Part 6

Learn to make a perfect nest, That of all things is the best. Come! nor longer loitering Sit and swing, sit and swing!"

As I swing, as I swing, Though I have not any wing, Still I would not change with you, Happiest bird that ever flew. Butterfly and honey-bee, Sure 'tis you must envy me, Safe beneath my mother's wing As I swing, as I swing.

THE LITTLE COSSACK.

The tale of the little Cossack, Who lived by the river Don: He sat on a sea-green hassock, And his grandfather's name was John. His grandfather's name was John, my dears, And he lived upon bottled stout; And when he was found to be not at home, He was frequently found to be out.

The tale of the little Cossack,-- He sat by the river-side, And wept when he heard the people say That his hair was probably dyed. That his hair was probably dyed, my dears, And his teeth were undoubtedly sham; "If this be true," quoth the little Cossàck, "What a poor little thing I am!"

The tale of the little Cossack,-- He sat by the river's brim, And he looked at the little fishes, And the fishes looked back at him. The fishes looked back at him, my dears, And winked at him, which was wuss; "If this be true, my friend," they said, "You'd better come down to us."

The tale of the little Cossack,-- He said, "You are doubtless right, Though drowning is not a becoming death For it makes one look like a fright. If my lovely teeth be crockery, And my hair of Tyrian dye, Then life is a bitter mockery, And no more of it will I!"

The tale of the little Cossack,-- He drank of the stout so brown; Then put his toes in the water, And the fishes dragged him down. And the people threw in his hassock And likewise his grandfather John; And there was an end of the family, On the banks of the river Don.

WHAT A VERY RUDE LITTLE BIRD SAID TO JOHNNY THIS MORNING.

Thing with two legs, out on the lawn! Stupid old thing! Why don't you fly, or hop at least? Why don't you sing? There you stand with your great long legs Stiff as a couple of giant pegs; Have you a nest with five blue eggs? Have you _anything_?

Thing with two legs, out on the lawn! Stubborn old thing! Is that your only song, that harsh, Loud muttering? Here! listen, and try to imitate me! Chirr-a-wink! chirr-a-wink! pirrip-wip-wee! It's just as easy as easy can be, Stubborn old thing!

Thing with two legs, out on the lawn! Ugly old thing! I hear my little brown wife in the nest Soft chirruping. And if you think I've nothing else to do But stay here and talk to the like of you, You're greatly mistaken, I tell you true! Good-by, old thing!

THE MONKEYS AND THE CROCODILE.

Five little monkeys Swinging from a tree; Teasing Uncle Crocodile, Merry as can be. Swinging high, swinging low, Swinging left and right: "Dear Uncle Crocodile, Come and take a bite!"

Five little monkeys Swinging in the air; Heads up, tails up, Little do they care. Swinging up, swinging down, Swinging far and near: "Poor Uncle Crocodile, Aren't you hungry, dear?"

Four little monkeys Sitting in the tree; Heads down, tails down, Dreary as can be. Weeping loud, weeping low, Crying to each other: "Wicked Uncle Crocodile, To gobble up our brother!"

PAINTED LADIES

Oh, the pretty painted ladies! Oh, the naughty painted ladies, That go running, climbing, running, All about my cottage door. Would you have their story, Johnny? Sit beside me, Sweet-and-bonny! You shall hear a sadder story Than you ever beard before.

These were maidens fair and slender, Some with dove-eyes, brown and tender, Some with black, and some with blue eyes, Locks of auburn, locks of gold. Rosy cheeks, and lips of cherry, Voices glad and laughter merry, Ever smiling, ever singing, Over gay and over bold.

And these maids were ever running, Watching going, watching coming, Asking questions of each other And of every one they knew. Peeping, peeping, here and yonder, Ready still to guess and wonder, "Was it she?" "And did he do it?" "Tell me quickly!" "Tell me true!"

Oh, the pretty painted ladies! Oh, the naughty painted ladies! When the king came riding, riding, For to seek him out a bride, How they whispered, how they chattered; Each herself in secret flattered She could win him, she could wed him, In an hour, if she tried.

