Part 4

How shall I tell What straight befell? The frolic breezes caught her; In spite of fears, Of cries and tears, They tossed her in the water.

She filled and sank Close to the bank, The mud her sorrows crowning. “Drive on!” she cried, “I can’t be dried, Far better leave me drowning.”

Now low she lies, Where bull-frogs wise Around her crown are sitting. While cool and slim About her brim The silver fish are flitting.

THE LOLLIPOP BUSH

In a garden, afar in a tropical clime, Where the air is astir with the lily-bell’s chime, And honey-sweet breezes from Araby blow, There stands the green bush where the lollipops grow. Oh, sugary lollipops, Nectarous lollipops, Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.

There, torrents of soda that sparkle and gleam, Dash foaming o’er boulders of rosy ice-cream; But neither pink ices, nor soda’s cold flow Compare with that bush where the lollipops grow. Oh, sugary lollipops, Nectarous lollipops, Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.

On lakes of clear syrup, the waffle-boats ply, Past islands of cookies and mountains of pie, But the wise, while the voyagers sail to and fro, Remain by the bush where the lollipops grow. Oh, sugary lollipops, Nectarous lollipops, Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.

The walls of this garden are builded of buns, All powdered with sugar and stuck full of plums, But sweeter than these, with its fruit hanging low, Is that wonderful bush where the lollipops grow, Oh, sugary lollipops, Nectarous lollipops, Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.

DIFFERENCE IN TASTES

There are plenty of things that love the rain And relish a thorough wetting, They laugh and sing in a driving storm, For their hearts’ delight they’re getting. “More wet! more wet!” croaks the frog in the pond; “More water! more water!” the flowers; “You never can fall too long for me!” Cries the thirsty dust to the showers;

The puddle dimples at every drop; The yellow-billed ducks go swimming; The leaves of the trees are clapping their hands; With laughter the brook is brimming; The grasses welcome the pit-a-pat, For beauty and strength they’re gaining; But Water-cart mopes by himself at home, For he can’t go out when it’s raining!

THE WORD OF A GENTLEMAN

(_An Anecdote of Sir William Francis Patrick Napier: 1785-1860_)

Twilight was falling in the English village, The green deserted and the loiterers sped, When down the quiet road there rang a footstep, Martial, heroic, as in battle bred.

Musing on glories past, the gallant soldier Savored the freshness of the evening air, When to his ears there came a childish grieving, A burst of sobs, a tempest of despair.

Close to the stream that rippled by the goose-green, Down in the grass there lay a flaxen head,-- And just beside the curls a broken pitcher Proclaimed the reason of the tear-drops shed.

The general bowed his splendid height, and, softly, “What is it, child?” he asked the little maid. Two wet blue eyes looked up at him, in answer: “My pitcher! Will you mend it, sir?” she said.

The soldier smiled. “I fear ’tis past the mending; But grieve no more, ’twas not of porcelain rare. Take heart. Here’s sixpence bright to buy another.” He searched his pockets. Not a coin was there!

With parted lips the child stood, all expectant, The general, laughing, owned his shabby plight. “But have no fear, my sweet,” he cried. “I’ll meet thee, At this same place and hour, to-morrow night.”

The little maid looked in his face and trusted; Smiling her thanks she slipped away alone. The soldier’s homeward march was sweetly lighted By the pure, simple faith that she had shown.

His lodging reached, an invitation waited, Flattering, courtly, for the morrow’s night; The very selfsame hour at which he’d trysted The village child beside the streamlet bright.

“You’ll go, Sir William?” asked the anxious servant. “Nobles alone are bid, and soldiers of the Queen!” “To-morrow night I’m pledged,” the general answered, “To meet a child upon the village green.”

“To meet a little child?” the servant faltered, And, half-believing, quick the answer heard: “Monarch or child, to whomsoe’er he gives it, A gentleman and soldier keeps his word!”

NO MAN’S LAND

In No Man’s Land, five hundred and three,-- Of course you’ll suppose that the date’s B.C. They published a law through the country round, A law which made great trouble, they found, That in all the schools all over the land, They must keep order. You understand How hard it was for the children!

If a boy reached school a second late He stood all day at the entrance gate. If a girl wrote notes in the study-hour, She was prisoned high in the old church tower. There was wailing and weeping from morn till night. They always did wrong, they couldn’t do right. Oh, hard indeed for the children!

Playing tunes on the points of pens, Grunting and growling like beasts in dens, Whoever did this would regret it forever For his head would be bagged in a manner most clever. If they missed a word from a lesson set Not a scrap of food did the poor things get. Oh, this was hard for the children!

