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[Illustration: The Convalescent.]
VERSES FOR CHILDREN
AND
SONGS FOR MUSIC
BY
JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.
NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO.
[Published under the direction of the General Literature
Committee.]
PREFACE
It has been decided in publishing this volume to reproduce the
illustrations with which the verses originally appeared in _Aunt Judy's
Magazine_. In all cases Mrs. Ewing wrote the lines to fit the pictures,
and it is worthy of note to observe how closely she has introduced every
detail into her words. Most of the woodcuts are by German artists, Oscar
Pletsch, Fedor Flinzer, and others; but the frontispiece is from an
original sketch by Mr. Gordon Browne. In accordance with his special
desire, it has only been used for Mrs. Ewing's poem, as the Convalescent
was a little friend of the artist, who did not live to complete his
recovery. The poem is the last that Mrs. Ewing wrote for children, and
it was penned when she herself was enduring the discomforts of
convalescence with all the courage she so warmly advocates.
Mr. Randolph Caldecott's illustrations to "Mother's Birthday Review"
first appeared in his _Sketch Book_, but the letterpress that
accompanied them was very brief, and Mrs. Ewing could not resist asking
permission to write some verses to the pictures, and publish them in
_Aunt Judy's Magazine_. This favour was kindly granted, and by Mrs.
Caldecott's further kindness the sketches are again used here.
The contents of this volume have been arranged chronologically as far as
is possible.
"The Willow Man" and "Grandmother's Spring" were both written to protest
against wantonly wasting Dame Nature's gifts, and the Note on page 69
shows that Mrs. Ewing had learnt this lesson herself in childhood. My
Father has lately recalled an incident which he believes first roused
our Mother to teach the lesson to us. They were driving to Sheffield one
day, when on Bolsover Hill they saw a well-known veterinary surgeon of
the district, Mr. Peech, who had dismounted from his horse, and was
carefully taking up a few roots of white violets from a bank where they
grew in some profusion. He showed Mrs. Gatty what he was gathering, but
told her he was taking care to _leave a bit behind_. This happened fully
forty years ago, long before the Selborne and other Societies for the
preservation of rare plants and birds had come into existence, and
Mother was much impressed and pleased by Mr. Peech's delicate
scrupulousness.
"A Soldier's Children" was written in 1879, whilst many friends were
fighting in South Africa, and ten years before a story bearing the same
name was issued by the writer of _Bootles' Baby_.
The "Songs for Music" appeared in 1874 in a volume called _Songs by Four
Friends_, except the two last poems, "Anemones" and "Autumn Tints." The
former was given by Mrs. Ewing to her brother, Mr. Alfred Scott-Gatty,
to set to music, and it has recently been published by Messrs. Boosey.
"Autumn Tints" was found amongst Mrs. Ewing's papers after her death,
and is now printed for the first time.
HORATIA K.F. EDEN.
_June 1895._
CONTENTS.
VERSES FOR CHILDREN.
THE BURIAL OF THE LINNET
MASTER FRITZ
THE WILLOW-MAN
OUR GARDEN
A FRIEND IN THE GARDEN
THREE LITTLE NEST BIRDS
DOLLY'S LULLABY: A NURSERY RHYME
A HERO TO HIS HOBBY-HORSE
THE DOLLS' WASH
HOUSE-BUILDING AND REPAIRS
THE BLUE-BELLS ON THE LEA
AN ONLY CHILD'S TEA-PARTY
PAPA POODLE
GRANDMOTHER'S SPRING
BIG SMITH
KIT'S CRADLE
THE MILL STREAM
BOY AND SQUIRREL
LITTLE MASTER TO HIS BIG DOG
A SWEET LITTLE DEAR
BLUE AND RED; OR, THE DISCONTENTED LOBSTER
THE YELLOW FLY: A TALE WITH A STING IN IT
CANADA HOME
THE POET AND THE BROOK: A TALE OF TRANSFORMATIONS
A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN
"TOUCH HIM IF YOU DARE:" A TALE OF THE HEDGE
MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW
THE PROMISE
CONVALESCENCE
THE ADVENTURES OF AN ELF. (_Translated_)
SONGS FOR MUSIC.
SERENADE
MAIDEN WITH THE GIPSY LOOK
AH! WOULD I COULD FORGET
MADRIGAL
THE ELLEREE: A SONG OF SECOND SIGHT
OTHER STARS
FADED FLOWERS
SPEED WELL
HOW MANY YEARS AGO?
"WITH A DIFFERENCE"
THE LILY OF THE LAKE
FROM FLEETING PLEASURES: A REQUIEM FOR ONE ALIVE
THE RUNAWAY'S RETURN
FANCY FREE: A GIRL'S SONG
MY LOVE'S GIFT
ANEMONES
AUTUMN LEAVES
HYMNS.
CONFIRMATION
WHITSUNTIDE
CHRISTMAS WISHES: A CAROL
TEACH ME. (_From the Danish_)
VERSES FOR CHILDREN.
THE BURIAL OF THE LINNET.
Found in the garden--dead in his beauty.
Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring!
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.
Bury him kindly--up in the corner;
Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there;
Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,
Waving her tail like a plume in the air.
Bury him nobly--next to the donkey;
Fetch the old banner, and wave it about:
Bury him deeply--think of the monkey,
Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.
Bury him softly--white wool around him,
Kiss his poor feathers,--the first kiss and last;
Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:
Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.
Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,
Silent through summer, though other birds sing;
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.
