Chapter IV

Nen they have a Banqut
In the Palace-hall,
An' ist et! an' et! an' et!
Nen they have a _Ball_;
An' when the _Queen_ o' Fairyland
Come p'omenadin' through,
The King says an' halts her,--
"Guess I'll marry you!"

* * * * *

DREAM-MARCH

"Wasn't it a funny dream!--perfectly bewild'rin'!--
Last night, and night before, and night before that,
Seemed like I saw the march o' regiments o' children,
Marching to the robin's fife and cricket's rat-ta-tat!
Lily-banners overhead, with the dew upon 'em,
On flashed the little army, as with sword and flame;
Like the buzz o' bumble-wings, with the honey on 'em,
Came an eerie, cheery chant, chiming as it came:--

_Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling_!
_Where go the children, travelling ahead_?
_Some go to kindergarten; some go to day-school_;
_Some go to night-school; and some go to bed_!

Smooth roads or rough roads, warm or winter weather,
On go the children, tow-head and brown,
Brave boys and brave girls, rank and file together,
Marching out of Morning-Land, over dale and down:

Some go a-gypsying out in country places--
Out through the orchards, with blossoms on the boughs
Wild, sweet, and pink and white as their own glad faces;
And some go, at evening, calling home the cows.

_Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling_!
_Where go the children, travelling ahead_?
_Some go to foreign wars, and camps by the firelight_--
_Some go to glory so; and some go to bed_!

Some go through grassy lanes leading to the city--
Thinner grow the green trees and thicker grows the dust;
Ever, though, to little people any path is pretty
So it leads to newer lands, as they know it must.
Some go to singing less; some go to list'ning;
Some go to thinking over ever-nobler themes;
Some go anhungered, but ever bravely whistling,
Turning never home again only in their dreams.

_Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling_!
_Where go the children, travelling ahead_?
_Some go to conquer things; some go to try them_;
_Some go to dream them; and some go to bed_!

* * * * *

ELMER BROWN

Awf'lest boy in this-here town
Er anywheres is Elmer Brown!
He'll mock you--yes, an' strangers, too,
An' make a face an' yell at you,--
"_Here's_ the way _you_ look!"

Yes, an' wunst in School one day,
An' Teacher's lookin' wite that way,
He helt his slate, an' hide his head,
An' maked a face at _her_, an' said,--
"_Here's_ the way _you_ look!"

An' sir! when Rosie Wheeler smile
One morning at him 'crosst the aisle,
He twist his face all up, an' black
His nose wiv ink, an' whisper back,--
"_Here's_ the way _you_ look!"

Wunst when his Aunt's all dressed to call,
An' kiss him good-bye in the hall,
An' latch the gate an' start away,
He holler out to her an' say,--
"_Here's_ the way _you_ look!"

An' when his Pa he read out loud
The speech he maked, an' feel so proud
It's in the paper--Elmer's Ma
She ketched him--wite behind his Pa,--
"_Here's_ the way _you_ look!"

Nen when his Ma she slip an' take
Him in the other room an' shake
Him good! w'y, he don't care--no-_sir_!--
He ist look up an' laugh at her,--
"_Here's_ the way _you_ look!"

* * * * *

NO BOY KNOWS

There are many things that boys may know--
Why this and that are thus and so,--
Who made the world in the dark and lit
The great sun up to lighten it:
Boys know new things every day--
When they study, or when they play,--
When they idle, or sow and reap--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.

Boys who listen--or should, at least,--
May know that the round old earth rolls East;--
And know that the ice and the snow and the rain--
Ever repeating their parts again--
Are all just water the sunbeams first
Sip from the earth in their endless thirst,
And pour again till the low streams leap.--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.

A boy may know what a long glad while
It has been to him since the dawn's first smile,
When forth he fared in the realm divine
Of brook-laced woodland and spun-sunshine;--
He may know each call of his truant mates,
And the paths they went,--and the pasture-gates
Of the 'cross-lots home through the dusk so deep.--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.

O I have followed me, o'er and o'er,
From the flagrant drowse on the parlor-floor,
To the pleading voice of the mother when
I even doubted I heard it then--
To the sense of a kiss, and a moonlit room,
And dewy odors of locust-bloom--
A sweet white cot--and a cricket's cheep.--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.

* * * * *

* * * * *

WHEN WE FIRST PLAYED "SHOW"

Wasn't it a good time,
Long Time Ago--
When we all were little tads
And first played "Show"!--
When every newer day
Wore as bright a glow
As the ones we laughed away--
Long Time Ago!

Calf was in the back-lot;
Clover in the red;
Bluebird in the pear-tree;
Pigeons on the shed;
Tom a-chargin' twenty pins
At the barn; and Dan
Spraddled out just like "The
'Injarubber'-Man!"

Me and Bub and Rusty,
Eck and Dunk and Sid,
'Tumblin' on the sawdust
Like the A-rabs did;
Jamesy on the slack-rope
In a wild retreat,
Grappling back, to start again--
When he chalked his feet!

Wasn't Eck a wonder,
In his stocking-tights?

* * * * *

* * * * *

Wasn't Dunk--his leaping lion--
Chief of all delights!
Yes, and wasn't "Little Mack"
Boss of all the Show,--
Both Old Clown and Candy-Butcher--
Long Time Ago!