So they prinked and pranked them gayly, So they crimped and curled them daily, Trying ring and trying jewel, All their beauty to complete. Not content with Nature's roses, Fie! their cheeks are painted posies; And their lips are red and reddest, But alas! they are not sweet.

Then the king came riding stately, On his charger set sedately, With his golden robe about him, And his crown upon his head. Oh! a royal port and presence, Meet for courtly love and pleasance; Happy, happy is the maiden He shall woo and he shall wed.

Oh, the pretty painted ladies! Oh, the naughty painted ladies! How they leaned from door and window, Flinging roses 'neath his feet; Silken robes and jewels shining, White arms waving, tossing, twining, Lips that laughed and eyes that languished, Over bold and over sweet.

But the king looked gravely on them; Cast no answering glance upon them; Coldly turned from where they waited In their beauty, in their pride. "Find me out some modest maiden, Not with silks and jewels laden, One whose pureness, one whose sweetness Fit her for a royal bride."

Oh, the pretty painted ladies! Oh, the naughty painted ladies! Red with shame and white with anger, Back they pressed against the wall. As they drew their silks around them, Lo! some sudden magic bound them, While they whispered, while they clustered, Into flowers changed them all.

Glowing cheek and snowy bosom Changed to white and ruddy blossom; Locks of gold and locks of auburn Into tendrils curling green. While for silk and satin's shimmer, And for jewels' rainbow glimmer, Leaves that whispered, leaves that clustered,-- Only these were to be seen.

But the pretty painted ladies, But the naughty painted ladies, Still are running, climbing, running, At the window, at the door. Peeping, peeping, here and yonder, "Is the story true?" you wonder; Sure, I heard it from themselves, dear, For they tell it o'er and o'er.

SOME FISHY NONSENSE.

Timothy Tiggs and Tomothy Toggs, They both went a-fishing for pollothywogs; They both went a-fishing Because they were wishing To see how the creatures would turn into frogs.

Timothy Tiggs and Tomothy Toggs, They both got stuck in the bogothybogs; They caught a small minnow, And said 'twas a sin oh! That things with no legs should pretend to be frogs.

LADY'S SLIPPER.

My lady she rose from her bower, her bower, All under the linden tree. 'Twas midnight past, and the fairies' hour, And up and away must she.

She's pulled on her slippers of golden yellow, Her mantle of gossamer green; And she's away to the elfin court, To wait on the elfin queen.

Oh hone! my lady's slipper, Oh hey! my lady's shoe. She's lost its fellow, so golden yellow, A-tripping it over the dew.

And now she flitted, and now she stepped, Through dells of the woodland deep, Where owls were flying awake, awake, And birds were sitting asleep.

And now she flitted, and now she trod, Where the mist hung shadowy-white; And the river lay gleaming, sleeping, dreaming, Under the sweet moonlight.

Oh hone! my lady's slipper, Oh hey! my lady's shoe. She's lost its fellow, so golden yellow, A-tripping it over the dew.

And now she passed through the wild marsh-land, Where the marsh-elves lay asleep; And a heron blue was their watchman true, Good watch and ward for to keep.

But Jack-in-the-Pulpit was wake, awake, And saw my lady gay; And he reached his hand as she fluttered past, And caught her slipper away.

Oh hone! my lady's slipper, Oh hey! my lady's shoe. She's lost its fellow, so golden yellow, A-tripping it over the dew.

Oh! long that lady she searched and prayed, And long she wept and besought; But all would not do, and with one wee shoe She must dance at the elfin court.

But she _might_ have found her slipper, her slipper, It shone so golden-gay; For I am no elf, yet I found it myself, And I brought it home to-day.

Oh hone! my lady's slipper, Oh hey! my lady's shoe. She's lost its fellow, so golden yellow, A-tripping it over the dew.

A LITTLE SONG TO SING TO A LITTLE MAID IN A SWING.

If I were a fairy king, (Swinging high, swinging low,) I would give to you a ring, (Swinging oh!) With a diamond set so bright That the shining of its light Should make morning of the night, (Swinging high, swinging low,) Should make morning of the night. (Swinging oh!)

