Chapter 9

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, home from the wood They sent me to fetch you as fast as I could. The sun has gone down: it is time to go home. Mooly cow, mooly cow, why don't you come? Your udders are full, and the milkmaid is there, And the children are waiting their supper to share. I have let the long bars down,--why don't you pass through?" The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, have you not been Regaling all day where the pastures are green? No doubt it was pleasant, dear mooly, to see The clear running brook and the wide-spreading tree, The clover to crop and the streamlet to wade, To drink the cool water and lie in the shade; But now it is night: they are waiting for you." The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, where do you go, When all the green pastures are covered with snow? You go to the barn and we feed you with hay, And the maid goes to milk you there, every day; She speaks to you kindly and sits by your side, She pats you, she loves you, she strokes your sleek hide: Then come along home, pretty mooly cow, do." But the mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, whisking your tail, The milkmaid is waiting, I say, with her pail; She tucks up her petticoats, tidy and neat, And places the three-leggéd stool for her seat:-- What can you be staring at, mooly? You know That we ought to have gone home an hour ago. How dark it is growing! O, what shall I do?" The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

Anna M. Wells.

IX

BED TIME[A]

_When the golden day is done, Through the closing portal, Child and garden, flower and sun, Vanish all things mortal._

_Robert Louis Stevenson._

FOOTNOTE:

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

BED-TIME

_Auld Daddy Darkness_

Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, Black as a blackamoor, blin' as a mole: Stir the fire till it lowes, let the bairnie sit, Auld Daddy Darkness is no wantit yet.

See him in the corners hidin' frae the licht, See him at the window gloomin' at the nicht; Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far awa'.

Awa' to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, Awa' to lap the wee flooers on their mither's breast, Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca', For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'.

He comes when we're weary to wean's frae oor waes, He comes when the bairnies are getting aff their claes; To cover them sae cosy, an' bring bonnie dreams, So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he seems.

Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye'll see Daddy then; He's in below the bed claes, to cuddle ye he's fain; Noo nestle in his bosie, sleep and dream yer fill, Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre the hill.

James Ferguson.

_Wynken, Blynken, and Nod_[A]

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe-- Sailed on a river of crystal light, Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!" Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew.

The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea-- "Now cast your nets wherever you wish-- Never afeard are we"; So cried the stars to the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam-- Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed As if it could not be, And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea-- But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed.

So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Eugene Field.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "With Trumpet and Drum," by Eugene Field. Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons._

_Rockaby, Lullaby_[A]

Rockaby, lullaby, bees on the clover!-- Crooning so drowsily, crying so low-- Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Down into wonderland-- Down to the under-land-- Go, oh go! Down into wonderland go!

Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover! Tears on the eyelids that struggle and weep! Rockaby, lullaby--bending it over! Down on the mother world, Down on the other world! Sleep, oh sleep! Down on the mother-world sleep!

Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover! Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn! Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Into the stilly world! Into the lily world, Gone! oh gone! Into the lily world, gone!

Josiah Gilbert Holland.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "The Poetical Works of J. G. Holland." Copyright, 1881, by Charles Scribner's Sons._

_Sleep, My Treasure_

Sleep, sleep, my treasure, The long day's pleasure Has tired the birds, to their nests they creep; The garden still is Alight with lilies, But all the daisies are fast asleep.

Sleep, sleep, my darling, Dawn wakes the starling, The sparrow stirs when he sees day break; But all the meadow Is wrapped in shadow, And you must sleep till the daisies wake!

E. Nesbit.

_Lullaby of an Infant Chief_

Oh, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens from the tower which we see, They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

Oh, hush thee, my babie, the time will soon come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

Sir Walter Scott.

_Sweet and Low_

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me: While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

_Old Gaelic Lullaby_

Hush! the waves are rolling in, White with foam, white with foam; Father toils amid the din; But baby sleeps at home.

Hush! the winds roar hoarse and deep,-- On they come, on they come! Brother seeks the wandering sheep: But baby sleeps at home.

Hush! the rain sweeps o'er the knowes, Where they roam, where they roam; Sister goes to seek the cows; But baby sleeps at home.

Unknown.

_The Sandman_

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down; And now the sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town. "White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away-- Yes, in another land-- He gathers up at break of day His store of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes; And every child right well he knows,-- Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting on the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

Margaret Vandegrift.

_The Cottager to Her Infant_

The days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty Love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light, 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane bedropped with rain; There, little darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day.

Dorothy Wordsworth.

_A Charm to Call Sleep_

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep, Come to my blankets and come to my bed, Come to my legs and my arms and my head, Over me, under me, into me creep.

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep, Blow on my face like a soft breath of air, Lay your cool hand on my forehead and hair, Carry me down through the dream-waters deep.

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep, Tell me the secrets that you alone know, Show me the wonders none other can show, Open the box where your treasures you keep.

Sleep, Sleep, come to me, Sleep: Softly I call you; as soft and as slow Come to me, cuddle me, stay with me so, Stay till the dawn is beginning to peep.

Henry Johnstone.

_Night_

The snow is white, the wind is cold-- The king has sent for my three-year-old. Bring the pony and shoe him fast With silver shoes that were made to last. Bring the saddle trimmed with gold; Put foot in stirrup, my three-year-old; Jump in the saddle, away, away! And hurry back by the break of day; By break of day, through dale and down, And bring me the news from Slumbertown.

Mary F. Butts.

_Bed-Time_

'Tis bed-time; say your hymn, and bid "Good night, "God bless mamma, papa, and dear ones all." Your half-shut eyes beneath your eye-lids fall; Another minute you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall. What will you give me, Sleepy One, and call My wages, if I settle you all right? I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand; Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, Her heart next mine, beat gently, soft and warm; She nestled to me, and, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages,--Baby's kiss.

