Chapter 7

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor,-- The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go: And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- The minster-clock has just struck two; And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the low stone wall:

And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They follow from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

William Wordsworth

_Deaf and Dumb_

He lies on the grass, looking up to the sky; Blue butterflies pass like a breath or a sigh, The shy little hare runs confidingly near, And wise rabbits stare with inquiry, not fear: Gay squirrels have found him and made him their choice; All creatures flock round him, and seem to rejoice.

Wild ladybirds leap on his cheek fresh and fair, Young partridges creep, nestling under his hair, Brown honey-bees drop something sweet on his lips, Rash grasshoppers hop on his round finger-tips, Birds hover above him with musical call; All things seem to love him, and he loves them all.

Is nothing afraid of the boy lying there? Would all nature aid if he wanted its care? Things timid and wild with soft eagerness come. Ah, poor little child!--he is deaf--he is dumb. But what can have brought them? but how can they know? What instinct has taught them to cherish him so?

Since first he could walk they have served him like this. His lips could not talk, but they found they could kiss. They made him a court, and they crowned him a king; Ah, who could have thought of so lovely a thing? They found him so pretty, they gave him their hearts, And some divine pity has taught them their parts!

"A."

_The Blind Boy_

O, say, what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight? O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see; You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Make either day or night?

My day and night myself I make, Whene'er I sleep or play, And could I always keep awake, With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have My peace of mind destroy; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy!

Colley Cibber.

VII

PLAY-TIME

_The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything._

_Gabriel Setoun._

PLAY-TIME

_A Boy's Song_

Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to trace the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay, Up the water and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.

James Hogg (The Ettrick Shepherd).

_The Lost Doll_

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled; Yet for old sake's sake, she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world.

Charles Kingsley

_Dolladine_

This is her picture--Dolladine-- The beautifullest doll that ever was seen! Oh, what nosegays! Oh, what sashes! Oh, what beautiful eyes and lashes!

Oh, what a precious perfect pet! On each instep a pink rosette; Little blue shoes for her little blue tots; Elegant ribbons in bows and knots.

Her hair is powdered; her arms are straight, Only feel, she is quite a weight! Her legs are limp, though;--stand up, miss!-- What a beautiful buttoned-up mouth to kiss!

William Brighty Rands.

_Dressing the Doll_

This is the way we dress the Doll:-- You may make her a shepherdess, the Doll, If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook, But this is the way we dress the Doll.

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple and mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll. First, you observe her little chemise, As white as milk, with ruches of silk; And the little drawers that cover her knees. As she sits or stands, with golden bands, And lace in beautiful filagrees.

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple or mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll.

Now these are the bodies: she has two, One of pink, with ruches of blue, And sweet white lace; be careful, do! And one of green, with buttons of sheen, Buttons and bands of gold, I mean, With lace on the border in lovely order, The most expensive we can afford her!

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple or mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll.

Then, with black at the border, jacket And this--and this--she will not lack it; Skirts? Why, there are skirts, of course, And shoes and stockings we shall enforce, With a proper bodice, in the proper place (Stays that lace have had their days And made their martyrs); likewise garters, All entire. But our desire Is to show you her night attire, At least a part of it. Pray admire This sweet white thing that she goes to bed in! It's not the one that's made for her wedding; _That_ is special, a new design, Made with a charm and a countersign, Three times three and nine times nine: These are only her usual clothes: Look, _there's_ a wardrobe! gracious knows It's pretty enough, as far as it goes!

So you see the way we dress the Doll: You might make her a shepherdess, the Doll, If you gave her a crook with a pastoral hook, With sheep, and a shed, and a shallow brook, And all that, out of the poetry-book.

CHORUS.

Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll, But do not crumple and mess the Doll! This is the way we dress the Doll; If you had not seen, could you guess the Doll?

William Brighty Rands.

_The Pedlar's Caravan_

I wish I lived in a caravan, With a horse to drive, like a pedlar-man! Where he comes from nobody knows, Or where he goes to, but on he goes!

