Chapter 5

O little flowers, you love me so, You could not do without me; O little birds that come and go, You sing sweet songs about me; O little moss, observed by few, That round the tree is creeping, You like my head to rest on you, When I am idly sleeping.

O rushes by the river side, You bow when I come near you; O fish, you leap about with pride, Because you think I hear you; O river, you shine clear and bright, To tempt me to look in you; O water-lilies, pure and white, You hope that I shall win you.

O pretty things, you love me so, I see I must not leave you; You'd find it very dull, I know, I should not like to grieve you. Don't wrinkle up, you silly moss; My flowers, you need not shiver; My little buds, don't look so cross; Don't talk so loud, my river.

And I will make a promise, dears, That will content you, maybe; I'll love you through the happy years, Till I'm a nice old lady! True love (like yours and mine) they say Can never think of ceasing, But year by year, and day by day, Keeps steadily increasing.

"A."

_Little Dandelion_

Gay little Dandelion Lights up the meads, Swings on her slender foot, Telleth her beads, Lists to the robin's note Poured from above: Wise little Dandelion Asks not for love.

Cold lie the daisy banks Clothed but in green, Where, in the days agone, Bright hues were seen. Wild pinks are slumbering; Violets delay: True little Dandelion Greeteth the May.

Brave little Dandelion! Fast falls the snow, Bending the daffodil's Haughty head low. Under that fleecy tent, Careless of cold, Blithe little Dandelion Counteth her gold.

Meek little Dandelion Groweth more fair, Till dies the amber dew Out from her hair. High rides the thirsty sun, Fiercely and high; Faint little Dandelion Closeth her eye.

Pale little Dandelion, In her white shroud, Heareth the angel breeze Call from the cloud! Tiny plumes fluttering Make no delay! Little winged Dandelion Soareth away.

Helen B. Bostwick.

_Dandelions_

Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning. We were not waked by bugle notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded.

We careless folk the deed forgot; 'Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of vet'rans talking. They shook their trembling heads and gray With pride and noiseless laughter; When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne'er were heard of after!

Helen Gray Cone.

The Flax Flower

Oh, the little flax flower! It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or 'sleep It never standeth still. It groweth, and it groweth fast; One day it is a seed And then a little grassy blade Scarce better than a weed. But then out comes the flax flower As blue as is the sky; And "'Tis a dainty little thing," We say as we go by.

Ah! 'tis a goodly little thing, It groweth for the poor, And many a peasant blesseth it Beside his cottage door. He thinketh how those slender stems That shimmer in the sun Are rich for him in web and woof And shortly shall be spun. He thinketh how those tender flowers Of seed will yield him store, And sees in thought his next year's crop Blue shining round his door.

Oh, the little flax flower! The mother then says she, "Go, pull the thyme, the heath, the fern, But let the flax flower be! It groweth for the children's sake, It groweth for our own; There are flowers enough upon the hill, But leave the flax alone! The farmer hath his fields of wheat, Much cometh to his share; We have this little plot of flax That we have tilled with care."

Oh, the goodly flax flower! It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or 'sleep, It never standeth still. It seemeth all astir with life As if it loved to thrive, As if it had a merry heart Within its stem alive. Then fair befall the flax-field, And may the kindly showers Give strength unto its shining stem, Give seed unto its flowers!

Mary Howitt.

_Dear Little Violets_

Under the green hedges after the snow, There do the dear little violets grow, Hiding their modest and beautiful heads Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.

Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky, Down there do the dear little violets lie; Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen, By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.

John Moultrie.

_Bird's Song in Spring_

The silver birch is a dainty lady, She wears a satin gown; The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady, She will not live in town.

The English oak is a sturdy fellow, He gets his green coat late; The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, While brown the beech trees wait.

Such a gay green gown God gives the larches-- As green as He is good! The hazels hold up their arms for arches When Spring rides through the wood.

