Part 2

Now the work is done tonight And the fire is dying When we come to look for you, ’Trina, you are crying! Crying for the Tulip Land, Shadows deep behind you; ’Trina, light the lamp and sing; See, we came to find you!

THE CHILDREN OF THE WIND

My little dresses are alive-- See, out upon the line, How full and free they’re blowing there, Those crumpled gowns of mine! I never thought ’twould happen, when Nurse put them out to air them; The little children of the wind Have crept inside, to wear them!

And now they’re swaying to and fro-- With lifted arms they’re clinging Fast holding to the friendly rope And swinging, swinging, swinging! The pink gown and the blue gown, too, The white one trimmed with laces, O, little children of the wind, Why can’t I see your faces?

THE SOLEMN FROG

I think he’s judge of all the rest, My friend, the solemn frog; He’s judge of all the water things, The skimming bugs with dripping wings, The turtle on the log; He sits upon a lily pad And if he ever sees them bad With sternness he will say: “Go hide among the darkest weeds Down deep, among the dungeon reeds, And there repent your wicked deeds, Away, young thing, away!”

SUMMER WEATHER

Sing of summer weather Wind and sky together, Clover-top and berry-bloom, And haycocks in the sun; All the forest places Spread with shaded laces, Oh, I breathe a sorry sigh When summer time is done!

Fleets of clouds are floating On the sky a-boating; Meadow birds are flying past, With wings of red and blue. All my heart keeps saying, As I go a-playing: “Summer-time, ’tis summer-time, The world is all for you!”

A WARNING

We drop our stones upon the lake And watch them how they sink, The circles little ripples make All faster than a wink; You fishes, swimming down below, Where coolest peace prevails, Look out, unless these stones we throw, Drop down upon your tails!

THE MOON IN THE POOL

The moon is drowned in the little brown pool Where the water is ever so deep. I must help her out of the shadowy cool Before I can go to sleep; I must help her out with my friendly hands, (If I saw her, how could I pass?) Where the drooping tree on the hillside stands I will put her to rest on the grass.

The stars must be weeping, and hiding their eyes, And wondering where she can be; And sending the clouds to hunt over the skies, I am glad that she fell to me! For now I may help her, and smooth her hair; On the grass she shall rest, and then When the little night wind finds her sleeping there He will carry her home again.

THE FLYING HOURS

Twelve little birds fly by in a row-- Bright little birds are they-- Shining and free, and as blue as can be, And these are the hours of the day; The sun shines warmly across their wings As they hurry their way along; And now and again, in their joy of things, They carol a daytime song.

Twelve little owls fly by in a row, Silent and dark their flight; Gray little things, with shadowy wings, And these are the hours of the night; But the last of them all, as he hovers low, Is flushed with a radiant pink; This is the good little sunrise owl; I like him the best, I think.

THE COMMON THINGS

The things that happen every day Are common things, so the grown folks say, But I am a child, and I can see Most wonderful happenings, all for me; The flower can grow, and the bird can sing, But each of these is a wonderful thing!

Away to the south, where the air rests sweet On meadows of clover and fields of wheat, Lives the Prince of the Wind, in a castle hewn From a gray rock-hill that touches the moon; And now and again, when the sky is bright And the clouds of summer are floating white The gates of the castle are opened wide And the Prince of the Wind comes out to ride; ’Tis something just a child can see And not for grown-ups, but for me.

In the meadow lands, where the lilies grow Where the reapers sing and the cattle low The river dreams as it moves to sea And the heaven above smiles tenderly; Over its waters she gently bends And her glad, bright smile to its depths she sends So magic sweet, that through and through The river warms to a richer blue; ’Tis something just a child can see And not for grown-ups, but for me.

The sun is a fire, so the grown-folks say And warms the earth in a learned way; But the sun is a great round crown, I know, Of a giant who lost it years ago. He was King of the Clouds, till one black day The wind, in an anger, swept him away, And his golden crown, like a living thing Keeps moving about to find its king. ’Tis something just a child can see And not for grown-ups, but for me.

