of all is it necessary to have a prescribed list of the hundred "best poems." Some of the best poems for children would not belong in any such list.

The selections in this section cover a wide variety. They are not all equally great, but no teacher can fail to find here something suitable and interesting for any grade. The few suggestions which it is possible to make in this brief introduction may best, perhaps, and without any intention of being exhaustive, be thrown into the form of dogmatic statements:

1. If in doubt about what to use beyond the
material in the following pages, depend upon
some of the fine collections mentioned in the
bibliography. Every teacher should have access
to Stevenson's _Home Book of Verse for Young
Folks_, which contains many poems from recent
writers as well as the older favorites. If
possible, have the advantage of the fine taste
and judgment of the collections made by Andrew
Lang, Miss Repplier, E. V. Lucas, and as many
of the others as are available.

2. Remember that in poetry, more than
elsewhere, one can present only what one is
really interested in and, as a consequence,
enthusiastic about. Even poems about whose
fitness all judges agree should be omitted
rather than run the risk of deadening them for
children by a dead and formal handling.

3. Mainly, poetry should be presented orally.
The appeal is first to the ear just as in
music. The teacher should read or, better,
recite the poem in order to get the best
results. There should be no effort at
"elocution" in its worst sense, but a simple,
sincere rendering of the language of the poem.
The more informal the process is, the better.
There should be much repetition of favorite
poems, so that the rich details and pictures
may sink into the mind.

4. There should be great variety in choice that
richness and breadth of impression may thus be
gained. It is a mistake to confine the work in
poetry entirely to lyrics or entirely to
ballads. Wordsworth's "Daffodils" and Gilbert's
"Yarn of the Nancy Bell" are far apart, but
there is a place for each. Teachers should
always be on the lookout for poetry old or new,
in the magazines or elsewhere, which they can
bring into the schoolroom. Such "finds" are
often fresh with some timely suggestion and may
prove just what is needed to start some
hesitating pupil to reading poetry.

5. The earliest poetry should be that in which
the music is very prominent and the idea absent
or not prominent. The perfection of the Mother
Goose jingles for little folks is in their
fulfillment of this principle. Use and
encourage strongly emphasized rhythm in reading
poetry, especially in the early work. Gradually
the meaning in poetry takes on more prominence
as the work proceeds.

6. Children should be encouraged to commit much
poetry to memory. They do this very easily
after hearing it repeated a time or two. Such
memorizing should not be done usually as a
task. Children are, however, very obliging
about liking what a teacher is enthusiastic
about, and what they like they can hold in mind
with surprising ease. The game of giving
quotations that no one else in the class has
given is always a delight. Don't be misled by
the fun poked at the "memory gem method" of
studying poetry. The error is not in memorizing
complete poems and fine poetic passages, but in
doing this in a mechanical fashion.

7. It is a mistake to use too much poetry at
one time. Children, as well as grown people,
tire of it more quickly than they do of prose.
The mind seems soon to reach the saturation
point where it is unable to take in any more.
Frequent returns to a poem rather than long
periods of study give the best results.

8. Encourage children to read poetry aloud. By
example and suggestion help them keep their
minds on the ideas, the pictures, the
characters. Only by doing this can they really
read so as to interpret a poem. No one can read
with a lazy mind, or merely by imitation.
Encourage them to croon or recite the lines
when alone.

9. It is not necessary that children should
understand everything in a poem. If it is worth
while they will get enough of its meaning to
justify its use and they will gradually see
more and more in it as time passes. In fact it
is this constantly growing content of a poem
that makes its possession in memory such a
treasure. Neither should the presence of
difficult words be allowed to rule out a poem
that possesses some large element of accessible
value. Many words are understood by the ear
that are not recognized by sight.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

Books such as Woodberry's _Heart of Man_ and
_Appreciation of Literature_ are of especial
value for getting the right attitude toward
poetry. The most illuminating practical help
would come from consulting the published
lectures of Lafcadio Hearn, explaining poetry
to Japanese students. His problem was not
unlike that faced by the teacher of poetry in
the grades. These lectures have been edited by
John Erskine as _Interpretations of Literature_
(2 vols.), _Appreciations of Poetry_, and _Life
and Literature_. The whole philosophy of poetry
is treated compactly in Professor Gayley's "The
Principles of Poetry," which forms the
introduction to Gayley and Young's _Principles
and Progress of English Poetry_.

