Chapter VII: Part I: Poems of Youth and Age (3)

The dark-fringed eyelids slowly close On eyes serene and deep; Upon my breast my own sweet child Has gently dropped to sleep; I kiss his soft and dimpled cheek, I kiss his rounded chin, Then lay him on his little bed, And tuck my baby in.

How fair and innocent he lies; Like some small angel strayed, His face still warmed by God's own smile, That slumbers unafraid; Or like some new embodied soul, Still pure from taint of sin-- My thoughts are reverent as I stoop To tuck my baby in.

What toil must stain these tiny hands That now lie still and white? What shadows creep across the face That shines with morning light? These wee pink shoeless feet--how far Shall go their lengthening tread, When they no longer cuddled close May rest upon this bed?

O what am I that I should train An angel for the skies; Or mix the potent draught that feeds The soul within these eyes? I reach him up to the sinless Hands Before his cares begin,-- Great Father, with Thy folds of love, O tuck my baby in.

Curtis May [18 --

"JENNY WI' THE AIRN TEETH"

What a plague is this o' mine, Winna steek an e'e; Though I hap him o'er the heid, As cosy as can be. Sleep an' let me to my wark-- A' thae claes to airn-- Jenny wi' the airn teeth, Come an' tak' the bairn!

Tak' him to your ain den, Whaur the bogie bides, But first put baith your big teeth In his wee plump sides; Gie your auld gray pow a shake, Rive him frae my grup, Tak' him whaur nae kiss is gaun When he waukens up.

Whatna noise is that I hear Coomin' doon the street? Weel I ken the dump, dump, O' her beetle feet; Mercy me! she's at the door! Hear her lift the sneck; Wheesht, an' cuddle mammy noo, Closer roun' the neck.

Jenny wi' the airn teeth, The bairn has aff his claes; Sleepin' safe an' soun', I think-- Dinna touch his taes.

Sleepin' bairns are no for you, Ye may turn aboot, An' tak' awa' wee Tam next door-- I hear him screichin' oot.

Dump, dump, awa' she gangs Back the road she cam', I hear her at the ither door, Speirin' after Tam; He's a crabbit, greetin' thing-- The warst in a' the toon, Little like my ain wee wean-- Losh, he's sleepin' soun'!

Mithers hae an awfu' wark Wi' their bairns at nicht, Chappin' on the chair wi' tangs, To gie the rogues a fricht; Aulder bairns are fleyed wi' less, Weel eneuch we ken, Bigger bogies, bigger Jennies, Frichten muckle men.

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]

CUDDLE DOON

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' muckie faucht an' din, "O, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your father's comin' in." They never heed a word I speak; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid-- He aye sleeps next the wa'-- Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece;" The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun'; Then draw the blankets up an' cry, "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at once-- He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon; But aye I hap them up an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

At length they hear their father's fit, An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aff his shoon; "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon."

An' just afore we bed oorsel's, We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear to me; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]

BEDTIME

'Tis bedtime; say your hymn, and bid "Good-night; God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all." Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, Another minute, you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall! What will you give me, sleepy one, and call My wages, if I settle you all right?

I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand, Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm She nestled to me, and, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages--"Baby's Kiss."

Francis Robert St. Clair Erskine [1833-1890]

THE DUTY OF CHILDREN

HAPPY THOUGHT

The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN

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.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

POLITENESS

Good little boys should never say "I will," and "Give me these"; O, no! that never is the way, But "Mother, if you please."

And "If you please," to Sister Ann Good boys to say are ready; And, "Yes, sir," to a Gentleman, And, "Yes, ma'am," to a Lady.

Elizabeth Turner [?--1846]

RULES OF BEHAVIOR

Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease To very, very little keys, And don't forget that two of these Are "I thank you" and "If you please."

Come when you're called, Do what you're bid, Close the door after you, Never be chid.

Seldom "can't," Seldom "don't;" Never "shan't," Never "won't."

LITTLE FRED

When little Fred Was called to bed, He always acted right; He kissed Mama, And then Papa, And wished them all good-night.

He made no noise, Like naughty boys, But gently up the stairs Directly went, When he was sent, And always said his prayers.

THE LOVABLE CHILD

Frisky as a lambkin, Busy as a bee-- That's the kind of little girl People like to see.

Modest as a violet, As a rosebud sweet-- That's the kind of little girl People like to meet.