When the night has come, and the lights are out, And the shuddering shadows creep about The moon shines in through the curtain lace With her gentle eyes, and her quiet face, And says with a smile that calms me, quite, “I am God’s bright angel over the night, So go to sleep; don’t be afraid; For a child’s sweet comfort was I made”; ’Tis something just a child can see And not for grown-ups, but for me.

I’m glad I’m a child, for it seems too bad To miss so much that would make you glad.

THE HEN

The hen is such a funny fowl For all she has to do Is walk around all day, and eat, And cock her eye at you;

And always, when she’s being fed She quickly singles out The choicest bit, and seizing it She rushes all about

And eats it far from other hens With quite a show of greed; Then cocks her eye and walks about-- Oh, what a life to lead!

BLUNDERING BENJAMIN BUMBLE BEE

Over a meadow of flowers came he, Blundering Benjamin Bumble Bee, And he buzzed with his wings, and grumbled low That the dew on the flowers annoyed him so.

“My feet are wet and I’ve caught a cold, I’ve ruined completely my suit of gold. The use of dewdrops I cannot see,” Growled blundering Benjamin Bumble Bee.

THE TWO LITTLE FLOCKS

Five little sheep on a hillside grazed Where the raggedest daisies grew, And just overhead, in a sunny space Were five little clouds in the blue;

And the five little clouds in the sky looked down On the five little sheep below And they called out to them in a friendly way “O little white flock, hello!”

“We look alike--we must be alike; Now isn’t that plain to you? Come up with us in the pasture sky O little white flock,--please do!”

But the five little sheep on the hill looked sad And nibbled the grass instead; And each one smothered a sorrowful sigh Shaking his wise little head;

And they called to the flock in the sky, “O no; Such union would never do; We must be fed on the greenest grass While your meadow grass is blue;”

“And how would we look when trying to fly With hard little feet for wings? Sheep of the earth and sheep of the sky Were made for different things.”

And the little white flock in the sky looked down On the little white flock below And they said to themselves--“How queer; when we Resemble each other so!”

TO THE LITTLE GIRL NEXT DOOR

Over miles of ocean blue Straight my ship sails home to you, For I know you’re sure to wait In the orchard, by the gate.

When I go to fight the bear In the woodpile, growling there, Kind and bravely near you sit Begging me beware of it.

Once, when in the reeds we hid Just the way the pirates did, With your head upon my arm Safe I guarded you from harm.

Oh, how much a man can dare When he has a lady fair! For your soldier I was made All the times you are afraid.

A RIDE TO TOWN

Oh, the road that leads to town On a summer morning! Yellow sunshine on the fields, Mist the hills adorning; Leaves soft blowing in the breeze Fresh from summer showers; Roadside, as we drive along, Crowded thick with flowers.

Aunt Matilda flaps the reins; “Raisins, flour, and butter; We must not forget the yeast”; (How the corn leaves flutter;) “We must get a skein of yarn And some gingham patches”; (How the river, where it turns, Sky’s own color matches!)

“Here we are at Peter’s Mill; Yes, they’re busy grinding”; Through Green Meadow, just beyond, Bubble Brook is winding; Satin crows perch on the trees; Auntie counts her money; While she’s gone I sing my joy;-- Bees are making honey!

THE SWANS

On the tiny lake with the fairy bridge, where the rainbow fountains play, The grass slopes down to the water’s edge, in an easy, velvet way; And there the white bird-boats float by, in a long, parading line, And I am a princess on the shore, to play they are really mine.

Some birds belong to the sky and hills, and some must stay in the tree, The wee brown partridge runs in the grass,--as wild as a bird can be; They all belong to the free outdoors, the eagles, the owls, and the larks, But the tall white swans, with their stately necks, were made for the city parks.

As they sail along in their proudest way, with their feet a-dabble behind, Their stiff starched tails stand up in a row, the crispiest tails you’ll find; Now they are still, where the willows are, a-float on their spreading wings, And upside down they are pictured there,--the pretty white china things!