269

Mrs. Follen (1787-1860) was a rather voluminous
writer and adapter of juvenile material. Her
verses are old-fashioned, simple, and
child-like, and have pleased several
generations of children. While they have no
such air of distinction as belongs to
Stevenson's poems for children, they are full
of the fancies that children enjoy, and deserve
their continued popularity.

THE THREE LITTLE KITTENS

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

Three little kittens lost their mittens;
And they began to cry,
"Oh, mother dear,
We very much fear
That we have lost our mittens."
"Lost your mittens!
You naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie!"
"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."
"No, you shall have no pie."

The three little kittens found their mittens;
And they began to cry,
"Oh, mother dear,
See here, see here!
See, we have found our mittens!"
"Put on your mittens,
You silly kittens,
And you may have some pie."
"Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,
Oh, let us have the pie!
Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r."

The three little kittens put on their mittens,
And soon ate up the pie;
"Oh, mother dear,
We greatly fear
That we have soiled our mittens!"
"Soiled your mittens!
You naughty kittens!"
Then they began to sigh,
"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."
Then they began to sigh,
"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."

The three little kittens washed their mittens,
And hung them out to dry;
"Oh, mother dear,
Do not you hear
That we have washed our mittens?"
"Washed your mittens!
Oh, you're good kittens!
But I smell a rat close by;
Hush, hush! Mee-ow, mee-ow."
"We smell a rat close by,
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."

270

THE MOON

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

O look at the moon!
She is shining up there;
O mother, she looks
Like a lamp in the air.

Last week she was smaller,
And shaped like a bow;
But now she's grown bigger,
And round as an O.

Pretty moon, pretty moon,
How you shine on the door,
And make it all bright
On my nursery floor!

You shine on my playthings,
And show me their place,
And I love to look up
At your pretty bright face.

And there is a star
Close by you, and maybe
That small twinkling star
Is your little baby.

271

RUNAWAY BROOK

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

"Stop, stop, pretty water!"
Said Mary one day,
To a frolicsome brook
That was running away.

"You run on so fast!
I wish you would stay;
My boat and my flowers
You will carry away.

"But I will run after:
Mother says that I may;
For I would know where
You are running away."

So Mary ran on;
But I have heard say,
That she never could find
Where the brook ran away.

272

DING DONG! DING DONG!

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

Ding dong! ding dong!
I'll sing you a song;
'Tis about a little bird;
He sat upon a tree,
And he sang to me,
And I never spoke a word.

Ding dong! ding dong!
I'll sing you a song;
'Tis about a little mouse;
He looked very cunning,
As I saw him running
About my father's house.

Ding dong! ding dong!
I'll sing you a song
About my little kitty;
She's speckled all over,
And I know you'll love her,
For she is very pretty.

273

Mrs. Prentiss (1818-1878) was the author of
_The Susy Books_, published from 1853 to 1856,
forerunners of many series of such juvenile
publications. The following poem has retained
its hold on the affections of children.

THE LITTLE KITTY

ELIZABETH PRENTISS

Once there was a little kitty
Whiter than snow;
In a barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro;
For she heard the kitty coming,
Long time ago.

Two eyes had little kitty
Black as a sloe;
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.

Four paws had little kitty,
Paws soft as dough;
And they caught the little mousie,
Long time ago.

Nine teeth had little kitty,
All in a row;
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie,
Little mouse cried, "Oh!"
But she got away from kitty,
Long time ago.

274

Mrs. Hale (1788-1879), left a widow with five
children to support, devoted herself to a
literary career. She wrote fiction, edited the
_Ladies' Magazine_ of Boston, afterward the
_Ladies' Book_ of Philadelphia, compiled a book
of poetical quotations, and biographies of
celebrated women. Most of her work was
ephemeral in character, and she lives for us in
the one poem that follows. It is usually
printed without the last stanza which is here
restored. Younger children, as a rule, do not
object to such moralizing.

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB

SARA J. HALE

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school one day,
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play,
To see a lamb at school.

And so the Teacher turned him out,
But still he lingered near,
And waited patiently about,
Till Mary did appear:

And then he ran to her, and laid
His head upon her arm,
As if he said, "I'm not afraid,
You'll save me from all harm."

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?"
The eager children cry--
"Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"
The Teacher did reply.