[Illustration: MASTER FRITZ.]
Fritz and I are not brother and sister, but we're next-door
neighbours; for we both live next door.
I mean we both live next door to each other; for I live at
number three, and Fritz and Nickel the dog live at number
four.
In summer we climb through the garret windows and sit
together on the leads,
And if the sun is too hot Mother lends us one big kerchief
to put over both our heads.
Sometimes she gives us tea under the myrtle tree in the big
pot that stands in the gutter.
(One slice each, and I always give Fritz the one that has
the most butter.)
In winter we sit on the little stool by the stove at number four;
For when it's cold Fritz doesn't like to go out to come in next door.
It was one day in spring that he said, "I should like to
have a house to myself with you Grethel, and Nickel." And I
said, "Thank you, Fritz."
And he said, "If you'll come in at tea-time and sit by the stove, I'll
tell you tales that'll frighten you into fits.
About boys who ran away from their homes, and were taken by robbers,
and run after by wolves, and altogether in a dreadful state.
I saw the pictures of it in a book I was looking in, to see where
perhaps I should like to emigrate.
I've not quite settled whether I shall, or be cast away on a desert
island, or settle down nearer home;
But you'd better come in and hear about it, and then, wherever it is,
you'll be sure to be ready to come."
So I took my darling Katerina in my arms, and we went in to tea.
I love Katerina, though she lost her head long ago, poor thing; but
Fritz made me put her off my knee,
For he said, "When you're hushabying that silly old doll I know you're
not attending to me.
Now look here, Grethel, I think I have made up my mind that we won't
go far;
For we can have a house, and I can be master of it just as well where
we are.
Under the stairs would be a good place for a house for us if there's
room.
It's very dirty, but you're the housewife now, and you must sweep it
out well with the broom.
I shall expect you to keep my house very comfortable, and have my meals
ready when there's anything to eat;
And when Nickel and I come back from playing outside, you may peep out
and pretend you're watching for us coming up the street.
You've kept your apple, I see--I've eaten mine--well, it will be
something to make a start,
And I'll put by some of my cake, if you'll keep some of yours, and
remember Nickel must have part.
I call it your cake and your apple, but of course now you're my
housewife everything belongs to me;
But I shall give you the management of it, and you must make it go as
far as you can amongst three.
And if you make nice feasts every day for me and Nickel, and never
keep us waiting for our food,
And always do everything I want, and attend to everything I say, I'm
sure I shall almost always be good.
And if I am naughty now and then, it'll most likely be your fault;
and, if it isn't, you mustn't mind;
For even if I seem to be cross, you ought to know that I mean to be
kind.
And I'm sure you'll like combing Nickel's hair for my sake; it'll be
something for you to do, and it bothers me so!
But it must be done regularly, for if it's not, his curls tangle into
lugs as they grow.
I think that's all, dear Grethel, for I love you so much that I'm sure
to be easy to please.
Only remember--it's a trifle--but when I want you, never keep that
headless doll on your knees.
I'd much rather not have her in my house--there, don't cry! if you
will have her, I suppose it must be;
Though I can't think what you want with Katerina when you've got
Nickel and me."
So I said, "Thank you, dear Fritz, for letting me bring her, for I've
had her so long I shouldn't like to part with her now;
And I'll try and do everything you want as well as I can, now you've
told me how."
But next morning I heard Fritz's garret-window open, and he put out
his head,
And shouted, "Grethel! Grethel! I want you. Be quick! Haven't you got
out of bed?"
I ran to the window and said, "What is it, dear Fritz?" and he said,
"I want to tell you that I've changed my mind.
Hans-Wandermann is here, and he says there are real sapphires on the
beach; so I'm off to see what I can find."
"Oh, Fritz!" I said, "can't I come too?" but he said, "You'd better
not, you'll only be in the way.
You can stop quietly at home with Katerina, and you may have Nickel
too, if he'll stay."
But Nickel wouldn't. I give him far more of my cake than Fritz does,
but he likes Fritz better than me.
So dear Katerina and I had breakfast together on the leads under the
old myrtle tree.
THE WILLOW-MAN.
There once was a Willow, and he was very old,
And all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold;
But ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow,
There grew upon his hoary head a crop of Mistletoe.
All wrinkled and furrowed was this old Willow's skin,
His taper fingers trembled, and his arms were very thin;
Two round eyes and hollow, that stared but did not see,
And sprawling feet that never walked, had this most ancient tree.
A Dame who dwelt near was the only one who knew
That every year upon his head the Christmas berries grew;
And when the Dame cut them, she said--it was her whim--
"A merry Christmas to you, Sir!" _and left a bit for him_.
"Oh, Granny dear, tell us," the children cried, "where we
May find the shining Mistletoe that grows upon the tree?"
At length the Dame told them, but cautioned them to mind
To greet the Willow civilly, _and leave a bit behind_.
"Who cares," said the children, "for this old Willow-man?
We'll take the Mistletoe, and he may catch us if he can."
With rage the ancient Willow shakes in every limb,
For they have taken all, and _have not left a bit for him_!
Then bright gleamed the holly, the Christmas berries shone,
But in the wintry wind without the Willow-man did moan:
"Ungrateful, and wasteful! the mystic Mistletoe
A hundred years hath grown on me, but never more shall grow."
A year soon passed by, and the children came once more,
But not a sprig of Mistletoe the aged Willow bore.
Each slender spray pointed; he mocked them in his glee,
And chuckled in his wooden heart, that ancient Willow-tree.
