Part 3

And what’s her freight, my little man, What cargo does she bear? Is’t food to eat, or milk to drink, Or clothes for babes to wear? Why, sir, our ship has none of these! French children all are sad; We’re sending heaps of laughing-stock And stuff to make them glad.

Our ship is crammed with savings-banks, From turret down to hold, And some are full of silver coins And some are full of gold, This splendid treasure we’ve amassed And all is freely sent To buy those children picture-books, And bring them back content.

They say the French, poor little things, Can’t read an English word, But picture-books are in a tongue That every one has heard. We’ve saved our pennies, day by day, Nor given toys a glance And now the money’ll change to smiles For little folk in France.

SOLDIER OR SLACKER

It isn’t because he carries a gun And sleeps in a tent when the day is done, That a man is called a soldier; Nor because he marches, with head held high And a swift salute when the flag goes by, For none of these make a soldier.

’Tis because he heeds when an order’s heard, Because he obeys it with never a word, That a man is called a soldier; Because his weapons are shining bright, His courage steady from morn till night,-- For these are the signs of a soldier.

’Tis slackers who argue and fail to obey, ’Tis slackers who pout when they can’t have their way, They’re not for the life of a soldier. ’Tis slackers who idle and won’t do their bit, They never could fight, for they haven’t the grit, Oh, valor it takes for a soldier!

LEARNING TO KNIT

I want so much to learn to knit That Grandma said if I would sit Quite patiently, nor fret, nor pout, Should all my work be raveled out, She’d try to teach me, for I ought To learn while still a child, she thought.

“You hold the needles so,” she said, “And round your finger wind your thread. Take up a stitch and knit it plain, And then another one again; Be sure and do not knit too tight, Keep all the stitches well in sight.”

“Don’t split a stitch, don’t twist the wool; Slip off the loop and never pull; Don’t drop a stitch, do what you will, For such a gap no art can fill. See that the work looks smooth and plain; If rough, then all your toil’s in vain!”

The while she talked, her fingers flew As swift as birds across the blue; Her needles twinkled like the rain That dashes down the window-pane; Her ball went round at such a pace You held your breath to see it race.

I wonder if in Grandma’s day _Their_ grandmas taught in such a way! A modern child’s too slow, by far, To learn from such a shooting-star; As well a rabbit might, for fun, Instruct a tortoise how to run!

THE TIMID OYSTER

Look upon the timid oyster, Ever growing moist and moister, As he hides within his cloister By the sea. To all common human seeing, We can hardly help agreeing, Never yet was calmer being Than is he!

Yet with nerves he has his troubles, And when thunder boils and bubbles, Then his nervousness redoubles, So they say. He has nowhere to betake him, When the thunder-terrors shake him, No asylum can he make him, Far away.

Timid, shrinking little oyster, Do you never yearn to royster, In your damp and dusky cloister, ’Mid the storm? As we tenderly inspect you, How we hanker to protect you, From all storm-winds to deflect you, Keep you warm.

Come to us when noise annoys you, When sweet hope no longer buoys you, When the thunder-peal destroys you, Come at will. Condiments we’ll have to meet you, Ice and lemon bring to greet you, But though grandly thus we’ll treat you, We’ll be still!

DINNER-TIME

My mother says with changing days Come just as many changing ways; There’s change in dresses, change in hats And eke in balls and cricket-bats. Even in words the fashions vary; What once was fine, grows ordinary. Such questions trouble not my head, But there’s one thing I really dread! If dinner-time gets so belated That every child on earth is fated To go to bed before it’s ready, How can he keep his courage steady? In Froissart’s time, Kings dined at ten, The morning ten, of course, and when Their subjects called on them at five, They found them only half alive, With nightcaps on, and yawning so That courtiers quick prepared to go. Louis Quatorze, the Monarch Grand, Had matters vastly better planned. At twelve o’clock he dined and wined; As good a time as one could find! Charles Second dined at one, an hour That lasted long as did his power, For when he ceased to dine at all At two they ate in palace-hall. At four o’clock, in Cowper’s days, The meal was served, the poet says, A wretched time, mistake complete; A time to play and not to eat! When Waterloo had come and gone, When gentle Peace ruled Albion, And “Boney” ceased to play his tricks, The dinner-hour was changed to six. With glory fed, the nation well Might thus retard the dinner-bell. Dinner at six for long held sway, But seven’s an hour approved to-day, And mother asks her friends at eight. I hear the doom pronounced by Fate-- Soon will they dine at midnight deep, When every child is wrapped in sleep.

THE WANDERING EELS[8]

The times are out of joint, my dears, The world no longer wags As once it did when we were young; Domestic virtue lags. The lads are always in the street, The lasses far from home, And though you’d scarce believe it, dears, E’en eels begin to roam!