Lord Rosslyn.

_Nightfall in Dordrecht_[A]

The mill goes toiling slowly around With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak. While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings: "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, And, over his pot of beer, The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, Lustily maketh cheer; He mocks at the winds that caper along From the far-off clamorous deep-- But we--we love their lullaby song Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

Old dog Fritz in slumber sound Groans of the stony mart-- To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you round, Hitched to our new milk-cart! And you shall help me blanket the kine And fold the gentle sheep And set the herring a-soak in brine-- But now, little tulip, sleep!

A Dream-One comes to button the eyes That wearily droop and blink, While the old mill buffets the frowning skies And scolds at the stars that wink; Over your face the misty wings Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, And rocking your cradle she softly sings: "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

Eugene Field.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "With Trumpet and Drum," by Eugene Field. Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons._

X

FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD

_Sunday's child is full of grace._

_Old Proverb._

FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD

_All Things Bright and Beautiful_

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colours, He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And order'd their estate.

The purple-headed mountain, The river running by, The sunset and the morning, That brightens up the sky;--

The cold wind in the winter, The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden,-- He made them every one;

The tall trees in the greenwood, The meadows where we play, The rushes by the water We gather every day;--

He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell, How great is God Almighty, Who has made all things well.

Cecil Frances Alexander.

_The Still Small Voice_

Wee Sandy in the corner Sits greeting on a stool, And sair the laddie rues Playing truant frae the school; Then ye'll learn frae silly Sandy, Wha's gotten sic a fright, To do naething through the day That may gar ye greet at night.

He durstna venture hame now, Nor play, though e'er so fine, And ilka ane he met wi' He thought them sure to ken, And started at ilk whin bush, Though it was braid daylight-- Sae do nothing through the day That may gar ye greet at night.

Wha winna be advised Are sure to rue ere lang; And muckle pains it costs them To do the thing that's wrang, When they wi' half the fash o't Might aye be in the right, And do naething through the day That would gar them greet at night.

What fools are wilfu' bairns, Who misbehave frae hame! There's something in the breast aye That tells them they're to blame; And then when comes the gloamin', They're in a waefu' plight! Sae do naething through the day That may gar ye greet at night.

Alexander Smart.

_The Camel's Nose_

Once in his shop a workman wrought, With languid head and listless thought, When, through the open window's space, Behold, a camel thrust his face! "My nose is cold," he meekly cried; "Oh, let me warm it by thy side!"

Since no denial word was said, In came the nose, in came the head: As sure as sermon follows text, The long and scraggy neck came next; And then, as falls the threatening storm, In leaped the whole ungainly form.

Aghast the owner gazed around, And on the rude invader frowned, Convinced, as closer still he pressed, There was no room for such a guest; Yet more astonished, heard him say, "If thou art troubled, go away, For in this place I choose to stay."

O youthful hearts to gladness born, Treat not this Arab lore with scorn! To evil habits' earliest wile Lend neither ear, nor glance, nor smile. Choke the dark fountain ere it flows, Nor e'en admit the camel's nose!

Lydia H. Sigourney.

_A Child's Grace_

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.

Robert Burns.

_A Child's Thought of God_

They say that God lives very high! But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God. And why?

And if you dig down in the mines You never see Him in the gold, Though from Him all that's glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face-- Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place:

As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure, Half-waking me at night; and said "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

_The Lamb_

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is callèd by thy name, For He calls himself a Lamb. He is meek and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake.

_Night and Day_[A]

When I run about all day, When I kneel at night to pray, God sees.

When I'm dreaming in the dark, When I lie awake and hark, God sees.

Need I ever know a fear? Night and day my Father's near:-- God sees.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "Rhymes and Jingles," by Mary Mapes Dodge. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._

_High and Low_[A]

The showers fall as softly Upon the lowly grass As on the stately roses That tremble as they pass.

The sunlight shines as brightly On fern-leaves bent and torn As on the golden harvest, The fields of waving corn.

The wild birds sing as sweetly To rugged, jagged pines, As to the blossomed orchards, And to the cultured vines.

* * * * *

Dora Read Goodale.

_By Cool Siloam's Shady Rill_

By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose!

Lo, such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God.

Reginald Heber.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "Apple Blossoms," by Dora Read Goodale. By permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons._

_Sheep and Lambs_

All in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.

* * * * *

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God.

Katharine Tynan Hinkson.

_To His Saviour, a Child; A Present by a Child_

Go, pretty child, and bear this flower Unto thy little Saviour; And tell him, by that bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known. When thou hast said so, stick it there Upon his bib or stomacher; And tell him, for good hansel too, That thou hast brought a whistle new, Made of a clean strait oaten reed, To charm his cries at time of need. Tell him, for coral thou hast none, But if thou hadst, he should have one; But poor thou art, and known to be Even as moneyless as he. Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss From those mellifluous lips of his; Then never take a second on, To spoil the first impression.

Robert Herrick.

_What Would You See?_

What would you see if I took you up To my little nest in the air? You would see the sky like a clear blue cup Turned upside downwards there.

What would you do if I took you there To my little nest in the tree? My child with cries would trouble the air, To get what she could but see.

What would you get in the top of the tree For all your crying and grief? Not a star would you clutch of all you see-- You could only gather a leaf.

But when you had lost your greedy grief, Content to see from afar, You would find in your hand a withering leaf, In your heart a shining star.

George Macdonald.

_Corn-Fields_

When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down,-- Oh, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest-hill!

What joy in dreaming ease to lie Amid a field new shorn; And see all round, on sunlit slopes, The piled-up shocks of corn; And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!