MORAL.
Oh, children, who gather the spoils of wood and wold,
From selfish greed and wilful waste your little hands withhold.
Though fair things be common, this moral bear in mind,
"Pick thankfully and modestly, and leave a bit behind."
[Illustration]
OUR GARDEN.
The winter is gone; and at first Jack and I were sad,
Because of the snow-man's melting, but now we are glad;
For the spring has come, and it's warm, and we're allowed to garden
in the afternoon;
And summer is coming, and oh, how lovely our flowers will be in June!
We are so fond of flowers, it makes us quite happy to think
Of our beds--all colours--blue, white, yellow, purple, and pink,
Scarlet, lilac, and crimson! And we're fond of sweet scents as well,
And mean to have pinks, roses, sweet peas, mignonette, clove
carnations, musk, and everything good to smell;
Lavender, rosemary, and we should like a lemon-scented verbena, and
a big myrtle tree!
And then if we could get an old "preserved-ginger" pot, and some
bay-salt, we could make _pot-pourri_.
Jack and I have a garden, though it's not so large as the big one,
you know;
But whatever can be got to grow in a garden we mean to grow.
We've got Bachelor's Buttons, and London Pride, and Old Man, and
everything that's nice:
And last year Jack sowed green peas for our dolls' dinners, but they
were eaten up by the mice.
And he would plant potatoes in furrows, which made the garden in a
mess,
So this year we mean to have no kitchen-garden but mustard and cress.
One of us plants, and the other waters, but Jack likes the
watering-pot;
And then when my turn comes to water he says it's too hot!
We sometimes quarrel about the garden, and once Jack hit me with
the spade;
So we settled to divide it in two by a path up the middle, and
that's made.
We want some yellow sand now to make the walk pretty, but there's none
about here,
So we mean to get some in the old carpet-bag, if we go to the seaside
this year.
On Monday we went to the wood and got primrose plants and a sucker of
a dog-rose;
It looks like a green stick in the middle of the bed at present; but
wait till it blows!
The primroses were in full flower, and the rose ought to flower soon;
You've no idea how lovely they are in that wood in June!
The primroses look quite withered now, I am sorry to say,
But that is not our fault but Nurse's, and it shows how hard it is to
garden when you can't have your own way.
We planted them carefully, and were just going to water them all in
a lump,
When Nurse fetched us both indoors, and put us to bed for wetting our
pinafores at the pump.
It's very hard, and I'm sure the gardener's plants wouldn't grow any
better than ours,
If Nurse fetched him in and sent him to bed just when he was going to
water his flowers.
We've got Blue Nemophila and Mignonette, and Venus's Looking-glass,
and many other seeds;
The Nemophila comes up spotted, which is how we know it from the weeds.
At least it's sure to come up if the hens haven't scratched it up
first.
But when it is up the cats roll on it, and that is the worst!
I sowed a ring of sweet peas, and the last time I looked they were
coming nicely on,
Just sprouting white, and I put them safely back; but when Jack looked
he found they were gone.
Jack made a great many cuttings, but he has had rather bad luck,
I've looked at them every day myself, and not one of them has struck.
The gardener gave me a fine moss-rose, but Jack took it to his side,
I kept moving it back, but he took it again, and at last it died.
But now we've settled to dig up the path, and have the bed as it was
before,
So everything will belong to us both, and we shan't ever quarrel
any more.
It is such a long time, too, to wait for the sand, and perhaps
sea-sand does best on the shore.
We're going to take everything up, for it can't hurt the plants to
stand on the grass for a minute,
And you really can't possibly rake a bed smooth with so many
things in it.
We shall dig it all over, and get leaf-mould from the wood, and hoe
up the weeds,
And when it's tidy we shall plant, and put labels, and strike cuttings,
and sow seeds.
We are so fond of flowers, Jack and I often dream at night
Of getting up and finding our garden ablaze with all colours, blue,
red, yellow, and white.
And Midsummer's coming, and big brother Tom will sit under the tree
With his book, and Mary will beg sweet nosegays of Jack and me.
The worst is, we often start for the seaside about Midsummer Day,
And no one takes care of our gardens whilst we are away.
But if we sow lots of seeds, and take plenty of cuttings before we
leave home,
When we come back, our flowers will be all in full bloom,
Bright, bright sunshine above, and sweet, sweet flowers below.
Come, oh Midsummer, quickly come! and go quickly, Midsummer, go!
P.S. It is so tiresome! Jack wants to build a green-house now,
He has found some bits of broken glass, and an old window-frame, and
he says he knows how.
I tell him there's not glass enough, but he says there's lots,
And he's taken all the plants that belong to the bed and put
them in pots.
A FRIEND IN THE GARDEN.
He is not John the gardener,
And yet the whole day long
Employs himself most usefully,
The flower-beds among.
He is not Tom the pussy-cat,
And yet the other day,
With stealthy stride and glistening eye,
He crept upon his prey.
He is not Dash the dear old dog,
And yet, perhaps, if you
Took pains with him and petted him,
You'd come to love him too.
He's not a Blackbird, though he chirps,
And though he once was black;
And now he wears a loose grey coat,
All wrinkled on the back.
He's got a very dirty face,
And very shining eyes!
He sometimes comes and sits indoors;
He looks--and p'r'aps is--wise.
But in a sunny flower-bed
He has his fixed abode;
He eats the things that eat my plants--
He is a friendly TOAD.
