Part 2

I have two little dollies, they both belong to me, And though they both are dollies they're different as can be. About my little dollies I'll tell you all I can, One's called Belinda Bella and one Eliza Ann.

Belinda's hair is golden, her eyes a lovely blue, Her dress is soft and frilly, and tied with ribbon too, She has a pretty bonnet, and shoes and gloves and fan, For she's Belinda Bella and not Eliza Ann.

Eliza's hair is browny, one eye has gone away, She has a flannel nighty and wears it all the day, Her face is scratched and battered, just like our wat'ring-can; She's not Belinda Bella, but just Eliza Ann.

I know Belinda Bella is beautiful to see, And when I go out walking Belinda comes with me; But when in bed I cuddle as closely as I can I do not have Belinda, but dear Eliza Ann.

I do not mind the scratches upon Eliza's face, I'd rather have her nighty than yards of frilly lace. Just come and I will whisper as softly as I can-- I _like_ Belinda Bella, but I LOVE Eliza Ann!

_Tibby_

Four black legs and four white paws, Pinky pads and curving claws, Making marks on people's doors, That's Tibby.

Little shirt-front, snowy-white, Two green eyes so round and bright, Velvet body strong and light, That's Tibby.

Pinky tongue that washes fur, Every part except his purr, Sometimes much too bored to stir, That's Tibby.

Walking so he won't be heard, Hiding 'neath the ferns preferred, Watching for a dicky-bird, Oh, Tibby!

Stretching on the kitchen mat, Long and lovely, sleek and fat, Quite a yard of pussy-cat, My Tibby!

Take what pretty things you see-- Take the cake I've made for tea-- Take my doll, but leave to me My Tibby!

_The Thin Cat_

He walked upon our garden wall, He hadn't got a home at all, The thin cat, the thin cat, The little homeless thin cat!

I don't believe he ever purr'd, He never knew a loving word, The thin cat, the thin cat, The little homeless thin cat!

But Mother said, "Go, bring him in, I cannot bear to see him thin," The thin cat, the thin cat, The little homeless thin cat!

So now he purrs upon the mat, His coat is soft--he's warm and fat, The fat cat, the fat cat, The little cared-for fat cat!

_Pussy Language_

Only one word has Tabby, Only one word has she, For breakfast and dinner and supper, And in between dinner and tea.

"_Me-ow_" stands for milk and for pudding, "_Me-ow_" stands for fish and for meat, "_Me-ow_" as she waits on the carpet, And pats with her two little feet.

"_Me-ow_" for the mouse in the cupboard, "_Me-ow_" for the sparrow outside, "_Me-ow_" for the bed warm and cosy, And everything comfy beside.

Only one word has Tabby, Think, little children, of that. You'd never be bothered with grammar If you were a nice little cat!

_Estella_

Estella is as good as gold-- She always does as she is told-- Her pinafore is always clean, Her shoes the shiniest I've seen.

Her nose is straight, so is her hair, She's not untidy anywhere, And if she knocks against me, she Bows low and whispers, "Pardon me."

Her lessons they are always done Before she has her play and fun; And everything is put away-- Estella says it's part of play.

She hates to play and make a noise: She says that we are girls, not boys. She will not even ride a bike-- You see, it's so unladylike.

And when she comes to Sunday tea She never eats as much as me; She says it is an ugly sight To see a vulgar appetite.

Estella says, "I want to grow As noble as Mamma, you know," And Mother says to me, "My dear, I'm glad to have Estella here."

The very thought gives me a fright, It is a nightmare in the night. However can I go and tell her _I simply hate and loathe Estella?_

_Dreams_

In Nursery Land when lights are low, And shadows hurry to and fro, The Dream Man comes when day is done And gives a dream to every one!

One dream will make you float in air Instead of climbing up the stair, Another gives you spreading wings Instead of legs and other things!

And one will make you seem so small You cannot feel yourself at all, Another, you may walk a mile By stepping only once a while!

Another makes you, oh, so high, You very nearly touch the sky; You turn and give a monster jump, And wake in time to miss the bump!

IV

_STORIES_

_The Pixies on the Moor_

Come, my little darling, and shut the oaken door, This is the time when Pixie-folk are peeking on the moor; They're very naughty Pixie-folk, and up to awful tricks, So shut the door, my darling, for the clock is striking six.

They steal the milk from Cushy-cow, they suck the bantam's eggs, They harry all the mother sheep, and run them off their legs; They sip the cream from out the pans, and leave it thin and poor, So 'ware the naughty Pixie-folk that peek upon the moor.

They sit upon the handle when Nanette is at the churn, And, lo, when she has worked for hours the butter will not 'turn'; And once when she was in the field they came along to stare, They pulled her apron-strings undone, and left her standing there.

They steal the new-born lambs, they do, and lure the foals away, They play their tricks in mowing-fields, and trample new-mown hay; They worry girls on market-day, as cheeky as can be, And once they mixed a pound of rice in Aunt Eliza's tea.

And once there was a traveller upon the lonesome wild, He left his horse because he heard the crying of a child; He found he was mistaken, and then, alack-a-day, He saw the Pixies on his horse a-galloping away.

And once there was a naughty girl who stole her mother's jam, She said she didn't do it, and she blamed it on to Sam; The Pixie-folk were passing, on their journey to the South, They tied her hands behind her back and plastered up her mouth.