On each ringlet as it fell (Swinging high, swinging low,) I would tie a golden bell; (Swinging oh!) And the golden bells would chime In a little merry rhyme, In the merry summer-time,-- (Swinging high, swinging low,) In the happy summer-time. (Swinging oh!)

You should wear a satin gown (Swinging high, swinging low,) All with ribbons falling down; (Swinging oh!) And your little darling feet, Oh, my Pretty and my Sweet, Should be shod with silver neat,-- (Swinging high, swinging low,) Shod with silver slippers neat. (Swinging oh!)

All the flowers in the land (Swinging high, swinging low,) You should hold in either hand; (Swinging oh!) And the myrtle and the rose Should spring up beneath your toes, For to gratify your nose,-- (Swinging high, swinging low,) For to gratify your nose. (Swinging oh!)

But I'm not a fairy, Pet, (Swinging high, swinging low,) Am not even a king as yet; (Swinging oh!) So all that I can do Is to kiss your little shoe, And to make a queen of you,-- (Swinging high, swinging low,) Make a fairy queen of you. (Swinging oh!)

BETTY IN BLOSSOM-TIME.

Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees, Pink and white drifting of petals sweet, Kiss her and crown her, our Lady of Blossoming, Here as she sits on the apple-tree seat.

Has she not gathered the summer about her? Look, how it laughs from her lips and her eyes! Think you the sun there would shine on without her? Nay! 'tis her smile keeps the gray from the skies.

Fire of the rose and snow of the jessamine, Gold of the lily-dust hid in her hair; Day holds his breath and Night comes up to look at her, Leaving their strife for a vision so rare.

Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees, Pink and white drifting of petals sweet, Kiss her and crown her, and flutter a-down her, And carpet the ground for her dear little feet.

BETTY'S SONG.

Little Two-shoes, Little Toddle-toes, Like a little pretty pinky winky rose, Come to me, now, And we'll see, now, How the rocking-chair away to By-land goes.

With a heigh ho, And a by-low, And a swinging, swinging softly to and fro; With a sleepy croon, All about the moon, How she puts the sleepy stars to beddy oh!

With a hey-day, And a rock-away, And a patting down the hands that want to play; With a swing swong In the drowsy song, That forgets the drowsy words it has to say.

Now the lids close, Just when no one knows, And the dimpled flush grows deeper, rose on rose. Little Two-shoes, Little Toddle-toes, With the rocking-chair away to By-land goes.

A NONSENSE TRAGEDY.

Brown owl sat on a caraway tree, Ruffly, puffly, great big owl; Who so learned and wise as he? Huffly, snuffly, eminent fowl.

Black bat hung by a twig of the tree, Blinkety, winkety, blind old bat; Paying his court to the bumble-bee, Fuzzy bee, buzzy bee, yellow and fat.

"Oh!" said the owl, "but the sun is so bright. Blazing, crazing, fiery sun, How can I possibly wait till night? Sweltering, meltering, not much fun!"

"Oh!" said the bat, "if a cloud would come, Showery, lowery, nice gray cloud, I'd take my love to my cavern home, Happily, flappily, pleased and proud."

"Oh!" said the bee, "but if that be all, Whimpering, simpering, blear-eyed bat, Yonder's a cloud coming up at your call, Scowling, growling, black as your hat."

"Oh!" said the owl and the bat together: "Rollicky, jollicky, nice fat cloud, Give us some good, black, thundery weather; Roar away, pour away, can't be too loud!"

Up came the cloud, spreading far and wide, Billowy, pillowy, black as night; Brisk little hurricane sitting inside, Blow away, strow away, out of sight.

Off went the owl like a thistle-down puff, Ruffly, huffly, rolled in a ball; Off went the bat like a candle-snuff, Fly away, die away, terrible fall.

Off went the twig, and off went the tree, Crashing, smashing, splintering round; Nothing was left but the bumble-bee, And who so merry, so merry as she, As she laughed, "Ho! ho!" as she laughed, "He! he! Creep away, sleep away, hole in the ground."

