Part 1

LITTLE ANN AND OTHER POEMS

LITTLE ANN AND OTHER POEMS

BY JANE AND ANN TAYLOR

ILLUSTRATED BY KATE GREENAWAY

LONDON FREDERICK WARNE & CO. LTD. & NEW YORK

CONTENTS.

PAGE A True Story 7 The Boys and the Apple-Tree 9 Sophia's Fool's-Cap 11 Frances Keeps Her Promise 12 Careless Matilda 14 The Violet 16 The Orphan 17 The Disappointment 18 James and the Shoulder of Mutton 19 The Good-Natured Girls 21 To a Little Girl that has Told a Lie 22 Dirty Jim 24 Meddlesome Matty 25 The Butterfly 27 The Gaudy Flower 28 George and the Chimney-Sweep 29 Deaf Martha 31 The Little Cripple's Complaint 33 Negligent Mary 35 The Spider 36 For a Naughty Little Girl 37 The Child's Monitor 39 The Chatterbox 40 Jane and Eliza 41 Sleepy Harry 42 Washing and Dressing 43 The Vulgar Little Lady 44 The Wooden Doll and the Wax Doll 46 The Baby's Dance 48 The Pin 49 The Cow 50 Come and Play in the Garden 50 Little Girls Must Not Fret 52 The Field Daisy 53 Learning to Go Alone 54 Finery 55 Greedy Richard 56 The Holidays 58 The Village Green 59 Mischief 61 About the Little Girl that Beat Her Sister 62 The Apple-Tree 63

A TRUE STORY.

Little Ann and her mother were walking one day Through London's wide city so fair, And business obliged them to go by the way That led them through Cavendish Square.

And as they pass'd by the great house of a Lord, A beautiful chariot there came, To take some most elegant ladies abroad, Who straightway got into the same.

The ladies in feathers and jewels were seen, The chariot was painted all o'er, The footmen behind were in silver and green, The horses were prancing before.

Little Ann by her mother walk'd silent and sad, A tear trickled down from her eye, Till her mother said, "Ann, I should be very glad To know what it is makes you cry."

"Mamma," said the child, "see that carriage so fair, All cover'd with varnish and gold, Those ladies are riding so charmingly there While we have to walk in the cold.

"You say God is kind to the folks that are good, But surely it cannot be true; Or else I am certain, almost, that He would Give such a fine carriage to you."

"Look there, little girl," said her mother, "and see What stands at that very coach door; A poor ragged beggar, and listen how she A halfpenny tries to implore.

"All pale is her face, and deep sunk is her eye, And her hands look like skeleton's bones; She has got a few rags, just about her to tie, And her naked feet bleed on the stones."

'Dear ladies,' she cries, and the tears trickle down, 'Relieve a poor beggar, I pray; I've wander'd all hungry about this wide town, And not ate a morsel to-day.

'My father and mother are long ago dead, My brother sails over the sea, And I've scarcely a rag, or a morsel of bread, As plainly, I'm sure, you may see.

'A fever I caught, which was terrible bad, But no nurse or physic had I; An old dirty shed was the house that I had, And only on straw could I lie.

'And now that I'm better, yet feeble and faint, And famish'd, and naked, and cold, I wander about with my grievous complaint, And seldom get aught but a scold.

'Some will not attend to my pitiful call, Some think me a vagabond cheat; And scarcely a creature relieves me, of all The thousands that traverse the street.

'Then ladies, dear ladies, your pity bestow:'-- Just then a tall footman came round, And asking the ladies which way they would go, The chariot turn'd off with a bound.

"Ah! see, little girl," then her mother replied, "How foolish those murmurs have been; You have but to look on the contrary side, To learn both your folly and sin.

"This poor little beggar is hungry and cold, No mother awaits her return; And while such an object as this you behold, Your heart should with gratitude burn.

"Your house and its comforts, your food and your friends, 'Tis favour in God to confer, Have you any claim to the bounty He sends, Who makes you to differ from her?

"A coach, and a footman, and gaudy attire, Give little true joy to the breast; To be good is the thing you should chiefly desire, And then leave to GOD all the rest."