ROADS

Many, many roads there are, warm and dusty brown, Some go running to the hills, some turn into town, Some lead far and far away, where nobody knows; How I’d like to follow them, finding where each goes!

Once I found a pretty road, leading up a hill, I thought each turn would be the last, and yet it wandered still; Close beside a shady pool, up across a stile, Then down beside a twist of stream, till I had gone a mile.

It was a fine and pleasant road, and as I walked I thought: “It leads, perhaps, to stately lands which rich Sir John has bought:” But down it went across a bridge, all tumbled and forlorn, Then straight behind a farmer’s barn, where ducks were eating corn.

Many, many roads there are, warm and dusty brown; Some go running to the hills, some turn into town; Each and every one of them, I choose it as my friend, For strange delights are waiting me, if I could find the end.

THE CUDDLE-DE-WEES

Our hen has a troop of cuddle-de-wees That follow her round, all day; And some are yellow, and some are black, And one is a spotless gray; And at evening time, when the sunset light Glows red between the trees Our hen selects a sheltered place And calls to her cuddle-de-wees;

“Cuddle-de-wees, cuddle-de-wees, The dew’s on the meadow, the night’s on the breeze, And the herd bells ring; come under my wing And snuggle to sleep, while the crickets sing; To the world, a stupid old hen am I; To you I’m a refuge, warm and dry, And safe with a feathery peace: so rest, For young little fowl this place is the best.”

And there in the shadow, beneath the trees, They run to her gladly, the cuddle-de-wees.

THE HIGHEST HILL IN HAPPY TOWN

The highest hill in Happytown--I climbed it just today, A little wind went with me, like a comrade, all the way. I’d longed to journey to the place, and when the glad day came, I told myself that Happytown should be the village name.

We chose the pleasant river road that leads along the fields, And what a wealth of clover-sweet the wind across it yields! We drove through little Singing Woods, we passed another place, But all the time ’twas Happytown toward which I turned my face.

“O horses, hurry on,” I sang, “and do not wait to drink, How glad you are to stop a while at shady River Brink!” And when we reached the little town, I flew with glad swift feet, To what I knew was waiting me at end of Sunlight Street.

The little road is brown and steep, and wriggles up the hill, And all the way the drooping trees stand shady, cool, and still; I climbed and looked about me; and there before me lay The great wide world I’d heard about, all shining in the day.

Close down below was Happytown, its red roofs painted new, And all the little chimney-pots were filled with misty blue; The children’s voices rose to me; I watched the wagons go Along the little crooked streets, in sunshine there below.

And out upon the valley, where the greenest meadows lay I saw the tiny reaper folk go piling up the hay; Then far, far out and wide I looked; and wonderful to me, On distant shores I’d never seen, spread out the wide, blue sea.

I saw it shining in the light, all misty blue and gray, The little soft-winged wander boats were resting on the bay; I stood and looked and wondered, and wished some day to go Far over there to hear its voice, and feel the salt wind blow.

And have you heard of Happytown? And do you know its hill? Such wonders can it show you when the air is clear and still; The highest in the countryside, for when you stand and look The world is spread before you, like a wide and open book.

A LIKENESS

Some kinds of flowers are wild and free And grow where’er they choose Across the meadow, down the hill Or underneath the trees. But other kinds are caught, poor things, As any garden shows, And made to stand in planted beds In straight and stupid rows;

And likewise, little children, When morning brightest shines, Are caught and planted down at school In firm and even lines.

HAY COCKS

A band of giants, strong and tall, With heavy feet and knotted hands Came marching, with enormous stride Across the meadow lands; They tore the branches from the trees They dashed the water from the brook And often, in an angry rage Their locks of heavy hair they shook.

“Hold!” Mother Earth in anger cried, “Such mischief, sirs, I shall forbid!” And reaching up she drew them down And in her darkness they were hid Deep, dark, and close; and now the eyes Of country dwellers, as they pass, See only tops of tousled heads Above the meadow grass.

