Grow up to a height that is something sublime;
And the seeds, which to parrots and poultry you fling,
Are there counted sweetmeats and fit for a king.
The smaller seeds straight are dispatched to the mill,
Where an oil is extracted that cooks use with skill,
While the part that remains is pressed out into cakes
And an excellent food for the cattle it makes.
All sunflower products the wise Russians keep;
Yes, even the seed-cups are fed to the sheep.
The tall hollow stalks are well dried in the sun,
Then stored up for fuel and burned every one.
From the ashes the finest potassium’s made,
So they’re carefully sifted and carefully weighed.
Ah, in Russia a sunflower’s value is known,
And she’s treated as well as a queen on her throne!
In Orient countries, it seems that when fired
And mixed with tobacco, our leaves are admired;
While our great yellow flowers are used for a dye
Which they to their garments and hangings apply.
I learned all these matters, I’d have you to know,
From some traveling merchants who, some time ago,
Conversed as they sat on a warm summer-day,
In the shade of the maple just over the way.”
“Of course, I’m no longer contented at home;
No wonder I’m ardently sighing to roam.
I would I could be
Far over the sea;
I would that I lived in Russia.”
A BANANA STORY
The luscious banana, as every one knows,
Is native of lands where the palm-tree grows,
And if you’re required, and can’t make excuse,
To mention a plant that’s of very great use,
Just give the banana, and prove what you say
By quoting these lines in appropriate way:
SONG OF THE BANANA
When winds are warm first shows my leaf,
And skies of blue are seen;
While tropic suns unroll the sheaf
To waving flags of green.
My trunk’s herbaceous, smooth, and strong,
My honeyed flowers fair;
My yellow fruit in clusters long
Is sweet beyond compare.
’Tis still delicious, cooked or raw,
Or when to flour ’tis ground;
My leaves are used, instead of straw,
For packing dishes round.
Look closely at their under side,
A store of wax you’ll see;
’Tis made while here at home I bide,
Not gadding, like the bee.
And listen! Who would ever think,
My juices you might use
To make a kind of marking ink,
And blacking for your shoes!
But that’s not all, the tale is one
In many chapters told;
My stem must o’er its story run,
And all its wealth unfold.
Just feel its texture; hemp is made
Of just this kind of thing,
Twist it for ropes, for matting braid,
Or weave it for the king
In handkerchiefs of finest lace,
That through a ring could pass,
And pattern such as spiders trace
Upon the dewy grass.
I’m the Banana, who but I!
My aid to man I lend;
If wealth you want, for comfort sigh,
Then make of me your friend.
SONG OF THE CARNAHUBA PALM
Brazil is my country,
A palm-tree am I;
Just go with me thither,
Your wants I’ll supply.
Should you wish for a shelter,
I’ll build you a gem;
The joists and the rafters
Shaped out of my stem.
My leaves, broad and pliant,
Will thatch you a roof,
And under its cover
You’ll sit weather-proof.
You need not go hungry,
I’ll yield milk and flour,
The sweetest of sugar,
And vinegar sour.
Good starch I can furnish
And finest of wine.
Just cork up the bottles
With this pith of mine!
If salt you require,
Or wish to make soap,
The one I can serve you,
Quite fit for the Pope,
And alkali furnish
To make up the other;
There’ll be no hard labor,
No smoke and no smother.
My leaves you’ll dispose of
To make brooms and mats,
The strongest of baskets
And very best hats.
My roots distill medicine.
Should you fall ill,
’Twill cure many ailments
And save a long bill.
And there is my fruit
In which cattle delight;
Its pulp is agreeable,
’Tis fair to the sight;
Its rich, oily kernel
A beverage makes,
Delicious for breakfast
With feathery cakes.
My story’s not ended;
My stem, light and strong,
Has uses which have not
Appeared in my song.
If a pump you would like,
If a tube you desire,
To bring in the water,
Or put out a fire;
If a flute you would fashion
To banish dull care,
There’s naught in the world
With my stem can compare!
LITTLE DORRIT’S PLAYGROUND
(_A new public park called “Little Dorrit’s Playground” has just been
opened in London, on the site of the old Marshalsea Prison, made famous
by Dickens_)
In a gloomy prison chamber
Far away in London town,
Once was born a little baby
As the night came darkly down.
Frowning walls and iron doorways
Hemmed her in from day to day;
In a jail-yard, barred and stony,
There alone her feet might stray.
Nothing knew she of the country,
Singing birds and waving trees;
Roofs and chimney-pots her forest,
Songsters,--creak of rusty keys.
