Part 3

Two little hands, Busy, busy, Busy as bird and busy as bee, Gathering “funny things” for me. Weaving webs, and building a house “Just the size for a wee, wee mouse”: What shall we ask for these little hands?

Lord, with wisdom filled, Teach these hands to build Thine own temple; Let them skilful be-- Cunning to work for thee By thine example.

Two little feet, Nimble, nimble, Trot-foot and Light-foot, oh, what a pair; Now here, now there, now everywhere: Running of errands, dancing in glee, Skipping and jumping merrily: What shall we ask for these little feet?

Lead them a blessed pilgrimage, From childhood through to saintly age, Dear Lord, we pray: Hold them a light in the dim, dark night, And out of the narrow path of the right Ne’er let them stray!

Two little eyes--closed! Two little lips--shut! Two little hands--clasped! Two little feet--still! God give my darling pleasant dreams!

GOING TO REST

When darkness veils the distant hill, The little birds are hid and still; And I my sweet repose may take, Since my Creator is awake:

How sweet upon my little bed Since my Creator guards my head, And doth the little infant keep Through all the hours of silent sleep.

AT CLOSE OF DAY

At close of day, with petals pressed, Each little rosebud sinks to rest. Each little bird, too tired to sing, At close of day must fold its wing.

Each little child at close of day Kneels at his mother’s knee to pray; Then, like the happy outdoor things, He, too, must softly close his wings.

HO FOR SLUMBERLAND

When the little ones get drowsy and heavy lids droop down To hide blue eyes and black eyes, gray eyes and eyes of brown, A thousand boats for Dreamland are waiting in a row, And the ferrymen are calling, “For the Slumber Islands, ho!”

Then the sleepy little children fill the boats along the shore, And go sailing off to Dreamland; and the dipping of the oar In the Sea of Sleep makes music that the children only know When they answer to the boatmen’s “For the Slumber Islands, ho!”

CHORUS

Ho, ho, ho! in Dreamland boats we go, Row, row, row, oh, Boatman, gently row, Low, low, low, sing, wavelets, sing below; Along the tide of Sleep we glide To Slumber Islands, ho!

SLUMBER ISLANDS

K. E. C. (_Chorus, with motion_[1]) K. E. C.

Ho, ho, ho! in Dreamland boats we go, Row, row, row, oh, Boatman, gently row, Low, low, low, sing, wavelets, sing below; Along the tide of Sleep we glide To Slumber Islands, ho!

[1] The rowing of a boat

ASLEEP

While mother birdlets murmur--“Peep! Sleep, nestlings, sleep!” And tired Margery’s flaxen head Is resting on the cradle bed; The babe, its white lids closed, afloat In dreams, swings light in its fairy boat, Sleep, nestlings, sleep.

_K. E. C._

LITTLE POOR RELATIONS

I am only a little sparrow, A bird of low degree; My life is of little value, But the dear Lord cares for me.

LITTLE POOR RELATIONS

LITTLE, BUT WISE

Who showed the little ant the way Her narrow hole to bore, And spend the pleasant summer day In laying up her store?

The sparrow builds her clever nest Of wool and hay and moss; Who told her how to weave it best, And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly Among the sweetest flowers, And lay his feast of honey by, To eat in winter hours?

’Twas God who showed them all the way, And gave their little skill; And teaches children, if they pray, To do his holy will.

LITTLE DOG

I’ll never hurt a little dog, But stroke and pat his head; I like to see him wag his tail, I like to see him fed.

Then I will never whip my dog, Nor ever give him pain; Poor fellow, I will give him food, And he’ll love me again.

MY PUSSY

Oh! here is Miss Pussy; She’s drinking her milk; Her coat is as soft And as glossy as silk.

She sips it all up With her little lap-lap; Then wiping her whiskers, Lies down for a nap.

My kitty is gentle, She loves me right well, And how funny at playing No language can tell.

Now under the sofa, Now under the table, She laughs and says, “Catch me!” As she only is able.

Oh, dearly I love her! And you never did spy Two happier playmates Than kitty and I.

KITTY AND MOUSIE

Once there was a little kitty, White as the snow; In the barn she used to frolic, Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie Ran to and fro; For she heard the little kitty, Long time ago.

Two black eyes had little kitty, Black as a crow, And they spied the little mousie, Long time ago.

Four soft paws had little kitty, Paws soft as dough, And they caught the little mousie, Long time ago.

Nine pearl teeth had little kitty, All in a row, And they bit the little mousie, Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie, Mousie cried out, “Oh!” But she got away from kitty, Long time ago.