A girl was in a sorrowful state If she pictured her neighbors on the slate, A book full of problems in Long Division They made her work out with perfect precision. If a boy was riotous on the stairs He spent his recess in a pit full of bears, Oh, hard it was for the children.

Laughter and whispering; school-desks scarred All had penalties just as hard. Youthful opinions of teachers in verse, The sentence for these was rather worse. In short, as you’ll readily comprehend, Their mischievous wills must break or bend. Oh, wasn’t it hard for the children!

If you had but lived in No Man’s Land Your manners would soon have been taken in hand. But though you’re saved from the dolorous fate Of being punished early and late, It’s just as well to follow the plan Of being always as good as you can. Though that’s rather hard for children.

KAMATU SAN AND ’LIZABETH ANN

O Kamatu San, Afar in Japan, Oh, a brown little girl is she; But ’Lizabeth Ann In west Michigan, Is as fair as a child can be.

O Kamatu goes As gay as a rose, In satin and silk all day; Her slippers disclose Poor ’Lizabeth’s toes And cotton’s her modest array.

In Kamatu’s land A festival grand, Is held for the dolls in March, And dances are planned Where the cherry trees stand, Or under the cedar and larch.

In ’Lizabeth’s state, Though wealthy and great, No dollie has any such joys. Ah! ’tis a hard fate To live at this date, In a country so careless of toys!

Yet ’Lizabeth Ann And Kamatu San, In loving their dollies agree; So dolls in Japan, Or in west Michigan Can be happy with either, you see.

THE LITTLE ’PRENTICE LAD

(_A German Legend_)

Long ago, in an old-world town, ’Mid old-world houses, dusk and brown, With red-tiled roofs pulled over their eyes, Half-hiding the shine of the blessed skies, In a clockmaker’s shop in a crooked street, Lived a ’prentice lad. There was naught so sweet In the width of the world as the orphan child, Flow’r of the Fatherland, Hermann styled.

Blue shone his eyes through his locks of lint; White were his cheeks. There was more than a hint From the gossips who met in the public square, That Hermann would scarce be so saintly fair If the clockmaker’s wife would be more free With her porridge and milk. It was plain to see He was not half-nourished. Such things were shame To a rich old town and a shop of name!

Times there were in that shop of name When each separate clock in its shining frame To Hermann’s hearing, the whole of the day, “So hungry!” “So hungry!” seemed ever to say. And hours there were in the winter’s chill, In the dead of the night, when the town was still, When their bells with resonant clamor tolled, “Cold! A-cold! Little Hermann is cold!”

Yet the innocent lad asked never for more Of the rosy good-wife, with her ample store, Contented to toil at the clockmaker’s will, With errand and parcel, to shop and to mill, If only but once through the crowded day To the church they would let him to kneel and pray, To gaze at the sculptured Mother there, And the dear Babe Jesus, so marble-fair.

The clock-maker jeered at him. Hermann, the Saint, He scornfully called him and strangely quaint And as strangely fitting, the gossips said, Was the name for the lad of the lint-white head, “Saint, if I might be!” so Hermann thought, ’Mid the whisp’ring clocks as he gently wrought, “Would I had treasure to serve my King, But only its love has my heart to bring!”

Christmas Eve in the old-world town, Snow-white and shining came softly down. Master and mistress, all gayly bedight, Leaving the ’prentice to fare as he might, Sped to the Councillor’s annual feast, Food being most to them, worship the least, “Supperless, fireless,” yet thought the lad, “Still have I ample to make me glad.

“Now I have no one to say me nay Straight to the church will I run and pray. Would I had aught I could take to Him there, On this Holy Night, to my Christ-child fair!” Like an angel vision, so white, so sweet, He was hast’ning on through the snowy street, When a kindly dame at her apple-stand Pressed a golden pippin into his hand.

Happiest soul ’neath the round moon’s light, The ’prentice lad, on that bitter night. Here was his gift for the Blessed Child, A fitting gift, and he softly smiled. Kneeling down where the candles’ glow Flushed rosy the marble, he whispered low, “Loveliest Christ-child, take from me, The only treasure I have for Thee!”

Wonder of wonders! The sculptured hand Slowly unfolded at his command; Caught was the fruit in a swift embrace, While a smile shone out on the marble face. Raptured, adoring, the boy knelt on, While a whisper stole from the lips of stone,-- “Little Saint Hermann, to-night with me, Shalt apples eat from the Heav’nly Tree!”

* * * * *

’Twas dusk of dawn on the Christmas Day, When the hoary sacristan passed that way, And glimpsing the statue, stopped, amazed, Half-doubting the marvel on which he gazed. The Christ-Child, radiant seemed to stand, The apple glowed in His marble hand, And close to His feet, in the morning gray, Haloed, all-glorious, Hermann lay!

