Chapter III: Part 3

Little Miss Brag has much to say
To the rich little lady from over the way,
And the rich little lady puts out a lip
As she looks at her own white, dainty slip,
And wishes that _she_ could wear a gown
As pretty as gingham of faded brown!
For little Miss Brag she lays much stress
On the privileges of a gingham dress--
“Aha,
Oho!”

The rich little lady from over the way
Has beautiful dolls in vast array;
Yet she envies the raggedy home-made doll
She hears our little Miss Brag extol.
For the raggedy doll can fear no hurt
From wet, or heat, or tumble, or dirt!
Her nose is inked, and her mouth is, too,
And one eye’s black and the other’s blue--
“Aha,
Oho!”

The rich little lady goes out to ride
With footmen standing up outside,
Yet wishes that, sometimes, after dark
_Her_ father would trundle _her_ in the park;--
That, sometimes, _her_ mother would sing the things
Little Miss Brag says _her_ mother sings
When through the attic window streams
The moonlight full of golden dreams--
“Aha,
Oho!”

Yes, little Miss Brag has much to say
To the rich little lady from over the way;
And yet who knows but from her heart
Often the bitter sighs upstart--
Uprise to lose their burn and sting
In the grace of the tongue that loves to sing
Praise of the treasures all its own!
So I’ve come to love that treble tone--
“Aha,
Oho!”

THE HUMMING-TOP

The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song
To my dear little boy at play--
Merrily singeth all day long,
As it spinneth and spinneth away.
And my dear little boy
He laugheth with joy
When he heareth the monotone
Of that busy thing
That loveth to sing
The song that is all its own.

Hold fast the string and wind it tight,
That the song be loud and clear;
Now hurl the top with all your might
Upon the banquette here;
And straight from the string
The joyous thing
Boundeth and spinneth along,
And it whirrs and it chirrs
And it birrs and it purrs
Ever its pretty song.

Will ever my dear little boy grow old,
As some have grown before?
Will ever his heart feel faint and cold,
When he heareth the songs of yore?
Will ever this toy
Of my dear little boy,
When the years have worn away,
Sing sad and low
Of the long ago,
As it singeth to me to-day?

LADY BUTTON-EYES

When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh gently to and fro;
When the night winds softly blow,
And the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
When upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen--
Then from yonder misty skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Through the murk and mist and gloam,
To our quiet, cosey home,
Where to singing, sweet and low,
Rocks a cradle to and fro;
Where the clock’s dull monotone
Telleth of the day that’s done;
Where the moonbeams hover o’er
Playthings sleeping on the floor--
Where my weary wee one lies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Cometh like a fleeting ghost
From some distant eerie coast;
Never footfall can you hear
As that spirit fareth near--
Never whisper, never word
From that shadow-queen is heard.
In ethereal raiment dight,
From the realm of fay and sprite
In the depth of yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Layeth she her hands upon
My dear weary little one,
And those white hands overspread
Like a veil the curly head,
Seem to fondle and caress
Every little silken tress;
Then she smooths the eyelids down
Over those two eyes of brown--
In such soothing, tender wise
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

Dearest, feel upon your brow
That caressing magic now;
For the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again,
While upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen,
And the moonbeams hover o’er
Playthings sleeping on the floor--
Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes!

THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE

Play that my knee was a calico mare
Saddled and bridled for Bumpville;
Leap to the back of this steed, if you dare,
And gallop away to Bumpville!
I hope you’ll be sure to sit fast in your seat,
For this calico mare is prodigiously fleet,
And many adventures you’re likely to meet
As you journey along to Bumpville.

This calico mare both gallops and trots
While whisking you off to Bumpville;
She paces, she shies, and she stumbles, in spots,
In the tortuous road to Bumpville;
And sometimes this strangely mercurial steed
Will suddenly stop and refuse to proceed,
Which, all will admit, is vexatious indeed,
When one is en route to Bumpville!

She’s scared of the cars when the engine goes “Toot!”
Down by the crossing at Bumpville;
You’d better look out for that treacherous brute
Bearing you off to Bumpville!
With a snort she rears up on her hindermost heels,
And executes jigs and Virginia reels--
Words fail to explain how embarrassed one feels
Dancing so wildly to Bumpville!

It’s bumpytybump and it’s jiggytyjog,
Journeying on to Bumpville;
It’s over the hilltop and down through the bog
You ride on your way to Bumpville;
It’s rattletybang over boulder and stump,
There are rivers to ford, there are fences to jump,
And the corduroy road it goes bumpytybump,
Mile after mile to Bumpville!