THE BOYS AND THE APPLE-TREE

As William and Thomas were walking one day, They came by a fine orchard's side: They would rather eat apples than spell, read, or play, And Thomas to William then cried:

"O brother, look yonder! what clusters hang there! I'll try and climb over the wall: I must have an apple; I will have a pear; Although it should cost me a fall!"

Said William to Thomas, "To steal is a sin, Mamma has oft told this to thee: I never have stolen, nor will I begin, So the apples may hang on the tree."

"You are a good boy, as you ever have been," Said Thomas, "let's walk on, my lad: We'll call on our schoolfellow, Benjamin Green, Who to see us I know will be glad."

They came to the house, and ask'd at the gate, "Is Benjamin Green now at home?" But Benjamin did not allow them to wait, And brought them both into the room.

And he smiled, and he laugh'd, and caper'd with joy, His little companions to greet: "And we too are happy," said each little boy, "Our playfellow dear thus to meet."

"Come, walk in our garden, this morning so fine, We may, for my father gives leave; And more, he invites you to stay here and dine: And a most happy day we shall have!"

But when in the garden, they found 'twas the same They saw as they walk'd in the road; And near the high wall when those little boys came, They started as if from a toad:

"That large ring of iron, you see on the ground, With terrible teeth like a saw," Said their friend, "the guard of our garden is found, And it keeps all intruders in awe.

"If any the warning without set at naught, Their legs then this man-trap must tear:" Said William to Thomas, "So you'd have been caught, If you had leapt over just there."

Cried Thomas in terror of what now he saw, "With my faults I will heartily grapple; For I learn what may happen by breaking a law, Although but in stealing an apple."

SOPHIA'S FOOL'S-CAP.

Sophia was a little child, Obliging, good, and very mild, Yet lest of dress she should be vain, Mamma still dress'd her well, but plain. Her parents, sensible and kind, Wish'd only to adorn her mind; No other dress, when good, had she, But useful, neat simplicity.

Though seldom, yet when she was rude, Or ever in a naughty mood, Her punishment was this disgrace, A large fine cap, adorn'd with lace, With feathers and with ribbons too; The work was neat, the fashion new, Yet, as a fool's-cap was its name, She dreaded much to wear the same.

A lady, fashionably gay, Did to mamma a visit pay: Sophia stared, then whisp'ring said, "Why, dear mamma, look at her head! To be so tall and wicked too, The strangest thing I ever knew: What naughty tricks, pray, has she done, That they have put that fool's-cap on?"

FRANCES KEEPS HER PROMISE

"My Fanny, I have news to tell, Your diligence quite pleases me; You've work'd so neatly, read so well, With cousin Jane you may take tea.

"But pray remember this, my love, Although to stay you should incline, And none but you should think to move, I wish you to return at nine."

With many thanks the attentive child Assured mamma she would obey: Whom tenderly she kiss'd, and smiled, And with the maid then went away.

Arrived, the little girl was shown To where she met the merry band; And when her coming was made known, All greet her with a welcome bland.

They dance, they play, and sweetly sing, In every sport each one partakes; And now the servants sweetmeats bring, With wine and jellies, fruit and cakes.

Then comes papa, who says, "My dears, The magic lantern if you'd see, And that which on the wall appears, Leave off your play, and follow me."

While Frances too enjoy'd the sight, Where moving figures all combine To raise her wonder and delight, She hears, alas! the clock strike nine.

"Miss Fanny's maid for her is come."-- "Oh dear, how soon!" the children cry; They press, but Fanny will go home, And bids her little friends good bye.

"See, dear mamma, I have not stay'd." "Good girl, indeed," mamma replies, "I knew you'd do as you had said, And now you'll find you've won a prize.

"So come, my love, and see the man Whom I desired at nine to call." Down stairs young Frances quickly ran, And found him waiting in the hall.

"Here, Miss, are pretty birds to buy, A parrot or macaw so gay; A speckled dove with scarlet eye: A linnet or a chattering jay.

"Would you a Java sparrow love?" "No, no, I thank you," said the child; "I'll have a beauteous cooing dove, So harmless, innocent, and mild."

"Your choice, my Fanny, I commend, Few birds can with the dove compare; But, lest it pine without a friend, I give you leave to choose a pair."

CARELESS MATILDA.

"Again, Matilda, is your work undone! Your scissors, where are they? your thimble, gone? Your needles, pins, and thread and tapes all lost; Your housewife here, and there your workbag toss'd.

"Fie, fie, my child! indeed this will not do, Your hair uncomb'd, your frock in tatters, too; I'm now resolved no more delays to grant, To learn of her, I'll send you to your aunt." In vain Matilda wept, entreated, pray'd, In vain a promise of amendment made.

Arrived at Austere Hall, Matilda sigh'd, By Lady Rigid when severely eyed: "You read and write, and work well, as I'm told, Are gentle, kind, good-natured, and not bold; But very careless, negligent, and wild-- You'll leave me, as I hope, a different child."

The little girl next morn a favour asks; "I wish to take a walk."--"Go, learn your tasks," Replies her aunt, "nor fruitlessly repine: Your room you'll leave not till you're call'd to dine." As there Matilda sat, o'erwhelm'd with shame, A dame appear'd, Disorder was her name: Her hair and dress neglected--soil'd her face, Her mien unseemly, and devoid of grace.

"Here, child," said she, "my mistress sends you this, A bag of silks--a flower, not work'd amiss-- A polyanthus bright, and wondrous gay, You'll copy it by noon, she bade me say." Disorder grinn'd, and shuffling walk'd away.

Entangled were the silks of every hue, Confused and mix'd were shades of pink, green, blue; She took a thread, compared it with the flower: "To finish this is not within my power. Well-sorted silks had Lady Rigid sent, I might have work'd, if such was her intent." She sigh'd, and melted into sobs and tears: She hears a step, and at the door appears A pretty maiden, clean, well-dress'd, and neat, Her voice was soft, her looks sedate, yet sweet. "My name is Order: do not cry, my love; Attend to me, and thus you may improve." She took the silks, and drew out shade by shade, In separate skeins, and each with care she laid; Then smiling kindly, left the little maid.

She leaves the room--"I've done my task," she cries, The lady look'd, and scarce believed her eyes; Yet soon her harshness changed to glad surprise: "Why, this is well, a very pretty flower, Work'd so exact, and done within the hour! And now amuse yourself, and walk, or play." Thus pass'd Matilda this much dreaded day. At all her tasks, Disorder would attend; At all her tasks, still Order stood her friend. With tears and sighs her studies oft began, These into smiles were changed by Order's plan. No longer Lady Rigid seem'd severe: The negligent alone her eye need fear.

And now the day, the wish'd-for day, is come, When young Matilda may revisit home. "You quit me, child, but oft to mind recall The time you spent with me at Austere Hall. And now, my dear, I'll give you one of these To be your maid--take with you which you please. What! from Disorder do you frighten'd start?" Matilda clasp'd sweet Order to her heart, And said, "From thee, best friend, I'll never part."

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 colour bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.

Yet thus 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.

THE ORPHAN.

My father and mother are dead, Nor friend, nor relation I know; And now the cold earth is their bed, And daisies will over them grow.

I cast my eyes into the tomb, The sight made me bitterly cry; I said, "And is this the dark room, Where my father and mother must lie?"

I cast my eyes round me again, In hopes some protector to see; Alas! but the search was in vain, For none had compassion on me.

I cast my eyes up to the sky, I groan'd, though I said not a word; Yet God was not deaf to my cry, The Friend of the fatherless heard.

For since I have trusted his care, And learn'd on his word to depend, He has kept me from every snare, And been my best Father and Friend.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

In tears to her mother poor Harriet came, Let us listen to hear what she says: "O see, dear mamma, it is pouring with rain, We cannot go out in the chaise.

"All the week I have long'd for this holiday so, And fancied the minutes were hours; And now that I'm dress'd and all ready to go, Do look at those terrible showers!"

"I'm sorry, my dear," her kind mother replied, The rain disappoints us to-day; But sorrow still more that you fret for a ride, In such an extravagant way.

"These slight disappointments are sent to prepare For what may hereafter befall; For seasons of _real_ disappointment and care, Which commonly happen to all.