THE SUNFLOWER’S STORY

A sunflower grew by a gray stone wall, And sighed, as she nodded her head so tall, “I would I could be Far over the sea; I would that I lived in Russia.”

“My kindred I learn, in that fortunate clime Grow up to a height that is something sublime; And the seeds, which to parrots and poultry you fling, Are there counted sweetmeats and fit for a king. The smaller seeds straight are dispatched to the mill, Where an oil is extracted that cooks use with skill, While the part that remains is pressed out into cakes And an excellent food for the cattle it makes. All sunflower products the wise Russians keep; Yes, even the seed-cups are fed to the sheep. The tall hollow stalks are well dried in the sun, Then stored up for fuel and burned every one. From the ashes the finest potassium’s made, So they’re carefully sifted and carefully weighed. Ah, in Russia a sunflower’s value is known, And she’s treated as well as a queen on her throne! In Orient countries, it seems that when fired And mixed with tobacco, our leaves are admired; While our great yellow flowers are used for a dye Which they to their garments and hangings apply. I learned all these matters, I’d have you to know, From some traveling merchants who, some time ago, Conversed as they sat on a warm summer-day, In the shade of the maple just over the way.”

“Of course, I’m no longer contented at home; No wonder I’m ardently sighing to roam. I would I could be Far over the sea; I would that I lived in Russia.”

A BANANA STORY

The luscious banana, as every one knows, Is native of lands where the palm-tree grows, And if you’re required, and can’t make excuse, To mention a plant that’s of very great use, Just give the banana, and prove what you say By quoting these lines in appropriate way:

SONG OF THE BANANA

When winds are warm first shows my leaf, And skies of blue are seen; While tropic suns unroll the sheaf To waving flags of green. My trunk’s herbaceous, smooth, and strong, My honeyed flowers fair; My yellow fruit in clusters long Is sweet beyond compare. ’Tis still delicious, cooked or raw, Or when to flour ’tis ground; My leaves are used, instead of straw, For packing dishes round. Look closely at their under side, A store of wax you’ll see; ’Tis made while here at home I bide, Not gadding, like the bee. And listen! Who would ever think, My juices you might use To make a kind of marking ink, And blacking for your shoes! But that’s not all, the tale is one In many chapters told; My stem must o’er its story run, And all its wealth unfold. Just feel its texture; hemp is made Of just this kind of thing, Twist it for ropes, for matting braid, Or weave it for the king In handkerchiefs of finest lace, That through a ring could pass, And pattern such as spiders trace Upon the dewy grass. I’m the Banana, who but I! My aid to man I lend; If wealth you want, for comfort sigh, Then make of me your friend.

SONG OF THE CARNAHUBA PALM

Brazil is my country, A palm-tree am I; Just go with me thither, Your wants I’ll supply. Should you wish for a shelter, I’ll build you a gem; The joists and the rafters Shaped out of my stem.

My leaves, broad and pliant, Will thatch you a roof, And under its cover You’ll sit weather-proof. You need not go hungry, I’ll yield milk and flour, The sweetest of sugar, And vinegar sour. Good starch I can furnish And finest of wine. Just cork up the bottles With this pith of mine!

If salt you require, Or wish to make soap, The one I can serve you, Quite fit for the Pope, And alkali furnish To make up the other; There’ll be no hard labor, No smoke and no smother. My leaves you’ll dispose of To make brooms and mats, The strongest of baskets And very best hats.

My roots distill medicine. Should you fall ill, ’Twill cure many ailments And save a long bill. And there is my fruit In which cattle delight; Its pulp is agreeable, ’Tis fair to the sight; Its rich, oily kernel A beverage makes, Delicious for breakfast With feathery cakes.

My story’s not ended; My stem, light and strong, Has uses which have not Appeared in my song. If a pump you would like, If a tube you desire, To bring in the water, Or put out a fire; If a flute you would fashion To banish dull care, There’s naught in the world With my stem can compare!

LITTLE DORRIT’S PLAYGROUND

(_A new public park called “Little Dorrit’s Playground” has just been opened in London, on the site of the old Marshalsea Prison, made famous by Dickens_)

In a gloomy prison chamber Far away in London town, Once was born a little baby As the night came darkly down.

Frowning walls and iron doorways Hemmed her in from day to day; In a jail-yard, barred and stony, There alone her feet might stray.

Nothing knew she of the country, Singing birds and waving trees; Roofs and chimney-pots her forest, Songsters,--creak of rusty keys.

Yet the baby, weak and fragile, Nursed upon a prisoner’s knee, Grew a maiden, loving, helpful, Of a spirit brave and free.

