Part 7

I’m glad I was always so good to her; I was just up there in the nursery Picking up things--you know--that were Left strewn about as carelessly As a child will do when she’s called from play; I picked them up with a mist and blur In my eyes, and I laid them all away-- I’m glad I was always so good to her.

And many’s the picture that came to me, That came to me o’er a Teddy bear Or a doll or a whole tin infantry Arrayed in a battle column there; Picture on picture of girls and girls (One year and two years and three) that were; Of pinafores and blue frocks and curls-- I’m glad I was always so good to her.

Dreams on dreams and they ride me down, Column and phalanx, and voices call; And grasses grow green and come sere and brown, And leaves bud, blossom and blow and fall; She had been six now--and seven--and ten-- _So_ tall--and _so_ tall--how fair they were, How fair they were and they would have been, Those lost ones--I’m glad I was good to her.

CIRCUS DAY

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, Mother dear. I think at 4 o’clock A.M., the circus will be here; If it was any other day ’twould take an awful shock To rouse me from my little bed before quite 8 o’clock; You needn’t mind my breakfast, for I’ll be in dreadful haste, And if I see the cars unload I’ll have no time to waste; Perhaps they’ll wash the cages, Ma, and I’ll be there to see The men take off the sideboards from the whole menagerie.

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, Mother dear, Because the place where it unloads is full two miles from here; I’d faint without my breakfast if ’twas any other day, But I’ll be strong enough, I think, to run quite all the way; The boys I know will all be there; ’twill be a wondrous sight To see the elephants led out before it’s hardly light; And hear the lions roar, which makes goose pimples when you hear-- If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, Mother dear.

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, Mother dear, No matter if you whisper it I’ll be quite sure to hear; If I was being waked to turn the wringer it would be A good deal harder job, of course, for you to waken me; But I will leave my stockings on and put my shirt in place, And if I’m rushed for time I will not need to wash my face; And in the early morning light you’ll see me leaving here About three minutes after four, so call me, Mother dear.

If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, Mother dear; I will not yawn and rub my eyes and ask if morning’s here; I will not pull the covers up as I have done before And ask you if I cannot sleep just half an hour more; I’ll jump right out of bed as soon as ever you may call And be all dressed and down the stair and gone out through the hall Before you say Jack Robinson--the circus will be here At 4 o’clock, so call me early, early, Mother dear!

THE TOUR OF A SMILE

My papa smiled this morning when He came down stairs, you see, At Mamma; and when he smiled, then She turned and smiled at me; And when she smiled at me, I went And smiled at Mary Ann, Out in the kitchen and she lent It to the hired man.

So then he smiled at someone, who He saw, when going by; Who also smiled and ere he knew Had twinkles in his eye; So he went to his office then And smiled right at his clerk, Who put some more ink on his pen And smiled back from his work.

So when his clerk went home he smiled Right at his wife, and she Smiled over at their little child As happy as could be; And then their little child, she took The smile to school, and when She smiled at teacher from her book, Teacher smiled back again.

And then the teacher passed on one To little James McBride, Who couldn’t get his lessons done, No matter how he tried; And Jamesy took it home and told How teacher smiled at him When he was tired and didn’t scold, But said, “Don’t worry, Jim!”

And when I happened to be there That very night to play, His mother had a smile to spare Which came across my way; And then I took it after while Back home, and Mamma said: “Here is that very self-same smile Come back with us to bed!”

WHEN GRANDPA PLAYS

I don’t know what makes Grandpa tired; he’s hardly done a thing Except to put some hammocks up and help us children swing; He only came an hour ago, and we’ve been here all day. He says we’re most too much for him and thinks he’ll hardly stay; He just played drop-the-handkerchief and blind man’s buff, but he Says, My! we’ve got him out of breath and tired as he can be. He says it’s most too much for him to play leap-frog and ball, But we have been here all day long, and we’re not tired at all!

He started to play hide and seek, and first he had to blind And then he ran with all his might to see who he could find, And Tommy Watkins beat him in from there behind a tree, Till Grandpa had to give it up and say, “All’s out’s in free!” And then he sat down on a stump and said he’s tired to death. He had to hold his sides a while till he could catch his breath. He said he’d like to shake a tree and make some apples fall, But he’s too tired, and we boys here are hardly tired at all!

He only ran in under once when we were in the swing, And then he had to rest because he’s tired as everything; And once he showed us how to climb a great, tall tree, but when He only got a few feet up he slid right down again. He said he used to climb a tree, oh, very, very tall And sit across a branch way up and never tire at all, But now he’s out of practice, and his legs won’t stay around The trunk, and he feels safer when he stays down on the ground!