And you each gentle animal
In confidence may bind,
And make them follow at your will,
If you are only kind.

275

Theodore Tilton (1835-1907) was a very
brilliant New York orator, poet, and
journalist. His poetry, published in a complete
volume in 1897, contains some really
distinguished verse. He is largely known to the
new generation, however, by some stanzas from
the following poem, which are usually found in
readers and poetic compilations for children.
The entire poem is given here. Does our "Swat
the fly" campaign of recent years negate the
kindly attitude emphasized in the poem?

BABY BYE

THEODORE TILTON

Baby bye,
Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.
How he crawls
Up the walls,
Yet he never falls!
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.
There he goes
On his toes,
Tickling baby's nose.

Spots of red
Dot his head;
Rainbows on his back are spread;
That small speck
Is his neck;
See him nod and beck.
I can show you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes,--
Three small pairs,
Made of hairs;
These he always wears.

Black and brown
Is his gown;
He can wear it upside down;
It is laced
Round his waist;
I admire his taste.
Yet though tight his clothes are made
He will lose them, I'm afraid,
If to-night
He gets sight
Of the candle-light.

In the sun
Webs are spun;
What if he gets into one?
When it rains
He complains
On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I;
God has given the little fly
No such things,
So he sings
With his buzzing wings.

He can eat
Bread and meat;
There's his mouth between his feet.
On his back
Is a pack
Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand;
Put a crumb
On her thumb,
Maybe he will come.

Catch him? No,
Let him go,
Never hurt an insect so;
But no doubt
He flies out
Just to gad about.
Now you see his wings of silk
Drabbled in the baby's milk;
Fie, oh fie,
Foolish fly!
How will he get dry?

All wet flies
Twist their thighs,
Thus they wipe their head and eyes;
Cats, you know,
Wash just so,
Then their whiskers grow.
Flies have hair too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home;
But the gnat
Wears a hat,
Do you believe that?

Flies can see
More than we.
So how bright their eyes must be!
Little fly,
Ope your eye;
Spiders are near by.
For a secret I can tell,--
Spiders never use flies well.
Then away!
Do not stay.
Little fly, good-day!

276

Prominent among American writers who have
contributed to the happiness of children is
Lucy Larcom (1826-1893). One of a numerous
family, she worked as a child in the Lowell
mills, later taught school in Illinois, was one
of the editors of _Our Young Folks_, and wrote
a most fascinating autobiography called _A New
England Girlhood_. Several of her poems are
still used in schools. The one that follows is,
perhaps, the most popular of these. It is
semi-dramatic, and the three voices of the poem
can be easily discovered. Miss Larcom's finest
poem is the one entitled "Hannah Binding
Shoes."

THE BROWN THRUSH

LUCY LARCOM

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,
He's singing to me! He's singing to me!
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? Don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree
I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! Now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me.
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!"
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be.

277

Mrs. Child (1802-1880) was the editor of the
first monthly for children in the United
States, the _Juvenile Miscellany_. She wrote
and compiled several works for children, and
her optimistic outlook has led someone to speak
of her as the "Apostle of Cheer." She wrote a
novel, _Hobomak_ (1821), which is still spoken
of with respect, and she was a prominent figure
in the anti-slavery agitation. The two poems
following have held their own with children for
reasons easily recognized.

THANKSGIVING DAY

LYDIA MARIA CHILD

Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood--
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
"Ting-a-ling-ding!"
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting-hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barnyard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood--
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for pumpkin-pie!

278

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?

LYDIA MARIA CHILD

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away.
Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!
I gave the hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I'm not so mean, anyhow."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"

"Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no,
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"

"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;
"I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's nest to-day?"

"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen;
"Don't ask me again,
Why, I haven't a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together.
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,
"Don't ask me again."

"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
All the birds make a stir!
Let us find out his name,
And all cry 'For shame!'"

"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel, too,"
Said little Alice Neal;
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel?"

A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.

279

"Susan Coolidge" was the pseudonym used
by Sarah C. Woolsey (1845-1905). She
wrote numerous tales and verses for young
people, and her series of _Katy Books_ was
widely known and enjoyed. The poem
that follows is a very familiar one, and its
treatment of its theme may be compared
with that in Henry Ward Beecher's little
prose apologue (No. 249).