His caravan has windows two, And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through; He has a wife, with a baby brown, And they go riding from town to town.

Chairs to mend, and delf to sell! He clashes the basins like a bell; Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order, Plates with the alphabet round the border!

The roads are brown, and the sea is green, But his house is just like a bathing-machine; The world is round, and he can ride, Rumble and splash, to the other side!

With the pedlar-man I should like to roam, And write a book when I came home; All the people would read my book, Just like the Travels of Captain Cook!

William Brighty Rands.

_A Sea-Song from the Shore_

Hail! Ho! Sail! Ho! Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy! Who calls to me, So far at sea? Only a little boy!

Sail! Ho! Hail! Ho! The sailor he sails the sea: I wish he would capture a little sea-horse And send him home to me.

I wish, as he sails Through the tropical gales, He would catch me a sea-bird, too, With its silver wings And the song it sings, And its breast of down and dew!

I wish he would catch me a Little mermaid, Some island where he lands, With her dripping curls, And her crown of pearls, And the looking-glass in her hands! Hail! Ho! Sail! Ho! Sail far o'er the fabulous main! And if I were a sailor, I'd sail with you, Though I never sailed back again.

James Whitcomb Riley.

_The Land of Story-Books_[A]

At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "A Child's Garden of Verses," by Robert Louis Stevenson. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._

_The City Child_

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury bells."

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

_Going into Breeches_

Joy to Philip! he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Put the manly breeches on. Officer on gay parade, Red-coat in his first cockade, Bridegroom in his wedding-trim, Birthday beau surpassing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state Or the pride (yet free from sin) Of my little MANIKIN: Never was there pride or bliss Half so rational as his. Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em, Philip's limbs have got their freedom-- He can run, or he can ride, And do twenty things beside, Which his petticoats forbade; Is he not a happy lad? Now he's under other banners He must leave his former manners; Bid adieu to female games And forget their very names; Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek, Sports for girls and punies weak! Baste-the-bear he now may play at; Leap-frog, foot-ball sport away at; Show his skill and strength at cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket; Run about in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow; Climb a tree or scale a wall Without any fear to fall. If he get a hurt or bruise, To complain he must refuse, Though the anguish and the smart Go unto his little heart; He must have his courage ready, Keep his voice and visage steady; Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum, That a tear may never come; And his grief must only speak From the colour in his cheek. This and more he must endure, Hero he in miniature. This and more must now be done, Now the breeches are put on.

Charles and Mary Lamb.

_Hunting Song_

Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay! To the meadows trip away. 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn, Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

_Hie Away_

Hie away, hie away! Over bank and over brae, Where the copsewood is the greenest, Where the fountains glisten sheenest, Where the lady fern grows strongest, Where the morning dew lies longest, Where the blackcock sweetest sips it, Where the fairy latest trips it: Hie to haunts right seldom seen, Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, Over bank and over brae, Hie away, hie away!

Sir Walter Scott.

VIII

STORY TIME

_And I made a rural pen; And I stained the water clear And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear._

_William Blake._

STORY TIME

_The Fairy Folk_

Come cuddle close in daddy's coat Beside the fire so bright, And hear about the fairy folk That wander in the night. For when the stars are shining clear And all the world is still, They float across the silver moon From hill to cloudy hill.

Their caps of red, their cloaks of green, Are hung with silver bells, And when they're shaken with the wind Their merry ringing swells. And riding on the crimson moth, With black spots on his wings, They guide them down the purple sky With golden bridle rings.

They love to visit girls and boys To see how sweet they sleep, To stand beside their cosy cots And at their faces peep. For in the whole of fairy land They have no finer sight Than little children sleeping sound With faces rosy bright.

On tip-toe crowding round their heads, When bright the moonlight beams, They whisper little tender words That fill their minds with dreams; And when they see a sunny smile, With lightest finger tips They lay a hundred kisses sweet Upon the ruddy lips.