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm, And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no harm; So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But pussy and I very gently will play: She shall sit by my side and I’ll give her some food; And she’ll love me because I am gentle and good.

I’ll pat little pussy, and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her; I’ll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw; I never will vex her nor make her displeased, For pussy don’t like to be worried and teased.

GENTLE BOSSY

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day and every night, Warm and fresh, and sweet and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslip eat, That will make it very sweet.

Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.

WHEN THE COWS COME HOME

With klingle, klangle, klingle, Way down the dusty dingle, The cows are coming home; Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, The airy twinklings come and go, Like chimings from some far-off tower, Or patterings of an April shower That makes the daisies grow; Ko-ling ko-lang, kolinglelingle, Way down the darkening dingle, The cows come slowly home. (And old-time friends, and twilight plays, And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways, When the cows come home.)

With klingle, klangle, klingle, With loo-oo, and moo-oo and jingle, The cows are coming home; And over there on Merlin Hill Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will, And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines, And over the silent mill; Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, With ting-a-ling and jingle, The cows come slowly home. (Let down the bars; let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, For dear old time’s come back again, When the cows come home.)

—_Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell._

THE NAUGHTY CHICK

A little chick who loved to roam, One day, one awful day, Got through the fence and left his home, Alas! alackaday!

He saw a lovely butterfly, He saw a bumbly-bee; He chased the lovely butterfly, And then he chased the bee.

The butterfly went soaring high, But, oh, he caught the bee! And when that bee had flown away A wiser chick was he!

When to his mother hen at night, A sad, fat chick, he went, So swollen up with bumbly stings, For Dr. Dick she sent,

Who put a poultice on his tongue, Another on his head, Another on his sprouting tail, And sent him off to bed.

—_Margaret Gabbie Hays._

HEN AND CHICKENS

“Cluck! cluck! cluck!” “Good-morning, pretty hen! How many chickens have you got?” “Madam, I’ve got ten: Three of them are yellow, And three of them are brown, And four of them are black and white, The nicest in the town.”

THE CHICKENS

See, the chickens round the gate For their morning portion wait; Fill the basket from the store, Let us open wide the door: Throw out crumbs, and scatter seed, Let the hungry chickens feed. Call them; now how fast they run, Gladly, quickly, every one;

Eager, busy hen and chick Every little morsel pick: See the hen with callow brood, To her young how kind and good;

With what care their steps she leads-- Them, and not herself, she feeds: Picking here and picking there, Where the nicest morsels are.

As she calls, they flock around, Bustling all along the ground. When their daily labors cease, And at night they rest in peace, All the little tiny things Nestle close beneath her wings; There she keeps them safe and warm, Free from fear, and free from harm.

Now, my little child, attend: Your almighty Father, Friend, Though unseen by mortal eye, Watches o’er you from on high: As the hen her chickens leads, Shelters, cherishes, and feeds, So by him your feet are led, Over you his wings are spread.

POOR ROBIN

One winter’s day the wind blew high, And fast came down the snow; A robin, far too weak to fly, Hopped in the yard below.

Jane threw him crumbs, and from that day Her welcome guest he’s been; And often when the children play, Sweet little Bob is seen.

THE ROBIN REDBREASTS

Two robin redbreasts built their nests Within a hollow tree; The mother-bird sat still at home, Her mate sang merrily; And all the little young ones said: “Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee.”

One day the sun was warm and bright And shining in the sky, Cock-robin said, “My little dears, ’Tis time you learned to fly.” And all the little young ones said: “I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try.”

ROBIN REDBREAST’S SECRET

I’m little Robin Redbreast, sir, My nest is in the tree; If you look up in yonder elm, My pleasant home you’ll see. We made it very soft and nice-- My pretty mate and I-- And all the time we worked at it We sang most merrily.

The green leaves shade our lovely home From heat of noonday sun; So many birds live in the tree, We do not want for fun. The light breeze gently rocks our nest, And hushes us to sleep; We’re up betimes to sing our song, And daylight first to greet.

I have a secret I would like The little girls to know; But I won’t tell a single boy-- They rob the poor birds so. We have four pretty little nests, We watch them with great care; Full fifty eggs are in this tree-- Don’t tell the boys they’re here.

Joe Thomson robbed the nest last year, And year before, Tom Brown; I’ll tell it loud as I can sing To every one in town. Swallow and sparrow, lark and thrush, Will tell you just the same: To make us all so sorrowful It is a wicked shame.

Oh, did you hear the concert This morning from our tree? We give it every morning Just as the clock strikes three. We praise our great Creator, Whose holy love we share: Dear children, learn to praise him too For all his tender care.