MAY

The river sings through its twisted miles And the heaven above it smiles and smiles The pink blooms out on the apple trees The scent of the lilacs is on the breeze; Oh, how has it happened? And what does it mean? Who brightened the sunlight? Who coaxed out the green?

May was painting a bush by the garden wall And she said in a whisper: “I did it all; I flushed the trees to their rosy hue I hung the banner clouds out in the blue; I worked not a wonder in this,” said she, ’Tis only the work that was willed to me.”

THE WINDMILL COUNTRY

There is a country, so they say, Where windmills grow like trees; Where arms instead of branches, reach To meet the coming breeze; And all the little children there, With clumping wooden shoes, May seek their friendly shade to play As often as they choose.

How strange ’twould be, when winter comes, And all the other trees Are shedding leaves of brown and red To gather as we please, To see the windmills drop their arms, And all across the land The little girls and boys come out To find them on the sand.

THE OWL

Queer little bird of the shadowy dark Come out, little owl, come away! Sit on that tree And gossip with me Blink, in the light of day; All other birds are awake in the sun All other birds are glad; Queer little bird of the shadowy dark, Why are you always sad?

THE CLOUD IN THE GARDEN

Oh, where can I find a little white cloud? Tell me, bee in the clover; Do they ever, you think, come down to drink, When the heat of the day is over? I’d tie one fast to the cherry tree With a twist of silver twine; A glad little child I’d surely be If a little white cloud were mine.

And every morning I’d pull it down To brush a puff or a wing; I’d hold it fast in my arms awhile Smoothing the feathery thing; I’d feed it dew from a hollyhock And when it had drunk to please With a tug on its string it would be away Riding the gay little breeze.

But Oh, if the clouds in the sky should cry “Come back, little brother again!” If their sad little tears should fall down to earth In sorrowing drops of rain; If the silver cloud mother should come, at night, In a fog gown, trailing low, To hunt for a child in our garden place-- I think I should let it go!

RUNAWAY RIVER

Boy, do you know where it runs to sea? Brown little girl, do you? Runaway river, laughing and free, Dappled and warm and blue? Follow the curve of the meadow there Over the hill, and then, Where the marsh lilies droop in the careless wind Look to the south again.

There you will see it running away; Ah, it is bold and free! Never a truant so brave has been Never so brave will be; Running away, with never a care If all of the blossoming trees Cry, “Wait, little river, stay here a while,” Reaching their arms to tease.

Bad little shadows, who long to roam Slip in its depths to hide Good little ones, who are happy at home, Sleep in the reeds at its side; Runaway river, laughing and free, Dappled and warm and blue Boy, do you know where it runs to sea? Brown little girl, do you?”

THE JACK O’LANTERN

To the man who tends the garden little brother said today-- “We want a yellow pumpkin, very round”; And the wind among the corn-stalks, where we stood a-hand-in-hand Made a funny little rattling sort of sound; It was very bright and frosty, and the man said, “Come with me,-- I will find you what you want, if you will wait”; Then he took us through the corn-lines past the heavy apple trees; There were piles of yellow pumpkins by the gate.

And he asked, “To make a pie with? or to roll upon the ground?” And he smiled when little brother shook his head; Then, “I really won’t be guessing, but I think I know the kind-- I was little once myself, you know,” he said; And we looked at him and twinkled, while he hunted all about, Till he got the very roundest of them all; Then he made a wink at brother, and a funny face at me, And he set the pumpkin up upon the wall.

“‘Tis the king of all the others!” cried the cheery garden-man; “I’ll be scooping out the middle, if you say”; And we told him “Yes” in whispers, for it was our secret plan, And we watched him while he cut the heart away; Then he asked us--“And his eyes? Shall his nose be long and wise? Shall he have a ragged, jagged sort of smile?” And we told the garden-man, “Please, as quickly as you can; We can only wait a very little while.”

Then he laid the knife beside him, as he said, “Here is the man; He’ll be looking very happy with a light”; And we rolled him in our jackets, as we thanked the garden-man, And we hurried home to wait until the night; Then a little moon is shining; then we’ll hide behind the wall, And we’ll put the yellow candle in its place; In the pretty lighted windows of the children that we know, While the fathers read the papers, and the mothers sit and sew, There will shine a merry Jack O’Lantern face.