Perhaps you’ll observe it’s no easy thing
Making the journey to Bumpville,
So I think, on the whole, it were prudent to bring
An end to this ride to Bumpville;
For, though she has uttered no protest or plaint,
The calico mare must be blowing and faint--
What’s more to the point, I’m blowed if I ain’t!
So play we have got to Bumpville!

THE BROOK

I looked in the brook and saw a face--
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
“Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!”

I look in the brook and see a face--
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
As ever it stealeth on its way--
Solemnly now, and not in play:
“Oh, come with me
To the slumbrous sea
That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!”

_Heigh-ho, but the years go by--
I would to God that a child were I!_

PICNIC-TIME

It’s June ag’in, an’ in my soul I feel the fillin’ joy
That’s sure to come this time o’ year to every little boy;
For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen,
Where “fields beyont the swellin’ floods stand dressed in livin’
green”;
Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and
ants,
An’ little boys get grass-stains on their go-to-meetin’ pants.
It’s June ag’in, an’ with it all what happiness is mine--
There’s goin’ to be a picnic, an’ I’m goin’ to jine!

One year I jined the Baptists, an’ goodness! how it rained!
(But grampa says that that’s the way “baptizo” is explained.)
And once I jined the ’Piscopils an’ had a heap o’ fun--
But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyteriun!
They had so many puddin’s, sallids, sandwidges, an’ pies,
That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes!
Oh, yes, the eatin’ Presbyteriuns give yer is so fine
That when _they_ have a picnic, you bet _I’m_ goin’ to jine!

But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me,
For they’re goin’ to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.;
Why should a liberal Universalist like me object
To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect?
However het’rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be,
Their doctrine of fried chick’n is a savin’ grace to me!
So on the 21st of June, the weather bein’ fine,
They’re goin’ to give a picnic, and I’m goin’ to jine!

SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS

Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks
Sit together, building blocks;
Shuffle-Shoon is old and gray,
Amber-Locks a little child,
But together at their play
Age and Youth are reconciled,
And with sympathetic glee
Build their castles fair to see.

“When I grow to be a man”
(So the wee one’s prattle ran),
“I shall build a castle so--
With a gateway broad and grand;
Here a pretty vine shall grow,
There a soldier guard shall stand;
And the tower shall be so high,
Folks will wonder, by and by!”

Shuffle-Shoon quoth: “Yes, I know;
Thus I builded long ago!
Here a gate and there a wall,
Here a window, there a door;
Here a steeple wondrous tall
Riseth ever more and more!
But the years have levelled low
What I builded long ago!”

So they gossip at their play,
Heedless of the fleeting day;
One speaks of the Long Ago
Where his dead hopes buried lie;
One with chubby cheeks aglow
Prattleth of the By and By;
Side by side, they build their blocks--
Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks.

THE SHUT-EYE TRAIN

Come, my little one, with me!
There are wondrous sights to see
As the evening shadows fall;
In your pretty cap and gown,
Don’t detain
The Shut-Eye train--
“Ting-a-ling!” the bell it goeth,
“Toot-toot!” the whistle bloweth,
And we hear the warning call:
“_All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_”

Over hill and over plain
Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train!
Through the blue where bloom the stars
And the Mother Moon looks down
We’ll away
To land of Fay--
Oh, the sights that we shall see there!
Come, my little one, with me there--
’Tis a goodly train of cars--
_All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_

Swifter than a wild bird’s flight,
Through the realms of fleecy light
We shall speed and speed away!
Let the Night in envy frown--
What care we
How wroth she be!
To the Balow-land above us,
To the Balow-folk who love us,
Let us hasten while we may--
_All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_

Shut-Eye Town is passing fair--
Golden dreams await us there;
We shall dream those dreams, my dear,
Till the Mother Moon goes down--
See unfold
Delights untold!
And in those mysterious places
We shall see beloved faces
And beloved voices hear
_In the grace of Shut-Eye Town_.

Heavy are your eyes, my sweet,
Weary are your little feet--
Nestle closer up to me
In your pretty cap and gown;
Don’t detain
The Shut-Eye train!
“Ting-a-ling!” the bell it goeth,
“Toot-toot!” the whistle bloweth,
Oh, the sights that we shall see!
_All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_

LITTLE-OH-DEAR

See, what a wonderful garden is here,
Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown--
Search ye the country and hunt ye the town
And never ye’ll meet with a garden so queer
As this one I’ve made for my Little-Oh-Dear!