Bright as is a diamond, Pure as any pearl-- Everyone rejoices in Such a little girl.

Happy as a robin, Gentle as a dove-- That's the kind of little girl Everyone will love.

Fly away and seek her, Little song of mine, For I choose that very girl As my Valentine.

Emilie Poulsson [1853-

GOOD AND BAD CHILDREN

Children, you are very little, And your bones are very brittle; If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately.

You must still be bright and quiet, And content with simple diet; And remain, through all bewild'ring, Innocent and honest children.

Happy hearts and happy faces, Happy play in grassy places-- That was how, in ancient ages, Children grew to kings and sages.

But the unkind and the unruly, And the sort who eat unduly, They must never hope for glory-- Theirs is quite a different story!

Cruel children, crying babies, All grow up as geese and gabies, Hated, as their age increases, By their nephews and their nieces.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

REBECCA'S AFTER-THOUGHT

Yesterday, Rebecca Mason, In the parlor by herself, Broke a handsome china basin, Placed upon the mantel-shelf.

Quite alarmed, she thought of going Very quietly away, Not a single person knowing, Of her being there that day.

But Rebecca recollected She was taught deceit to shun; And the moment she reflected, Told her mother what was done;

Who commended her behavior, Loved her better, and forgave her.

Elizabeth Turner [?--1846]

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

Little children, never give Pain to things that feel and live; Let the gentle robin come For the crumbs you save at home,-- As his meat you throw along He'll repay you with a song; Never hurt the timid hare Peeping from her green grass lair, Let her come and sport and play On the lawn at close of day; The little lark goes soaring high To the bright windows of the sky, Singing as if 'twere always spring, And fluttering on an untired wing,-- Oh! let him sing his happy song, Nor do these gentle creatures wrong.

A RULE FOR BIRDS' NESTERS

The robin and the red-breast, The sparrow and the wren; If ye take out o' their nest, Ye'll never thrive again!

The robin and the red-breast, The martin and the swallow; If ye touch one o' their eggs, Bad luck will surely follow!

"SING ON, BLITHE BIRD"

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree, But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me. I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near; I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was good To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood.

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing; He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing. He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray, I would not harm him for the world, or interrupt his lay. Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness; It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

William Motherwell [1797-1835]

"I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY"

I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm. So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But Pussy and I very gently will play.

She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food; And she'll love me because I am gentle and good. I'll pat little Pussy and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.

I'll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw; I never will vex her, nor make her displeased, For Pussy can't bear to be worried or teased.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

LITTLE THINGS

Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land.

So the little moments, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity.

So our little errors Lead the soul away From the path of virtue, Far in sin to stray.

Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Help to make earth happy Like the heaven above.

Julia Fletcher Carney [1823-1908]

THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN From "Little Derwent's Breakfast"

Take your meals, my little man, Always like a gentleman; Wash your face and hands with care, Change your shoes, and brush your hair; Then so fresh, and clean, and neat, Come and take your proper seat: Do not loiter and be late, Making other people wait; Do not rudely point or touch: Do not eat and drink too much: Finish what you have, before You even ask, or send for more: Never crumble or destroy Food that others might enjoy; They who idly crumbs will waste Often want a loaf to taste! Never spill your milk or tea, Never rude or noisy be; Never choose the daintiest food, Be content with what is good: Seek in all things that you can To be a little gentleman.

THE CRUST OF BREAD

I must not throw upon the floor The crust I cannot eat; For many little hungry ones Would think it quite a treat.

My parents labor very hard To get me wholesome food; Then I must never waste a bit That would do others good.

For wilful waste makes woeful want, And I may live to say, Oh! how I wish I had the bread That once I threw away!

"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE"

How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell! How neat she spreads the wax! And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be passed, That I may give for every day Some good account at last.

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]

THE BROWN THRUSH

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're as good as can be."

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

THE SLUGGARD

'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again"; As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"; Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands.

I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking. But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me; That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]

THE VIOLET

Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower, Its colors bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused a sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

DIRTY JIM

There was one little Jim, 'Tis reported of him, And must be to his lasting disgrace, That he never was seen With hands at all clean, Nor yet ever clean was his face.

His friends were much hurt To see so much dirt, And often they made him quite clean; But all was in vain, He got dirty again, And not at all fit to be seen.

It gave him no pain To hear them complain, Nor his own dirty clothes to survey; His indolent mind No pleasure could find In tidy and wholesome array.

The idle and bad, Like this little lad, May love dirty ways, to be sure; But good boys are seen, To be decent and clean, Although they are ever so poor.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

THE PIN

"Dear me! what signifies a pin, Wedged in a rotten board? I'm certain that I won't begin, At ten years old, to hoard; I never will be called a miser, That I'm determined," said Eliza.

So onward tripped the little maid, And left the pin behind, Which very snug and quiet lay, To its hard fate resigned; Nor did she think (a careless chit) 'Twas worth her while to stoop for it.

Next day a party was to ride, To see an air balloon; And all the company beside Were dressed and ready soon; But she a woeful case was in, For want of just a single pin.

In vain her eager eyes she brings, To every darksome crack; There was not one, and yet her things Were dropping off her back. She cut her pincushion in two, But no, not one had fallen through.

At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away; But poor Eliza was not in, For want of just--a single pin!

There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforeseen; And wilful waste, depend upon't, Brings, almost always, woeful want!

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]

JANE AND ELIZA

There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain, One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane; They were both of one height, as I've heard people say, And both of one age, I believe, to a day.

'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them, There was not a pin to be chosen between them; But no one for long in this notion persisted, So great a distinction there really existed.

Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing, While fretting and fuming, while sulking or teasing; And therefore in company artfully tried, Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide.

So, when she was out, with much labor and pain, She contrived to look almost as pleasant as Jane; But then you might see that, in forcing a smile, Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while.

And in spite of her care it would sometimes befall That some cross event happened to ruin it all; And because it might chance that her share was the worst, Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed.

But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, But her face always showed what her bosom was feeling.

At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, A cheerful good nature that needed no guile. And Eliza worked hard, but could never obtain The affection that freely was given to Jane.

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]

MEDDLESOME MATTY

One ugly trick has often spoiled The sweetest and the best; Matilda, though a pleasant child, One ugly trick possessed, Which, like a cloud before the skies, Hid all her better qualities.

Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid, To peep at what was in it; Or tilt the kettle, if you did But turn your back a minute. In vain you told her not to touch, Her trick of meddling grew so much.

Her grandmamma went out one day, And by mistake she laid Her spectacles and snuff-box gay Too near the little maid; "Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on, As soon as grandmamma is gone."

Forthwith she placed upon her nose The glasses large and wide; And looking round, as I suppose, The snuff-box too she spied: "Oh! what a pretty box is that; I'll open it," said little Matt.

"I know that grandmamma would say, 'Don't meddle with it, dear'; But then, she's far enough away, And no one else is near: Besides, what can there be amiss In opening such a box as this?"

So thumb and finger went to work To move the stubborn lid, And presently a mighty jerk The mighty mischief did; For all at once, ah! woeful case, The snuff came puffing in her face.

Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, beside, A dismal sight presented; In vain, as bitterly she cried, Her folly she repented. In vain she ran about for ease; She could do nothing now but sneeze.

She dashed the spectacles away, To wipe her tingling eyes, And as in twenty bits they lay, Her grandmamma she spies. "Heydey! and what's the matter now?" Cried grandmamma, with lifted brow.

Matilda, smarting with the pain, And tingling still, and sore, Made many a promise to refrain From meddling evermore. And 'tis a fact, as I have heard, She ever since has kept her word.

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]

CONTENTED JOHN

One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, Although he was poor, did not want to be richer; For all such vain wishes in him were prevented By a fortunate habit of being contented.

Though cold were the weather, or dear were the food, John never was found in a murmuring mood; For this he was constantly heard to declare,-- What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.

"For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said; "If I cannot get meat, I'll be thankful for bread; And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper, It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper."

If John was afflicted with sickness or pain, He wished himself better, but did not complain, Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow, But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.

If any one wronged him or treated him ill, Why, John was good-natured and sociable still; For he said that revenging the injury done Would be making two rogues when there need be but one.

And thus honest John, though his station was humble, Passed through this sad world without even a grumble; And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

FRIENDS

How good to lie a little while And look up through the tree! The Sky is like a kind big smile Bent sweetly over me.

The Sunshine flickers through the lace Of leaves above my head, And kisses me upon the face Like Mother, before bed.