And then the little spotted moths Spread out their crimson wings, And bear away the fairy crowd With shaking bridle rings. Come bairnies, hide in daddy's coat, Beside the fire so bright-- Perhaps the little fairy folk Will visit you to-night.

Robert Bird.

_A Fairy in Armor_

He put his acorn helmet on; It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down; The corslet plate that guarded his breast Was once the wild bee's golden vest; His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, Was formed of the wings of butterflies; His shield was the shell of a lady-bug green, Studs of gold on a ground of green; And the quivering lance which he brandished bright, Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue; He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, And away like a glance of thought he flew, To skim the heavens, and follow far The fiery trail of the rocket-star.

Joseph Rodman Drake.

_The Last Voyage of the Fairies_

Down the bright stream the Fairies float,-- A water-lily is their boat.

Long rushes they for paddles take, Their mainsail of a bat's wing make;

The tackle is of cobwebs neat,-- With glow-worm lantern all's complete.

So down the broad'ning stream they float, With Puck as pilot of the boat.

The Queen on speckled moth-wings lies, And lifts at times her languid eyes

To mark the green and mossy spots Where bloom the blue forget-me-nots:

Oberon, on his rose-bud throne, Claims the fair valley as his own:

And elves and fairies, with a shout Which may be heard a yard about,

Hail him as Elfland's mighty King; And hazel-nuts in homage bring,

And bend the unreluctant knee, And wave their wands in loyalty.

Down the broad stream the Fairies float, An unseen power impels their boat;

The banks fly past--each wooded scene-- The elder copse--the poplars green--

And soon they feel the briny breeze With salt and savour of the seas--

Still down the stream the Fairies float, An unseen power impels their boat;

Until they mark the rushing tide Within the estuary wide.

And now they're tossing on the sea, Where waves roll high, and winds blow free,--

Ah, mortal vision nevermore Shall see the Fairies on the shore,

Or watch upon a summer night Their mazy dances of delight!

Far, far away upon the sea, The waves roll high, the breeze blows free!

The Queen on speckled moth-wings lies, Slow gazing with a strange surprise

Where swim the sea-nymphs on the tide Or on the backs of dolphins ride:

The King, upon his rose-bud throne, Pales as he hears the waters moan;

The elves have ceased their sportive play, Hushed by the slowly sinking day:

And still afar, afar they float, The Fairies in their fragile boat,--

Further and further from the shore, And lost to mortals evermore!

W. H. Davenport Adams.

_A New Fern_

A Fairy has found a new fern! A lovely surprise of the May! She stamps her wee foot, looks uncommonly stern, And keeps other fairies at bay.

She watches it flourish and grow-- What exquisite pleasure is hers! She kisses it, strokes it and fondles it so-- I almost believe that she purrs!

Of all the most beautiful things, None brighter than this I discern, To be a young fairy, with glittering wings, And then--to discover a fern!

"A."

_The Child and the Fairies_

The woods are full of fairies! The trees are all alive: The river overflows with them, See how they dip and dive! What funny little fellows! What dainty little dears! They dance and leap, and prance and peep, And utter fairy cheers!

* * * * *

I'd like to tame a fairy, To keep it on a shelf, To see it wash its little face, And dress its little self. I'd teach it pretty manners, It always should say "Please;" And then you know I'd make it sew, And curtsey with its knees!

"A."

_The Little Elf_

I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small And why he didn't grow.

He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me," said he, "As you are big for you."

John Kendrick Bangs.

_"One, Two, Three"_[A]

It was an old, old, old, old lady And a boy that was half-past three, And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go romping and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree, And the game that they played I'll tell you, Just as it was told to me.

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing. Though you'd never have known it to be-- With an old, old, old, old lady And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down On his little sound right knee. And he guessed where she was hiding In guesses One, Two, Three.

"You are in the china closet!" He would cry and laugh with glee-- It wasn't the china closet, But he still had Two and Three.

"You are up in papa's big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key," And she said: "You are warm and warmer; But you are not quite right," said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard Where mamma's things used to be-- So it must be in the clothes press, Gran'ma," And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three.