Time was when every eel, my dears, Went early to his bed, And such a thing as midnight swim Ne’er entered in his head. But now by day he simply squirms Where shallow waters be, While when the curfew tolls, my dears, He wriggles out to sea!

In Denmark they’re so bad, my dears, These vicious, vagrant eels, That government has laid a plot Which deepest art conceals, To make them think that day is night, Or rather, night is day, For only in the dark, my dears, Will they set on their way.

From Denmark to its isles, my dears, And from its headlands steep, They’ve laid a cable strung with lamps, Illumining the deep. The sportive eels at night come out To run away to sea, And finding that it’s light, my dears, Slip back again for tea!

A moral there is hid, my dears, Within this watery tale, And just as brightly does it shine As any fish’s scale. Whene’er you leave your house at night, With frolics in your head, And find the streets alight, my dears, Just toddle home to bed!

FOOTNOTE

[8] In order to prevent eels from leaving the coasts of Denmark, the government is laying a cable between the mainland and an adjacent island, which is to be strung with electric lamps. This luminous barrier is to keep the eels, who travel only at night, from emigrating to deep water.

EASTER BLOSSOMS

Far away, down in the dark of the earth While the cold March winds are blowing, The grasses are making their way to birth, And the Easter flowers are growing.

So deep in the heart of each little child, No matter what may be the weather, Kind thoughts may be growing, and virtues mild, Be twining and blooming together.

THE LIFE-PRESERVERS

It happened on Ascension Day; She came along the flowery way, A tiny cricket bearing. He lodged within a cage of wood, Though prisoned, yet in heartsome mood, For strong his chirp and daring.

’Twas Florence in a radiant spring, Ah, could my verses to you bring A glimpse of half its wonder! Could make you taste the honeyed air, And breathe the flowers everywhere, The green grass waving under.

The cricket shone as black as jet; No less the locks that waving met The little maiden’s shoulder. Her voice, at first, was scarcely heard-- A cricket’s voice, from nesting stirred-- But soon, like his, grow bolder.

“Ne’er have I seen a cricket caged,” I said, “nor as a pet engaged, Although a household blessing!” “Good sir,” she lisped, “Ascension morn Must every child in Florence born, A cricket be possessing.

“And early, early do we look In every park and grassy nook, Where crickets breed and nourish; And when they’re caught and prisoned here, We’ll live and thrive another year, If through the day they flourish!”

“My little maid, it cannot be A cricket holds your life in fee And all on him you’re chancing!” “Old man,” she cried, “there’s not a doubt, All Florentines have found it out!” And down the road went dancing.

I shook my head. The world is rife With toil and care; a bubble’s life, And death will come to prick it; But of all fragile things that be Most frail is that, it seems to me, Which hangs upon a cricket!

TALKING THROUGH THE HAT

OR

THE MANNERS OF KOREA

The not uncommon saying, “You are talking through your hat!” Must have come from old Korea, where they’re quite adept in that. All the head-gear’s telescopic in the ancient Hermit-land, And may be shot up at pleasure when you meet a noble grand. For a commoner it’s lowered; even then ’tis not so small, For it’s three feet in diameter and seven inches tall.

Say you’re walking of a morning in an old Korean street, And a grandly hatted gentleman you happen for to meet; Should his covering be yellow, with a kind of toadstool brim, You may know he is in mourning, and may straight condole with him. His may be a recent sorrow, or persistence of an old; But in tones of buff and amber his bereavement will be told.

Turn a corner and, advancing, you may see a smiling face, Topped by hat bedecked with jewels or set off with beaded lace. If the trimming’s long and ample and is tied beneath the chin, You may ask a loan of money and the favor hope to win. Such adornment means prosperity and great success in life; Or the stranger may be happy and have chosen well his wife.

Should the morning be uncertain and the wind a wavering one, With a mass of gathering shadows and capricious gleams of sun, From the hats of certain persons skirts of paper may depend, For to serve them as umbrellas, should a sudden storm descend. The Korean Weather Bureau thus is organized, you see, And may be by all consulted, safe from any form of fee.

If you’re bidden to a party in the Land of Morning Calm, You may proudly bear the missive in your hat of braided palm. Thus your status in society is settled once for all, And you’re sure to be invited if Dame Grundy gives a ball. Hats may also serve as bill-boards, and upon them you may post Such a bit of news or gossip as may interest you most.

In Korea, then, the head-gear’s the essential thing in life; But a man may not assume one till he’s sought him out a wife. Hats accompany betrothal, as with marriage goes a ring, And the safely plighted lover hymns of joy may fitly sing. Scorn a woman in Korea, and the sex your scorn repays, For with ribboned pigtail hanging, you go hatless all your days.