The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty, The poplar's gentle and tall, But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city-- I love him best of all!

E. Nesbit.

_The Tree_

The Tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown; "Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down. "No, leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown," Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: "Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as he swung. "No, leave them alone Till the berries have grown," Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.

The Tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer glow: Said the girl, "May I gather thy berries now?" "Yes, all thou canst see: Take them; all are for thee," Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low.

Björnstjerne Björnson.

_The Daisy's Song_

(A Fragment)

The sun, with his great eye, Sees not so much as I; And the moon, all silver-proud Might as well be in a cloud. And O the spring--the spring! I lead the life of a king! Couch'd in the teeming grass, I spy each pretty lass.

I look where no one dares, And I stare where no one stares, And when the night is nigh Lambs bleat my lullaby.

John Keats.

_Song_

For the tender beech and the sapling oak, That grow by the shadowy rill, You may cut down both at a single stroke, You may cut down which you will.

But this you must know, that as long as they grow, Whatever change may be, You can never teach either oak or beech To be aught but a greenwood tree.

Thomas Love Peacock.

_For Good Luck_

Little Kings and Queens of the May If you want to be, Every one of you, very good, In this beautiful, beautiful, beautiful wood, Where the little birds' heads get so turned with delight That some of them sing all night: Whatever you pluck, Leave some for good luck!

Picked from the stalk or pulled by the root, From overhead or under foot, Water-wonders of pond or brook-- Wherever you look, And whatever you find, Leave something behind: Some for the Naiads, Some for the Dryads, And a bit for the Nixies and Pixies!

Juliana Horatia Ewing.

V

HIAWATHA'S BROTHERS

_Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."_

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

HIAWATHA'S BROTHERS

_My Pony_

My pony toss'd his sprightly head, And would have smiled, if smile he could, To thank me for the slice of bread He thinks so delicate and good; His eye is very bright and wild, He looks as if he loved me so, Although I only am a child And he's a real horse, you know.

How charming it would be to rear, And have hind legs to balance on; Of hay and oats within the year To leisurely devour a ton; To stoop my head and quench my drouth With water in a lovely pail; To wear a snaffle in my mouth, Fling back my ears, and slash my tail!

To gallop madly round a field,-- Who tries to catch me is a goose, And then with dignity to yield My stately back for rider's use; To feel as only horses can, When matters take their proper course, And no one notices the man, While loud applauses greet the horse!

He canters fast or ambles slow, And either is a pretty game; His duties are but pleasures--oh, I wish that mine were just the same! Lessons would be another thing If I might turn from book and scroll, And learn to gallop round a ring, As he did when a little foal.

It must be charming to be shod, And beautiful beyond my praise, When tired of rolling on the sod, To stand upon all-fours and graze! Alas! my dreams are weak and wild, I must not ape my betters so; Alas! I only am a child, And he's a real horse, you know.

"A."

_On a Spaniel, called Beau, Killing a Young Bird_

(July 15, 1793)

A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue Each trifle that he sees.

But you have kill'd a tiny bird, Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat, And ease a doggish pain, For him, though chas'd with furious heat You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort, Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! What remedy remains, Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains, So much resemble Man?

William Cowper.

_Beau's Reply_

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard, And harder to withstand.

You cried--forbear!--but in my breast A mightier cried--proceed-- 'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet much as Nature I respect, I ventur'd once to break, (As you, perhaps, may recollect) Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day, Passing his prison door, Had flutter'd all his strength away, And panting press'd the floor,

Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destin'd to my tooth, I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, And lick'd the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience _then_ excuse My disobedience _now_, Nor some reproof yourself refuse From your aggriev'd Bow-wow; If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see,) What think you, Sir, of killing Time With verse address'd to me?

William Cowper.

_Seal Lullaby_

Oh, hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, And black are the waters that sparkled so green, The moon o'er the combers, looks downward to find us At rest in the hollows that rustle between. Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow; Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.