FROM NEW YORK TO BOSTON.

[_Allegro con moto._]

Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail; Conductor the tickets is clipping, Boy has bananas for sale. Raindrops outside are a-dripping,-- Dripping o'er meadow and vale. Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail.

Clankety clankety clank, Clinkety clinkety cling; Five little boys on a bank, One little girl in a swing. Fishhawk o'erhead in the distance, Spreading his wings like a sail. Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail.

"Puck, Life, Frank Leslie, and Harper! Latest editions, just out!" Boy is an impudent sharper! All are last week's, I've no doubt. "Every new monthly and weekly, Every new novel and tale!" Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail.

Jogglety jogglety joggle! Jigglety jigglety jig! Snuffy old man with a goggle, Acid old dame with a wig, Pretty girl peacefully sleeping Under her gold-spotted veil. Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail.

Now we are duly admonished, Hartford's the place we reach next; Cow in the field looks astonished, Sheep in the pasture perplexed. Furious puppy pursues us, Cocking a truculent tail. Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail.

"Lozenges, peanuts, and candy! Apples and oranges sweet!" Legs are so frightfully bandy, Wonder he keeps on his feet. "All the New York evening papers,-- Times, Tribune, World, Sun, and Mail!" Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail.

Engine goes "Whoosh!" at the station, Engine goes "Whizz!" o'er the plain; Horses express consternation, Drivers remonstrate in vain. Smoke-witches dancing about us, Sparks in a fiery train. Here we go skilfully skipping, Riding the resonant rail.

Tinklety tinklety tink! Tunklety tunklety tunk! Nearing the station, I think. Where is the check for my trunk? "Boston!" and "Boston!" and "Boston!" Home of my fathers, all hail! Here we go joyfully jumping, Away from the resonant rail.

SANDY GODOLPHIN.

Sandy Godolphin sat up on the hill, And up on the hill sat he; And the only remark he was known to make, Was "Fiddledy diddledy dee!"

He made it first in the high Hebrew, And then in the Dutch so low, In Turkish and Russian and Persian and Prussian, And rather more tongues than I know.

He made this remark until it was dark, And he could no longer see; Then he lighted his lamp, because it was damp, And gave him the neuralgeë.

Sandy Godolphin came down from the hill, And moaned in a dark despair: "I've finished," said he, "with my fiddledy dee, For nobody seems to care."

MY CLOCK.

My little clock, my little clock, He lives upon the shelf; He stands on four round golden feet, And so supports himself.

His face is very white and clean, His hands are very black; He has no soap to wash them with, And suffers from the lack.

He holds them up, his grimy hands, And points at me all day; "Make haste, make haste, the moments waste!" He always seems to say.

"Tick tock! tick tock! I am a clock; I'm always up to time. Ding dong! ding dong! the whole day long My silver warnings chime.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis nine o'clock, And time to go to school; Don't loiter 'mid the buttercups, Or by the wayside pool.

"Ding dong! tick tock! 'tis two o'clock. The dinner's getting cold; You'd better hurry down, you child, Or your mamma will scold.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis six o'clock. You've had the afternoon To play and romp, so now come in; Your tea'll be ready soon.

"Tick tock! tick tock! 'tis nine o'clock. To bed, to bed, my dear! Sleep sound, until I waken you, When day is shining clear."

So through the night and through the day, My busy little clock, He talks and talks and talks away, With ceaseless "tick" and "tock."

But warning others on his shelf, All earnest as he stands, He never thinks to warn himself; He'll _never_ wash his hands.

MY UNCLE JEHOSHAPHAT.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat had a pig,-- A pig of high degree; And he always wore a brown scratch wig, Most beautiful for to see.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat loved this pig, And the piggywig he loved him; And they both jumped into the lake one day, To see which best could swim.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat he swam up, And the piggywig he swam down; And so they both did win the prize, Which the same was a velvet gown.

My Uncle Jehoshaphat wore one half, And the piggywig wore the other; And they both rode to town on the brindled calf, To carry it home to its mother.

ROSY POSY.