Father, brother, wayward sister, All upon her strength might rest, And her own woes, light or heavy, Close she hid within her breast.

Ragged children hung upon her, Weak and helpless ones she fed, She,--a child who knew no childhood,-- She herself, who lacked for bread.

Gentle, patient “Little Dorrit,” Sweet thy name will ever be; Sweet it breathes as scent of flowers, Daughter of the Marshalsea!

Fallen is that gloomy prison Where thy life-work was begun; In its place is set a playground Free and open, bright with sun,

Named for thee. Ah, “Little Dorrit,” As they walk its grassy ways, Bend and hear them, London’s children,-- Hear them singing in thy praise.

THE THREAD-AND-NEEDLE TREE

I

Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane Could never be taught to sew! A table they gave her, exact to her size, With drawers and with fittings a princess might prize. Such needles she owned in a glittering line; Such thread and such silk, both the coarse and the fine; The daintiest scissors that ever were seen, A wee golden thimble, a gem for a queen; But, spite of these charming and housewifely things And a pink brocade work-bag with blue satin strings, She could not be _made_ to sew!

II

Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane Could never be taught to sew! Her mother’s instruction she viewed with disdain; Her grandmother’s teaching was given in vain. Her needles she’d break and her thread she would lose, Her thimble she’d hide in the tops of her shoes, She’d tear a fine handkerchief given to make, Her sampler she’d throw to the puppy to shake; And then she would cry, and she’d fret, and she’d scold, And vow if she lived to be ninety years old She _never_ would learn to sew!

III

Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane, Who never would learn to sew-- Oh, a terrible thing befell the child! She was sent to live in a desert wild, By her godmother fay, who was heard to swear She’d reform the chit or she’d leave her there! ’Twas a Mexican desert where Arabelle went, And shelter she had none, not even a tent. Her task was to gather her teardrops and soak The Needle-and-Thread Tree! Dear me, what a joke On a child who so “_hated_” to sew!

IV

Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane, Who never would learn to sew, Draws her needles now from a cactus leaf, And her thread unwinds from a prickly sheaf! She does it with care, and they’ve taught her to sing, “Oh, ’tis sewing I love above everything!” Her needles are thorns and they’re shining and long, Her thread is a fiber and marvelous strong: And all day long on the desert sands She mournfully chants o’er her gussets and bands-- This Gladys who never would sew!

V

Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane, Who never would learn to sew, Tends the Needle Tree in the desert drear, But her other tasks not so sweet appear. She mends the crown of the fat horned toad; The lizard’s tail, if it snaps in the road; The scorpion’s claws she bastes on tight, And the spider’s webs she darns by night. She’s the tailor for snake and for bumblebee. Oh, ever, eternally busy is she, This Gladys who “_hated_” to sew!

PEDDLING POETRY

There was once a lad, but I’ll not disclose His Christian or surname, who early rose To fame and to honor and gained renown For his native place, which was Boston town, By his wit, his wisdom, his gifted pen And the priceless inventions he gave to men. Fifteenth bud on the parent tree, Brothers and sisters to spare had he. His father, a maker of candles and soap, His brother, a printer,--I think I may hope That the name of the lad can be quickly told By every American, young or old. The boy was a reader and day and night He studied by fire and candle-light, In yellowing books that he scarce could hold Romances and stories of heroes bold. His brain was a field where gallants dared, Where war-steeds trampled and heroes fared. Now out of these visions he strove to frame, In musical verse that should bear his name Weird tales of adventure on sea and land; Of Blackbeard bold and his pirate band, Of haunted houses and dungeons deep,-- Such things as would make your flesh to creep! The elder brother struck off the verse,-- “_The Lighthouse Terror_,” “_The Pirate’s Curse_,” From his printing-presses and up and down Through the paths and pastures of Boston town, The proud little poet pursued his way, Crying “Verses! Who’ll buy any verse to-day?” The jingles were purchased both far and near Till the noise of them came to the father’s ear, And reading them all, ’twixt a smile and a frown, He said with his spectacles twinkling down On the reddening cheek of his fifteenth hope, “As a cure for your ailment, we’ll try Doctor Pope, For he who has once tasted Pope and admired His elegant verses hath never desired To take up the art for himself, unless he A similar master of English can be.” Thus spoke the wise father and gave to the lad The dose he thought fitting for verse that was bad. The cure was effective and never again Did the lad scribble verse with his eloquent pen. He grew to be famous, America’s pride; A nation mourned over his grave when he died. Now who was this statesman of great renown Who peddled his verses in Boston town?

THE LITTLE ARTIST

(_From the German of Froebel_)