[Illustration]
THREE LITTLE NEST BIRDS.
We meant to be very kind,
But if ever we find
Another soft, grey-green, moss-coated, feather-lined nest in a hedge,
We have taken a pledge--
Susan, Jemmy, and I--with remorseful tears, at this very minute,
That if there are eggs or little birds in it--
Robin or wren, thrush, chaffinch or linnet--
We'll leave them there
To their mother's care.
There were three of us--Kate, and Susan, and Jem--
And three of them--
I don't know _their_ names, for they couldn't speak,
Except with a little imperative squeak,
Exactly like Poll,
Susan's squeaking doll;
But squeaking dolls will lie on the shelves
For years and never squeak of themselves:
The reason we like little birds so much better than toys
Is because they are _really_ alive, and know how to make a noise.
There were three of us, and three of them;
Kate,--that is I,--and Susan, and Jem.
Our mother was busy making a pie,
And theirs, we think, was up in the sky;
But for all Susan, Jemmy, or I can tell,
She may have been getting their dinner as well.
They were left to themselves (and so were we)
In a nest in the hedge by the willow tree;
And when we caught sight of three red little fluff-tufted, hazel-eyed,
open-mouthed, pink-throated heads, we all shouted for glee.
The way we really did wrong was this:
We took them for Mother to kiss,
And she told us to put them back;
Whilst out on the weeping-willow _their_ mother was crying "Alack!"
We really heard
Both what Mother told us to do, and the voice of the mother-bird.
But we three--that is Susan and I and Jem--
Thought we knew better than either of them:
And in spite of our mother's command and the poor bird's cry,
We determined to bring up her three little nestlings ourselves
on the sly.
We each took one,
It did seem such excellent fun!
Susan fed hers on milk and bread,
Jem got wriggling worms for his instead.
I gave mine meat,
For, you know, I thought, "Poor darling pet! why shouldn't it have
roast beef to eat?"
But, oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! how we cried
When in spite of milk and bread and worms and roast beef, the
little birds died!
It's a terrible thing to have heart-ache,
I thought mine would break
As I heard the mother-bird's moan,
And looked at the grey-green, moss-coated, feather-lined nest she had
taken such pains to make,
And her three little children dead, and as cold as stone.
Mother said, and it's sadly true,
"There are some wrong things one can never undo."
And nothing that we could do or say
Would bring life back to the birds that day.
The bitterest tears that we could weep
Wouldn't wake them out of their stiff cold sleep.
But then,
We--Susan and Jem and I--mean never to be so selfish, and wilful,
and cruel again.
And we three have buried those other three
In a soft, green, moss-covered, flower-lined grave at the foot of
the willow tree.
And all the leaves which its branches shed
We think are tears because they are dead.
DOLLY'S LULLABY.
A NURSERY RHYME
Hush-a-by, Baby! _Your_ baby, Mamma,
No one but pussy may go where you are;
Soft-footed pussy alone may pass by,
For, if he wakens, your baby will cry.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! My baby are you,
Yellow-haired Dolly, with eyes of bright blue;
Though I say "Hush!" because Mother does so,
You wouldn't cry like her baby, I know!
Hush-a-by, Baby! Mamma walks about,
Sings to you softly, or rocks you without;
If you slept sounder, then I might walk too,
Sing to my Dolly, and rock her like you!
Hush-a-by Dolly! Sleep sweetly, my pet!
Dear Mamma made you this fine berceaunette,
Muslin and rose-colour, ribbon and lace;
When had a baby a cosier place?
Hush-a-by, Baby! the baby who cries.
Why, dear Mamma, don't you shut baby's eyes?
Pull down his wire, as I do, you see;
Lay him by Dolly, and come out with me.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! Mamma will not speak;
You, my dear baby, would sleep for a week.
Poor Mamma's baby allows her no rest,
Hush-a-by, Dolly, of babies the best!
[Illustration]
A HERO TO HIS HOBBY-HORSE.
Hear me now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces!
Time is it that you and I won something more than races.
I have got a fine cocked hat, with feathers proudly waving;
Out into the world we'll go, both death and danger braving.
Doubt not that I know the way--the garden-gate is clapping:
Who forgot to lock it last deserves his fingers slapping.
When they find we can't be found, oh won't there be a chorus!
You and I may laugh at that, with all the world before us.
All the world, the great green world that lies beyond the paling!
All the sea, the great round sea where ducks and drakes are sailing!
I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander
Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.
Months ago, my faithful steed, that Goose attacked your master;
How it hissed, and how I cried! It ran, but I ran faster!
Down upon my face I fell, its awful wings were o'er me,
Mother came and picked me up, and off to bed she bore me.
Months have passed, my faithful steed, both you and I are older,
Sheathless is my wooden sword, my heart I think is bolder.
Always ready bridled thou, with reins of crimson leather;
Woe betide the Goose to-day who meets us both together!
Up then now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces!
Time it is that you and I won something more than races.
I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander
Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.
THE DOLLS' WASH.
Sally is the laundress, and every Saturday
She sends our clean clothes up from the wash, and Nurse puts them away.
Sometimes Sally is very kind, but sometimes she's as cross as a Turk;
When she's good-humoured we like to go and watch her at work.
She has tubs and a copper in the wash-house, and a great big fire and
plenty of soap;
And outside is the drying-ground with tall posts, and pegs bought from
the gipsies, and long lines of rope.