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN

"SUSAN COOLIDGE"

I'll tell you how the leaves came down:
The great Tree to his children said,
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red;
It is quite time to go to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer stay;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!
'Tis such a very pleasant day,
We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day
To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced and had their way
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget
And let us stay until the spring,
If we all beg and coax and fret."
But the great Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bedclothes heaped up on her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.
"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;
And from below each sleepy child
Replied, "Good-night," and murmured,
"It is _so_ nice to go to bed."

The poems for young readers produced by the
sisters Alice Cary (1820-1871) and Phoebe Cary
(1824-1871) constitute the most successful body
of juvenile verse yet produced in this country.
One of Alice Cary's poems, "An Order for a
Picture," is of a very distinguished quality,
but as its appeal is largely to mature readers,
two of Phoebe Cary's poems of simpler quality
are chosen for use here. The first of these
marks, by means of three illustrations within
the range of children's observation, a very
common defect of child nature and is, by the
force of these illustrations, a good lesson in
practical ethics. The appeal of the second is
to that inherent ideal of disinterested heroism
which is so strong in children. The setting of
the story amidst the ever-present threat of the
sea affords a good chance for the teacher to do
effective work in emphasizing the geographical
background. This should be done, however, not
as geography merely, but with the attention on
the human elements involved.

280

THEY DIDN'T THINK

PHOEBE CARY

Once a trap was baited
With a piece of cheese;
Which tickled so a little mouse
It almost made him sneeze;
An old rat said, "There's danger,
Be careful where you go!"
"Nonsense!" said the other,
"I don't think you know!"
So he walked in boldly--
Nobody in sight;
First he took a nibble,
Then he took a bite;
Close the trap together
Snapped as quick as wink,
Catching mousey fast there,
'Cause he didn't think.

Once a little turkey,
Fond of her own way,
Wouldn't ask the old ones
Where to go or stay;
She said, "I'm not a baby,
Here I am half-grown;
Surely, I am big enough
To run about alone!"
Off she went, but somebody
Hiding saw her pass;
Soon like snow her feathers
Covered all the grass.
So she made a supper
For a sly young mink,
'Cause she was so headstrong
That she wouldn't think.

Once there was a robin
Lived outside the door,
Who wanted to go inside
And hop upon the floor.
"Ho, no," said the mother,
"You must stay with me;
Little birds are safest
Sitting in a tree."
"I don't care," said Robin,
And gave his tail a fling,
"I don't think the old folks
Know quite everything."
Down he flew, and Kitty seized him.
Before he'd time to blink.
"Oh," he cried, "I'm sorry,
But I didn't think."

Now my little children,
You who read this song,
Don't you see what trouble
Comes of thinking wrong?
And can't you take a warning
From their dreadful fate
Who began their thinking
When it was too late?
Don't think there's always safety
Where no danger shows,
Don't suppose you know more
Than anybody knows;
But when you're warned of ruin,
Pause upon the brink,
And don't go under headlong,
'Cause you didn't think.

281

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE

A Story of Holland

PHOEBE CARY

The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him--
They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set."

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread;
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow's tender shade;
And told them they'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight,
Though he wouldn't be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!

For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place--
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes;
And saw the shadows deepen
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said: "He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve--
Though it isn't like my boy at all
To stay without my leave."

But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.

"Ah! well for us," said Peter,
"That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You're a wicked sea," said Peter;
"I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes;
But our sluices keep you safe!"

But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child's face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.

'_Tis a leak in the dike!_ He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
_A leak in the dike!_ The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night;
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh;
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!

So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea;
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying--and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yester eve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!

"He is dead!" she cries; "my darling!"
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife--
"Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!"
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.

'Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.

They have many a valiant hero,
Remembered through the years:
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!

The world's greatest writer of verse for
children, Robert Louis Stevenson, was born in
Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1850. After he was
twenty-five years old he spent much of the rest
of his short life traveling in search of
health. From 1889 to the time of his death in
1894 he resided in Samoa. The verses given here
(Nos. 282-295) are taken from his famous book,
_A Child's Garden of Verses_, which, says
Professor Saintsbury, "is, perhaps, the most
perfectly natural book of the kind. It was
supplemented later by other poems for children;
and some of his work outside this, culminating
in the widely known epitaph

Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill,

has the rarely combined merits of simplicity,
sincerity, music, and strength." One of the
best of Stevenson's poems for children outside
the _Child's Garden of Verses_ is the
powerfully dramatic story called _Heather Ale_.
In attempting to solve the secret of
Stevenson's supremacy, Edmund Gosse calls
attention to the "curiously candid and
confidential attitude of mind" in these poems,
to the "extraordinary clearness and precision
with which the immature fancies of eager
childhood" are reproduced, and particularly, to
the fact that they give us "a transcript of
that child-mind which we have all possessed and
enjoyed, but of which no one, except Mr.
Stevenson, seems to have carried away a
photograph." It is this ability to hand on a
photographic transcript of the child's way of
seeing things that, according to Mr. Gosse,
puts Stevenson in a class which contains only
two other members, Hans Christian Andersen in
nursery stories, and Juliana Horatia Ewing in
the more realistic prose tale. Children find
expressed in these poems their own active
fancies. It has been objected to them that the
child pictured there is a lonely child, but
every child, like every mature person, has an
inner world of dreams and experiences in which
he delights now and then to dwell. The presence
of the qualities mentioned put at least two of
Stevenson's prose romances among the most
splendid adventure stories for young people,
_Treasure Island_ and _Kidnapped_. Perhaps no
book is more popular among pupils of the
seventh and eighth grades than the former. It
has been called a "sublimated dime novel," that
is, it has all the decidedly attractive
features of the "dime novel" plus the fine art
of story-telling which is always lacking in
that sensational type of story.

282

WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

A child should always say what's true,
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table;
At least as far as he is able.

283

THE COW

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.

She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;

And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.

284

TIME TO RISE

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

A birdie with a yellow bill
Hopped upon the window-sill,
Cocked his shining eye and said:
"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?"

285

RAIN

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The rain is raining all around,
It falls on field and tree,
It rains on the umbrellas here,
And on the ships at sea.

286

A GOOD PLAY

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back-bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of sofa pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.

We took a saw and several nails,
And water in the nursery pails;
And Tom said, "Let us also take
An apple and a slice of cake;"--
Which was enough for Tom and me
To go a-sailing on, till tea.

We sailed along for days and days,
And had the very best of plays;
But Tom fell out and hurt his knee,
So there was no one left but me.

287

THE LAMPLIGHTER

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;
It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by;
For every night at tea-time and before you take your seat,
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.

Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,
And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,
O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!

288

THE LAND OF NOD

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

From breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.

All by myself I have to go,
With none to tell me what to do--
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain sides of dreams.

The strangest things are there for me,
Both things to eat and things to see,
And many frightening sights abroad,
Till morning in the land of Nod.

Try as I like to find the way,
I never can get back by day,
Nor can remember plain and clear
The curious music that I hear.

289

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lion comes to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear Land of Story-books.

290

MY BED IS A BOAT

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

My bed is like a little boat;
Nurse helps me in when I embark:
She girds me in my sailor's coat
And starts me in the dark.

At night, I go on board and say
Good-night to all my friends on shore;
I shut my eyes and sail away
And see and hear no more.

And sometimes things to bed I take,
As prudent sailors have to do;
Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake,
Perhaps a toy or two.

All night across the dark we steer;
But when the day returns at last,
Safe in my room, beside the pier,
I find my vessel fast.

291

MY SHADOW

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

292

THE SWING

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--

Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!

293

WHERE GO THE BOATS?

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along forever
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

294

THE WIND

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

295

WINDY NIGHTS

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.

The four poems that follow are from
_Little-Folk Lyrics_, by Frank Dempster Sherman
(1860--), and are used here by permission of
and special arrangement with the publishers,
Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston. Many of Sherman's
poems have been found pleasing to children,
particularly those dealing with nature themes
and with outdoor activities.

296

SPINNING TOP

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

When I spin round without a stop
And keep my balance like the top,
I find that soon the floor will swim
Before my eyes; and then, like him,
I lie all dizzy on the floor
Until I feel like spinning more.

297

FLYING KITE

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

I often sit and wish that I
Could be a kite up in the sky,
And ride upon the breeze, and go
Whatever way it chanced to blow.
Then I could look beyond the town,
And see the river winding down,
And follow all the ships that sail
Like me before the merry gale,
Until at last with them I came
To some place with a foreign name.

298

KING BELL

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

Long ago there lived a King
A mighty man and bold,
Who had two sons, named Dong and Ding,
Of whom this tale is told.

