Chapter 2
He comes home from the office, where They think he's just a man The same as they are, with his hair All slick and spick and span. Oh, don't I make it in a mess! It makes us scream for joy. "Sh--sh!" he says, "they mustn't guess I'm nothing but a boy!"
And sometimes when the doorbell rings, The girl knocks at the door. "An' is the doctor in?" she sings, A dozen times or more. "Good-by, old man!" he says. "That bell Means business. Here's your toy!" And off he goes. I'll never tell He's nothing but a boy.
SOMEBODY DID IT
Hunting, hunting, high and low, Where do the caps and "tammies" go? Ned's--he hung it, he knows he did, Right on a nail, and it went and hid! Rob's--"Well, mother, I'm almost sure I hung it"--"Right on the parlor floor?" "_Where_ is my 'Tam'?" cried Margery; And the household echoes, "Where _can_ it be?"
"Somebody does it!" Yes, they do! And not a person to "lay things to!" Ned will sputter and Rob complain, And Margery weeps till it looks like rain; And the family puts its glasses on And hunts and hunts till the day is gone; Somebody! wicked old Somebody! No end of trouble you make for me.
Hunting, hunting, here and there! Rob's was under the Morris-chair; Ned's, by a strange coincidence, _Was_ on a nail--of the garden fence; And Margery's little pink Tam-o'-shanter I chanced to spy in a morning saunter Out through the barn, where 'tis wont to hide When they've been having a "hay-mow slide."
IN SUMMER
When all the roads are white with dust, And thirsty flowers complain, Our little lassie cries, "I must Go carry round the rain."
As up and down the garden plots With busy feet she treads, The pansies and forget-me-nots Lift up their drooping heads.
She waters all the lilies tall, The fragrant mignonette, And hollyhocks beside the wall-- Not one does she forget.
What wonder that her garden grows And blooms, and blooms again, When every grateful blossom knows Who "carries round the rain!"
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
OUR LITTLE BROOK
Our little brook just sings and sings In such a happy way, I'd love to sit beside it, And listen all the day.
In spring it has a merry sound, I know the reason why-- Because the ice has gone and now The brook can see the sky.
It loves to glisten in the sun And sparkle in its light. I'm sure it loves the silvery moon And sings to it at night.
The summer song is not so gay, The brook is now quite still, With here and there a darling song Sung by a tiny rill.
I love to watch the bubbles float, I wonder where they go, I see the little "skaters" All darting to and fro.
When leaves are falling from the trees As fast as they can fall, I love to sail them in the brook-- Though there's not room for all.
They sail like little fairy boats And start out merrily, But sometimes find a stopping place Before they reach the sea.
The winter brook is soon with ice All covered up with care, But I can hear a tiny voice, I know the brook is there!
EDITH DUNHAM.
THE PINEWOOD PEOPLE
When winds are noisy-winged and high, And crystal-clear the day, Down where the forest meets the sky The Pinewood People play.
Far off I see them bow, advance, Swing partners and retreat, As though some slow, old-fashioned dance Had claimed their tripping feet.
Or hand to hand they wave, and so, With dip and bend and swing, Through "tag" and "hide" and "touch and go" They flutter, frolicking.
But when I run to join the play, I find my search is vain. Always they see me on the way, And change to pines again.
ELIZABETH THORNTON TURNER.
THE STUDENTS
I say to Tommy every day, "Now let us read awhile," But Tommy doesn't like to read, He'd rather be a prancing steed, And have me drive him many a mile, And often run away.
I like to do as grown folks do. Our house is full of books. My sisters gather every night About the cheery study light. I often think how wise it looks, And wish I could stay, too.
So I coax Tommy every day To read a little while. I know my M's and N's and P's And everything, 'way down to Z's. When Tommy reads I have to smile, For Tommy just knows A!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
THE LADY MOON
There's a lady in the moon, With a floating gown of white; You can see her very soon, When mamma turns out the light.
Tis a lady and she smiles Through my narrow window way, As she sails on miles and miles, Making night as fair as day.