The laundry is indoors with another big fire, and long tables, and a
lot of irons, and a crimping-machine;
And horses (not live ones with tails, but clothes-horses) and the same
starch that is used by the Queen.
Sally wears pattens in the wash-house, and turns up her sleeves, and
splashes, and rubs,
And makes beautiful white lather which foams over the tops of the tubs,
Like waves at the seaside dashing against the rocks, only not so
strong.
If I were Sally I should sit and blow soap-bubbles all the day long.
Sally is angry sometimes because of the way we dirty our frocks,
Making mud pies, and rolling down the lawn, and climbing trees, and
scrambling over the rocks.
She says we do it on purpose, and never try to take care;
But if things have got to go to the wash, what can it matter how
dirty they are?
Last week Mary and I got a lot of kingcups from the bog, and I
carried them home in my skirt;
It was the end of the week, and our frocks were done, so we didn't
mind about the dirt.
But Sally was as cross as two sticks, and won't wash our dolls'
clothes any more--so she said,--
But never mind, for we'll ask Mamma if we may have a real Dolls'
Wash of our own instead.
* * * * *
Mamma says we may on one condition, to which we agree;
We're to _really_ wash the dolls' clothes, and make them just
what clean clothes should be.
She says we must wash them thoroughly, which of course we intend to do,
We mean to rub, wring, dry, mangle, starch, iron, and air them too.
A regular wash must be splendid fun, and everybody knows
That any one in the world can wash out a few dirty clothes.
* * * * *
Well, we've had the Dolls' Wash, but it's only pretty good fun.
We're glad we've had it, you know, but we're gladder still that
it's done.
As we wanted to have as big a wash as we could, we collected
everything we could muster,
From the dolls' bed dimity hangings to Victoria's dress, which I'd
used as a duster.
It was going to the wash, and Mary and I were house-maids--fancy
house-maids, I mean--
And I took it to dust the bookshelf, for I knew it would come back
clean.
Well, we washed in the wash-hand-basin, which holds a good deal, as
the things are small;
We made a glorious lather, and splashed half over the floor; but the
clothes weren't white after all.
However, we hung them out in our drying-ground in the garden, which
we made with dahlia-sticks and long strings,
And then Dash went and knocked over one of the posts, and down in the
dirt went our things!
So we washed them again and hung them on the towel-horse, and most of
them came all right,
But Victoria's muslin dress--though I rinsed it again and again--will
never dry white!
And the grease-spots on Mary's doll's dress don't seem to come out, and
we can't think how they got there;
Unless it was when we made that Macassar-oil, because she has
real hair.
I knew mine was going to the wash, but I'm sorry I used it as a duster
before it went;
We think dirty clothes perhaps shouldn't be _too_ dirty before they
are sent.
We had sad work in trying to make the starch--I wonder what the Queen
does with hers?
I stirred mine up with a candle, like Sally, but it only made it worse;
So we had to ask Mamma's leave to have ours made by Nurse.
Nurse makes beautiful starch--like water-arrowroot when you're ill--in
a minute or two.
It's a very odd thing that what looks so easy should be so difficult
to do!
Then Mary put the iron down to heat, but as soon as she'd turned
her back,
A jet of gas came sputtering out of the coals and smoked it black.
We dared not ask Sally for another, for we knew she'd refuse it,
So we had to clean this one with sand and brown-paper before we
could use it.
It was very hard work, but I rubbed till I made it shine;
Yet as soon as it got on a damped "fine thing" it left a brown line.
I rubbed it for a long, long time before it would iron without a mark,
But it did at last, and we finished our Dolls' Wash just before dark.
* * * * *
Sally's very kind, for she praised our wash, and she has taken away
Victoria's dress to do it again; and I really must say
She was right when she said, "You see, young ladies, a week's wash
isn't all play."
Our backs ache, our faces are red, our hands are all wrinkled, and
we've rubbed our fingers quite sore;
We feel very sorry for Sally every week, and we don't mean to dirty
our dresses so much any more.
[Illustration]
HOUSE-BUILDING AND REPAIRS.
Father is building a new house, but I've had one given to me for
my own;
Brick red, with a white window, and black where it ought to be glass,
and the chimney yellow, like stone.
Brother Bill made me the shelves with his tool-box, and the table I
had before, and the pestle-and-mortar;
And Mother gave me the jam-pot when it was empty; it's rather big, but
it's the only pot we have that will really hold water.
We--that is I and Jemima, my doll. (For it's a Doll's House, you know,
Though some of the things are real, like the nutmeg-grater, but not
the wooden plates that stand in a row.
_They_ came out of a box of toy tea-things, and I can't think what
became of the others;
But one never can tell what becomes of anything when one has brothers.)
Jemima is much smaller than I am, and, being made of wood, she is thin;
She takes up too much room inside, but she can lie outside on the roof
without breaking it in.
I wish I had a drawing-room to put her in when I want to really cook;
I have to have the kitchen-table outside as it is, and the
pestle-and-mortar is rather too heavy for it, and everybody
can look.
There's no front door to the house, because there's no front to have a
door in, and beside,
If there were, I couldn't play with anything, for I shouldn't know how
to get inside.
I never heard of a house with only one room, except the cobbler's, and
his was a stall.
I don't quite know what that is; but it isn't a house, and it served
him for parlour and kitchen and all.
Father says that whilst he is about it, he thinks he shall add on
a wing;
And brother Bill says he'll nail my Doll's House on the top of an
old tea-chest, which will come to the same thing.