Yet the baby, weak and fragile,
Nursed upon a prisoner’s knee,
Grew a maiden, loving, helpful,
Of a spirit brave and free.
Father, brother, wayward sister,
All upon her strength might rest,
And her own woes, light or heavy,
Close she hid within her breast.
Ragged children hung upon her,
Weak and helpless ones she fed,
She,--a child who knew no childhood,--
She herself, who lacked for bread.
Gentle, patient “Little Dorrit,”
Sweet thy name will ever be;
Sweet it breathes as scent of flowers,
Daughter of the Marshalsea!
Fallen is that gloomy prison
Where thy life-work was begun;
In its place is set a playground
Free and open, bright with sun,
Named for thee. Ah, “Little Dorrit,”
As they walk its grassy ways,
Bend and hear them, London’s children,--
Hear them singing in thy praise.
THE THREAD-AND-NEEDLE TREE
I
Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane
Could never be taught to sew!
A table they gave her, exact to her size,
With drawers and with fittings a princess might prize.
Such needles she owned in a glittering line;
Such thread and such silk, both the coarse and the fine;
The daintiest scissors that ever were seen,
A wee golden thimble, a gem for a queen;
But, spite of these charming and housewifely things
And a pink brocade work-bag with blue satin strings,
She could not be _made_ to sew!
II
Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane
Could never be taught to sew!
Her mother’s instruction she viewed with disdain;
Her grandmother’s teaching was given in vain.
Her needles she’d break and her thread she would lose,
Her thimble she’d hide in the tops of her shoes,
She’d tear a fine handkerchief given to make,
Her sampler she’d throw to the puppy to shake;
And then she would cry, and she’d fret, and she’d scold,
And vow if she lived to be ninety years old
She _never_ would learn to sew!
III
Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane,
Who never would learn to sew--
Oh, a terrible thing befell the child!
She was sent to live in a desert wild,
By her godmother fay, who was heard to swear
She’d reform the chit or she’d leave her there!
’Twas a Mexican desert where Arabelle went,
And shelter she had none, not even a tent.
Her task was to gather her teardrops and soak
The Needle-and-Thread Tree! Dear me, what a joke
On a child who so “_hated_” to sew!
IV
Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane,
Who never would learn to sew,
Draws her needles now from a cactus leaf,
And her thread unwinds from a prickly sheaf!
She does it with care, and they’ve taught her to sing,
“Oh, ’tis sewing I love above everything!”
Her needles are thorns and they’re shining and long,
Her thread is a fiber and marvelous strong:
And all day long on the desert sands
She mournfully chants o’er her gussets and bands--
This Gladys who never would sew!
V
Gladys Mehitable Arabelle Jane,
Who never would learn to sew,
Tends the Needle Tree in the desert drear,
But her other tasks not so sweet appear.
She mends the crown of the fat horned toad;
The lizard’s tail, if it snaps in the road;
The scorpion’s claws she bastes on tight,
And the spider’s webs she darns by night.
She’s the tailor for snake and for bumblebee.
Oh, ever, eternally busy is she,
This Gladys who “_hated_” to sew!
PEDDLING POETRY
There was once a lad, but I’ll not disclose
His Christian or surname, who early rose
To fame and to honor and gained renown
For his native place, which was Boston town,
By his wit, his wisdom, his gifted pen
And the priceless inventions he gave to men.
Fifteenth bud on the parent tree,
Brothers and sisters to spare had he.
His father, a maker of candles and soap,
His brother, a printer,--I think I may hope
That the name of the lad can be quickly told
By every American, young or old.
The boy was a reader and day and night
He studied by fire and candle-light,
In yellowing books that he scarce could hold
Romances and stories of heroes bold.
His brain was a field where gallants dared,
Where war-steeds trampled and heroes fared.
Now out of these visions he strove to frame,
In musical verse that should bear his name
Weird tales of adventure on sea and land;
Of Blackbeard bold and his pirate band,
Of haunted houses and dungeons deep,--
Such things as would make your flesh to creep!
The elder brother struck off the verse,--
“_The Lighthouse Terror_,” “_The Pirate’s Curse_,”
From his printing-presses and up and down
Through the paths and pastures of Boston town,
The proud little poet pursued his way,
Crying “Verses! Who’ll buy any verse to-day?”
The jingles were purchased both far and near
Till the noise of them came to the father’s ear,
And reading them all, ’twixt a smile and a frown,
He said with his spectacles twinkling down
On the reddening cheek of his fifteenth hope,
“As a cure for your ailment, we’ll try Doctor Pope,
For he who has once tasted Pope and admired
His elegant verses hath never desired
To take up the art for himself, unless he
A similar master of English can be.”