ALICE TURNER CURTIS.
THE JOURNEY
Whither away shall the baby ride? How many miles shall he fare? Under the trees whose arms spread wide, Out to the meadow there.
Down by the brook that flows rippling by, Bordered by moss and fern. From flower and bird and tree and sky How many things shall he learn?
Baby'll journey all safe and sound Out in the world of green, Traveling over the grassy ground, Where wild flowers are seen.
Leaves will whisper and birds will trill, And all things display their charms, And, when he's journeyed as far as he will, He'll ride back to mother's arms.
Then, though he thought the green world good, He'll gladly come back to rest, And will drowsily feel, as a baby should, That mother's arms are the best.
ANNIE WILLIS MCCULLOUGH.
PRETENDING
We played we were lost in the wood, But home was just over the hill. With only one cooky for food, We played we were lost in the wood. We talked just as loud as we could, The world seemed so big and so still. We wished we had always been good, And we said in our hearts, "Now we will."
We gathered fresh grass for our bed, And then there was nothing to do. A robin flew over my head As we gathered fresh grass for our bed. "He'll cover us up," brother said, And then he began to boo-hoo, And home to our mother we fled, Or, really, I might have cried too.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
A LITTLE APRIL FOOL
One day in the midst Of an April shower. This dear little girl Was missed for an hour.
And under the trees And over the grass, We all went hunting The little lost lass.
We found her at last Where two walls met, A-looking naughty And a-dripping wet.
"I was April-fooling," She softly said; And down she dropped A shamed little head.
FROST FIRES
Look! look! look! The woods are all afire! See! see! see! Aflame are bush and brier! The trees are all unhurt, I know-- Oak, maple, elm and all-- But, oh, they all seem burning up In red fires of the fall!
WHISTLING IN THE RAIN
Whistle, whistle, up the road, And whistle, whistle down the lane! That's the laddie takes my heart, A-whistling in the rain. Winter wind may whistle too-- That's a comrade gay! Naught that any wind can do Drives his cheer away.
Whistle, whistle, sun or storm; And whistle, whistle, warm or cold! Underneath his ragged coat There beats a heart of gold. He will keep a courage high, Bear the battle's brunt; Let the coward whine and cry!-- His the soldier's front.
Shoes, I know, are out at toe, And rags and patches at the knee; He whistles still his merry tune, For not a fig cares he. Whistle, whistle, up the road, Whistle, whistle, down the lane! That's the laddie for my love, Whistling in the rain.
THE WOODEN HORSE
I'm just a wooden horsy, and I work hard all the day At hauling blocks and dollies in my little painted dray.
Sometimes they feed me make-believe, sometimes nothing at all, And sometimes I'm left standing on my head out in the hall.
I try to be most patient, but 'twas just the other day I got provoked with Teddy Bear and almost ran away.
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
AFTER SCHOOL
I've come to you again, my dear. There's no more school today. Let's cuddle down a little while before we go to play, And you shall tell me what you've done, and whether you've felt sad. I always hurry home because I know you'll be so glad.
I had a thought in school today--I quite forgot my book-- I seemed to see you waiting, and how lonely you must look, And all the other children's dolls, ten thousand, I suppose, All sitting up so patiently, and turning out their toes.
And then when I was called upon to answer "four times four," I failed, and teacher told me that I ought to study more. She asked if I had done my best. I had to answer, "No'm." I don't believe she leaves a little lonely doll at home!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
A SLEEPY-HEAD TOP
My top is just the very best, But, my! it is the laziest. It sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps all day, And doesn't want to come and play. Then, when it spins, it sleeps the more. It stands up straight, but it will snore, Until it is so sound asleep It tumbles over in a heap.
SINCLAIR LEWIS.
A CHRISTMAS "TELEPHONE"
"Ullo, Mr. Santa! Ullo! Ullo! Ullo! If must be 'most to Christmas, and I think you ought to know About the things we're needing most--of course I'd like a doll, And Jimmy wants a rocking-horse, and Charlie wants a ball.