Prince Ding was clear of voice, and tall,
A Prince in every line;
Prince Dong, his voice was very small,
And he but four feet nine.

Now both these sons were very dear
To Bell, the mighty King.
They always hastened to appear
When he for them would ring.

Ding never failed the first to be,
But Dong, he followed well,
And at the second summons he
Responded to King Bell.

This promptness of each royal Prince
Is all of them we know,
Except that all their kindred since
Have done exactly so.

And if you chance to know a King
Like this one of the dong,
Just listen once--and there is Ding;
Again--and there is Dong.

299

DAISIES

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

At evening when I go to bed
I see the stars shine overhead;
They are the little daisies white
That dot the meadows of the Night.

And often while I'm dreaming so,
Across the sky the Moon will go;
It is a lady, sweet and fair,
Who comes to gather daisies there.

For, when at morning I arise,
There's not a star left in the skies;
She's picked them all and dropped them down
Into the meadows of the town.

The three poems by Eugene Field (Nos. 300-302)
are used by special permission of the
publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York
City. Field was born at St. Louis in 1850, and
died at Chicago in 1895. The quaint fantastical
conceptions in these poems have made them
supreme favorites with children. No. 300
belongs to the list of the world's great
lullabies.

300

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD

EUGENE FIELD

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea--
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
Never afeard are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

301

THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE

EUGENE FIELD

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
'Tis a marvel of great renown!
It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop sea
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
(As those who have tasted it say)
That good little children have only to eat
Of that fruit to be happy next day.

When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time
To capture the fruit which I sing;
The tree is so tall that no person could climb
To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!
But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,
And a gingerbread dog prowls below--
And this is the way you contrive to get at
Those sugar-plums tempting you so:

You say but the word to that gingerbread dog
And he barks with such terrible zest
That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,
As her swelling proportions attest.
And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around
From this leafy limb unto that,
And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground--
Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes
With stripings of scarlet or gold,
And you carry away of the treasure that rains,
As much as your apron can hold!
So come, little child, cuddle closer to me
In your dainty white nightcap and gown,
And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

302

THE DUEL

EUGENE FIELD

The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(_I wasn't there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!_)

The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(_Now mind: I'm only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!_)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw--
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(_Don't fancy I exaggerate--
I got my news from the Chinese plate!_)

Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat:
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
(_The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know._)

303

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield,
Indiana, in 1849, and died at Indianapolis in
1916. His success was largely due to his
ability to present homely phases of life in the
Hoosier dialect. "The Raggedy Man" is a good
illustration of this skill. In his prime Mr.
Riley was an excellent oral interpreter of his
own work, and his personifications of the
Hoosier types in his poems in recitals all over
the country had much to do with giving him an
understanding body of readers. He had much of
the power in which Stevenson was so
supreme--that power of remembering accurately
and giving full expression to the points of
view of childhood. The perennial fascination of
the circus as in "The Circus Day Parade"
illustrates this particularly well. "The
Treasures of the Wise Man" represents another
class of Mr. Riley's poems in which he
moralizes in a fashion that makes people
willing to be preached at. It may be said very
truly that most of his poems have their chief
attraction in enabling older readers to recall
the almost vanished thrilling delights of
youth, but poems that do that are generally
found to interest children also.

THE TREASURES OF THE WISE MAN[1]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

O the night was dark and the night was late,
And the robbers came to rob him;
And they picked the locks of his palace gate,
The robbers that came to rob him--
They picked the locks of his palace gate,
Seized his jewels and gems of state,
His coffers of gold and his priceless plate--
The robbers that came to rob him.

But loud laughed he in the morning red!--
For of what had the robbers robbed him?--
Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,
When the robbers came to rob him,--
They robbed him not of a golden shred
Of the childish dreams in his wise old head--
"And they're welcome to all things else," he said,
When the robbers came to rob him.

304

THE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE[1]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed,
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!

How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own,
And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known!
And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind,
Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!

How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue,
And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you,
Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore,
Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that
they wore!

How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed,
And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side!
How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame,
With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.

How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast,
And the mystery within it only hinted of at last
From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there
The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!

And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town,
With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down,
And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played
A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.

Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed,
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!

FOOTNOTE:

[1] From the Biographical Edition of the _Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley_. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.

305

THE RAGGEDY MAN[2]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY