Part 7
Why, she makes a face if I turn my cheek; She makes a face if I wink. Oh! her hair runs off, and she tries to speak; Why, she's frightened at me, I think!
Come out little girl, and see my doll; Come out of the shine and play. I haven't a bit of a sister at all, And my dolly is sick to-day.
My dolly is sick, and my book is torn, And my hair has got to be curled; And mother is reading. It's real forlorn To be all alone in the world.
Come out, little girl. Oh! I wish you would. [You _mustn't_ make faces that way.] I'd lift you out of the shine if I could, And play with you all the whole day.
MASTER TREMBLE'S ADVENTURE.
AS soon as I take my degree As a classical scholar perfected, No sharp politician I'll be, Asking favors of all the elected. No learned profession my plan, Nor trade, till my courage is blunter; For surely, deny it who can? The greatest of men is the hunter!
There's Cummings the bold lion-tamer, And fearless, undaunted Gérard, And Baldwin, by tigers made lamer, And Speke with his cámelopard. And one of those days 't will be Tremble,-- Most famous of all, I'll be bound,-- The great lion-crusher, young Tremble, None equal to him the world round.
Already, I've tested my mettle: No cat but will flee at my tread; And let a mosquito but settle And nip me--that instant he's dead! Know also that only this morning A terrible peril I met, While taking a ramble--no warning-- (That hour shall I ever forget?)
I was longing at heart for a rifle, And a chance for some wonderful shot (A lion seemed then a mere trifle, I would rather encounter than not), When, _presto!_ a horrible creature Came buzzing and diving at me, Aiming straight at my favorite feature-- A horrible, black bumble-bee!
A horrible black humble bumble, Bound straight for my beautiful nose; For an instant (I'll own) I did tumble, But quickly in majesty rose. Each childish emotion I swallowed, Moving onward as fast as I could; The great buzzing monster, he followed Till we came to a shadowy wood.
Ha! what was that sharp thrill of anguish, And what the great swelling that came? And why was I rushing and shouting-- The whole of my face in a flame? I knew that the buzzing was louder, That my nose was as big as my head; I wanted to grind him to powder; I wished him a thousand times dead!
Blind battle! my ev'ry-day jacket Was tighter than steel coat of mail, And the monster kept up such a racket, I scarce knew his head from his tail. He, plunging and wheeling and darting And pitching and screeching at me; I, maddened with burning and smarting-- What wonder I dodged by a tree!
What wonder that soon, in his frenzy, My murderous foe bumped his head! The tree never tumbled nor tottered, But _he_ fell co-chunk in its stead. Then I turned, in a terrible passion, And stamped with my full might and main: I stamped in the sledge-hammer fashion,-- My bee never bumbled again!
Then why should I _not_ be a hunter, So gallant and fearless and spry? What other vocation would answer For such a brave fellow as I? Ah! woe to the beasts of the forest! And woe to all monsters with wings! As soon as my studies are over, I mean to do terrible things.
HARK! hark! O my children, hark! When the sky has lost its blue What do the stars sing in the dark? "We must sparkle, sparkle, through."
What do leaves say in the storm, Tossed in whispering heaps, together? "We can keep the violets warm 'Till they wake in fairer weather."
What do happy birdies say, Flitting through the gloomy wood? "We must sing the gloom away-- Sun or shadow, God is good."
THE KITTEN PICTURE.
TWO little sisters, one little brother, Five little kittens, and one cat mother. One little kit is tossed up overhead, One little kit is put upon the bed; One very little cat, solemn as a fish, One great big cat is feeding from a dish. Two little kitty-kits seated on the floor, Each little kitty-kit washing his own paw.
One little pig-tail. Now, where is that? One little crown-piece; cap, is it, or hat? Four little blue eyes, and three little chicks; Five little kittens full of pretty tricks. Kitty-kits, pig-tail, blue eyes, and bed; Chicks, cat, and crown-piece top of baby's head; Dish, tricks, and downy paws being licked so clean, All, in the picture, are plainly to be seen.
SOME are starving, some are filling, Some are lazy, and some are willing, Some are frowzy, and others are curled, It takes all kinds, sir, to make a world.
THE TERRIBLE BALL.
GIVE me your ear, good children all, I'm going to set up a terrible ball-- A terrible ball that began to grow From only the least little speckle of snow. And, to make the lesson pointed and plain, I'll just remark that life, in the main, Is, etcet'ra--you know; and I hope you'll be good In future to show that you've understood.
Three lovely, little artless boys, All of them being mothers' joys, One day decided, in innocent mirth, To make a snow-ball as big as the earth. What makes the story more touching still, The big-eyed school-house on the hill Was in session, under the cross Miss Stookey, And these little boys were "playing hookey."
Hookey from Stookey, they worked with a will, And, from making a ball like a tiny pill, They rolled and rolled, till, no longer small, 'Twas big as Miss Stookey's waterfall. Then, like a pumpkin fair and round, They kept it rolling on the ground-- Bigger, bigger, bigger, bigger, Bigger, bigger, bigger, bigger! The boys could hardly push it along, It grew so mighty stout and strong.
Now, this mammoth ball that began as a pill, Was made, you must know, on top of a hill; This hill was so wonderful steep and high, That even the coasters would pass it by; And, saving a road by the cattle made, It sloped right down, at a fearful grade, To the meadow where stood a cottage red Where these little children were born and bred.
"Halloo!" they cried, "let's have some fun, There's Stookey's pig as sure as a gun!" "Hooray! hooray!" cried the children three, Thus giving vent to their youthful glee. When--what do you think?--this ungrateful pill, That they'd made so big on top of the hill, With an air that said, "Now, I think I've got 'em!" Resolved to roll all the way to the bottom.
The ball was swift, the ball was big, Alas for Stookey's innocent pig! Alas for lovers who walked that way, They ne'er in their lives forgot the day!
Alas for the learn'd Professor Gath Who happened to stroll in the snow-ball's path! And alas, alas for those children three, Who shouted and cheered in their pretty glee!
Rolling, growing, demolishing all, On and on went the terrible ball; It left the cattle down on their knees, It crushed the fences and bent the trees; Even the hay-stacks went ker-flop. It wouldn't turn, nor it wouldn't stop, But still rolled on in steady motion, Making a bee-line for the ocean!
With laugh and shout and merry hoot, Those children followed in glad pursuit. "Hooray! hooray!" they cried again, And gave the chase with might and main; They gave the chase with main and might, But the terrible ball rolled out of sight.
And now comes the saddest part of all. (Oh! that cruel, wicked, terrible ball!) When at last the three little artless boys, Tired of running and making a noise, Resolved to go home to their little bed, Where, oh! where was that cottage red? Where, oh! where? Ask the terrible ball-- Never a home had those children small. Gone, clean gone! with picket and paling-- And all their joy was turned to wailing!
MORAL.
Hence it is, and so we see Thus and so, it seems to me, As I'm sure you'll all agree.
A BIRTHDAY RHYME.
TELL me, O youth so straight and tall, So glad with eager thought! Have you seen of late a bouncing boy Brimful of merry sport? Brimful of merry sport is he, A lad of fifteen summers, With velvet lip still smooth and fair, But a fist that awes all comers.
He used to laugh with unconcern Whene'er a school-girl met him, Unconscious quite what wondrous power She'd have in time to fret him. He only cared for "fellows" then, And ball, and "tag," and "shinny," And thought a chap who brushed his hair Was just a fop or ninny.
Somehow, I loved this bouncing boy, Because he was my own; I had him here a year ago, And don't know where he's flown. I don't know where he's flown, and yet Whenever you are near-- It's very odd!--I'm reconciled, Because you grow so dear.
You bear great likeness to my boy I think, and--strange the whim!-- There's that in you which I have prayed Might come in time to him. Then if you'll stay, my dashing youth, And love me, like the other, I'll let him go, and, clasping you, Be still a happy mother.
So hold me close, my bigger boy, My larger-hearted Harry, With broader shoulders, older head, And more of life to carry; Hold close, and whisper, heart to heart, Our Lord has blessed us truly, Since every year we love so well, And find it out so newly.
With deepened joy and prayerful love All in the autumn's splendor, I hail you, boy of mine, and give A welcome proud and tender. 'Tis grand to take the birthdays in, If, while the years we're counting, In heart and soul, in hope and aim, We steadily keep mounting.
THE GIRL ACROSS THE WAY.
A LITTLE BOY'S VALENTINE.
LITTLE girl across the way, You are so very sweet, I shouldn't be a bit surprised If you were good to eat.
Some day, when all the blinds are shut, And Sis is inside thrummin' (She's takin' music-lessons now), And horses aint a-comin',
I'll run across and turn your rope, Or pull you in your wagon; But don't you tell that I said so, 'Cause they might call it braggin.'
If you would only come to me We'd play at "Catch and Toss;" But then my Ma objects to girls, And it might make her cross.
Now what I'd like, if you would too, Would be to go and play-- Well, all the time, and all my life, On your side of the way.
I don't know anybody yet On your side of the street, But often I look over there And watch you--you're so sweet!
When I am big, I tell you what, I won't care what they say, I'll go across and stay there too, On your side of the way.
WILLIE.
THREE-YEAR-OLD Willie, bare-footed Willie, Willie, with hair in a golden-thread tangle; Tottering Willie, self-helping Willie, Child in whom sweetness and poverty wrangle; Willie, whose mother toils in my kitchen; Willie, whose father carried a hod; Willie, whose childish disdain is bolder Than the pride of the emperor, favored of God--
Why dost thou knock at my heart, little pauper, Bidding me love thee, entering there, Sitting beside little cherubs who blessed me, Thy manner half saucy, half debonair? With garments all tattered and soiled, little Willie, And face all begrimed? 'Tis not fitting, you know-- Velvets and laces are mine, naughty Willie, And poor little boys should not come to me so.
The chubby intruder, still wickedly smiling, And, ah! what a shout! (is he laughing at _me_? He surely can't take in a word I am saying) Now rushes upon me, and climbs to my knee. And though he is silent, I hear him quite plainly-- To listening hearts a baby can speak-- He tells me (while velvet and rags are blending And his unkempt hair is brushing my cheek):
"I'm a poor little fellow, with no one to teach me; But my soul is a new one--fresh from God; And he gave it something so brave and holy It never can turn to an earthly clod. What though the gifts of the purse are denied me, Poverty need not look out of my eyes; Though it surround me, the bright world beyond it Neither its warmth nor its beauty denies.
"The birds never sing, 'Little Willie is ragged!' Nor the flowers, 'He will soil us! Take him away!' But they're glad when I happen to look and to listen, And the sky is above me night and day. Did God make you richer because you were better? And what if my mother _does_ cook for you, Isn't she cheerful? With half of her trials Would you be as patient, and willing, and true?
"And what if my father, with hod and trowel, Carried and toiled the whole day long, Didn't he comfort my mother and love her? Didn't he cheer her with joke and song? I never saw him. One bright autumn morning, Just three years ago, he went to the war-- Went out to battle for you and your country: And then he never came home any more.
"Nevermore labored with hod and with trowel, Never came back with his joke and his song. Mother would know only working and weeping If I were not sunny and careless, and strong. She chides me and kisses me, beats me and blesses, And prays to the saints that her boy may be good; But for work, she would keep me as fresh as a daisy, Not ragged and soiled, in my babyhood."--
Say no more, Willie! Mock me and love me! Into my heart enter blithesomely still. Bright little soldier's boy, poor little worker's boy, Shame to the coward who uses thee ill!
IF cows wore satin slippers, And kits were dressed in silk, We'd send the mice to dancing-school, And beg our buttermilk.
BUMBLE, bramble, which came first, sir, Eggs or chickens? Who can tell? I'll never believe that the first egg burst, sir, Before its mother was out of her shell.
NOBODY near him, all in the dark. Hear how fierce our dog can bark! Somebody coming, by light of day, See how doggie scampers away!
OH! no, 'Tisn't so! Papa's watch Won't go?
It _must_ go-- Guess I know! Last night I wound it tight, And greased it nice With camphor-ice.
THE SUN AND THE STARS.
ONE day, when the sun was going down, He said to a star hard by: "Sparkle your best; for you see, my friend, I'm going out of the sky."
Now, the little star was old as the sun, Though rather small of his age, So he kept quite still in the yellow light, And looked as wise as a sage.
"I'm going, you see!" cried the sun again, "Going right out of the sky!" And he slid away, but not out of sight Of that little star hard by.
The little star, peeping, saw him go On his gorgeous western way; And twinkled with fun, as he said, "O Sun! You're in for another day!
"And as for going out of the sky, Your majesty knows you can't; You are shining somewhere, full and strong, In spite of your rays aslant."
No answer. Then the star grew bright, And sparkled as neighbors came; He told the joke to the twinkling crowd, And they laughed the sun to shame.
One gay little star was so amused, That he shot across the sky; And all the others bobbed and blinked To see him go speeding by.
But after awhile, a rosy light Appeared on the eastern side; And, one by one, the stars grew shy, And tried in the sky to hide.
"Ho! ho!" the sun broke forth. "Ho! ho! Just stay where you are, my dears, And shine away, for you can't be seen When all of my light appears.
"The people below will say you are gone, Though you're shining. Think of that! Well, they thought all night I had left the sky, So it's only tit for tat."
LEARNING TO PRAY.
KNEELING, fair, in the twilight gray, A beautiful child was trying to pray; His cheek on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden, His smile still coming unbidden, And his heart brimful of glee.
"I want to laugh. Is it naughty? Say, O mamma! I've had such fun to-day, I hardly can say my prayers-- I don't feel just like praying; I want to be out-doors playing, And run, all undressed, down stairs.
"I can see the flowers in the garden bed, Shining so pretty and sweet and red; And Sammy is swinging, I guess. Oh! everything is so fine out there, I want to put it all in my prayer, (Do you mean I can do it by 'Yes'?)
"When I say, 'Now I lay me,' word for word, It seems to me as if nobody heard. Would 'Thank you, dear God,' be right? He gave me my mother, And papa, and brother-- O mamma! you nodded I might."--
Clasping his hands and hiding his face, Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, The little one now began. His mother's nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran.
"Thank you for making this home so nice, The flowers, and folks, and my two white mice (I wish I could keep right on). I thank you too for every day-- Only I'm 'most too glad to pray Dear God, I think I am done.
"Now, mamma, rock me--just a minute-- And sing the hymn with 'darling' in it. I wish I could say my prayers! When I get big, I know I can, Oh! won't it be nice to be a man, And stay all night down stairs!"
The mother, singing, clasped him tight, Kissing and cooing her fond "Good night," And treasured his every word; For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy Were a prayer that her Lord had heard.
BENNY'S BUTTONS.
HOW many buttons has Benny, Counting 'em six for a penny? Why, five on his sacque, And two on the back, And--would you believe?-- A pair on each sleeve; And six on his trowsers, Yes, regular rousers! And eight on his vest-- A grand double-breast-- All eight in full sight When buttoned up tight. Then three on one shoe, While the mate has but two; And one at the end Of his top-snare, depend. And, ah! there's the strap On his regiment-cap, It begins with a button And ends with a button; And really that's all I now can recall. So, counting them six for a penny, How many buttons has Benny?
WHAT was the moon a-spying Out of her half-shut eye? One of her stars went flying Across the broad blue sky.
A NURSERY RHYME FOR BIG FOLKS.
NOT only the little toddlers, Perched high on papa's toe, Bound for a ride to London town, On childish journeys go-- For we all go up, up, up, And all go down, down, down-y, And all go backward and forward, And all go round, round, round-y.
Still do we reach for sunbeams, And learn the rattle's trick. The great big watch of Father Time-- How we love to hear it tick!
To pat a cake for our Tommy, And pat a cake for ourself-- For that alone we labor and strive, And hoard up our golden pelf.
This little pig goes to market; This little pig stays at home; And we all cry "Wee!" for our mammy Wherever we chance to roam.
We seek our bed with Sleepyhead, We stay a while with Slow; And fill the pot with Greedy, glad To sup before we go.
When Jack and Jill go up the hill To fetch their pail o' water, As sure as Jack comes tumbling down Poor Jill comes tumbling arter.
Mistress Marys are still contrary, Marjorie Daws still sell; Mother Hubbards ransack their cupboards For bones for their ne'er-do-well.
Jack Horners in their corners still Do ply their busy thumb, And, "What a big boy!" we always cry Whenever we see the plum.
"What do you want?" "A pot o' beer." Alack the bitter wrong! That grenadier an army hath How many million strong!
Our wise men into brambles still Do jump with might and main; And those who go to sea in bowls Rarely come back again.
And don't some hearts, deploring The things that gnaw and harrow, Let fall the wheelbarrow, wife and all, When lanes are rough and narrow?
Ah yes! the old rhymes suit us As well as ever they did; For the gist of our lives, from first to last, Is under their jingle hid-- As we all go up, up, up, And all go down, down, down-y, And all go backward and forward, And all go round, round, round-y.
FIRE-FLIES.
SEE the air filling near by and afar-- A shadowy host--how brilliant they are!
Silently flitting, spark upon spark, Gemming the willows out in the dark;
Waking the night in a twinkling surprise, Making the starlight pale where they rise;
Snowing soft fire-flakes into the grass, Lighting the face of each daisy they pass;
Dancing like jewels high up in the pines; Drowsily poised on the low-swinging vines;
Startling the darkness, over and over, Where the sly pimpernel kisses the clover;
Suddenly setting their tapers around, Now on the fences, now on the ground,
Now on the bushes and tree-tops, and then Pitching them far into darkness again;
There like a shooting-star, slowly on wing, Here like the flash of a dowagers ring;
Playing their pranks of living and dying All in an instant, merrily flying;
Setting the dark, croaking hollows a-gleam, Spangling the gloom of the ghoul-haunted stream;
Sweet in their gentleness, daring, and cheer, No depth too dark for them, no place too drear;
They pulse and they sparkle, they glimmer and glow, Teaching a lesson wherever they go:
Ever in gentle souls shineth a light-- Trusting it ever, no gloom can affright.
FULFILLMENT.
WAKING in May, the peach-tree thought: "Idle and bare, and weaving naught! Here have I slept the winter through-- I, with my Master's work to do!"
Started the buds. The blossoms came, Till all the branches were a-flame. She rocked the birds and wove the green, A busy tree as ever was seen.
Busy and blithe, she drank the dew, She caught the sunbeams gliding through, She drew her wealth from sky and soil, And rustled gayly in her toil.
* * * * *
Now, see the peach-tree's drooping head, With all her fruit a-blushing red; Knowing her Master's work is done, She meekly resteth in the sun.
RESOLUTION.
IF you've any task to do, Let me whisper, friend, to you, Do it.
If you've any thing to say, True and needed, yea or nay, Say it.
If you've any thing to love, As a blessing from above, Love it.
If you've any thing to give, That another's joy may live, Give it.