"And all of us would like a lot of striped candy sticks (There's just six boys and girls of us--be sure to make it six), And gum-drops; and oh, if you could, some red-and-white gibraltars! I had some once, and half was mine, and half of them was Walter's.
"But, dear old Santa, don't forget, whatever you leave out, To put in some surprises that we never thought about; For in the whole long stocking, clear down into the toe, The presents that are nicest are the ones you didn't know."
A LOST BABY
Baby's hidden all away! Nobody can find her! Where's the baby, mamma? Say, Let's go look behind her!
Baby? No, she isn't there-- Have we lost our baby? Let's go hunting down the stair, There we'll find her, maybe.
Papa's lost his little girl! What will he do for kisses? What is this? A yellow curl? And please to say what this is
Inside my coat! "_I 'ant some breff!_ _It makes me almost 'oasted!_ _Next time don't smovver me to deff--_ _Let's play aden I'm losted!"_
VELOCIPEDE
I know of a staid and sober horse That goes by a great, long name. The little ones like this trusty steed That always goes at a proper speed. They call him the good Velocipede, And he's never tired or lame.
Ah, he is the horse that gives you fun, And he is the horse you need! He's never balky, he eats no hay, He's ready to either go or stay, And never was known to run away-- This good horse Velocipede.
ANNIE WILLIS MCCULLOUGH.
A RAINY DAY PLAN
The world's wet and stormy, The wind's in a rage. We are shut in the house Like poor birds in a cage. There's a sigh in the chimney, A roar on the wall. Good-by to "I Spy" And to swinging and all! But the child that complains Cannot better the day, So the harder it rains, Why, the harder we'll play!
There are tears on the window And sighs in the trees, But who's going to fret Over matters like these? If the sky's got to cry, Then it's better by half That the longer it weeps, Why, the louder we'll laugh! And look! I declare, There's the sun coming out To see what on earth All the fun is about!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
THE BIRTHDAY ONES
I am the birthday baby, And this is the birthday horse. They gave him to me because I was three And knew how to drive, of course. He's trotted and walked and galloped, And traveled the whole birthday; He's carried a load up the hilly road, And once he has run away.
I've fed him high in the stable, I've watered him at the trough, I've curried him down to a glossy brown, And taken his harness off. Now we are resting a little, Because there has got to be A long, stiff run before we're done, For the birthday horse and me!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
A DUTCH WISH
The little Dutch children, With little Dutch shoes, Go clitter-clatter Wherever they choose.
But we must move lightly, In slippers, at that, And walk on our tip-toes, And go like a cat.
But, oh, noise is lovely! We wish very much That we were Dutch children With shoes that were Dutch.
A SIGN OF SPRING
The blue-bird is a-wing; he has heard the call of spring; And a dozen times this morning I have heard a robin sing; But I know a sign that's surer, and I see the twinkling feet Of a score of little children at the corner of the street.
The crocus-bed's abloom; in the shadow of my room Glows a vase of golden jonquils like a star amid the gloom; But the sign that's sure and certain is the children's merry feet Dancing round the organ-grinder at the corner of the street.
Song of bird or hum of bee, there's no sign of spring for me Like the jolly little dancers and the frolic melody; And my heart shall catch the rhythm of the happy little feet Dancing round the organ-grinder at the corner of the street.
MY DOLLY
There's nothing so nice as dolly! She comforts me when I'm sad, She keeps me from getting lonely, She smiles at me when I'm glad. She's such a delightful playmate, And causes me so much joy, I wouldn't exchange her for all the toys That people give to a boy.
ANNIE WILLIS MCCULLOUGH.
ONE MILE TO TOYLAND
"One mile, one mile to Toyland!" Just s'pose, to your intense Astonishment, you found this sign Plain written on a fence. Just one short mile to Toyland, To happy girl and boy-land, Where one can play the livelong day!
Now who will hurry hence? There dollies grow on bushes, And wooden soldiers stand With frisky rocking-horses near, A brave and dauntless band; And whips and tops and whistles They grow as thick as thistles, And every kind of toy you find-- A strange and magic land!