And sometimes when he goes back home and holds us by the hand, All wringing wet and out of breath, our Ma says “Goodness, Land! I think you are the youngest boy of all the boys in sight.” But Grandpa rubs his legs and arms and limps and says “Not quite!” And sometimes in the parlor, why, he says he was so strong When he was just a boy they used to take him right along To lift the heavy things and do the hardest work, you know, But now us boys ’ll tire him out in just an hour or so!

THE PARTED WAYS

I used to know a little lad, A youngster of thirteen, Who wasn’t very good or bad, But somewhere in between. He had such freckles on his nose As your nose seems to bear; Indeed, I’d almost think that those Were some he used to wear.

He used to have an old straw hat All frazzled at the brim, Indeed, I’d almost think that that Came down to you from him. And he had such a dog as now Barks joyfully along With you--it makes me wonder how It could have lived so long.

And in his heart he held such song As fell upon my ear, And echoed through the shadows long When you came whistling near; So when at twilight, dawn or noon This overture you bring, It seems to be the very tune This other lad would sing.

And he had pockets bulged with things By which he set much store, With knives and marbles, tops and strings And half a hundred more; I see your pockets emptied now, Your things cast up with care, Until they seem to be, somehow, His treasures you have there.

I know not where it was or when, But with his heart of song He went and came not back again, And took his dreams along; So some day in a little while He’ll wave a sun-browned hand. And leave you with his cheery smile-- And you will understand.

A MESSAGE HOME

Say, Little Boy, ’twixt dawn and dusk who treads such devious ways, I wish you would remember me to all your sunny days; For once they were such friends of mine; so bid them my good cheer And say you saw an old, old friend, who holds them very dear; Remember me to those cool paths, that led by fields and streams, Where what were my songs now are yours and what were mine your dreams; Just say you saw an old, old friend, who wanted you to tell Them all he sent them love and cheer and wished them always well.

And, Little Boy, if you should lie beneath some spreading tree, Be good enough to say it has remembrance sweet from me; For once it used to cover me with shade so thick and cool And bid me lie and rest and dream as I came home from school; And when you romp with comrade boys at noontime, Lad, I pray, Remember me to all of them and to the games they play; And let no games too humble be, no youngsters be too small To know an old, old friend sends love and blessings to them all.

Remember me to all your dreams, to rose and bush and stem, To days too short to hold your joys, remember me to them; To all your secrets deep and vast, of things that are and were And are to be, half-whispered in the twilight’s dusk and blur; Just say an old friend, long away, but still remembering Would have them know his heart is full of memories that bring Delight to bygone fellowships, and he would have you tell Them all he sends them love and cheer, and wishes them so well!

For, over land and over sea the hearts of us that fare Swell with the messages they bid the homebound comrade bear; And over days and over years have I fared forth and so I bid you bear my greetings, Lad, to all the joys you know. Remember me to all the hearts and hopes and dreams and deeds, Bear blessings of mine everywhere the path of boyland leads; Just say you saw an old, old friend, who wanted you to tell The joys and boys of youth he loved and wished them always well.

LULLABY

Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow, Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming Hear their rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go; Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, Creep, creep, creep! Time to go to sleep! Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little chatter Sings his prattling little, rattling little, tattling little tune, Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter, As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon; Beaming little, gleaming little fire flies go dreaming To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, Creep, creep, creep! Time to go to sleep! Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver In the mushy little, rushy little, reedy, weedy bogs, Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river In the joking little, croaking little cadence of the frogs, Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming Where the clover heads like fairy little night caps rise, Creep, creep, creep! Time to go to sleep! Baby playing ’possum with his big, brown eyes!

DISGUISING TOIL

When I was just a little boy and sent to cut the weeds, I played myself a hero bold and given to mighty deeds; I played myself an armored knight, my scythe a broadsword keen, The weeds an army of my foes come marching o’er the green; I laid my good broadsword about, they broke and ran pell-mell, At every stroke some stubborn lout and his retainers fell. And when I told them of my play, with lusty shouts and glee, The neighbor boys brought scythes and fell to cutting weeds for me.

When I was just a little boy and sent to cut the wood, I played myself a frontier scout, six feet in buckskin stood; I played the red men swarmed about and all the timbers laid Must be quick hewed and fashioned for an old frontier stockade; Quick fell my axe with flashing blade, for all about I heard The war-whoop of the warriors who in the thicket stirred. And when I told them of my play, with lusty strokes and cry, The neighbor boys fell to and wrought my woodpile brimming high.