Marigolds white and buttercups blue,
Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew,
The cactus that trails over trellis and wall,
Roses and pansies and violets--all
Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer
When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear.

And up at the top of that lavender-tree
A silver-bird singeth as only can she;
For, ever and only, she singeth the song
“I love you--I love you!” the happy day long;--
Then the echo--the echo that smiteth me here!
“I love you, I love you,” my Little-Oh-Dear!

The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly--
But what careth my little precious, or I?
From her pathway of flowers that in springtime upstart
She walketh the tenderer way in my heart
And, oh, it is always the summer-time _here_
With that song of “I love you,” my Little-Oh-Dear!

SWING HIGH AND SWING LOW

Swing high and swing low
While the breezes they blow--
It’s off for a sailor thy father would go;
And it’s here in the harbor, in sight of the sea,
He hath left his wee babe with my song and with me
_“Swing high and swing low_
_While the breezes they blow!”_

Swing high and swing low
While the breezes they blow--
It’s oh for the waiting as weary days go!
And it’s oh for the heartache that smiteth me when
I sing my song over and over again:
_“Swing high and swing low_
_While the breezes they blow!”_

“Swing high and swing low”--
The sea singeth so,
And it waileth anon in its ebb and its flow;
And a sleeper sleeps on to that song of the sea
Nor recketh he ever of mine or of me!
_“Swing high and swing low_
_While the breezes they blow--_
_’Twas off for a sailor thy father would go!”_

WHEN I WAS A BOY

Up in the attic where I slept
When I was a boy, a little boy,
In through the lattice the moonlight crept,
Bringing a tide of dreams that swept
Over the low, red trundle-bed,
Bathing the tangled curly head,
While moonbeams played at hide-and-seek
With the dimples on the sun-browned cheek--
When I was a boy, a little boy!

And oh! the dreams--the dreams I dreamed!
When I was a boy, a little boy!
For the grace that through the lattice streamed
Over my folded eyelids seemed
To have the gift of prophecy,
And to bring me glimpses of times to be
When manhood’s clarion seemed to call--
Ah! _that_ was the sweetest dream of all,
When I was a boy, a little boy!

I’d like to sleep where I used to sleep
When I was a boy, a little boy!
For in at the lattice the moon would peep,
Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep
The crosses and griefs of the years away
From the heart that is weary and faint to-day;
And those dreams should give me back again
A peace I have never known since then--
When I was a boy, a little boy!

AT PLAY

Play that you are mother dear,
And play that papa is your beau;
Play that we sit in the corner here,
Just as we used to, long ago.
Playing so, we lovers two
Are just as happy as we can be,
And I’ll say “I love you” to you,
And you say “I love you” to me!
“I love you” we both shall say,
All in earnest and all in play.

Or, play that you are that other one
That some time came, and went away;
And play that the light of years agone
Stole into my heart again to-day!
Playing that you are the one I knew
In the days that never again may be,
I’ll say “I love you” to you,
And you say “I love you” to me!
“I love you!” my heart shall say
To the ghost of the past come back to-day!

Or, play that you sought this nestling-place
For your own sweet self, with that dual guise
Of your pretty mother in your face
And the look of that other in your eyes!
So the dear old loves shall live anew
As I hold my darling on my knee,
And I’ll say “I love you” to you,
And you say “I love you” to me!
Oh, many a strange, true thing we say
And do when we pretend to play!

A VALENTINE

Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell
I love her well.
Yes, though she tramples on my heart
And rends that bleeding thing apart;
And though she rolls a scornful eye
On doting me when I go by;
And though she scouts at everything
As tribute unto her I bring--
Apple, banana, caramel--
Haste, Cupid, to my love and tell,
In spite of all, I love her well!

And further say I have a sled
Cushioned in blue and painted red!
The groceryman has promised I
Can “hitch” whenever he goes by--
Go, tell her that, and, furthermore,
Apprise my sweetheart that a score
Of other little girls implore
The boon of riding on that sled
Painted and hitched, as aforesaid;--
And tell her, Cupid, only she
Shall ride upon that sled with me!
Tell her this all, and further tell
I love her well.

LITTLE ALL-ALONEY

Little All-Aloney’s feet
Pitter-patter in the hall,
And his mother runs to meet
And to kiss her toddling sweet,
Ere perchance he fall.
He is, oh, so weak and small!
Yet what danger shall he fear
When his mother hovereth near,
And he hears her cheering call:
“All-Aloney”?