"Only a mile to Toyland!" How big your eyes would grow, And how you'd come and stand stock-still To read it, in a row; Then, brother, girls, and maybe The puppy and the baby, You'd make that mile in little while, And find that land, I know!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
A BATH-TUB JOKE
Clean and sweet from head to feet Is Jerry, but not his twin. "Now for the other!" says merry mother, And quickly dips him in. Jim and Jerry, with lips of cherry, And eyes of the selfsame blue; Twins to a speckle, yes, even a freckle-- What can a mother do? They wink and wriggle and laugh and giggle-- A joke on mother is nice! "We played a joke,"--'twas Jimmie who spoke,-- "And you've washed the same boy twice!"
HER OWN WAY
When Polly goes into the parlor to play, She never minds what the little notes say, Nor peeps at a music-book; "I play by ear," says the little dear (When some of us think the music's queer), "So why should I need to look?"
When Polly goes into the kitchen to cook, She never looks at a cookery-book, Nor a sign of a recipe; It's a dot of this and a dab of that, And a twirl of the wrist and a pinch and a pat-- "I cook by hand," says she.
THE MONTH OF MAY
It comes just after April, And right before 'tis June; And every bird that's singing Has this same lovely tune: You needn't ask your mother To let you go and play; The very breezes whisper, "You may! You may! You may!"
There are no frosts to freeze you, And no fierce winds to blow; But winds that seem like kisses, So soft and sweet and slow; The lovely sun is shining 'Most every single day. Of course you may go out, dears-- It is the _month_ of "May"!
THE BIRTHDAY
Bring the birthday-marker! That's the way to show How much I've been growing Since a year ago.
All my last year's dresses Are too short for me; This one--with the tucks out-- Only to my knee!
Grandpa rubs his glasses; Whispers, "Yes, indeed! How that child is growing-- Growing like a weed!"
Mother's word is sweetest: "Yes, in sun and shower She's been growing, growing, Growing like a flower!"
BABY'S PLAYTHINGS
Ten cunning little playthings He never is without-- His little wiggle-waggle toes That carry him about.
They look so soft and pinky, And good enough to eat! How lucky that the little toes Are fastened to his feet!
Ten little pinky playthings He cannot eat or lose; Except when Nursey hides them all In little socks and shoes.
WHEN IT RAINS
We don't mind rainy days a bit, my brother Ted and I; There's such a lot of games to play before it comes blue sky. Sometimes we play I'm Mrs. Noah, and Ted's Methusalem! I put him in his little box and hand his little drum (There has to be some way, you see, to let the Ark-folks know That Father Noah expects them all, and where they are to go) And then they come by twos and twos, and twos and twos and _twos_, Till trotting with them 'cross the floor 'most wears out my new shoes. They all go in, and when it's time, we let the flood begin; The rainier it rains the more we like it staying in.
THE SLEEPING TREES.
I know how the apple-tree went to sleep! Its fluttering leaves were so tired of play!-- Like frolicsome children when dusk grows deep, And mother says "Come!" and they gladly creep To knee and to nest at the end of day.
Its work was all done and it longed to rest; The reddening apples dropped softly down; The leaves fell in heaps to the brown earth's breasts And then, of a sudden, its limbs were dressed (The better to sleep) in a soft white gown.
The maples and beeches and oaks and all-- When summer was over, each cool green tent Seemed suddenly turned to a banquet hall, Pavilions with banners, a flaming wall! And then all was gone and their glory spent.
Then quickly the sky shook her blankets out, And robes that were softer than wool to don She gave all her children the winds to flout-- I wish I knew what they are dreaming about, So quiet and still with their white gowns on!
A SUMMER HOLIDAY
Can you guess where I have been? On the hillsides fresh and green! Out where all the winds are blowing, Where the free, bright streamlet's flowing Leap and laugh and race and run Like a child that's full of fun!-- Crinkle, crinkle through the meadows, Hiding in the woodland shadows; Making here and there a pool In some leafy covert cool For the Lady Birch to see Just how fair and sweet is she.