When I was just a little boy and sent to scrub the walk With hose and broom, I used to play it was the good ship Hawk Or Hornet, Spider or Whatnot, afire far out at sea, Nor help at hand where’er I looked, to windward or to lee; And how I fought the tongues of flame that swept by stern and bow! The clouds of smoke that rolled above--I almost see them now! And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout, The neighbor boys plied hose and broom to put the fire out.

And when I had to shovel snow I led’ some hardy band Of undismayed discoverers, in far-off Arctic land; With stores and goods and blubber, too, all buried deep below The mark that I had left beneath some good six feet of snow; And almost famished, there I dug, full knowing I should find At last the goodly stores of stuff that we had left behind. And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout, The neighbor boys plied willing spades and helped me dig them out.

LITTLE GIRL WITH THE CURLS

Little girl with the curls, and the passionless eyes, With your heart that is pure as the cool springs that rise In the green of the hills, and with cheeks that are fair And unsoiled of the world as the snowflake in air, With your dreams that are sweet and that always come true, Little girl with the curls, here’s a blessing for you.

Little girl with the curls and with grace that is sweet From the toss of your head to your fast-flying feet, With the light in your eyes that is brimming with truth And the straightforward gaze that’s the glory of youth, With your smiles that are glad and your days that are fair, Here’s a blessing as rich as the gold of your hair.

Little girl with the curls and the kisses as light As the butterfly’s kiss of the flower in its flight, With your heart all atune to the beauties you see, With the song of your days sweet as music can be, With your peace like the pardon of heaven unfurls, Here’s a blessing for you, little girl with the curls.

And Oh, be the days of thy trial as far From the deeps of the sea as the snowy peaks are! And Oh, be thy heart in its singing atune, Thy skies be but blue with the splendors of June. So bless thee and keep thee and spare thee--with pearls Be thy days strung through life, little girl with the curls.

MY WONDERFUL DAD

My Daddy, he lived in a wonderful house, and he played with such wonderful boys; They were neighbors of his; and the attic they had was a storehouse of wonderful toys; He slept every night in a wonderful bed, with a tick that his grandmother made From the feathers of geese that she picked all herself, and so soft he was almost afraid He would sink out of sight when he got into bed; he could look from his window right out And see where the vines used to bring him sweet flowers just by crawling along up the spout; And he could look over and see where the woods and the squirrels and birds used to be. He must have had wonderful times where he lived from the way that he tells them to me!

My Daddy, he caught the most wonderful fish--there were thin ones and fat ones and round, And some were so long that their tails when he walked would be dragging right down on the ground; He scraped off their scales on a log that he had at the woodpile, and said he would know That log just as well if he saw it today, although that was a long time ago. He used to dig worms of a wonderful size--he has never seen any like those Since he was grown up; and on Saturdays he wore a wonderful old suit of clothes And a hat that an uncle of his had forgot, for on Friday he did all his sums, And Saturday always he went off somewhere with his one or two wonderful chums.

My Daddy, he lived in a wonderful place when he was a twelve-year-old lad, For no matter what kind of a day it might be there was always some fun to be had. He learned how to swim in a wonderful creek, where all of the whole summer long The water was warm, and the springboard they had it was springy and slippery and strong. And on the way home they found berries to eat, and he said he remembers them well, And it didn’t seem nearly a mile to back home, for there always was something to tell That took up the time both for him and his chums, and sometimes they came home a new way, And always all summer they had it all planned what to do on the next Saturday.

My Daddy, he said he could go back there now and could take me as straight as a string To all of the wonderful places he knew--where the first flowers came in the spring; Where you almost were sure to catch fish in the brook--where the nuts would come dropping in fall; Where the most berries were on the way to back home--he is sure he remembers them all. He knows where the squirrels were most apt to be, and the lane where the hay wagon comes; And said he’d find names in the bark of a tree that were cut there by him and his chums Twenty-five years ago, and the log where they sat when they found the big garter-snake curled. My Daddy, he must have had wonderful times in the splendidest place in the world!