Rudyard Kipling.

_Milking Time_

When the cows come home the milk is coming; Honey's made while the bees are humming; Duck and drake on the rushy lake, And the deer live safe in the breezy brake; And timid, funny, pert little bunny Winks his nose, and sits all sunny.

Christina G. Rossetti.

_Thank You, Pretty Cow_

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.

Jane Taylor.

_The Boy and the Sheep_

"Lazy sheep, pray tell me why In the pleasant field you lie, Eating grass and daisies white, From the morning till the night: Everything can something do; But what kind of use are you?"

"Nay, my little master, nay, Do not serve me so, I pray! Don't you see the wool that grows On my back to make your clothes? Cold, ah, very cold you'd be, If you had not wool from me.

"True, it seems a pleasant thing Nipping daisies in the spring; But what chilly nights I pass On the cold and dewy grass, Or pick my scanty dinner where All the ground is brown and bare!

"Then the farmer comes at last, When the merry spring is past, Cuts my woolly fleece away, For your coat in wintry day. Little master, this is why In the pleasant fields I lie."

Ann Taylor.

_Lambs in the Meadow_

O little lambs! the month is cold, The sky is very gray; You shiver in the misty grass And bleat at all the winds that pass; Wait! when I'm big--some day-- I'll build a roof to every fold.

But now that I am small I'll pray At mother's knee for you; Perhaps the angels with their wings; Will come and warm you, little things; I'm sure that, if God knew, He'd let the lambs be born in May.

Laurence Alma Tadema.

_The Pet Lamb_

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain-lamb, with a maiden at its side.

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone. With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast, with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said, in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! I watched them with delight; they were a lovely pair. Now with her empty can the maiden turned away, But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

Right toward the lamb she looked; and from a shady place, I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face. If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:--

"What ails thee, young one? what? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art. This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peers, And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,-- This beech is standing by,--its covert thou canst gain. For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need'st not fear; The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

"Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first, in places far away. Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home,-- A blessed day for thee!--Then whither would'st thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground was wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk,--warm milk it is, and new.

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now; Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony to the plough, My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold, Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"It will not, will not rest! Poor creature, can it be That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

"Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there. The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry roar like lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe--our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain? Sleep,--and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers and one half of it was mine.

Again and once again did I repeat the song: "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong; For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own."

William Wordsworth.

_The Kitten, and Falling Leaves_

See the kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves--one--two--and three-- From the lofty elder tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or fairy hither tending, To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute. But the kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws and darts! First at one and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now--now one-- Now they stop and there are none: What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap, half-way, Now she meets the coming prey; Lets it go as fast and then Has it in her power again. Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart.

* * * * *

William Wordsworth.

VI

OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN

_If thou couldst know thine own sweetness, O little one, perfect and sweet, Thou wouldst be a child forever; Completer whilst incomplete._

_Francis Turner Palgrave._

OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN

_Where Go the Boats?_[A]

Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along forever With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating-- Where will all come home?

On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill.

Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._

_Cleanliness_

Come, my little Robert, near-- Fie! what filthy hands are here! Who, that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong, yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within,-- Who this hand would choose to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it look'd in hue and shape Like the forefoot of an ape! Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways, May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever-- But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect. All-endearing cleanliness, Virtue next to godliness, Easiest, cheapest, needfull'st duty, To the body health and beauty; Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?

Charles and Mary Lamb.

_Wishing_

Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring! The stooping bough above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm-tree for our king!

Nay,--stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, And birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing.

Oh--no! I wish I were a Robin,-- A Robin, or a little Wren, everywhere to go, Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing!

Well,--tell! where should I fly to, Where go sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before the day was over, Home must come the rover, For mother's kiss,--sweeter this Than any other thing.

William Allingham.

_The Boy_

The Boy from his bedroom window Look'd over the little town, And away to the bleak black upland Under a clouded moon.