The Wind comes stealing o'er the grass To whisper pretty things; And though I cannot see him pass, I feel his careful wings.

So many gentle Friends are near Whom one can scarcely see, A child should never feel a fear, Wherever he may be.

Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]

ANGER

Anger in its time and place May assume a kind of grace. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. If to further lengths it go, It does into malice grow. 'Tis the difference that we see 'Twixt the serpent and the bee. If the latter you provoke, It inflicts a hasty stroke, Puts you to some little pain, But it never stings again. Close in tufted bush or brake Lurks the poison-swelled snake Nursing up his cherished wrath; In the purlieus of his path, In the cold, or in the warm, Mean him good, or mean him harm, Wheresoever fate may bring you, The vile snake will always sting you.

Charles and Mary Lamb

"THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL"

There was a little girl, who had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead, And when she was good she was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid.

She stood on her head, on her little trundle-bed, With nobody by for to hinder; She screamed and she squalled, she yelled and she bawled, And drummed her little heels against the winder.

Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys Playing in the empty attic, She rushed upstairs, and caught her unawares, And spanked her, most emphatic.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

THE REFORMATION OF GODFREY GORE

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore-- No doubt you have heard the name before-- Was a boy who never would shut a door!

The wind might whistle, the wind might roar, And teeth be aching and throats be sore, But still he never would shut the door.

His father would beg, his mother implore, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, We really do wish you would shut the door!"

Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore; But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore Was deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.

When he walked forth the folks would roar, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, Why don't you think to shut the door?"

They rigged out a Shutter with sail and oar, And threatened to pack off Gustavus Gore On a voyage of penance to Singapore.

But he begged for mercy, and said, "No more! Pray do not send me to Singapore On a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!"

"You will?" said his parents; "then keep on shore! But mind you do! For the plague is sore Of a fellow that never will shut the door, Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!"

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

THE BEST FIRM

A pretty good firm is "Watch & Waite," And another is "Attit, Early & Layte;" And still another is "Doo & Dairet;" But the best is probably "Grinn & Barrett."

Walter G. Doty [1876-

A LITTLE PAGE'S SONG (13th Century)

God's lark at morning I would be! I'd set my heart within a tree Close to His bed and sing to Him Right merrily A sunrise hymn.

At night I'd be God's troubadour! Beneath His starry walls I'd pour Across the moat such roundelays He'd love me sure-- And maybe praise!

William Alexander Percy [1885-

HOW THE LITTLE KITE LEARNED TO FLY

"I never can do it," the little kite said, As he looked at the others high over his head; "I know I should fall if I tried to fly." "Try," said the big kite; "only try! Or I fear you never will learn at all." But the little kite said, "I'm afraid I'll fall."

The big kite nodded: "Ah well, goodby; I'm off;" and he rose toward the tranquil sky. Then the little kite's paper stirred at the sight, And trembling he shook himself free for flight. First whirling and frightened, then braver grown, Up, up he rose through the air alone, Till the big kite looking down could see The little one rising steadily.

Then how the little kite thrilled with pride, As he sailed with the big kite side by side! While far below he could see the ground, And the boys like small spots moving round. They rested high in the quiet air, And only the birds and the clouds were there. "Oh, how happy I am!" the little kite cried, "And all because I was brave, and tried."

Unknown

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE

Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a laboring bee; "Thou hast no colors of the sky On painted wings like me."

"Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colors bright and rare," With mild reproof, the bee replies, "Are all beneath my care."

"Content I toil from morn till eve, And, scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress."

William Lisle Bowles [1762-1850]

THE BUTTERFLY

The butterfly, an idle thing, Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, As do the bee and bird; Nor does it, like the prudent ant, Lay up the grain for times of want, A wise and cautious hoard.

My youth is but a summer's day: Then like the bee and ant I'll lay A store of learning by; And though from flower to flower I rove, My stock of wisdom I'll improve, Nor be a butterfly.

Adelaide O'Keefe [1776-1855]

MORNING

The lark is up to meet the sun, The bee is on the wing, The ant her labor has begun, The woods with music ring.

Shall birds and bees and ants be wise, While I my moments waste? Oh, let me with the morning rise, And to my duties haste.

Why should I sleep till beams of morn Their light and glory shed? Immortal beings were not born To waste their time in bed.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES

Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers; Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours, While the trees are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies Spring up here and there.

