Part 2
“Granny dear,” he cried, all out of breath, “I have said I would get fat. I ought to keep my word. Please put me in the corn-bin at once.”
“You are a good Lambikin,” said his Granny.
And she put him into the corn-bin.
There the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days and seven nights.
He ate, and ate, and ate, and he ate until he could hardly waddle.
“Come, Lambikin,” said his Granny, “you are fat enough. You should go home now.”
“No, no,” said cunning little Lambikin, “that will never do. Some animal would surely eat me on the way, I am so plump and tender.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried old Granny in a fright.
“Never fear, Granny dear,” said cunning Lambikin. “I’ll tell you what to do. Just make me a little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died. I can get into it and roll along nicely.”
So old Granny made Lambikin a drumikin out of the skin of his dead brother.
And cunning Lambikin curled himself up into a round ball in the drumikin.
And he rolled gayly away.
Soon he met the lion, who called out,
“Drumikin! Drumikin! Have you seen Lambikin?”
Lambikin answered sweetly as he rolled along,
“Fallen into the fire, and so will you! On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!”
“Too bad, too bad,” sighed the lion, as he thought of the sweet, fat morsel of a Lambikin.
So away rolled Lambikin, laughing gayly to himself and sweetly singing,
“Tum-pa, tum-too; Tum-pa, tum-too!”
Soon he met the bear, who called out,
“Drumikin! Drumikin! Have you seen Lambikin?”
Lambikin answered sweetly as he rolled along,
“Fallen into the fire, and so will you! On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!”
“Too bad, too bad,” sighed the bear, as he thought of the sweet, fat morsel of a Lambikin.
So away rolled Lambikin, laughing gayly to himself and sweetly singing,
“Tum-pa, tum-too; Tum-pa, tum-too!”
Soon he met the wolf, who called out,
“Drumikin! Drumikin! Have you seen Lambikin?”
Lambikin answered sweetly as he rolled along,
“Fallen into the fire, and so will you! On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!”
“Oh, ho, little Lambikin, curled up snug in your little drumikin,” said the wolf, “you can’t fool me. I know your voice. So you have become too fat to hop and to skip, to hump and to jump. You can only roll along like a ball.”
And the wolf’s mouth watered as he thought of the sweet, fat morsel of a Lambikin.
Little Lambikin’s heart went pit-a-pat, but he cried out gayly,
“Hark, hark! Hear the dogs bark! Faster, roll faster, my little Drumikin!”
The wolf was frightened and stopped to listen for the dogs.
And away rolled cunning Lambikin faster and faster, laughing to himself and sweetly singing,
“Tum-pa, tum-too; Tum-pa, tum-too!”
THE ANT AND THE MOUSE
(h oney) m oney
(th is) m iss
pieces
sharp
(w ish) f ish
(r ob) c ob
lost
buy
(c arry) m arry
(r each) p each
roost er
hur ried
There was once an ant.
While sweeping her house one day, this ant found three pieces of money.
“What shall I buy?” said she.
“Shall I buy fish?”
“No, fish is full of bones. I can’t eat bones. I’ll not buy fish.”
“Shall I buy bread?”
“No, bread has crust. I can’t eat crust. I’ll not buy bread.”
“Shall I buy peaches?”
“No, peaches have stones. I can’t eat stones. I’ll not buy peaches.”
“Shall I buy corn?”
“No, corn grows on a cob. I can’t eat cobs. I’ll not buy corn.”
“Shall I buy apples?”
“No, apples have seeds. I can’t eat seeds I’ll not buy apples.”
“Shall I buy a ribbon?”
“Yes, that’s just what I want. I will buy a ribbon.”
And away ran Miss Ant to the store and bought her a bright red ribbon.
She tied the ribbon about her neck and sat in her window.
An ox came along and said, “How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?”
“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”
The ox was very proud of his voice and he bellowed with all his might.
“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Ox. Your bellow frightens me. Go away.”
Soon a lion came that way and said, “How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?”
“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”
The lion was proud of his voice and he roared with all his might.
“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Lion. Your loud roar frightens me. It shakes the very hills. Go away.”
The lion had not been gone long when a proud rooster came strutting along that way.
“How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?” said the rooster.
“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”
The rooster was very proud of his shrill voice and he crowed with all his might.
“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Rooster. Your shrill crow frightens me. Go away.”
The rooster was hardly out of sight when a big dog came trotting that way.
“How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?” said the dog.
“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”
The dog was very proud of his voice and he barked with all his might.
“No, no,” cried the ant, “I’ll not marry you, Mr. Dog. Your sharp bark frightens me. Go away.”
After a time a wee little mouse came frisking that way.
“How pretty you are, Miss Ant! Will you marry me?” said the mouse.