* * * * *
Father's house is not finished, though the wing is; for now the
builder says it will be all wrong if there isn't another
to match;
And my house isn't done either, though it's nailed on, for Bill took
off the roof to make a new one of thatch.
The paint is very much scratched, but he says that's nothing, for it
must have had a new coat;
And he means to paint it for me, inside and out, when he paints
his own boat.
There's a sad hole in the floor, but Bill says the wood is as rotten
as rotten can be:
Which was why he made such a mess of the side with trying to put real
glass in the window, through which one can see.
Bill says he believes that the shortest plan would be to make a new
Doll's House with proper rooms, in the regular way;
Which was what the builder said to Father when he wanted to build in
the old front; and to-day
I heard him tell him the old materials were no good to use and weren't
worth the expense of carting away.
I don't know when I shall be able to play at dolls again, for all the
things are put away in a box;
Except Jemima and the pestle-and-mortar, and they're in the bottom
drawer with my Sunday frocks.
I almost wish I had kept the house as it was before;
We managed very well with a painted window and without a front door.
I don't know what Father means to do with his house, but if ever
mine is finished, I'll never have it altered any more.
THE BLUE-BELLS ON THE LEA.
FAIRY KING.
"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
If you will give yourself to me,
Within the fairy ring,
At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
On slender stems they swing.
"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
Upon the wind,
The Blue-bells seem to play--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Lest we should go astray.
"So gay that fairy music,
So jubilant those bells,
How days and weeks and months go by
No happy listener tells!
The toad-stools are with sweetmeats spread,
The new Moon lends her light,
And ringers small
Wait, one and all,
To ring with all their might--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
And welcome you to night."
BOY.
"My mother made me promise
To be in time for tea,
'Go home! go home!' the breezes say,
That sigh along the lea.
I dare not give myself away;
For what would Mother do?
I wish I might
Stay out all night
At fairy games with you.
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
And hear the bells of blue.
"But Father sleeps beneath the grass,
And Mother is alone:
And who would fill the pails, and fetch
The wood when I am gone?
And who, when little Sister ails,
Can comfort her, but me?
Her cries and tears
Would reach my ears
Through all the melody--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Of Blue-bells on the lea."
The sun was on the Blue-bells,
The lad was on the lea.
"Oh, wondrous bells! Oh, fairy bells!
I pray you ring to me.
I only did as Mother bade,
For tea I did not care,
And winds at night
Give more delight
Than all this noonday glare."
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
No sound of bells was there.
BOY.
"The snow lies o'er the Blue-bells,
A storm is on the lea;
Our hearth is warm, the fire burns bright,
The flames dance merrily.
Oh, Mother dear! I would no more
That on that summer's day,
Within the ring,
The Fairy King
Had stolen me away--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
To where the Blue-bells play.
"Yet when the storm is loudest,
At deep midnight I dream,
And up and down upon the lea
To chase the wind I seem;
While by my side, in feathered cap,
There runs the Fairy King,
And down below,
Beneath the snow,
We hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Such happy dreams they bring!"
AN ONLY CHILD'S TEA-PARTY.
When I go to tea with the little Smiths, there are eight of them
there, but there's only one of me,
Which makes it not so easy to have a fancy tea-party as if there were
two or three.
I had a tea-party on my birthday, but Joe Smith says it can't have
been a regular one,
Because as to a tea-party with only one teacup and no teapot,
sugar-basin, cream-jug, or slop-basin, he never heard of such
a thing under the sun.
But it was a very big teacup, and quite full of milk and water, and,
you see,
There wasn't anybody there who could really drink milk and water except
Towser and me.
The dolls can only pretend, and then it washes the paint off
their lips,
And what Charles the canary drinks isn't worth speaking of, for he
takes such very small sips.
Joe says a kitchen-chair isn't a table; but it has got four legs and
a top, so it would be if the back wasn't there;
And that does for Charles to perch on, and I have to put the Prince
of Wales to lean against it, because his legs have no joints
to sit on a chair.
[Illustration]
That's the small doll. I call him the Prince of Wales because he's
the eldest son, you see;
For I've taken him for my brother, and he was Mother's doll before
I was born, so of course he is older than me.
Towser is my real live brother, but I don't think he's as old as the
Prince of Wales;
He's a perfect darling, though he whisks everything over he comes
near, and I tell him I don't know what we should do if
we all had tails.
His hair curls like mine in front, and grows short like a lion behind,
but no one need be frightened, for he's as good as good;
And as to roaring like a real menagerie lion, or eating people up,
I don't believe he would if he could.
He has his tea out of the saucer after I've had mine out of the cup;
You see I am sure to leave some for him, but if I let him begin first
he would drink it all up.
The big doll Godmamma gave me this birthday, and the chair she gave me
the year before.
(I haven't many toys, but I take great care of them, and every birthday
I shall have more and more.)
You've no idea what a beautiful doll she is, and when I pinch her in
the middle, she can squeak;
It quite frightened Towser, for he didn't know that any of us but he
and I and Charles were able to speak.
I've taken her for my only sister, for of course I may take anybody
I choose;
I've called her Cinderella, because I'm so fond of the story, and
because she's got real shoes.
I don't feel so _only_ now there are so many of us; for, counting
Cinderella there are five,--
She, and I, and Towser, and Charles, and the Prince of Wales--and
three of us are really alive;
And four of us can speak, and I'm sure the Prince of Wales is
wonderful for his size;
For his things (at least he's only got one thing) take off and on,
and, though he's nothing but wood, he's got real glass eyes.