Thus spoke the wise father and gave to the lad
The dose he thought fitting for verse that was bad.
The cure was effective and never again
Did the lad scribble verse with his eloquent pen.
He grew to be famous, America’s pride;
A nation mourned over his grave when he died.
Now who was this statesman of great renown
Who peddled his verses in Boston town?
THE LITTLE ARTIST
(_From the German of Froebel_)
Come, little one, quite close to me,
Lean softly here against my knee,
And you and I will draw to-day
The pretty things you see at play.
We’ll make the bird with glancing wings,
As high above the hill she sings;
We’ll make the plum-tree and the nest
Where all her bright-eyed birdlings rest.
Now draw a scampering, silky mouse,
And in the corner here, a house.
We’ll make the staircase built within,
The windows where the sun shines in;
We’ll roof the house with crimson tiles
And draw in front tall trees in files.
We’ll make the mirrors on its walls,
The tables laid for festivals,
And everything within shall be,
My little one, for you and me.
Now sketch the bridge where children go
Across the brook that winds below;
Next try to make a ladder long,
And mother’s scissors sharp and strong.
Now let me guide your hand, my dear,
And we will make a dovecote here,
The farmer’s doves all flutt’ring round,
The chickens and the worm they’ve found,
The rabbits in their cozy hutch,
The saw the farmer needs so much,
His harrow and his shining plow,
His cart with hay for mooly-cow,
The axle, spoke, and tire, and wheel,
His water-jug for noon-day meal.
Now let us draw the great, round sun,
The stars that shine when bedtime’s come,
And then the eye that sees their light,
Bright-beaming in the sky of night;
A thousand, thousand stars like these
We see when snow hides grass and trees.
Next we will make the baby moon
And then the sphere she’ll be so soon;
Now last of all the great church door,
And then the drawing lesson’s o’er.
These pictures, dear, may not last long,
But practice makes the fingers strong;
And as the world without they show,
The world within will clearer grow.
THE FEAST OF THE DOLL
In flow’ry Japan, the home of the fan,
The land of the parasol,
Each month has its feast, from greatest to least,
And March is the Feast of the Doll-doll-doll,
And March is the Feast of the Doll.
The wee, slippered maid in gown of brocade,
The baby with shaven poll,
The little brown lad in embroidery clad,
All troop to the Feast of the Doll-doll-doll,
All troop to the Feast of the Doll.
How pleasant ’twould be, ’neath an almond-tree,
In sunshine and perfume to loll,
Forget our own spring, with its wind and its sting,
And sing to the praise of the Doll-doll-doll,
And sing to the praise of the Doll!
Come, sweet Tippytoes, as pink as a rose,
And white as a cotton-boll,
Let us follow the plan of the folk in Japan,
And dance for your Feast, little Doll-doll-doll,
And dance for your Feast, little Doll.
[Illustration]
THE FEAST OF ARMS
R-r-r-at-tat-tat! R-r-r-at-tat-tat!
The sound makes your heart go pit-a-pat.
The drums are beating, the flag’s unfurled
And shakes its folds at the great round world.
A warrior brave goes marching by,
With a sleek black head, held straight and high,
With a smooth brown cheek and an almond eye
And a gown that glows like a butterfly.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
Dr-r-um-tum-tum! Dr-r-um-tum-tum!
Like a hive of bees is the muttered hum,
’Tis the Feast of Arms in a Japanese Town,
And the envious Sun sees, looking down,
A warrior brave go marching by,
With a sleek black head, held straight and high,
With a smooth brown cheek and an almond eye
And a gown that glows like a butterfly.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
Tr-r-ap-tap-tap! Tr-r-ap-tap-tap!
The drumsticks rattle, the fingers snap.
For a thousand years has the Japanese lad
On the Fifth of May been in armor clad;
So a warrior brave goes marching by,
With a sleek black head, held straight and high,
With a smooth brown cheek and an almond eye
And a gown that glows like a butterfly.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
Tr-r-ump-tump-tump! Tr-r-ump-tump-tump!
From field and lane sounds the distant thump--
A golden carp is his ensign bold
And he wears his sword like a knight of old.
Oh, warrior brave, go marching by,
With your sleek black head, held straight and high,
With your smooth brown cheek and your almond eye
And your gown that glows like a butterfly.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Banzai!!
THE FEAST OF LAUGHTER
’Tis the very first “day of the hare”
In Wasa, the province of Kishu,
And the breezes that sweep through the town
Depart all a-ripple with laughter--
With light-hearted, musical laughter.
