Part 5
Come, little one, quite close to me, Lean softly here against my knee, And you and I will draw to-day The pretty things you see at play. We’ll make the bird with glancing wings, As high above the hill she sings; We’ll make the plum-tree and the nest Where all her bright-eyed birdlings rest. Now draw a scampering, silky mouse, And in the corner here, a house. We’ll make the staircase built within, The windows where the sun shines in; We’ll roof the house with crimson tiles And draw in front tall trees in files. We’ll make the mirrors on its walls, The tables laid for festivals, And everything within shall be, My little one, for you and me. Now sketch the bridge where children go Across the brook that winds below; Next try to make a ladder long, And mother’s scissors sharp and strong. Now let me guide your hand, my dear, And we will make a dovecote here, The farmer’s doves all flutt’ring round, The chickens and the worm they’ve found, The rabbits in their cozy hutch, The saw the farmer needs so much, His harrow and his shining plow, His cart with hay for mooly-cow, The axle, spoke, and tire, and wheel, His water-jug for noon-day meal. Now let us draw the great, round sun, The stars that shine when bedtime’s come, And then the eye that sees their light, Bright-beaming in the sky of night; A thousand, thousand stars like these We see when snow hides grass and trees. Next we will make the baby moon And then the sphere she’ll be so soon; Now last of all the great church door, And then the drawing lesson’s o’er. These pictures, dear, may not last long, But practice makes the fingers strong; And as the world without they show, The world within will clearer grow.
THE FEAST OF THE DOLL
In flow’ry Japan, the home of the fan, The land of the parasol, Each month has its feast, from greatest to least, And March is the Feast of the Doll-doll-doll, And March is the Feast of the Doll.
The wee, slippered maid in gown of brocade, The baby with shaven poll, The little brown lad in embroidery clad, All troop to the Feast of the Doll-doll-doll, All troop to the Feast of the Doll.
How pleasant ’twould be, ’neath an almond-tree, In sunshine and perfume to loll, Forget our own spring, with its wind and its sting, And sing to the praise of the Doll-doll-doll, And sing to the praise of the Doll!
Come, sweet Tippytoes, as pink as a rose, And white as a cotton-boll, Let us follow the plan of the folk in Japan, And dance for your Feast, little Doll-doll-doll, And dance for your Feast, little Doll.
THE FEAST OF ARMS
R-r-r-at-tat-tat! R-r-r-at-tat-tat! The sound makes your heart go pit-a-pat. The drums are beating, the flag’s unfurled And shakes its folds at the great round world. A warrior brave goes marching by, With a sleek black head, held straight and high, With a smooth brown cheek and an almond eye And a gown that glows like a butterfly. Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
Dr-r-um-tum-tum! Dr-r-um-tum-tum! Like a hive of bees is the muttered hum, ’Tis the Feast of Arms in a Japanese Town, And the envious Sun sees, looking down, A warrior brave go marching by, With a sleek black head, held straight and high, With a smooth brown cheek and an almond eye And a gown that glows like a butterfly. Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
Tr-r-ap-tap-tap! Tr-r-ap-tap-tap! The drumsticks rattle, the fingers snap. For a thousand years has the Japanese lad On the Fifth of May been in armor clad; So a warrior brave goes marching by, With a sleek black head, held straight and high, With a smooth brown cheek and an almond eye And a gown that glows like a butterfly. Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
Tr-r-ump-tump-tump! Tr-r-ump-tump-tump! From field and lane sounds the distant thump-- A golden carp is his ensign bold And he wears his sword like a knight of old. Oh, warrior brave, go marching by, With your sleek black head, held straight and high, With your smooth brown cheek and your almond eye And your gown that glows like a butterfly. Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
THE FEAST OF LAUGHTER
’Tis the very first “day of the hare” In Wasa, the province of Kishu, And the breezes that sweep through the town Depart all a-ripple with laughter-- With light-hearted, musical laughter.
The month is the tenth in Japan, In Wasa, the province of Kishu, And the leaves of the bamboo are stirred, And the sugar-cane trembles with laughter-- With rustle and tinkle of laughter.