“Sing,” said the ant, “so I may hear your voice.”
Now the wee little mouse was not at all proud of his voice. But he squeaked as sweetly as he could, “Wee, wee, wee!”
“Yes, yes,” cried the ant, “I’ll marry you, dear Mouse. Your sweet little voice pleases me. Come right in.”
In scampered the mouse.
The ant gave him two pieces of money, for she had spent only one for her ribbon.
He hurried away to the store, and came quickly back bringing apples and bread.
Mrs. Ant Mouse now sat down to a feast.
Mr. Mouse ate the crusts and the seeds, so nothing was lost.
THE BROOK
(fl ies) sk ies
branch es
riv er
(l ove) ab ove
Down from the hillside, Sparkling and bright, Rushes the little brook, In the sunlight.
On through the meadow, Where the flowers hide, With skies bright above it, Now its waters glide.
Tall trees beside the brook, Their branches o’er it throw, As through the quiet woodland, The sparkling waters flow.
So it hurries down the hillside, And across the meadow sweet, And through the shady woodland, Till the river it shall meet.
THE LITTLE BROOK
(l ift) sw iftly
(th is) wh is per
(gr ass) p ass
mur murs
talk
(spl ash) d ash fl ash ash
See the little brook rushing down the steep hillside!
How it hurries!
How it leaps over the falls!
Hear it dash and splash among the rocks!
See its waters flash and sparkle in the sun!
“Stop, stop, little brook! Wait, I want to talk with you.”
“No, no, I must hurry on. I have a long way to go.”
“I will go with you, then. I will run along your banks. Please do not hurry so. I can hardly keep up with you.”
Now we come to the wide meadow.
Here the little brook flows more slowly and quietly.
But it never stops.
It must flow ever on and on.
Bright flowers are hiding along its banks.
They peep out from the grass.
They look into the clear flowing water.
“Stay, little brook, play with us,” they whisper.
“Why do you always hurry so? Are you not weary?”
“No, no, I am never weary, never tired,” murmurs the brook.
“I never stop to play.
It is play for me to rush swiftly down the steep hill.
It is fun to flow gently across the meadow.
I like to see you peeping over my banks as I pass.
But I cannot stop.
I must hurry on to meet the river.
Good-by, sweet flowers, good-by.”
Now the brook glides into the woodland.
Here the sad willows droop over the gliding waters.
High above them tower the oak, the ash, and the pine trees.
“Do not hurry, little brook,” whisper their leaves.
“Are you not tired?
You have come a long way.
Here the bright sun never comes.
Stay with us, and we will shade you.
Rest a while under our spreading branches.
In the meadow the burning sun is so hot.
But here it is cool.
Why can you not stay with us?
Why must you always hurry on?”
“Because I have to meet the river.
I love your wide spreading branches.
I love the gentle murmur of your green leaves.
I love your cool shade.
You are very kind to me.
But I cannot stay with you.
The great river needs me.
I shall have to hurry on.
Good-by, noble trees.
Good-by, drooping willows.”
So the never resting brook rushes, and glides and flows on forever.
CALLING THE VIOLET
mos sy
don’t
Dear little Violet, Don’t be afraid! Lift your blue eyes From the rock’s mossy shade. All the birds call for you Out of the sky; May is here waiting, And here, too, am I.
Come, pretty Violet, Winter’s away; Come, for without you May isn’t May. Down through the sunshine Wings flutter and fly; Quick, little Violet, Open your eye!
—LUCY LARCOM.
THE WIND
(m oss y) t oss es
height
up ward
(w hen) w hen ce
(sh all) v all ey
(c oats) g oats
trav erse
whith er
Which way does the wind blow, And where does he go? He rides o’er the water And over the snow; O’er wood and o’er valley, And over the height— Where goats cannot traverse He taketh his flight.
He rages and tosses, And bare is the tree, As when you look upward You plainly can see; But from whence he comes, Or whither he goes, There is no one can tell you, There is no one who knows.
—MARY LAMB.
THE WIND
nei ther
trem bling
(h ow) b ow
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.
THE WIND
dif fer ent
young
la dies
skirts
I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies’ skirts across the grass— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!
—R. L. STEVENSON
THE LEAF’S JOURNEY
jour ney
(f ish) w ish ed
eight
(l og) fr og s
leaped
(st ream) d ream ed
On the steep hillside grew a tall ash tree.
Right on the bank of the rushing brook it grew.
Its branches spread far out across the little stream.
Its leaves looked down into the flashing water.
There, when the sun shone brightly, they saw leaves looking up at them.
They called these “water leaves.”
The little tree leaves wished to go to the water leaves.
Many of them had already fluttered down.
But one leaf, very young, could not let go her hold of the twig.