Ere the snow-drop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold,-- Somewhere on the sunny bank Buttercups are bright; Somewhere midst the frozen grass Peeps the daisy white.

Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother's door. Purple with the north-wind, Yet alert and bold; Fearing not, and caring not, Though they be a-cold!

What to them is winter! What are stormy showers! Buttercups and daisies Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardships And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength And patient hearts to bear.

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE ANT AND THE CRICKET

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty and winter was come. Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground; Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree: "Oh, what will become," says the cricket, "of me?"

At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant, To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant Him shelter from rain: A mouthful of grain He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow: If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend; But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I. My heart was so light That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay." "You sang, sir, you say? Go then," said the ant, "and dance winter away." Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket And out of the door turned the poor little cricket. Though this is a fable, the moral is good: If you live without work, you must live without food.

Unknown

AFTER WINGS

This was your butterfly, you see,-- His fine wings made him vain: The caterpillars crawl, but he Passed them in rich disdain.-- My pretty boy says, "Let him be Only a worm again!"

O child, when things have learned to wear Wings once, they must be fain To keep them always high and fair: Think of the creeping pain Which even a butterfly must bear To be a worm again!

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]

DEEDS OF KINDNESS

Suppose the little Cowslip Should hang its golden cup And say, "I'm such a little flower I'd better not grow up!" How many a weary traveller Would miss its fragrant smell, How many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell!

Suppose the glistening Dewdrop Upon the grass should say, "What can a little dewdrop do? I'd better roll away!" The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun.

Suppose the little Breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to cool The traveller on his way: Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake If they were acting so?

How many deed of kindness A little child can do, Although it has but little strength And little wisdom too! It wants a loving spirit Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by its love.

Epes Sargent [1813-1880]

THE LION AND THE MOUSE

A lion with the heat oppressed, One day composed himself to rest: But while he dozed as he intended, A mouse, his royal back ascended; Nor thought of harm, as Aesop tells, Mistaking him for someone else; And travelled over him, and round him, And might have left him as she found him Had she not--tremble when you hear-- Tried to explore the monarch's ear! Who straightway woke, with wrath immense, And shook his head to cast her thence. "You rascal, what are you about?" Said he, when he had turned her out, "I'll teach you soon," the lion said, "To make a mouse-hole in my head!" So saying, he prepared his foot To crush the trembling tiny brute; But she (the mouse) with tearful eye, Implored the lion's clemency, Who thought it best at last to give His little prisoner a reprieve.

'Twas nearly twelve months after this, The lion chanced his way to miss; When pressing forward, heedless yet, He got entangled in a net. With dreadful rage, he stamped and tore, And straight commenced a lordly roar; When the poor mouse, who heard the noise, Attended, for she knew his voice. Then what the lion's utmost strength Could not effect, she did at length; With patient labor she applied Her teeth, the network to divide; And so at last forth issued he, A lion, by a mouse set free.

Few are so small or weak, I guess, But may assist us in distress, Nor shall we ever, if we're wise, The meanest, or the least despise.

Jeffreys Taylor [1792-1853]

THE BOY AND THE WOLF

A little Boy was set to keep A little flock of goats or sheep; He thought the task too solitary, And took a strange perverse vagary: To call the people out of fun, To see them leave their work and run, He cried and screamed with all his might,-- "Wolf! wolf!" in a pretended fright. Some people, working at a distance, Came running in to his assistance. They searched the fields and bushes round, The Wolf was nowhere to be found. The Boy, delighted with his game, A few days after did the same, And once again the people came. The trick was many times repeated, At last they found that they were cheated. One day the Wolf appeared in sight, The Boy was in a real fright, He cried, "Wolf! wolf!"--the neighbors heard, But not a single creature stirred. "We need not go from our employ,-- 'Tis nothing but that idle boy." The little Boy cried out again, "Help, help! the Wolf!" he cried in vain. At last his master came to beat him. He came too late, the Wolf had eat him.

This shows the bad effect of lying, And likewise of continual crying. If I had heard you scream and roar, For nothing, twenty times before, Although you might have broke your arm, Or met with any serious harm, Your cries could give me no alarm; They would not make me move the faster, Nor apprehend the least disaster; I should be sorry when I came, But you yourself would be to blame.