REMEMBRANCES, BILL

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill, The fresh morning glories that crept up the sill And nodded at us when the night time was gone And curtains thrown open to let in the dawn; The light over there, and the edge of the sun That blazed on the hill when the day was begun, The air on our cheeks and the sparkle of dew, Our hearts and our hopes like the day that was new.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill, The way of a thousand delights up the hill, Through lanes and by hedges, where orchards were sweet, And clover dews healing the woes of bare feet; The chatter of squirrels, the rattle of leaves, The round, yellow pumpkins, the wind-tattered sheaves, The shade that was deep and lent splendor to dreams And lips that were laved by the bubbles of streams.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill, The times when the cup of all nature would spill Its gladness for us, when the days overflowed With the laughter of playtime, and far down the road Were milestones all marked by delights jointly shared, To set off the days where adventure’s steps fared; Nor ever a secret but innocence knew, The heart of youth hallowed and joy bubbled through.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill, The times in the twilight, on hedgerow and hill When we whistled homeward, upon the old road With hearts full of gladness that quite overflowed; The pillows where nestled two tangles of hair, The joy-freighted dreams, with a left-over share For the dawn of the morrow--a thread that was pearled With jewels of joy that were strung ’round our world.

I wonder if you still remember them, Bill, Our vows to the future we thought to fulfill; Our day dreams to cherish, our faith to endure, Through trials how bitter our hearts to keep pure; No gladness of living but we two would share-- The lanes and the byways are wondrously fair, But somehow the voices grow tuneless and still-- I wonder if you still remember them, Bill.

THE BEREAVEMENT

We’re all alone, ’ist Pop an’ me, ’Cuz Mamma’s gone away somew’eres T’ stay the longest time; an’ we Are all alone; an’ Pop ’ist stares A-past me an’ he never hears Me when I ast w’ere she could be, An’ both his eyes are full o’ tears W’en we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ after w’ile I ast him w’y She don’t come back; but he don’t know; An’ ’en some way he starts t’ cry Till I say, “Please, Pop, don’t cry so.” An’ put my arms part way around His neck an’ hug him, ’ist cuz we Are lonesome; he don’t make a sound; An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ he ’ist hugs me up so tight An’ sez my Mamma’s gone so fur She won’t come back, but sez we might ’Ist some day, maybe, go to her. An’ I ast w’y can’t we go now ’Cuz we’re so lonesome here; but he Don’t seem to hear me ast, somehow, An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ ’en I ’ist fergit she’s gone An’ think it’s almos’ time fur her T’ come an’ put th’ supper on, But w’en Pop’s eyes are all a blur I ’member ’at’s she’s gone away, An’ can’t git supper; Pop sez he Ain’t hungry, an’ I ain’t, I say; An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

An’ ’en Pop rocks me in his lap An’ rubs my head, ’ist soft an’ kind, An’ asts me if I’ll take a nap If he pulls down th’ parlor blind. An’ in a little w’ile I fall Asleep an’ he ’ist rocks; but he Don’t never go t’ sleep at all, An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.

IN CHILDHOOD TIME

Hark! I hear the happy laughter that from children’s voices rings, Swelling out like some vast golden harp with half a thousand strings, Every one vibrating grandly in an ecstatic acclaim, In a medley of sweet melodies that set the birds to shame; On the harp of childhood’s happiness each note rings clear and true, For the heart is pure and perfect and each quivering string is new, And it tells and swells like bells afar that ring and rhyme and chime The sweetest music ever told in note or tune or time.

When the heart is growing older and the harp of laughter rings, There’s a false note clashing somewhere in the swelling of the strings; There’s a chord that strikes imperfect, where some sorrow echoes through The melody, and grief has warped the strings to strains not true. Sometimes there’s brilliant music that rings from an empty heart, But it’s not the melodious laughter of the child, that knows no art, But just flows full and free, for Nature’s teachings, undefiled, Make music that is heart-true in the sweet voice of a child.

Could I gather every note that floats and rings and swells and tells The gladness of the child’s heart, true as any chime of bells May tell the passing hour, and fashion them into a song, ’Twould thrill and fill the air with melody as though a throng Of seraphim, as tinkling cymbals struck the twinkling stars In heaven’s perfect music, where no din or discord mars, And a myriad strings would mingle in a melody sublime, The rhyme and chime of laughter gathered from all Childhood’s Time.

DON’T

A hundred times a day I hear His mother say: “Don’t do that, dear!” From early morn till dusk ’tis all “Don’t do that, dear!” I hear her call From the back porch and front and side As though some evil would betide Unless she drummed it in his ear: “Don’t do that, dear! Don’t do that, dear!”

If he goes out and slams the door; “Don’t do that, dear!” and if the floor Is newly scrubbed and he comes near; “Don’t do that, dear!” is all I hear. If he comes romping down the stairs; “Don’t do that, dear!” and if he wears No coat, but hangs it somewhere near, She sees and says: “Don’t do that, dear!”