Can you guess where I have been? By a brook where willows lean; With a book whereon to look, In some little shady nook, If that I should weary grow Of that lovelier book I know Whose sweet leaves the wind is turning-- Full of lessons for my learning. There are little songs to hear If you bend a listening ear; And no printed book can be Half so dear and sweet to me.
TWO POCKETS
There are two bulging pockets that I have in mind. Just listen and see if the owners you'll find. In one--it's quite shocking--there's a round wad of gum, A china doll's head and a half finished sum, A thimble, a handkerchief--sticky, I fear-- A dolly's blue cap and some jackstones are here. In the other are marbles and fishhooks and strings, Some round shiny stones and a red top that sings, A few apple cores and a tin full of bait, A big black jack-knife in a sad bladeless state. And now I wonder how many can guess Which pocket Bob owns and which one does Bess?
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
MY HORSE
I give my pony corn and hay, With oats to tempt him twice a week; I smooth and curry every day Until his coat is bright and sleek; At night he has a cosy stall; He does not seem to care at all.
I mount him often, hurriedly, And ride him fast and ride him far; With whip and spur I make him fly Along the road where robbers are; But when I've galloped madly home He is not wet or flecked with foam.
He does not plunge against the rein, Nor take a ditch nor clear a rail. He does not toss his flowing mane, He does not even switch his tail. Oh, well, he does his best, of course; He's nothing but a hobby-horse!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
MAY-TIME
Sing a song of May-time, And picnics in the park. Such a happy playtime! Birds are singing--hark! Bluebird calls to bluebird, Robins chirp between, And little lads and lasses Are dancing on the green.
Marigolds are golden All along the brooks. Violets are peeping In the shady nooks. Out into the fields now! Choose your happy queen; For all the lads and lasses Are dancing on the green.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
BOOKS
My father's books are made of words, As long and hard as words can be, They look so very dull to me! No pictures there of beasts and birds, Of dear Miss Muffet eating curds, And things a child would like to see.
My books have pictures, large and small, Some brightly colored, some just plain, I look them through and through again. Friends from their pages seem to call, Jack climbs his bean-stalk thick and tall, I know he will not climb in vain.
Here comes Red-Riding-Hood, and here The Sleeping Beauty lies in state, The prince will come ere 'tis too late! And this is Cinderella dear. The godmother will soon appear And send her to her happy fate.
Oh, father's books are very wise, As wise as any books can be! Yet he wants stories, I can see; For really, it's a great surprise How many picture-books he buys, And reads the fairy tales to me!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
THE LITTLE BOOK PEOPLE
At half past eight I say "good night" and snuggle up in bed. I'm never lonely, for it's then I hear the gentle tread Of all the tiny book people. They come to visit me, And lean above my pillow just as friendly as can be! Sometimes they cling against the wall or dance about in air. I never hear them speak a word, but I can see them there. When Cinderella comes she smiles with happy, loving eyes, And makes a funny nod at me when she the slipper tries. Dear Peter Pan flies in and out. I see his shadow, too, And often see his little house and all his pirate crew. I think they know I love them and that's why they come at night, When other people do not know that they've slipped out of sight; But I have often been afraid that while they visit me Some other little boy, perhaps, may stay up after tea, And when he tries to find them on the pages of his book He cannot see them anywhere, though he may look and look! That's why I never stay awake nor keep them here too long. I go to sleep and let them all slip back where they belong.
EDNA A. FOSTER.
CHARLOTTE THE CONQUEROR
When Charlotte is playing croquet It's really refreshing to see. She wins in the cheerfullest way, Or loses (but rarely!) with glee. She chooses the ball that is blue, And dashes straight into the fray. I want to be present--don't you?-- When Charlotte is playing croquet.
And Charlotte is playing croquet From breakfast-time almost till tea. She coaxes us, "Please, won't you play?" And somehow, we always agree. Then oh, for the ball that is blue! What matter the tasks of the day? There's something important to do, For Charlotte is playing croquet!