The month is the tenth in Japan,
In Wasa, the province of Kishu,
And the leaves of the bamboo are stirred,
And the sugar-cane trembles with laughter--
With rustle and tinkle of laughter.
The brown baby smiles in his sleep,
In Wasa, the province of Kishu;
While the fathers ha-ha at their work,
The mothers’ lips bubble with laughter--
With honey-sweet, mellow-toned laughter.
Shall I tell you why mirth is abroad
In Wasa, the province of Kishu?
Why the owls in the deep, gloomy shade,
And the toad in his hole, shake with laughter--
With silver-shrill, jubilant laughter?
* * * * *
Listen all who listen can,
And hear this tale of old Japan!
Ages ago the thing befell,
But people still the story tell.
* * * * *
’Twas in the misty long-ago,
Ere yet this gray old earth
Had grown too staid and sober
To indulge o’ermuch in mirth.
To the sacred shrines of Isè,
Where Izumo’s walls appear
Purple-clad, the gods assembled
In the tenth month every year.
All affairs of love and wedlock
In the whole land of Japan
There were mooted, there were settled,
On a wise celestial plan.
At the first one of these meetings,
Having half forgot the date,
When the grand debate was over
Certain gods arrived too late!
Sympathy nor pity gave they--
Brother gods in parliament--
Ridiculed the tardy comers,
Every one on laughing bent.
Since that time in all the district,
On the “first day of the hare,”
Ancient men and toddling children
Unto Isè’s shrines repair.
Journey ended, all the graybeards
Face the curious, wond’ring throng:
“Laugh, ye bright-eyes! Laugh, ye sweet-lips!
Laugh and jest the whole day long!”
Ready smiles break out in answer
On each satin, dusky cheek;
Hands are clapping, feet are dancing,
Dimples playing hide-and-seek.
Laughing hear the feathered people,
Laughs the sun as he looks down,
And, the sweet contagion spreading,
Laughter rings through all the town.
THE DOLL’S CALENDAR[9]
JANUARY
Was ever a doll like my Dolladine,
The charmingest dolly that ever was seen!
Eyes as blue as the sky at noon,
Hair as bright as the summer moon,
Dolladine, my dear!
She came to me in December last;
To the Christmas-tree they had bound her fast;
My heart beat high when I saw her face,
And I squeezed her tight, thro’ her silk and lace,
Dolladine, my dear!
I’m the thoughtfullest mother that ever was known;
I’d scorn to leave Dolladine, darling, alone;
Each month of the twelve I invent her a play,
And I give her a flower to wear every day,
Dolladine, my dear!
On the very first day of the year just begun,
I wove her some snow-shoes, and when they were done,
A fine sled I made her, to slide at her will,
To skim o’er the valley and whiz down the hill,
Dolladine, my dear!
Fresh blossoms in winter come just a bit high,
And there aren’t any flower-shops very near by;
So my pet wears a garland of fir and of pine,
And under the green how her starry eyes shine!
Dolladine, my dear, my sweet!
Dolladine, my own!
FEBRUARY
February, dark and chilly,
Comes with dripping rain,
Noon of day and midnight stilly,
Tapping on the pane.
Dolladine is growing older,
Precious doll of mine;
And to-day my love I’ve told her,
In a valentine.
Cherry blossoms she is wearing,
Sent her from the west.
Tell me, can you, why she’s bearing
These upon her breast?
MARCH
Pussy with the silver fur;
Willow, pussy willow!
Dollie wants to hear you purr;
Willow, pussy willow!
Kites are sailing in the sky;
Willow, pussy willow!
Wind is tossing branches high;
Willow, pussy willow!
March has come, ’tis time to blow;
Willow, pussy willow!
All your glossy kits to show;
Willow, pussy willow!
APRIL
A rain-pool lies just over the way,
And on it a fairy boat;
And there, in her craft of the birchen bark
My dollie’s a sailor afloat.
Row, row, Dolladine, now!
April is steering and Spring’s at the bow.
With Dandelions the prow is decked,
All gay on the rain-pool sea,
And a chain I’ve made of their shining stems,
To draw Dollie back to me.
Row, row, pretty one, now!
April is steering and Spring’s at the bow.
MAY
May is coming, listen! hark!
Flowers growing dawn and dark.
Dollie’s playing in the grass,
Bees about her humming pass;
Lilacs in her yellow hair,
Breath of lilacs everywhere.
Let us set a May-pole here,
Where the daisy buds appear;
Let us garland it about,
Weave with blossoms in and out.
Then I’ll wreathe a flow’ry crown,
Make a regal robe and gown.