At last a raging wind tore away the little leaf.
Over and over she turned.
Down, down, down, she fell.
She was so afraid the wind would carry her away.
But the friendly stream leaped up the rocks to meet her.
It bore her away, swiftly but gently.
The little leaf was afraid. She was lonesome.
The dear little “water leaves” were nowhere to be seen.
“Don’t be afraid, little leaf,” murmured the kind brook.
“I will give you a fine ride.
And I’ll talk to you all the time.
I’ll tell you all about the things we pass.
Here we are, already in the meadow.
Now I don’t have to hurry.
See the pretty flowers peeping over my banks.
They all love me.
I give them cool water to drink.
Here we go past the old mossy log.
Just see the frogs on it!
They are all in a row.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, of them!
They love me, too.
When anything makes them afraid, they leap into me.
They hide in some of my deep pools.
Here is the shady woodland.
Now I glide more slowly.
Soon I shall meet the great river.
I will not carry you into it.
For there you would be afraid.
I will land you here with lots of other leaves.”
And the stream pushed her gently upon the low bank of sand.
“Good-by,” he murmured; “good-by, little leaf.”
And the little leaf lay quietly thinking.
How many different things she had seen!
She never dreamed there were so many things in the whole world.
SWEET AND LOW
west ern
roll ing
fa ther
(p ea) s ea br ea the
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
—TENNYSON.
SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!
(dr ess) gu ess shep herd ess
Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father watches his sheep; Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, And down comes a little dream on thee. Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep; The little stars are the lambs, I guess; The gentle moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep!
—FROM THE GERMAN.
STARS AND DAISIES
(t alk) w alk
di a mond
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.
Do you know what daisies are?
Do you know what stars are?
I will tell you what I think.
At night we see the stars shining in the sky.
There are so very many of them, more than we can count.
I think the sky is a beautiful meadow.
And the stars are little white daisies growing in the sky meadow.
Sometimes the moon comes into the meadow.
She is a beautiful lady.
All night she walks among the flowers.
She gathers the little sky daisies.
In the morning we cannot see the stars.
Where are they?
In the meadow near our home are many bright-eyed daisies.
There are so very many of them, more than we can count.
How did they get there?
Where did they come from?
Daisies look like stars, you know.
So I think the lady moon threw them down from the sky.
LADY MOON
rov ing
pale
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? All that love me.
Are you not tired with rolling, and never Resting to sleep? Why look so pale and so sad, as forever Wishing to weep?
Ask me not this, little child, if you love me; You are too bold; I must obey my dear Father above me, And do as I’m told.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? All that love me.
—LORD HOUGHTON.
THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS
soft
taste
awoke
lost
(s eek) ch eek
Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep And can’t tell where to find them; Leave them alone and they’ll come home Bringing their tails behind them.
One morning a pretty little shepherdess drove her flock of sheep to the meadow. There she watched them while they ate the fresh, green grass. How sweet it tasted to the hungry sheep!
A large dog went with the shepherdess to help care for the sheep. He was the shepherd.
The shepherd let no lamb go astray. If one got too far from the flock, Mr. Shepherd ran after him.
“Bow-wow! Go back!” cried the shepherd.
The shepherdess took good care of her flock, too. She led them where the grass was greenest and sweetest.
When noon came all the sheep had eaten enough. So they lay down quietly in the cool shade of some old oak trees. Little Bo-peep lay down too, with her good shepherd dog beside her.
How cool and still it was there! Little Bo-peep could hear only the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead. She could feel only the soft wind on her cheek.
The wind blew more and more softly; the leaves rustled more and more gently. Soon little Bo-peep was fast asleep.
“Bo-peep, Bo-peep, where are you?”
“Bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow-wow!”
“Bo-peep, Bo-peep!”
Little Bo-peep awoke with a start. She sat upright, her eyes wide open. Not a sheep could she see. Her dog was not beside her. It was dark; the stars were twinkling overhead. How frightened the little shepherdess was!
“Bow-wow!”
“Bo-peep, Bo-peep! Where are you, child?” Surely that was her mother’s voice.
“Here, mother, here I am, under the big oak tree!” called Bo-peep.
Up rushed the dog, and mother followed close behind.
“Where are my sheep, mother? I fear they are lost.”
“Where is my little Bo-peep? I feared she was lost.”
“Here is your Bo-peep, dear mother. How long I must have slept!”
“Your sheep are all safe at home. Old Rover drove them in long ago.”
This is the way Bo-peep lost her sheep; this is the way she found them. And this is the way Bo-peep was lost; and this is the way she was found.