And once again a cruel boy was breaking up a nest, He turned the baby robins out and wouldn't let them rest; The Pixies came and chased him far, and left him in a bog, They splashed the mud upon his face and wrapped him in a fog.

So when I come to think of it, the Pixies aren't all bad, And if they punish naughty folk, why, then I'm very glad, But I am still afraid of them and all their funny tricks, So shut the door, my darling, for the clock is striking six.

_Jerry_

_The True Story of a Little Boy who Ran Away_

Jerry was sick of school and play, So Jerry determined to run away; He made a pack from an ancient sack, And fastened it on to his strong young back. A frying-pan and a kettle of tin, A boot-box to keep his rations in. Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry, There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.

Jerry's face was a great big smile When he found himself at the second mile; But he couldn't hurry the way he ought, For the road was long and Jerry was short. And the awkward pack was loose and slack, And bobbed and rattled across his back; Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry, There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.

The dust of the road was upon his face When Jerry came to his camping-place; A bush of gorse and a hawthorn-tree, A glimpse of the far-off restless sea, A broken boulder, and there, oh, joy! A cave the size of a little boy. Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry, There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.

The cave was found to be dark and damp, So Jerry arranged for an outside camp; He lit a fire and made him tea, And drank it under the hawthorn-tree. True it was queer and made him choke (One part water and three parts smoke). Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry, There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.

The day drew in as the night came by, And thousands of stars shone in the sky. "Squeak" went the bat and "Hoot" the owl, And a farmhouse dog gave a long-drawn howl. Jerry sat up and shivered and shook, And peeped in the cave with a terrified look. Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry, But there's none so scared in the world as Jerry.

What cared Jerry for camping-grounds When night was giving her awful sounds? What cared Jerry for kettle and pan? Jerry took to his heels and ran, Swift as an arrow from the bow, Swift as a runner of long ago. Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry, There's none so scared in the world as Jerry.

In at the little well-worn gate, Just as the clock was striking eight. Jerry who ran away, it's plain, Was Jerry who ran right home again! And Mother, who knew a thing or two, Knew how to keep a secret true. Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry, There's none so glad in the world as Jerry.

_The Toys in the Cupboard_

The toys in the cupboard were terribly angry, The toys in the cupboard were mad as could be, For Patty had jumbled them roughly together, And left them from breakfast till afternoon tea.

Said Doll, "It's disgraceful, I shall not endure it, I've lain on the engine along with the top." Said Duck, "It's prepost'rous, I'll send a complaint in, I lay on the ball and the rubber went pop."

Said Horse, "Here's a pickle, I sat on Eliza, Her face is all scratched and her eye is pushed in." Said Lamb, "Here's a muddle, my tail's in the tea-pot, I can't get it out, and it pricks like a pin."

Said Cow, "It is shocking, my horn's in the trumpet, And Sambo is squashed underneath me, I know." Said Book, "I am lying all twisted and crumpled, A drum is on top and the ink-pot below."

When Patty came in she was terribly frightened, The cupboard was moving about, she was sure, She heard angry voices, "_It's perfectly awful, It's simply disgraceful--I cannot endure._"

She straightened the cupboard, put toys in their places, She brushed out the Doll's hair, and smoothed down the Horse, She took the soft tail of the Lamb from the teapot, And tenderly cared for the others, of course.

The toys in the cupboard were pleased and contented, No longer they grumbled, no longer they wept, For Patty had learned a most wonderful lesson, And now the toy cupboard is splendidly kept.

_The Pencil's Story_

I am a little pencil, and my name is H and B, I lie upon the mantelpiece for every one to see; I'm handled forty times a day, it is a weary life, And when my wits are rather dull I'm sharpened with a knife!

I scrawl when Tommy has me, and I draw all sorts of things, From submarines and aeroplanes to cabbages and kings; I write a lovely letter when Miss Phyllis is about, And if by chance I make mistakes Miss Phyllis rubs them out.

And if I slip and tumble down I'm certain to be missed, For Mother wants me badly when she does the washing-list, And Father makes me keep the score when he begins to play-- I'm just a little pencil, but I have a busy day.

I really never am allowed to grow up as I ought, I'm getting shorter every day (it's awful to be short), And when the knife begins on me I ache in every joint, I put it in that way because you're sure to see the point.

I'm very glad I'm useful, though my speech is always dark, But every time they handle me I always make my mark! But sorrow seems to follow me in spite of many a friend, For when I'm meditating I am bitten at the end.

I am a little pencil, and my name is H and B, I lie upon the mantelpiece for every one to see; I'm getting shorter every day, and every day I'm older, And when my last few hours have come they'll _put me in a holder!_

_New Year_

The Old Year sat in his armchair warm, And his eyes were fixed on the floor, When suddenly out of the winter storm Came a little tap-tap at the door.

The wind went tearing around and about All with a terrible din; The blind blew in as the lamp blew out, And the little New Year walked in.

He lit the lamp and he closed the door As the Old Year slipped away, Then he opened his treasure upon the floor And took out _another day_!

_Brother Francis_

He walks the streets of London Town, A little Brother dressed in brown.

Up Ludgate Hill he goes and calls The pigeons flying round St Paul's.

He walks across Trafalgar Square, Because he knows the pigeons there.

And sitting 'neath the Temple trees The starlings flutter to his knees.

His sandall'd feet tread softly on The garden-ways of Kensington,

And furry brethren understand The pressure of his gentle hand.

Our little Brother--gentle--free-- _Benedice ... Domine!_[1]

[1] This means "Bless, O Lord."