John Hookham Frere [1769-1846]

THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS, WHO WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP

Augustus was a chubby lad; Fat, ruddy cheeks Augustus had; And everybody saw with joy The plump and hearty, healthy boy. He ate and drank as he was told, And never let his soup get cold.

But one day, one cold winter's day, He screamed out--"Take the soup away! O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."

Next day begins his tale of woes; Quite lank and lean Augustus grows. Yet, though he feels so weak and ill, The naughty fellow cries out still-- "Not any soup for me, I say: O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."

The third day comes; O what a sin! To make himself so pale and thin. Yet, when the soup is put on table, He screams, as loud as he is able,-- "Not any soup for me, I say: O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."

Look at him, now the fourth day's come! He scarcely weighs a sugar-plum; He's like a little bit of thread, And on the fifth day, he was--dead!

From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]

THE STORY OF LITTLE SUCK-A-THUMB

One day, mamma said: "Conrad dear, I must go out and leave you here. But mind now, Conrad, what I say, Don't suck your thumb while I'm away. The great tall tailor always comes To little boys that suck their thumbs; And ere they dream what he's about, He takes his great sharp scissors out And cuts their thumbs clean off,--and then, You know, they never grow again."

Mamma had scarcely turned her back, The thumb was in, alack! alack! The door flew open, in he ran, The great, long, red-legged scissors-man. Oh, children, see! the tailor's come And caught our little Suck-a-Thumb. Snip! snap! snip! the scissors go; And Conrad cries out--"Oh! oh! oh!"

Snip! snap! Snip! They go so fast, That both his thumbs are off at last. Mamma comes home; there Conrad stands, And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;-- "Ah!" said mamma, "I knew he'd come To naughty little Suck-a-Thumb."

From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]

WRITTEN IN A LITTLE LADY'S LITTLE ALBUM

Hearts good and true Have wishes few In narrow circles bounded, And hope that lives On what God gives Is Christian hope well founded.

Small things are best; Grief and unrest To rank and wealth are given; But little things On little wings Bear little souls to heaven.

Frederick William Faber [1814-1863]

MY LADY WIND

My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind, Went round about the house to find A chink to set her foot in; She tried the keyhole in the door, She tried the crevice in the floor, And drove the chimney soot in.

And then one night when it was dark She blew up such a tiny spark That all the town was bothered; From it she raised such flame and smoke That many in great terror woke, And many more were smothered.

And thus when once, my little dears, A whisper reaches itching ears-- The same will come, you'll find: Take my advice, restrain the tongue, Remember what old nurse has sung Of busy Lady Wind.

Unknown

TO A CHILD

Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

A FAREWELL

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray: Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn on breezy down; To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever One grand sweet song.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD

REEDS OF INNOCENCE

Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped: he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE WONDERFUL WORLD

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast, World, you are beautifully dressed.

The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-- It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

THE WORLD'S MUSIC

The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything.

I waken when the morning's come, And feel the air and light alive With strange sweet music like the hum Of bees about their busy hive.

The linnets play among the leaves At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing; While, flashing to and from the eaves, The swallows twitter on the wing.

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway; And tall old trees you could not climb; And winds that come, but cannot stay, Are gaily singing all the time.

From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel Makes music, going round and round; And dusty-white with flour and meal, The miller whistles to its sound.

And if you listen to the rain When leaves and birds and bees are dumb, You hear it pattering on the pane Like Andrew beating on his drum.

The coals beneath the kettle croon, And clap their hands and dance in glee; And even the kettle hums a tune To tell you when it's time for tea.

The world is such a happy place, That children, whether big or small, Should always have a smiling face, And never, never sulk at all.

Gabriel Setoun [1861-

A BOY'S SONG

Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

James Hogg [1770-1835]

GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE A Boy's Song

With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

"Is this, is this your joy? O bird, then I, though a boy, For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!"

Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss? 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.

Henry Charles Beeching [1859-1919]

PLAYGROUNDS

In summer I am very glad We children are so small, For we can see a thousand things That men can't see at all.

They don't know much about the moss And all the stones they pass: They never lie and play among The forests in the grass:

They walk about a long way off; And, when we're at the sea, Let father stoop as best he can He can't find things like me.

But, when the snow is on the ground And all the puddles freeze, I wish that I were very tall, High up above the trees.