There was a little Rosy, And she had a little nosy; And she made a little posy, All pink and white and green. And she said, "Little nosy, Will you smell my little posy? For of all the flowers that growsy, Such sweet ones ne'er were seen."

So she took the little posy, And she put it to her nosy, On her little face so rosy, The flowers for to smell; And which of them was Rosy, And which of them was nosy, And which of them was posy, You really could not tell!

SICK-ROOM FANCIES.

I.

MY WALL-PAPER.

The paper roses, blue and red, That climbing go about my bed, All up and down my chamber wall, A-quarrelling one day did fall; And as with half-shut eyes I lay, 'Twas thus I heard the roses say:

"You vulgar creature!" cried the Red, "I wonder you dare raise your head, Much less go flaunting here and there With such a proud and perky air. I am a rose indeed; but _you_! Who ever heard of roses blue? Your sense of truth, Ma'am, must be small, To call yourself a rose at all."

The Blue Rose proudly raised her head; "Your humble servant, Ma'am!" she said. "My family, I own, is far From being such as you, Ma'am, are. We blossomed lately in the sky, A fairy plucked us, floating by, And flung us down to earth, that we Might show what roses _ought_ to be. So, while we still adorn the earth, Our hue attests our skyey birth."

Just then _my_ Rose came through the room; And in her hand, in wondrous bloom, A lovely snow-white bud she bore, With diamond dew-drops sprinkled o'er. She laid it in my hand, and "See," She said, "how fair a rose may be!" The paper roses, Blues and Reds, For shame hung down their silly heads. I watched them, laughing, as I lay, But not another word said they.

II.

MY JAPANESE FAN.

I have a friend, a little friend, Who lives upon a fan; Perhaps he is a woman, Perhaps she is a man. His clothes they are so very queer, So _very_ queer, in sooth, I sometimes call him "lovely maid," And sometimes "gentle youth."

Her hair is combed up straight and smooth Above his pretty face. His looks are full of friendliness; Her attitude, of grace. And every morning when I wake, And every evening too, She greets me with his pleasant smile, And friendly "How-d'ye-do?"

She wonders why I lie in bed; He thinks my wisest plan Would be to come and live with her Upon a paper fan. But that, alas! can never be; And so I never can Know whether he's a woman, Or whether she's a man.

MARJORIE'S KNITTING.

In the chimney-corner our Marjorie sits, Softly singing the while she knits. The fire-light, flickering here and there, Plays on her face and her shining hair;

And glimmering bright in the fitful glow, Backward and forward her needles go,-- Backward and forward, swift and true,-- And hark! the needles are singing too.

"One and two and three and four, Counting and narrowing o'er and o'er; Knit and rib and seam and purl. Clickety clackety, good little girl!"

And what is our Marjorie knitting, I pray? A soft, warm scarf, for a wintry day, A pair of mittens for schoolboy Fred, Or some reins for toddling Baby Ned?

I cannot see, in the twilight gray, How many needles are working away; But I see them flickering in and out, And _they_ know exactly what they are about.

"One and two and three and four Counting and narrowing o'er and o'er; Knit and rib and seam and purl. Clickety clackety, good little girl!"

The fire is whispering, "Marjorie mine, 'Tis a positive pleasure on you to shine, From your pretty brown hair, all shining and neat, Down to your dainty, trim-slippered feet."

The kettle is murmuring, "Marjorie dear, 'Tis all for your sake that I'm bubbling here; But though I have bubbled both loud and long, You've ears for nought save those needles' song."

"One and two and three and four, Counting and narrowing o'er and o'er; Knit and rib and seam and purl. Clickety clackety, good little girl!"

Marjorie cheerily works away, Nor ever her thoughts from her knitting stray. Whatever it is, 'twill be sure to fit, For loving thoughts in the web are knit.

The kettle may bubble, the fire may burn, But Marjorie's thoughts they cannot turn; And I think my heart must be working too, For it seems to sing as the needles do.

"One and two and three and four, Counting and narrowing o'er and o'er; Knit and rib and seam and purl. Clickety clackety, dear little girl!"

HE AND HIS FAMILY.