And perhaps in three birthdays more there may be as many of us as the
Smiths, for five and three make eight;
I shall be seven years old then (as old as Joe), but I don't like
to think too much of it, it's so long to wait.
And after all I don't know that I want any more of us: I think I'd
rather my sister had a chair
Like mine; and the next year I should like a collar for Towser if
it wouldn't rub off his hair.
And it would be very nice if the Prince of Wales could be dressed
like a Field-marshal, for he's got nothing on his legs;
And Cinderella's beautifully dressed, and Towser looks quite as if
he'd got a fur coat on when he begs.
Joe says it's perfectly absurd, and that I can't take a Pomeranian
in earnest for my brother;
But I don't think he really and truly knows how much Towser and I
love each other.
I didn't like his saying, "Well, there's one thing about your lot,--you
can always have your own way."
And then he says, "You can't possibly have fun with four people when
you have to pretend what they say."
But, whatever he says, I don't believe I shall ever enjoy a tea-party
more than the one that we had on that day.
[Illustration]
PAPA POODLE.
Can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head?
How long will it be, Papa Poodle, before you have learned to read?
You were called Papa Poodle because you took care of me when I was
a baby:
And now I can read words of three syllables, and you sit with a book
before you like a regular gaby.
You've not read a word since I put you in that corner ten minutes ago;
Bill and I've fought the battle of Waterloo since dinner, and you've
not learned BA BE BI BO.
Here am I doing the whole British Army by myself, for Bill is obliged
to be the French;
And I've come away to hear you say your lesson, and left Bill waiting
for me in the trench.
And there you sit, with a curly white wig, like the Lord Chief Justice,
and as grave a face,
Looking the very picture of goodness and wisdom, when you're really in
the deepest disgrace.
Those woolly locks of yours grow thicker and thicker, Papa Poodle.
Does the wool tangle inside as well as outside your head? and is it
that which makes you such a noodle?
You seem so clever at some things, and so stupid at others, and I keep
wondering why;
But I'm afraid the truth is, Papa Poodle, that you're uncommonly sly.
You did no spelling-lessons last week, for you were out from morning
till night,
Except when you slunk in, like a dirty door-mat on legs, and with one
ear bleeding from a fight,
Looking as if you'd no notion what o'clock it was, and had come home
to see.
But _your watch keeps very good meal-time_, Papa Poodle, for you're
always at breakfast, and dinner, and tea.
No, it's no good your shaking hands and licking me with your
tongue,--I know you can do that;
But sitting up, and giving paws, and kissing, won't teach you to
spell C A T, Cat.
I wonder, if I let you off lessons, whether I could teach you to pull
the string with your teeth, and fire our new gun?
If I could, you might be the Artillery all to yourself, and it would
be capital fun.
You wag your tail at that, do you? You would like it a great deal
better?
But I can't bear you to be such a dunce, when you look so wise; and
yet I don't believe you'll ever learn a letter.
Aunt Jemima is going to make me a new cocked hat out of the next old
newspaper, for I want to have a review;
But the newspaper after that, Papa Poodle, must be kept to make a
fool's cap for you.
GRANDMOTHER'S SPRING.
"In my young days," the grandmother said (Nodding her head,
Where cap and curls were as white as snow),
"In my young days, when we used to go
Rambling,
Scrambling;
Each little dirty hand in hand,
Like a chain of daisies, a comical band
Of neighbours' children, seriously straying,
Really and truly going a-Maying,
My mother would bid us linger,
And lifting a slender, straight forefinger,
Would say--
'Little Kings and Queens of the May,
Listen to me!
If you want to be
Every one of you very good
In that 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 up by the root,
From overhead, or from underfoot,
Water-wonders of pond or brook;
Wherever you look,
And whatever you find--
Leave something behind:
Some for the Naïads,
Some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'"
"After all these years," the grandame said,
Lifting her head,
"I think I can hear my mother's voice
Above all other noise,
Saying, 'Hearken, my child!
There is nothing more destructive and wild,
No wild bull with his horns,
No wild-briar with clutching thorns,
No pig that routs in your garden-bed,
No robber with ruthless tread,
More reckless and rude,
And wasteful of all things lovely and good,
Than a child, with the face of a boy and the ways of a bear,
Who _doesn't care;_
Or some little ignorant minx
Who _never thinks_.
Now I never knew so stupid an elf,
That he couldn't think and care for himself.
Oh, little sisters and little brothers,
Think for others, and care for others!
And of all that your little fingers find,
Leave something behind,
For love of those that come after:
Some, perchance, to cool tired eyes in the moss that stifled your
laughter!
Pluck, children, pluck!
But leave--for good luck--
Some for the Naïads,
And some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies!'"
"We were very young," the grandmother said,
Smiling and shaking her head;
"And when one is young,
One listens with half an ear, and speaks with a hasty tongue;
So with shouted Yeses,
And promises sealed with kisses,
Hand-in-hand we started again,
A chubby chain,
Stretching the whole wide width of the lane;
Or in broken links of twos and threes,
For greater ease
Of rambling,
And scrambling,
By the stile and the road,
That goes to the beautiful, beautiful wood;
By the brink of the gloomy pond,
To the top of the sunny hill beyond,
By hedge and by ditch, by marsh and by mead,
By little byways that lead
To mysterious bowers;
Or to spots where, for those who know,
There grow,
In certain out-o'-way nooks, rare ferns and uncommon flowers.