Laurence Alma-Tadema [18--

"WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?"

Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

THE WIND'S SONG

O winds that blow across the sea, What is the story that you bring? Leaves clap their hands on every tree And birds about their branches sing.

You sing to flowers and trees and birds Your sea-songs over all the land. Could you not stay and whisper words A little child might understand?

The roses nod to hear you sing; But though I listen all the day, You never tell me anything Of father's ship so far away.

Its masts are taller than the trees; Its sails are silver in the sun; There's not a ship upon the seas So beautiful as father's one.

With wings spread out it flies so fast It leaves the waves all white with foam. Just whisper to me, blowing past, If you have seen it sailing home.

I feel your breath upon my cheek, And in my hair, and on my brow. Dear winds, if you could only speak, I know that you would tell me now.

My father's coming home, you'd say, With precious presents, one, two, three; A shawl for mother, beads for May, And eggs and shells for Rob and me.

The winds sing songs where'er they roam; The leaves all clap their little hands; For father's ship is coming home With wondrous things from foreign lands.

Gabriel Setoun [1861-

THE PIPER ON THE HILL A Child's Song

There sits a piper on the hill Who pipes the livelong day, And when he pipes both loud and shrill, The frightened people say: "The wind, the wind is blowing up 'Tis rising to a gale." The women hurry to the shore To watch some distant sail. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing to a gale.

But when he pipes all sweet and low, The piper on the hill, I hear the merry women go With laughter, loud and shrill: "The wind, the wind is coming south 'Twill blow a gentle day." They gather on the meadow-land To toss the yellow hay. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing south to-day.

And in the morn, when winter comes, To keep the piper warm, The little Angels shake their wings To make a feather storm: "The snow, the snow has come at last!" The happy children call, And "ring around" they dance in glee, And watch the snowflakes fall. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Has spread a snowy pall.

But when at night the piper plays, I have not any fear, Because God's windows open wide The pretty tune to hear; And when each crowding spirit looks, From its star window-pane, A watching mother may behold Her little child again. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, May blow her home again.

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]

THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out; You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about-- I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again! On high In the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge! If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone-- Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar-- "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, Good faith! I blew her to death-- First blew her away right out of the sky-- Then blew her in; what strength have I!

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high In the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

CHILD'S SONG IN SPRING

The silver birch is a dainty lady, She wears a satin gown; The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady, She will not live in town.

The English oak is a sturdy fellow, He gets his green coat late; The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, While brown the beech trees wait.

Such a gay green gown God gives the larches-- As green as He is good! The hazels hold up their arms for arches When Spring rides through the wood.

The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty, The poplar's gentle and tall, But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city-- I love him best of all!

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]

BABY SEED SONG

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark? Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark-- "Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you; Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you-- Waken! 'tis morning--'tis May!"

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of flower will you be? I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother; Do be a poppy like me. What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you When you're grown golden and high! But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you; Little brown brother, good-bye.

Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]

LITTLE DANDELION

Gay little Dandelion Lights up the meads, Swings on her slender foot, Telleth her beads, Lists to the robin's note Poured from above; Wise little Dandelion Asks not for love.

Cold lie the daisy banks Clothed but in green, Where, in the days agone, Bright hues were seen. Wild pinks are slumbering, Violets delay; True little Dandelion Greeteth the May.

Brave little Dandelion! Fast falls the snow, Bending the daffodil's Haughty head low. Under that fleecy tent, Careless of cold, Blithe little Dandelion Counteth her gold.

Meek little Dandelion Groweth more fair, Till dies the amber dew Out from her hair. High rides the thirsty sun, Fiercely and high; Faint little Dandelion Closeth her eye.

Pale little Dandelion, In her white shroud, Heareth the angel-breeze Call from the cloud; Tiny plumes fluttering Make no delay; Little winged Dandelion Soareth away.

Helen Barron Bostwick [1826-? ]

LITTLE WHITE LILY From "Within and Without"

Little White Lily sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting till the sun shone. Little White Lily sunshine has fed; Little White Lily is lifting her head.

Little White Lily said: "It is good, Little White Lily's clothing and food." Little White Lily dressed like a bride! Shining with whiteness, and crowned beside!

Little White Lily drooping with pain, Waiting and waiting for the wet rain, Little White Lily holdeth her cup; Rain is fast falling and filling it up.