THE DAY OF THE DOG

In a sheltered spot of a sunny street, I saw on a wintry morn, A meeting of dogs of every degree, Both nobly and humbly born. A paper thrown on the sidewalk down Engaged them all to stay, And they listened the while a mastiff read,-- “The dogs are having their day!”

“The place of the dog,” so the paper said, “Has been a precarious one, Dependent on birth, upon personal charm, And not upon duty done; But now that a dog is judged by his work, These things have vanished away. The mongrel pup is as good as the rest,-- The dogs are having their day!”

“And what is this work?” asked a tiny Skye; “Is it anything strange or new? We always have served with all of our hearts, We always have been true blue.” “’Tis soldier work,” a Newfoundland cried, “So all of the papers say; Just hear what the mastiff is going to read,-- The dogs are having their day!”

“A shepherd dog,” the chronicle says, “Two miles and a half ran he, In minutes ten, through a storm of shell, For help for his Company. A nameless dog, of no descent, Rushed into the thick of the fray, And dragged a wounded soldier back,-- The dogs are having their day!”

“They went as searchers through No Man’s Land, They guarded the loaded wains; Courageous, loyal, they kept their watch O’er the wounded in railway trains; They served as sentinels, none could pass Where they crouched and sleepless lay; They carried messages far and fast,-- The dogs are having their day!”

I listened a while as the mastiff read, For he paid little heed to me, And his audience greeted with barks of joy, Each proof of efficiency; The dog-star is riding high, I thought, And though it was long on the way, The faithful at last are receiving their meed,-- The dogs are having their day!

MEADOW TALK

“Don’t pick all the flowers!” cried Daisy one day To a rosy-cheeked boy who was passing her way; “If you take every one, you will very soon see That when next summer comes, not a bud will there be!”

“Quite true!” said the Clover, “And over and over I’ve sung that same song, To whoe’er came along.”

Quoth the Buttercup, “I Have not been at all shy In impressing that rule On each child of the school.”

“I’ve touched the same subject,” Said Timothy Grass. “‘Leave just a few flowers!’ I beg, as they pass.”

Sighed a shy little Fern, From her home in the shade, “About pulling up roots, What a protest I’ve made!”

“The children are heedless!” The Gentian declared, “When my blossom-time comes, Not a bud will be spared.”

“Take courage, sweet neighbor!” The Violet said; And raised in entreaty Her delicate head;

“The children are thoughtless, I own, in my turn; But if we _all_ teach them, They cannot but learn.”

“The lesson,” said the Alders, “Is a simple one, indeed, _Where no root is, blooms no flower, Where no flower is, no seed._”

“’Tis very well said!” chirped the Robin, From the elm tree fluttering down; “If you’ll write on your leaves such a lesson, I’ll distribute them over the town.”

“Oh, write it, dear Alders!” the Innocents cried, Their pretty eyes tearfully blue, “You are older than we are; you’re strong and you’re wise-- There’s none but would listen to you!”

But, ah! the Alders could not write; And though the Robin knew The art as well as any bird-- Or so he said--he flew Straight up the hill and far away, Remarking as he went, He had a business errand And was not on pleasure bent.

Did the children learn the lesson, Though ’twas never written down? We shall know when, gay and blithesome, Lady Summer comes to town.

KNOCKING ON WOOD

_Tap on the trees and the leaves will tell Whether the fairies wish thee well._

A primitive father once lived in a wood, With a primitive daughter of primitive mood, And a primitive wife who attended the pair And served them the choicest of primitive fare. The primitive daughter was fearful and shy And afraid of her life if a hare rustled by; The primitive wife had no valor at all And shivered and shook if a nut chanced to fall.

The father was often away at the chase, Or running with danger an obstacle race, And dreaded a loss in his primitive home, If e’er in his absence a peril should come. He dreaded, she dreaded, they dreaded all three, The sprites of the air and the sprites of the sea, The little gray gnomes that live down in the ground And the gossamer elves that in flowers abound.

It was only the fairies that lived in the trees, Whose spells could protect them from evils like these; And so, as they wended their primitive ways, And threaded the wood in its devious maze, They’d knock on a tree and would timidly say To the Spirit who might be within there that day: “Fairy fair, Fairy fair, wish thou me well; ’Gainst evil witcheries weave me a spell!”

Then keen would they listen with primitive ear, Their hearing made finer and sharper by fear; And soon would the leaves make a whisper’d reply: “Fear ye not, mortals, no harm shall come nigh!” Thus primitive mother and primitive child Protected themselves in the primitive wild, And e’en to this day is the practice made good When, to ward off disaster, we knock upon wood.