DISCONTENT
(l azy) cr azy
swal lows
to geth er
pleas ant
dull er
(b ear) w ear ing
(g ave) s ave br ave ly
June
(g ather) r ather
per haps
hon est
pas sion
col or
Down in the field, one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, Save one, who tried to hide herself, And drooped—that pleasant weather.
A robin, who had flown too high And felt a little lazy, Was resting near a buttercup, Who wished she were a daisy.
For daisies grow so trim and tall; She always had a passion For wearing frills around her neck, In just the daisies’ fashion.
And buttercups must always be The same old, tiresome color, While daisies dress in gold and white, Although their gold is duller.
“Dear robin,” said this sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind trying To find a nice white frill for me Some day, when you are flying.”
“You silly thing,” the robin said, “I think you must be crazy; I’d rather be my honest self Than any made-up daisy.
You’re nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you; Be the best buttercup you can, And think no flower above you.
Though swallows leave me out of sight, We’d better keep our places. Perhaps the world would go all wrong, With one too many daisies.
Look bravely up into the sky, And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here, where you are growing.”
—SARAH ORNE JEWETT.
BELLING THE CAT
sn ug d ug
aw oke sp oke
fam i ly
life
pounce
h ole st ole
warn ing
st eal m eal
g ood st ood
straight
A family of rats had their home in a barn.
They made many snug nests in the warm hay.
They dug holes through the hay from nest to nest.
They ran in and out and all about the barn. They had nothing to fear.
When they were hungry they could always find nice grain in the stalls. They became very fat.
And they were as happy a family of rats as one could wish to see.
But one day a big black cat found the rats’ barn.
That was a sad day for the rat family!
This cat was not fat and he was not happy.
He was very thin, very cross, and very hungry.
One thing he liked to eat best of all things in the world—rats.
How he did love nice, fat, happy rats! At last he had found them, a whole big family of them!
This hungry, greedy cat now had rat for breakfast, rat for dinner, and rat for supper. And sometimes he had rat between meals.
Very soon this cat began to grow fat and happy.
But happy cats make unhappy rats. While this cat grew fat, these rats grew thin.
Yet in the stalls there was just as much grain as ever. But it was only a very hungry rat that dared go for it. For no rat could tell when the cat might pounce upon him.
That sly cat stole about without a sound.
The most watchful rat could hear nothing, could see no living thing.
Then, pounce! The wicked cat’s claws held him fast.
So, many a poor rat went to the stall, and never came back. And the rat family was growing smaller day by day.
At last the wise old rats saw that something must be done. So they called a meeting of the whole family of rats, as many as were still alive.
When all had come together in a safe place and were still, the oldest and wisest rat rose up on his hind legs.
He stood up very straight, very tall, and very thin.
“My dear brothers and sisters, my dear children and grandchildren!” began the wise old rat.
“You all know the one fear of our lives.” Every rat trembled.
“That wicked cat has grown fat and sleek feeding on your brothers, your mothers, your wives, and your children.
No one of you knows when his turn may come to make a meal for that ever hungry monster.
He steals upon you without warning.
He is never seen, he is never heard, until it is too late.
But you were not called together to hear what you already know only too well.
You were called here to do something to make your lives safer and happier.
What can be done? Who has a plan?”
The old rat waited.
All the other rats looked from one to another, but no one spoke.
“Well, then,” said the wise old rat at last, “listen to me.
If we only knew where the cat was, we could not be caught. If we could only hear him coming, we might get out of his reach.
Now, my plan is this. We will hang a bell to that cat’s neck.”
“The very thing! Hurrah! Hurrah!” cried all the rats together.
“Why haven’t we thought of that before?
No more of us will go to make dinners for that old cat.
Now, for all the corn we can eat!”
And away sprang the hungry rats for the stalls.
“Stop! Stop!” cried the wise old rat. “Back to your places!
The bell isn’t on the cat’s neck yet.”
Slowly and sadly the starving rats settled back.
“Now,” the old rat went on, “who will tie the bell around the cat’s neck?”
“Not I! Not I! Not I!” squeaked the poor frightened rats.
And they trembled all over at the very thought.
Then they sat very still and looked at each other.
Oh! how hungry they were! How sweet that yellow corn in the stall would taste.
One by one they began to steal away softly.
Where do you think they were going?
Rat families still live in barns.
Cats still feed upon them.
But no rat has ever tried to make life safer by belling a cat.
THREE OF US KNOW
bal lad
se crets
Who are my playfellows? Wait, you shall see; Sometimes a little bird, Sometimes a bee. All through the summer world Gayly we go. Where is the greenest close, Where is the sweetest rose, Three of us know.
Bee seeks the rose’s heart, Bird seeks the tree, I seek a little brook Clear as can be. It singeth all day long Sweetly and low, Ballad of sun and star; What its song secrets are Three of us know.