Little All-Aloney’s face
It is all aglow with glee,
As around that romping-place
At a terrifying pace
Lungeth, plungeth he!
And that hero seems to be
All unconscious of our cheers--
Only one dear voice he hears
Calling reassuringly:
“All-Aloney!”

Though his legs bend with their load,
Though his feet they seem so small
That you cannot help forebode
Some disastrous episode
In that noisy hall,
Neither threatening bump nor fall
Little All-Aloney fears,
But with sweet bravado steers
Whither comes that cheery call:
“All-Aloney!”

Ah, that in the years to come,
When he shares of Sorrow’s store,--
When his feet are chill and numb,
When his cross is burdensome,
And his heart is sore:
Would that he could hear once more
The gentle voice he used to hear--
Divine with mother love and cheer--
Calling from yonder spirit shore:
“All, all alone!”

THE CUNNIN’ LITTLE THING

When baby wakes of mornings,
Then it’s wake, ye people all!
For another day
Of song and play
Has come at our darling’s call!
And, till she gets her dinner,
She makes the welkin ring,
And she _won’t_ keep still till she’s had her fill
The cunnin’ little thing!

When baby goes a-walking,
Oh, how her paddies fly!
For that’s the way
The babies say
To other folk “by-by”;
The trees bend down to kiss her,
And the birds in rapture sing,
As there she stands and waves her hands--
The cunnin’ little thing!

When baby goes a-rocking
In her bed at close of day,
At hide-and-seek
On her dainty cheek
The dreams and the dimples play;
Then it’s sleep in the tender kisses
The guardian angels bring
From the Far Above to my sweetest love--
You cunnin’ little thing!

THE DOLL’S WOOING

The little French doll was a dear little doll
Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses;
Her eyes were of hue
A most delicate blue
And dark as the night were her tresses;
Her dear little mouth was fluted and red,
And this little French doll was so very well bred
That whenever accosted her little mouth said:
“Mamma! mamma!”

The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg,
Had once been a handsome young fellow,
But now he appeared
Rather frowzy and bleared
In his torn regimentals of yellow;
Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay
In the little toy cart near the window one day
And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say:
“Mamma! mamma!”

He listened so long and he listened so hard
That anon he grew ever so tender,
For it’s everywhere known
That the feminine tone
Gets away with all masculine gender!
He up and he wooed her with soldierly zest,
But all she’d reply to the love he professed
Were _these_ plaintive words (which perhaps you have guessed):
“Mamma! mamma!”

Her mother--a sweet little lady of five--
Vouchsafed her parental protection,
And although stockinet
Wasn’t blue-blooded, yet
She really could make no objection!
So soldier and dolly were wedded one day,
And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way,
I’m sure that I heard a wee baby voice say:
“Mamma! mamma!”

INSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON’S SILVER PLATE

When thou dost eat from off this plate,
I charge thee be thou temperate;
Unto thine elders at the board
Do thou sweet reverence accord;
And, though to dignity inclined,
Unto the serving-folk be kind;
Be ever mindful of the poor,
Nor turn them hungry from the door;
And unto God, for health and food
And all that in thy life is good,
Give thou thy heart in gratitude.

SEEIN’ THINGS

I ain’t afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice,
An’ things ’at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!
I’m pretty brave, I guess; an’ yet I hate to go to bed,
For, when I’m tucked up warm an’ snug an’ when my prayers are said,
Mother tells me “Happy dreams!” and takes away the light,
An’ leaves me lyin’ all alone an’ seein’ things at night!

Sometimes they’re in the corner, sometimes they’re by the door,
Sometimes they’re all a-standin in the middle uv the floor;
Sometimes they are a-sittin’ down, sometimes they’re walkin’ round
So softly an’ so creepylike they never make a sound!
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an’ other times they’re white--
But the color ain’t no difference when you see things at night!

Once, when I licked a feller ’at had just moved on our street,
An’ father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat,
I woke up in the dark an’ saw things standin’ in a row,
A-lookin’ at me cross-eyed an’ p’intin’ at me--so!
Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep’ a mite--
It’s almost alluz when I’m bad I see things at night!

Lucky thing I ain’t a girl, or I’d be skeered to death!
Bein’ I’m a boy, I duck my head an’ hold my breath;
An’ I am, oh! _so_ sorry I’m a naughty boy, an’ then
I promise to be better an’ I say my prayers again!
Gran’ma tells me that’s the only way to make it right
When a feller has been wicked an’ sees things at night!