THE MAD MARCH HARE

They say that the little March hare is mad, as mad as a beast can be, And yet when I saw him, the other day, he seemed very calm to me; For close by the fence in the pasture lot, where the grass grew brown and dry, He was nibbling a bit, in a gentle way, with a sad bright tear in his eye.

“I wish they would call me The Rabbit of Spring-- The Rabbit of Peace,” he said, “I think it a shame to be known as mad, when I’m quite all right in my head. What rageful beast, to say the least, on a meal of weeds would dine? And how could I ever growl or lash, with a voice and a tail like mine?”

THE WATER CHILD

There is a round pool at the edge of the woods And there I may look at the sky; The wind goes a-sailing, the clouds come to drink, The birds pass above it and by;

I lean down and look, in the carefulest way, Past the tip of the straight little pine, For down in its coolness a water child lives With a face that is nearly like mine.

TWILIGHT TOWN

Down a drowsy, dewy hill Leads the road away To the walls of Twilight Town At the close of day; There the people wander slow Down the shadow street Fingers to their lips they lift When they chance to meet.

All the houses, painted gray, Blink their sleepy eyes; Mothers, all along the way, Whisper lullabyes; Each bird-baby cuddles down In its purple nest; This is quiet Twilight Town; The watchword there is Rest.

THE LUCKY LITTLE STAR

“I’m a lucky little star!” sang the brightest in the sky. “Of all the stars about me there is none so glad as I! For every night at twilight, at the end of every day, I can look right through a window, in a very pleasant way, And watch a little mother, with a pretty, drooping head, As she tucks a little earth-child up, and leaves him safe in bed.”

“And when she’s drawn the curtain back, and blown away the light, She leaves the little earth-child to slumber and the night; But never right to slumber,--our secret may it be,-- For every night the little child looks out and smiles to me. No other star in heaven has so good a place as I! I’m a lucky little star,” sang the brightest in the sky.

THE FLOCK OF DREAMS

All through the pasture bars of sleep My flock of dreams come home to me, The glad ones, and the sad ones, and the ones that bring me rest; At twilight, when the day is done, My slumber fairy chooses one And brings it to me gently, by a road she knows the best.

Tonight the grass is drooped with dew; I count the stars, and there are two And one, and three, and two again, above the cloudy trees; The mist-hung world a-weary seems, Dear slumber fairy, call my dreams, Let down the pasture bars of sleep, and bring one home to me.

HOW SLEEP WAS MADE

A whisper, a shadow, a lullaby, A glint of gold from the evening sky, The wind that blows Where the poppy grows And the drowsy song that the river knows, A gay-winged fairy gathered up And locked away in a lily cup.

When evening came, and the moon was bright, And the forest dreamed in a glory white, The fairy flew Where the lily grew, And opened it wide, as she’d planned to do; One moment she poised, on airy wing, And then in a rapture began to sing:

“O, wonderful sight in the lily cup! How glad I am that I gathered up A whisper, a shadow, a lullaby, A glint of gold from the evening sky, The wind that blows Where the poppy grows And the drowsy song that the river knows, For my prisoners, down in the whiteness deep, Have made, ah, wonder! the thing called Sleep.”

THE TWO GOWNS

My mother has a pretty dress Of silk that’s rich and fine. She wears it when there’s company And when she’s out to dine; The collar has a velvet bow Below my mother’s face; The skirt trails softly on the floor, The sleeves are trimmed with lace; It shines and shimmers in the light All changing, gold and green, I smile at her, and whisper low, “My mother is a queen!”

My mother has another dress Of cloth that’s soft and red. She wears it when the light is low, When I am going to bed; And after I have said my prayers And when I say good-night, I’m not afraid of hurting it-- I hug up to it tight, And say, with arms ’round mother’s neck, “Oh, have you ever guessed That though your silken gown is fine I like this dress the best?”

THE TWILIGHT MAN