THE ROBIN AND THE ANGLEWORM

A plump and saucy Robin Was gayly hopping round, And heard a ringèd Angleworm A-squirming underground. “Oh, do my ears deceive me, Or can it really be, A tender, juicy luncheon Is waiting there for me?” Thus spake the hungry Robin, And cocked a listening ear, An ear to hear the grass grow, The falling dust to hear. He tapped among the grasses With yellow beak so gay, “Good-morrow, neighbor Angleworm! How’s all with you to-day?” “I’m well, kind neighbor Robin; The earth is sweetly damp; You’re stepping just above me, I feel your noisy tramp.” “Climb up, then, slippery brother! The rain is falling fast; Come up and take a bite with me Until the storm be past.” The earthworm hurried upward; Said Robin, with a grin, “Well, now, you’ve troubled to come out, I’ll thank you to come IN!”

THE JOLLY DUGONG

It was the jolly Dugong, As he sat on the springing lea, And his eyes were blue as the raven’s wing, And his hair was black as the sea.

He piped and he trilled on his baritone tail, Till the fishes began to stare; And came, with a skip o’er the shimmering sand, To beg for their favorite air.

Then he scratched his head with his clammy claw, And he smoothed his face with his fin, While he murmured, “Come hither, my aqueous friends, And a ditty I’ll soon begin.”

So the fishes approached with a festive flop, In numbers even and odd; And the halibut leaned on the pickerel’s arm, While the trout escorted the cod.

As the scaly bevy gathered around, The Dugong unbuckled his belt, And he tuned his tail with a tuning fork, Carved out of the rib of a smelt.

“Ah,” he sighed, “it is really a joy to receive A mark of approval so rare, For I very well know that a fish’s applause, Is to flourish his skin in the air.”

Then he warbled in notes that were merry and gay, And in tones that were clear as a flute, And he caroled a lay of the rolling deep, While the fishes with joy were mute.

The song was the one that they loved the best, And ’twas quite a remarkable sight, When they waved their skins in the evening air, And rattled their bones with delight.

“O, Rosy, my posy!” the sun-fish said, To a herring that swam by his side, “On similar music, we’ll constantly feed, If you’ll be but my beauteous bride.”

“O, halibut, walibut!” whispered the cod, “What a glorious song of the sea! Throw your scaly skin on the sandy shore, And dance on the wave with me.”

The hours slipped by, and the music went on, While the mists of the evening arose-- But everything earthly must come to a stop, And e’en such a concert must close.

The Dugong stopped singing--the hour was late, All hurried for skins to the shore; ’Twas confusion and bustle--each snatched what he could, Half put them on hind-side before.

Old Flatty, the flounder, went off in a coat That was certainly made for the eel, While Pinky, the salmon’s, was wretched in fit, And extremely unpleasant in feel.

So, highly uncomfortable, each swam away, With a coat much too small, or too great; And just such an accident may befall you, If you stay at a party too late.

THE DANDIFIED MANATEE

Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee,-- What does he do when the winds blow free? He seeks some spot where the water’s low, And curls his hair while the breezes blow; And never a thought has he in his head, Except that he knows when to go to his bed-- The Manatee, the Manatee.

Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee,-- What does he do when the tide runs free? With a coral shoe-brush under his thumb, He glazes his fins with aluminum. What matter to him the ocean’s flow. He’s not in a mercantile line you know-- The Manatee, the Manatee.

Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee, What does he do when the birds fly free? As they rise and dip and lazily flop, He watches intently, in hopes they may drop A band of feathers to circle his throat, Or some down for the edge of his redingote-- The Manatee, the Manatee.

Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee, What does he do when the ships sail free? Oh, far away where the wave’s at rest, He searches for pearls to jewel his breast. There’s nothing new in the rig of a ship, And for sailor fashions he cares not a flip. The Manatee, the Manatee.

Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee, A very Beau Brummell of dandies he! His fins are polished, his hair is curled, His dainty umbrella is properly furled! There’s never a porpoise he meets on the sea But plaintively murmurs, “I would I could be The bride of that exquisite Manatee!”

YOUNG SUNDAY HAT

Young Sunday hat, On a shelf she sat, All gay with ribbons and flowers. ’Twas Saturday night, And the morning light Would shine in a few short hours.

“Alas!” she said, “Far better dead Than mewed up here forever. No joy I know Imprisoned so, And people see me never!

“Why couldn’t I stay In the shop so gay, Where all was so bright and shining; Where all might admire, With eager desire, My ribbons and flowers twining?”

As thus she sighed, The door swung wide, A wee maid entered singing. With hat and fan, Away she ran, While Sunday bells were ringing.

The ride was long, The wind was strong, They passed above a river, Whose waters deep, Whose banks so steep, Set Sunday hat a-shiver.