An’ so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin,
I try to skwush the Tempter’s voice ’at urges me within;
An’ when they’s pie for supper, or cakes ’at’s big an’ nice,
I want to--but I do not pass my plate f’r them things twice!
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o’ sight
Than I should keep a-livin’ on an’ seein’ things at night!

FISHERMAN JIM’S KIDS

Fisherman Jim lived on the hill
With his bonnie wife an’ his little boys;
’Twuz “Blow, ye winds, as blow ye will--
Naught we reck of your cold and noise!”
For happy and warm were he an’ his,
And he dandled his kids upon his knee
To the song of the sea.

Fisherman Jim would sail all day,
But, when come night, upon the sands
His little kids ran from their play,
Callin’ to him an’ wavin’ their hands;
Though the wind was fresh and the sea was high,
He’d hear ’em--you bet--above the roar
Of the waves on the shore!

Once Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay
As the sun went down in a cloudy sky,
And never a kid saw he at play,
And he listened in vain for the welcoming cry.
In his little house he learned it all,
And he clinched his hands and he bowed his head--
“The fever!” they said.

’Twuz a pitiful time for Fisherman Jim,
With them darlin’s a-dyin’ afore his eyes,
A-stretchin’ their wee hands out to him
An’ a-breakin’ his heart with the old-time cries
He had heerd so often upon the sands;
For they thought they wuz helpin’ his boat ashore--
Till they spoke no more.

But Fisherman Jim lived on and on,
Castin’ his nets an’ sailin’ the sea;
As a man will live when his heart is gone,
Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly,
Till once in those years they come an’ said:
“Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick--
Go to him, quick!”

Then Fisherman Jim says he to me:
“It’s a long, long cruise--you understand--
But over beyont the ragin’ sea
I kin see my boys on the shinin’ sand
Waitin’ to help this ol’ hulk ashore,
Just as they used to--ah, mate, you know!--
In the long ago.”

No, sir! he wuzn’t afeard to die;
For all night long he seemed to see
His little boys of the days gone by,
An’ to hear sweet voices forgot by me!
An’ just as the mornin’ sun come up--
“They’re holdin’ me by the hands!” he cried,
An’ so he died.

“FIDDLE-DEE-DEE”

There once was a bird that lived up in a tree,
And all he could whistle was “Fiddle-dee-dee”--
A very provoking, unmusical song
For one to be whistling the summer day long!
Yet always contented and busy was he
With that vocal recurrence of “Fiddle-dee-dee.”

Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four,
That weird iteration repented him sore;
“I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun,
For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done
That shall presently rid all creation and me
Of that ominous bird and his ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”

Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son
His awfully truculent little red gun;
The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin,
The “bang” it came out where the bullet went in--
The right kind of weapon I think you’ll agree
For slaying all fowl that go “Fiddle-dee-dee”!

The brave little soldier quoth never a word,
But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird;
And, while that vain creature provokingly sang,
The gun it went off with a terrible bang!
Then loud laughed the youth--“By my Bottle,” cried he,
“I’ve put a quietus on ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”

Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: “My son,
Right well have you wrought with your little red gun!
Hereafter no evil at all need I fear,
With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!”
She kissed the dear boy.
[The bird in the tree
Continued to whistle his “Fiddle-dee-dee”!]

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY

Over the hills and far away,
A little boy steals from his morning play,
And under the blossoming apple-tree
He lies and he dreams of the things to be:
Of battles fought and of victories won,
Of wrongs o’erthrown and of great deeds done--
Of the valor that he shall prove some day,
Over the hills and far away--
Over the hills and far away!

Over the hills and far away
It’s, oh, for the toil the livelong day!
But it mattereth not to the soul aflame
With a love for riches and power and fame!
On, O man! while the sun is high--
On to the certain joys that lie
Yonder where blazeth the noon of day,
Over the hills and far away--
Over the hills and far away!

Over the hills and far away,
An old man lingers at close of day;
Now that his journey is almost done,
His battles fought and his victories won--
The old-time honesty and truth,
The trustfulness and the friends of youth,
Home and mother--where are they?
Over the hills and far away--
Over the years and far away!

* * * * *

Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Formatting has been standardized.

Spelling has been retained as originally published except for changes below:

Page 68: "Oh, yes, there ’s lots" "Oh, yes, there’s lots" Page 141: "they ’re running still" "they’re running still"