"For just like to-day with its holiday lost, Is life and its comforts at best: Our pleasures are blighted, our purposes cross'd, To teach us it is not our rest.

"And when those distresses and crosses appear, With which you may shortly be tried, You'll wonder that ever you wasted a tear On merely the loss of a ride.

"But though the world's pleasures are fleeting and vain, Religion is lasting and true; Real pleasure and peace in her paths you may gain, Nor will disappointment ensue."

JAMES AND THE SHOULDER OF MUTTON.

Young Jem at noon return'd from school, As hungry as could be, He cried to Sue, the servant-maid, "My dinner give to me."

Said Sue, "It is not yet come home; Besides, it is not late." "No matter that," cries little Jem, "I do not like to wait."

Quick to the baker's Jemmy went And ask'd, "Is dinner done?" "It is," replied the baker's man. "Then home I'll with it run."

"Nay, Sir," replied he prudently, "I tell you 'tis too hot, And much too heavy 'tis for you." "I tell you it is not.

"Papa, mamma, are both gone out, And I for dinner long; So give it me, it is all mine, And, baker, hold your tongue.

"A shoulder 'tis of mutton nice! And batter-pudding too; I'm glad of that, it is so good; How clever is our Sue!"

Now near the door young Jem was come, He round the corner turn'd, But oh, sad fate! unlucky chance! The dish his fingers burn'd.

Now in the kennel down fell dish, And down fell all the meat; Swift went the pudding in the stream, And sail'd along the street.

The people laugh'd, and rude boys grinn'd At mutton's hapless fall; But though ashamed, young Jemmy cried. "Better lose part than all."

The shoulder by the knuckle seized, His hands both grasp'd it fast, And deaf to all their gibes and cries, He gain'd his home at last.

"Impatience is a fault," cries Jem, "The baker told me true; In future I will patient be, And mind what says our Sue."

THE GOOD-NATURED GIRLS.

Two good little children, named Mary and Ann, Both happily live, as good girls always can; And though they are not either sullen or mute, They seldom or never are heard to dispute.

If one wants a thing that the other would like-- Well,--what do they do? Must they quarrel and strike? No, each is so willing to give up her own, That such disagreements are there never known.

If one of them happens to have something nice, Directly she offers her sister a slice; And never, like some greedy children, would try To eat in a corner with nobody by!

When papa or mamma has a job to be done, These good little children immediately run; Nor dispute whether this or the other should go, They _would_ be ashamed to behave themselves so!

Whatever occurs, in their work or their play, They are willing to yield, and give up their own way: Then now let us try their example to mind, And always, like them, be obliging and kind.

TO A LITTLE GIRL THAT HAS TOLD A LIE.

And has my darling told a lie? Did she forget that GOD was by? That GOD, who saw the things she did, From whom no action can be hid; Did she forget that GOD could see And hear, wherever she might be?

He made your eyes, and can discern Whichever way you think to turn; He made your ears, and he can hear When you think nobody is near; In every place, by night or day, He watches all you do and say.

Oh, how I wish you would but try To act, as shall not need a lie; And when you wish a thing to do, That has been once forbidden you, Remember that, nor ever dare To disobey--for GOD is there.

Why should you fear the truth to tell? Does falsehood ever do so well? Can you be satisfied to know, There's something wrong to hide below? No! let your fault be what it may, To own it is the happy way.

So long as you your crime conceal, You cannot light and gladsome feel: Your little heart will seem oppress'd, As if a weight were on your breast; And e'en your mother's eye to meet, Will tinge your face with shame and heat.

Yes, GOD has made your duty clear, By every blush, by every fear; And conscience, like an angel kind, Keeps watch to bring it to your mind: Its friendly warnings ever heed, And neither tell a lie--nor need.

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.

MEDDLESOME MATTY.

One ugly trick has often spoil'd The sweetest and the best; Matilda, though a pleasant child, One ugly trick possess'd, 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! woful 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 dash'd the spectacles away, To wipe her tingling eyes, And as in twenty bits they lay, Her grandmamma she spies. "Heyday! and what's the matter now?" Says 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.

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.