A TEMPERANCE SONG

I asked a sweet robin, one morning in May, Who sang in the apple-tree over the way, What ’twas she was singing so sweetly about, For I’d tried a long time, but could not find out. “Why, I’m sure,” she replied, “you cannot guess wrong; Don’t you know I am singing a temperance song?

“Teetotal--oh, that’s the first word of my lay; And then don’t you see how I twitter away? ’Tis because I’ve just fluttered my beak in the spring, And brushed the fair face of the lake with my wing. Cold water, cold water, yes, that is my song, And I love to keep singing it all the day long.

“And now, my sweet Miss, won’t you give me a crumb; For the dear little nestlings are waiting at home? And one thing besides; since my story you’ve heard, I hope you’ll remember the lay of the bird; And never forget, while you list to my song, All the birds to the cold-water army belong.”

THE CAPTIVE BLUEBIRD

Sweet little mistress, let me go, And I’ll sing you a song so sweet and low, I’ll sing a song so gay and clear, That you will be glad to stop and hear.

Indeed you know not what to do; I’ll tell you all, and tell you true: I’ve left some young ones in the tree, In a soft nest; they are one, two, three.

’Tis two hours now since Dick was fed, And little Billy hangs his head, Sweet Katy wonders where I’m gone, And the poor things are all alone.

Ah me! no more at early morn Shall I rest my foot on the stooping thorn, And pour the song from my soft breast, While my dear young ones are at rest.

But yes! my plaint has touched your heart, Your open hand bids me depart; Blessings on thee, my mistress dear, My darlings have no more to fear.

CRUEL SPORT

There came to my window, One morning in spring, A sweet little robin, She came there to sing; And the tune that she sang Was prettier far Than ever I heard On the flute or guitar.

She raised her light wings To soar far away, Then resting a moment, Seemed sweetly to say, “Oh, happy, how happy This world seems to be; Awake, little girl, And be happy with me.”

But just as she finished Her beautiful song, A thoughtless young man With a gun came along. He killed and he carried My sweet bird away, And she no more will sing At the dawn of the day.

THE BIRD’S NEST

A little bird built a warm nest in a tree, And laid some blue eggs in it, one, two, three; And then very glad and delighted was she.

And after a while, but how long I can’t tell, The little ones crept, one by one, from the shell, And their mother was pleased, for she loved them all well.

She spread her soft wings o’er them all the day long To warm them and guard them, her love was so strong; Her mate sat beside her and sang her a song.

One day the wee birds were all crying for food, So off flew their mother away from her brood; And up came some boys who were wicked and rude.

They pulled the warm nest down away from the tree; The little ones cried, but they could not get free; But they died all alone, little one, two, three.

When back to the nest the poor mother did fly, Oh, then she set up a most piteous cry; With her mother-heart broken, she lay down to die.

THE BOY AND THE LARK

Who taught you to sing, My sweet pretty birds? Who tuned your beautiful throats? You make all the woods And the valleys to ring, You bring the first news Of the earliest spring, With your loud and silvery notes.

It was God, said a lark, As he rose from the earth; _He_ gives us the good we enjoy: He painted our wings, He gave us our voice, He finds us our food, He bids us rejoice-- Good-morning, my beautiful boy!

—_Mrs. Sigourney._

DON’T KILL THE BIRDS

Don’t kill the birds, the little birds That sing about your door, Soon as the joyous spring has come And chilling storms are o’er.

The little birds so sweetly sing, Oh, let them joyous live, And do not seek to take their life, Which you can never give.

Don’t kill the birds, the pretty birds That play among the trees; ’Twould make the earth a cheerless place To see no more of these.

The little birds so fondly play, Do not disturb their sport; But let them warble forth their songs Till winter cuts them short.

Don’t kill the birds, the happy birds That cheer the field and grove; Such harmless things to look upon, They claim our warmest love.

ANSWER TO A CHILD’S QUESTION

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet and thrush say, “I love and I love!” In the winter they’re silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving all come back together; Then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings and he sings, and forever sings he, “I love my Love, and my Love loves me.”

—_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

THE SNOW-BIRD’S SONG

The ground was all covered with snow one day, And two little sisters were busy at play, When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree, And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee, Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee, And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee.

He had not been singing that tune very long Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song. “Oh, sister, look out of the window,” said she; “Here’s a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee, Chick-a-de-dee, etc.

“Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes, And a nice little frock, and a hat, if you choose; I wish he’d come into the parlor and see How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee.” Chick-a-de-dee, etc.

“There is One, dear child, though I cannot tell who, Has clothed me already, and warm enough too. Good-morning! Oh, who are so happy as we?” And away he went singing his chick-a-de-dee. Chick-a-de-dee, etc.

—_F. C. Woodworth._

THE SPARROW IN THE SNOW

He hopped down cheerily into the snow-- Brave little barefoot Brownie-- As if snow were the warmest thing below, And as cosey as it is downy!

And his brown little knowing, saucy head, In a way that was cutely funny, He jerked to one side, as though he said, “I don’t care if it isn’t sunny.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t!” he said, And he winked with his eye so cheery, “For somebody’s left some crumbs of bread, So my prospects are not all dreary.

“And what’s a cold toe, when I’ve a whole suit Of the cunningest warm brown feathers? I don’t care if I haven’t a shoe to my foot, I’m the bird, sir, for all sorts of weathers.

“I don’t fly away at the first touch of frost, Like some of your fine-tongued birdies; I don’t think everything’s ruined and lost When the wind mutters threatening wordies.

“I don’t care!” he chirped; “I don’t care! I don’t care! It might be a great deal colder: But I’m a fellow that knows no fear-- Old winter but makes me bolder!” Ah, plain little hardy brown-coat bird! Through life I’ll try to remember To meet its winters with cheerful word, Like thee, to my brave December.

—_Youth’s Companion._

THE WANDERINGS OF THE BIRDS

Autumn has come, so bare and gray, The woods are brown and red, The flowers all have passed away, The forest leaves are dead.

The little birds at morning dawn, Clothed in warm coats of feather, Conclude that they away will roam, To seek for milder weather.

The robin gives his last sweet strain, His mate, responding, follows; And then away they lead the train Of bluebirds, wrens, and swallows.

The cuckoo, thrush, and yellow-bird, The wild goose, teal, and sparrow, Martin and chippee, all are heard To sing their parting carol.

The oriole hastens in his flight, The swallow skims the water; The whip-poor-will and bobby white Join in the blackbirds’ chatter.

Tribe after tribe with leaders fair All spread their wings for flight, Away, away, high in the air, Nor care for day nor night.

The fig-tree and the orange bowers They soon will find so sweet; The sunny clime of fruits and flowers They with warm hearts will greet.

But when the voice of spring they hear, They’ll sing their “chick-a-dee,” And back they’ll come, our hearts to cheer, “Tu-whit, tu-whit, tu-whee.”

THE TURTLE-DOVES

Very high in the pine-tree, The little turtle-dove Made a pretty little nursery To please her little love.

She was gentle, she was soft, And her large, dark eye Often turned to her mate, Who was sitting close by.

“Coo,” said the turtle-dove; “Coo,” said she. “Oh, I love thee,” said the turtle-dove, “And I love thee!”

In the long, shady branches Of the dark pine-tree, How happy were the doves In their little nursery.

The young turtle-doves Never quarreled in the nest, For they dearly loved each other, Though they loved their mother best.

“Coo,” said the little doves, “Coo,” said she. And they played together kindly In the dark pine-tree.

Is this nursery of yours, Little sister, little brother, Like the turtle-doves’ nest? Do you love one another?

THE LITTLE DOVES[2]

Rev. John Henry Hopkins

[Music:

1. High on the top of an old pine tree Broods a mother dove with her young ones three; Warm over them is her soft downy breast, And they sing so sweetly in their nest; “Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she, All in their nest in the old pine tree.

2. When in the nest they are left alone, While their mother, seeking food has gone; Quiet and tender they all remain, Till their mother they see come back again; “Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she, All in their nest in the old pine tree.

3. Fast grow the young ones, day and night, Till their wings are plumed for a longer flight, Till unto them the day draws nigh, The time when they all must say good-by; “Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she, And away they fly from the old pine tree. ]

[2] From _CHILDREN’S SONGS AND HOW TO SING THEM_, by W. L. Tomlins Copyright, 1884, by Oliver Ditson Company

THE PEACOCK

Come, come, Mister Peacock, you must not be proud, Although you can boast such a train; For many a bird far more highly endowed Is not half so conceited and vain.

Let me tell you, gay bird, that a suit of fine clothes Is a sorry distinction at most, And seldom much valued, excepting by those Who only such graces can boast.

The nightingale certainly wears a plain coat, But she cheers and delights with her song; While you, though so vain, cannot utter a note Though you scream all the summer day long.

The hawk cannot boast of a plumage so gay, But piercing and clear is her eye; And while you are strutting about all the day, She gallantly soars in the sky.

The dove may be clad in a plainer attire, But she is not so selfish and cold; And her love and affection more pleasure inspire Than all your fine purple and gold.