Sid the Bareback-Rider;
And--oh-me-oh-_my_!--
Bub, the spruce Ring-master,
Stepping round so spry!--
In his little waist-and-trousers
All made in one,
Was there a prouder youngster
Under the sun!

And NOW--who will tell me,--
Where are they all?
Dunk's a sanatorium doctor,
Up at Waterfall;
Sid's a city street-contractor;
Tom has fifty clerks;
And Jamesy he's the "Iron Magnate"
Of "The Hecla Works."

And Bub's old and bald now,
Yet still he hangs on,--
Dan and Eck and "Little Mack,"
Long, long gone!
But wasn't it a good time,
Long Time Ago--
When we all were little tads
And first played "Show"!

* * * * *

A DIVERTED TRAGEDY

Gracie wuz allus a _careless_ tot;
But Gracie dearly loved her doll,
An' played wiv it on the winder-sill
'Way up-stairs, when she ought to _not_,
An' her muvver _telled_ her so an' all;
But she won't _mind_ what _she_ say--till,
First thing she know, her dolly fall
Clean spang out o' the winder plumb
Into the street! An' here Grace come
Down-stairs, two at a time, ist wild
An' a-screamin', "Oh, my child! my child!"

Jule wuz a-bringin' their basket o' clo'es
Ist then into their hall down there,--
An' she ist stop' when Gracie bawl,
An' Jule she say "She ist declare
She's ist in time!" An' what you s'pose?
She sets her basket down in the hall,
An' wite on top o' the snowy clo'es
Wuz Gracie's dolly a-layin' there
An' ist ain't bu'st ner hurt a-tall!

Nen Gracie smiled--ist _sobbed_ an' smiled--
An' cried, "My child! my precious child!"

* * * * *

THE RAMBO-TREE

When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The bird sings low as the bumble-bee--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The poor shote-pig he says, says he:
"When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree
There's enough for you and enough for me."--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.

_For just two truant lads like we_,
_When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree_
_There's enough for you and enough for me_--
_It's a long, sweet way across the orchard_.

When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The mole digs out to peep and see--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The dusk sags down, and the moon swings free,
There's a far, lorn call, "Pig-_gee_! 'Pig-_gee_!"
And two boys--glad enough for three.--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.

_For just two truant lads like we_,
_When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree_
_There's enough for you and enough for me_--
_It's a long, sweet way across the orchard_.

* * * * *

* * * * *

FIND THE FAVORITE

Our three cats is Maltese cats,
An' they's two that's white,--
An' bofe of 'em's _deef_--an' that's
'Cause their _eyes_ ain't right.--

Uncle say that _Huxley_ say
Eyes of _white_ Maltese--
When they don't match thataway--
They're deef as you please!

_Girls, they_ like our white cats best,
'Cause they're white as snow,
Yes, an' look the stylishest--
But they're deef, you know!

They don't know their names, an' don't
Hear us when we call
"Come in, Nick an' Finn!"--they won't
Come fer us at all!

But our _other_ cat, _he_ knows
Mister Nick an' Finn,--
Mowg's _his_ name,--an' when _he_ goes
Fer 'em, they come in!

Mowgli's _all_ his name--the same
Me an' Muvver took
Like the Wolf-Child's _other_ name,
In "The Jungul Book."

I bet Mowg's the smartest cat
In the world!--_He's_ not
_White_, but mousy-plush, with that
Smoky gloss he's got!

All's got little bells to ring,
Round their neck; but none
Only Mowg _knows_ anything--
He's the only one!

I ist 'spect sometimes he hate
White cats' stupid ways:--
He won't hardly 'sociate
With 'em, lots o' days!

Mowg wants in where _we_ air,--well,
He'll ist take his paw
An' ist ring an' ring his bell
There till me er Ma

Er _some_body lets him in
Nen an' shuts the door.--
An', when he wants out ag'in,
Nen he'll ring some more.

Ort to hear our Katy tell!
She sleeps 'way up-stairs;
An' last night she hear Mowg's bell
Ringin' round _some_wheres...

Trees grows by her winder.--So,
She lean out an' see
Mowg up there, 'way out, you know,
In the clingstone-tree;--

An'-sir! he ist _hint_ an' _ring_,--
Till she ketch an' plat
Them limbs;--nen he crawl an' spring
In where Katy's at!

* * * * *

THE BOY PATRIOT

I want to be a Soldier!--
A Soldier!--
A Soldier!--
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band;
I want to hear, high overhead, The Old Flag flap her wings
While all the Army, following, in chorus cheers and sings;
I want to hear the tramp and jar
Of patriots a million,
As gayly dancing off to war
As dancing a cotillion.

_I want to be a Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand_
_Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder_,
_Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band_.

I want to see the battle!--
The battle!--
The battle!--
I want to see the battle, and be in it to the end;--
I want to hear the cannon clear their throats and catch the prattle
Of all the pretty compliments the enemy can send!--
And then I know my wits will go,--and where I _should'nt_ be--
Well, there's the spot, in any fight, that you may search for me.
So, when our foes have had their fill,
Though I'm among the dying,
To see The Old Flag flying still,
I'll laugh to leave her flying!

_I want to be a Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_A Soldier!_--
_I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand_
_Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder_,
_Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band_.

* * * * *

* * * * *

EXTREMES

I

A little boy once played so loud
That the Thunder, up in a thunder-cloud,
Said, "Since I can't be heard, why, then
I'll never, never thunder again!"