The brown baby smiles in his sleep, In Wasa, the province of Kishu; While the fathers ha-ha at their work, The mothers’ lips bubble with laughter-- With honey-sweet, mellow-toned laughter.
Shall I tell you why mirth is abroad In Wasa, the province of Kishu? Why the owls in the deep, gloomy shade, And the toad in his hole, shake with laughter-- With silver-shrill, jubilant laughter?
* * * * *
Listen all who listen can, And hear this tale of old Japan! Ages ago the thing befell, But people still the story tell.
* * * * *
’Twas in the misty long-ago, Ere yet this gray old earth Had grown too staid and sober To indulge o’ermuch in mirth. To the sacred shrines of Isè, Where Izumo’s walls appear Purple-clad, the gods assembled In the tenth month every year. All affairs of love and wedlock In the whole land of Japan There were mooted, there were settled, On a wise celestial plan.
At the first one of these meetings, Having half forgot the date, When the grand debate was over Certain gods arrived too late! Sympathy nor pity gave they-- Brother gods in parliament-- Ridiculed the tardy comers, Every one on laughing bent.
Since that time in all the district, On the “first day of the hare,” Ancient men and toddling children Unto Isè’s shrines repair. Journey ended, all the graybeards Face the curious, wond’ring throng: “Laugh, ye bright-eyes! Laugh, ye sweet-lips! Laugh and jest the whole day long!” Ready smiles break out in answer On each satin, dusky cheek; Hands are clapping, feet are dancing, Dimples playing hide-and-seek.
Laughing hear the feathered people, Laughs the sun as he looks down, And, the sweet contagion spreading, Laughter rings through all the town.
THE DOLL’S CALENDAR[9]
JANUARY
Was ever a doll like my Dolladine, The charmingest dolly that ever was seen! Eyes as blue as the sky at noon, Hair as bright as the summer moon, Dolladine, my dear!
She came to me in December last; To the Christmas-tree they had bound her fast; My heart beat high when I saw her face, And I squeezed her tight, thro’ her silk and lace, Dolladine, my dear!
I’m the thoughtfullest mother that ever was known; I’d scorn to leave Dolladine, darling, alone; Each month of the twelve I invent her a play, And I give her a flower to wear every day, Dolladine, my dear!
On the very first day of the year just begun, I wove her some snow-shoes, and when they were done, A fine sled I made her, to slide at her will, To skim o’er the valley and whiz down the hill, Dolladine, my dear!
Fresh blossoms in winter come just a bit high, And there aren’t any flower-shops very near by; So my pet wears a garland of fir and of pine, And under the green how her starry eyes shine! Dolladine, my dear, my sweet! Dolladine, my own!
FEBRUARY
February, dark and chilly, Comes with dripping rain, Noon of day and midnight stilly, Tapping on the pane.
Dolladine is growing older, Precious doll of mine; And to-day my love I’ve told her, In a valentine.
Cherry blossoms she is wearing, Sent her from the west. Tell me, can you, why she’s bearing These upon her breast?
MARCH
Pussy with the silver fur; Willow, pussy willow! Dollie wants to hear you purr; Willow, pussy willow!
Kites are sailing in the sky; Willow, pussy willow! Wind is tossing branches high; Willow, pussy willow!
March has come, ’tis time to blow; Willow, pussy willow! All your glossy kits to show; Willow, pussy willow!
APRIL
A rain-pool lies just over the way, And on it a fairy boat; And there, in her craft of the birchen bark My dollie’s a sailor afloat.
Row, row, Dolladine, now! April is steering and Spring’s at the bow.
With Dandelions the prow is decked, All gay on the rain-pool sea, And a chain I’ve made of their shining stems, To draw Dollie back to me.
Row, row, pretty one, now! April is steering and Spring’s at the bow.
MAY
May is coming, listen! hark! Flowers growing dawn and dark. Dollie’s playing in the grass, Bees about her humming pass; Lilacs in her yellow hair, Breath of lilacs everywhere. Let us set a May-pole here, Where the daisy buds appear; Let us garland it about, Weave with blossoms in and out. Then I’ll wreathe a flow’ry crown, Make a regal robe and gown. Who of May shall be the queen? Who but precious Dolladine!