Who of May shall be the queen?
Who but precious Dolladine!
JUNE
Dollie and I in the sweet June weather,
A rose of June in her hair.
Dollie and I in the swing together;
Oh, the rush of the swing in the air!
Strawberries ripening down in the meadow,
A strawberry is her mouth.
Buttercups swaying in sun and shadow;
Oh, soft is the wind of the south!
If but June weather might last forever,
Warm as the heart of my dear,
And birds and blossoms, in sweet endeavor,
Might grow side by side for a year!
JULY
The poppy glows in the garden bed,
For it is July.
The poppy’s drooping her drowsy head,
For it is July.
Blue sky, flags high,
Hot July.
The poppy’s the only one to sleep,
For it is July.
The world is too noisy for slumber deep,
For it is July.
Blue sky, flags high,
Gay July.
Dolladine’s wearing a Liberty cap,
For it is July.
She’ll march when she hears the drummer’s tap,
For it is July.
Blue sky, flags high,
Our July.
AUGUST
It really makes me very sad
To tell the illness dollie’s had.
The causes were not wholly plain,
But remedies were all in vain;
And doctors said that she must go
Down where the ocean breezes blow.
At home the lilies are in bloom,
Here sea-winds give the sole perfume.
And Dolladine is growing brown
As dry leaves when they flutter down.
Gone are her ills, forgotten quite.
Deep in the sand they hide from sight.
I’ve made of her a mermaid fair.
A veil of sea-weed shrouds her hair.
A rope of sea-shells decks her gown,
Low falling, all her drapery down.
In the whole world of waters green,
There’s naught so fair as Dolladine.
SEPTEMBER
Do you know of a fairy maiden,
All in the olden time,
Who rode in a pumpkin carriage,
Like a Christmas pantomime?
Such a Cinder-maid is dollie,
Such a pumpkin coach has she,
And she’s off to the royal palace,
The prince himself to see.
Jack-o-Lanterns light the ball,
’Tis a night entrancing.
Golden-rod bedecks the hall,
Crickets play for dancing.
No crystal shoe has dollie,
But her foot is like a fay’s,
And of all the folk at the party,
None can better tread the maze.
She’ll return ere the hour of midnight,
Her godmamma to see,
The fairy who built her carriage;
Can you guess who this may be?
Jack-o-Lanterns light the ball,
’Tis a night entrancing.
Golden-rod bedecks the hall,
Crickets play for dancing.
OCTOBER
Autumn’s coming o’er the hill
Treading fast and faster.
Soon his foot will cross the sill,
Autumn’s coming o’er the hill.
Where the summer lingers still,
Blooms the purple aster.
Autumn’s coming o’er the hill,
Treading fast and faster.
Through the rustling leaves she goes,
Dolladine, my dollie.
Summer’s lent her cheek a rose,
Through the rustling leaves she goes.
Down the frosty wind there blows
Autumn’s laughter jolly;
Through the rustling leaves she goes,
Dolladine, my dollie.
NOVEMBER
The Indian chieftain smokes his pipe,
The hills with haze are murky.
And yonder struts, with spreading tail,
The grand Thanksgiving turkey.
Oh ho! Oh ho! how happy we’ll be,
When the cousins come to dollie and me!
Dollie shall wear a cranberry chain,
And her very best new bonnet;
The one with a buckle, a puff and a bow,
And a curly feather on it.
Oh ho! Oh ho! how happy we’ll be,
When the cousins come to dollie and me!
The house is ready, the fires blaze,
We fear not cold November.
By the hearth we’ll sit and stories tell,
And good old times remember.
Oh ho! Oh ho! how happy we’ll be,
When the cousins come to dollie and me!
DECEMBER
It is the eve of Christmas Day,
And thick and fast it’s snowing.
With dollie cuddled in my lap,
I watch the white flakes blowing.
Long, long ago I bought her gift,
A holly wreath I’ve made her,
And I shall hang her stocking up
When safe in bed I’ve laid her.
Dear Santa Claus, whate’er you bring,
Of all your Christmas blisses,
You ne’er can bring to me again
So sweet a doll as this is.
My lamb she is, my dear delight,
My darling and my treasure;
Of all the joys the year has brought,
The very chiefest pleasure.
THE END
FOOTNOTE
[9] Published by G. Schirmer, with music by Isadore Luckstone.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
Transcriber’s Notes
• Italics represented with surrounding _underscores_.
• Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.
• Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.
• Variations in hyphenation kept as in the original.
• Footnotes renumbered consecutively and moved to the ends of their
respective chapters.