There were flowers everywhere,
Censing the summer air,
Till the giddy bees went rolling home
To their honeycomb,
And when we smelt at our posies,
The little fairies inside the flowers rubbed coloured dust on
our noses,
Or pricked us till we cried aloud for snuffing the dear dog-roses.
But above all our noise,
I kept thinking I heard my mother's voice.
But it may have been only a fairy joke,
For she was at home, and I sometimes thought it was
really the flowers that spoke.
From the Foxglove in its pride,
To the Shepherd's Purse by the bare road-side;
From the snap-jack heart of the Starwort frail,
To meadows full of Milkmaids pale,
And Cowslips loved by the nightingale.
Rosette of the tasselled Hazel-switch,
Sky-blue star of the ditch;
Dandelions like mid-day suns;
Bindweed that runs;
Butter and Eggs with the gaping lips,
Sweet Hawthorn that hardens to haws, and Roses that die into hips;
Lords-with-their-Ladies cheek-by-jowl,
In purple surcoat and pale-green cowl;
Family groups of Primroses fair;
Orchids rare;
Velvet Bee-orchis that never can sting,
Butterfly-orchis which never takes wing,
Robert-the-Herb with strange sweet scent,
And crimson leaf when summer is spent:
Clustering neighbourly,
All this gay company,
Said to us seemingly--
'Pluck, children, pluck!
But leave some for good luck:
Some for the Naïads,
Some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies,'"
"I was but a maid," the grandame said,
"When my mother was dead;
And many a time have I stood.
In that beautiful wood,
To dream that through every woodland noise,
Through the cracking
Of twigs and the bending of bracken,
Through the rustling
Of leaves in the breeze,
And the bustling
Of dark-eyed, tawny-tailed squirrels flitting about the trees,
Through the purling and trickling cool
Of the streamlet that feeds the pool,
I could hear her voice.
Should I wonder to hear it? Why?
Are the voices of tender wisdom apt to die?
And now, though I'm very old,
And the air, that used to feel fresh, strikes chilly and cold,
On a sunny day when I potter
About the garden, or totter
To the seat from whence I can see, below,
The marsh and the meadows I used to know,
Bright with the bloom of the flowers that blossomed there long ago;
Then, as if it were yesterday,
I fancy I hear them say--
'Pluck, children, pluck,
But leave some for good luck;
Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root,
From overhead, or from underfoot,
Water-wonders of pond or brook;
Wherever you look,
And whatever your little fingers find,
Leave something behind:
Some for the Naïads,
And some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'"
The following note was given in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, June
1880, when "Grandmother's Spring" first appeared:--"It may
interest old readers of _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ to know that
'Leave some for the Naïads and the Dryads' was a favourite
phrase with Mr. Alfred Gatty, and is not merely the charge of
an imaginary mother to her 'blue-eyed banditti.' Whether my
mother invented the expression for our benefit, or whether she
only quoted it, I do not know. I only remember its use as a
check on the indiscriminate 'collecting' and 'grubbing' of a
large family; a mystic warning not without force to fetter the
same fingers in later life, with all the power of a pious
tradition."--J.H.E.
[Illustration]
BIG SMITH.
Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith?
Nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with.
I'm good to-day, and so I've come to see if it is true
That you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe.
Why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather?
Is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather?
If horses should be shod with iron, Big Smith, will you shoe mine?
For now I may not take him out, excepting when it's fine.
Although he's not a real live horse, I'm very fond of him;
His harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim.
His tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels;
I think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels.
They say that Dapple-grey's not yours, but don't you wish he were?
My horse's coat is only paint, but his is soft grey hair;
His face is big and kind, like yours, his forelock white as snow--
Shan't you be sorry when you've done his shoes and he must go?
I do so wish, Big Smith, that I might come and live with you;
To rake the fire, to heat the rods, to hammer two and two.
To be so black, and not to have to wash unless I choose;
To pat the dear old horses, and to mend their poor old shoes.
When all the world is dark at night, you work among the stars,
A shining shower of fireworks beat out of red-hot bars.
I've seen you beat, I've heard you sing, when I was going to bed;
And now your face and arms looked black, and now were glowing red.
The more you work, the more you sing, the more the bellows roar;
The falling stars, the flying sparks, stream shining more and more.
You hit so hard, you look so hot, and yet you never tire;
It must be very nice to be allowed to play with fire.
I long to beat and sing and shine, as you do, but instead
I put away my horse, and Nurse puts me away to bed.
I wonder if you go to bed; I often think I'll keep
Awake and see, but, though I try, I always fall asleep.
I know it's very silly, but I sometimes am afraid
Of being in the dark alone, especially in bed.
But when I see your forge-light come and go upon the wall,
And hear you through the window, I am not afraid at all.
I often hear a trotting horse, I sometimes hear it stop;
I hold my breath--you stay your song--it's at the blacksmith's shop.
Before it goes, I'm apt to fall asleep, Big Smith, it's true;
But then I dream of hammering that horse's shoes with you!
KIT'S CRADLE.
They've taken the cosy bed away
That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.
[Illustration]
I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.
I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.
On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.
* * * * *
I've found a crib where they won't find me,
Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house.
Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree!
A cat can keep as still as a mouse.
It's rather unwise perhaps to purr,
But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves.
I'm happy in every hair of my fur;
They may keep the hamper and hay themselves.
[Illustration]
THE MILL STREAM.