JUNE
Dollie and I in the sweet June weather, A rose of June in her hair. Dollie and I in the swing together; Oh, the rush of the swing in the air!
Strawberries ripening down in the meadow, A strawberry is her mouth. Buttercups swaying in sun and shadow; Oh, soft is the wind of the south!
If but June weather might last forever, Warm as the heart of my dear, And birds and blossoms, in sweet endeavor, Might grow side by side for a year!
JULY
The poppy glows in the garden bed, For it is July. The poppy’s drooping her drowsy head, For it is July. Blue sky, flags high, Hot July.
The poppy’s the only one to sleep, For it is July. The world is too noisy for slumber deep, For it is July. Blue sky, flags high, Gay July.
Dolladine’s wearing a Liberty cap, For it is July. She’ll march when she hears the drummer’s tap, For it is July. Blue sky, flags high, Our July.
AUGUST
It really makes me very sad To tell the illness dollie’s had. The causes were not wholly plain, But remedies were all in vain; And doctors said that she must go Down where the ocean breezes blow.
At home the lilies are in bloom, Here sea-winds give the sole perfume. And Dolladine is growing brown As dry leaves when they flutter down. Gone are her ills, forgotten quite. Deep in the sand they hide from sight.
I’ve made of her a mermaid fair. A veil of sea-weed shrouds her hair. A rope of sea-shells decks her gown, Low falling, all her drapery down. In the whole world of waters green, There’s naught so fair as Dolladine.
SEPTEMBER
Do you know of a fairy maiden, All in the olden time, Who rode in a pumpkin carriage, Like a Christmas pantomime? Such a Cinder-maid is dollie, Such a pumpkin coach has she, And she’s off to the royal palace, The prince himself to see.
Jack-o-Lanterns light the ball, ’Tis a night entrancing. Golden-rod bedecks the hall, Crickets play for dancing.
No crystal shoe has dollie, But her foot is like a fay’s, And of all the folk at the party, None can better tread the maze. She’ll return ere the hour of midnight, Her godmamma to see, The fairy who built her carriage; Can you guess who this may be?
Jack-o-Lanterns light the ball, ’Tis a night entrancing. Golden-rod bedecks the hall, Crickets play for dancing.
OCTOBER
Autumn’s coming o’er the hill Treading fast and faster. Soon his foot will cross the sill, Autumn’s coming o’er the hill. Where the summer lingers still, Blooms the purple aster. Autumn’s coming o’er the hill, Treading fast and faster.
Through the rustling leaves she goes, Dolladine, my dollie. Summer’s lent her cheek a rose, Through the rustling leaves she goes. Down the frosty wind there blows Autumn’s laughter jolly; Through the rustling leaves she goes, Dolladine, my dollie.
NOVEMBER
The Indian chieftain smokes his pipe, The hills with haze are murky. And yonder struts, with spreading tail, The grand Thanksgiving turkey.
Oh ho! Oh ho! how happy we’ll be, When the cousins come to dollie and me!
Dollie shall wear a cranberry chain, And her very best new bonnet; The one with a buckle, a puff and a bow, And a curly feather on it.
Oh ho! Oh ho! how happy we’ll be, When the cousins come to dollie and me!
The house is ready, the fires blaze, We fear not cold November. By the hearth we’ll sit and stories tell, And good old times remember.
Oh ho! Oh ho! how happy we’ll be, When the cousins come to dollie and me!
DECEMBER
It is the eve of Christmas Day, And thick and fast it’s snowing. With dollie cuddled in my lap, I watch the white flakes blowing. Long, long ago I bought her gift, A holly wreath I’ve made her, And I shall hang her stocking up When safe in bed I’ve laid her. Dear Santa Claus, whate’er you bring, Of all your Christmas blisses, You ne’er can bring to me again So sweet a doll as this is. My lamb she is, my dear delight, My darling and my treasure; Of all the joys the year has brought, The very chiefest pleasure.
THE END
FOOTNOTE
[9] Published by G. Schirmer, with music by Isadore Luckstone.
The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A
Transcriber’s Notes
• Italics represented with surrounding _underscores_.
• Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.
• Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.
• Variations in hyphenation kept as in the original.
• Footnotes renumbered consecutively and moved to the ends of their respective chapters.