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.
And they never had stirred from their places
Right under the maple tree--
This old, old, old, old lady
And the boy with the lame little knee--
This dear, dear, dear old lady
And the boy who was half-past three.
Henry C. Bunner.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] _From "The Poems of H. C. Bunner." Copyright, 1889, by Charles
Scribner's Sons._
_What May Happen to a Thimble_
Come about the meadow,
Hunt here and there,
Where's mother's thimble?
Can you tell where?
Jane saw her wearing it,
Fan saw it fall,
Ned isn't sure
That she dropp'd it at all.
Has a mouse carried it
Down to her hole--
Home full of twilight,
Shady, small soul?
Can she be darning there,
Ere the light fails,
Small ragged stockings--
Tiny torn tails?
Did a finch fly with it
Into the hedge,
Or a reed-warbler
Down in the sedge?
Are they carousing there,
All the night through?
Such a great goblet,
Brimful of dew!
Have beetles crept with it
Where oak roots hide?
There have they settled it
Down on its side?
Neat little kennel,
So cosy and dark,
Has one crept into it,
Trying to bark?
Have the ants cover'd it
With straw and sand?
Roomy bell-tent for them,
So tall and grand;
Where the red soldier-ants
Lie, loll, and lean--
While the blacks steadily
Build for their queen.
Has a huge dragon-fly
Borne it (how cool!)
To his snug dressing-room,
By the clear pool?
There will he try it on,
For a new hat--
Nobody watching
But one water-rat?
Did the flowers fight for it,
While, undecried,
One selfish daisy
Slipp'd it aside;
Now has she plunged it in
Close to her feet--
Nice private water-tank
For summer heat?
Did spiders snatch at it
Wanting to look
At the bright pebbles
Which lie in the brook?
Now are they using it
(Nobody knows!)
Safe little diving-bell,
Shutting so close?
Hunt for it, hope for it,
All through the moss;
Dip for it, grope for it--
'Tis such a loss!
Jane finds a drop of dew,
Fan finds a stone;
I find the thimble,
Which is mother's own!
Run with it, fly with it--
Don't let it fall;
All did their best for it--
Mother thanks all.
Just as we give it her,--
Think what a shame!--
Ned says he's sure
That it isn't the same!
"B."
_Discontent_
Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped that pleasant weather.
A robin, who had flown too high,
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.
For daisies grew so trig and tall!
She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck,
In just the daisies' fashion.
And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome color;
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.
"Dear robin," said the sad young flower,
"Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me,
Some day when you are flying?"
"You silly thing!" the robin said,
"I think you must be crazy:
I'd rather be my honest self,
Than any made-up daisy.
"You're nicer in your own bright gown;
The little children love you:
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.
"Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places:
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.
"Look bravely up into the sky,
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing."
Sarah Orne Jewett.
_The Nightingale and the Glowworm_
A nightingale that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song:
For 'twas the self-same Power Divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard this short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
William Cowper.
_Thanksgiving Day_
Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river and through the wood--
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
"Ting-a-ling-ding!"
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting-hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow,--
It is so hard to wait!
Over the river and through the wood--
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!
Lydia Maria Child.
_A Thanksgiving Fable_
It was a hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving morn,
And she watched a thankful little mouse, that ate an ear of corn.
"If I ate that thankful little mouse, how thankful he should be,
When he has made a meal himself, to make a meal for me!
"Then with his thanks for having fed, and his thanks for feeding me,
With all _his_ thankfulness inside, how thankful I shall be!"
Thus mused the hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving Day;
But the little mouse had overheard and declined (with thanks) to stay.
Oliver Herford.
_The Magpie's Nest_
A Fable
When the Arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis express'd
A wise magpie constructed that rare
Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.
This was talk'd of the whole country round;
You might hear it on every bough sung,
"Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young:
"For the magpie with exquisite skill
Has invented a moss-cover'd cell
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell."
To her mate did each female bird say,
"Let us fly to the magpie, my dear;
If she will but teach us the way,
A nest we will build us up here.
"It's a thing that's close arch'd overhead,
With a hole made to creep out and in;
We, my bird, might make just a bed
If we only knew how to begin."
* * * * *
To the magpie soon every bird went
And in modest terms made their request,
That she would be pleased to consent
To teach them to build up a nest.
She replied, "I will show you the way,
So observe everything that I do:
First two sticks 'cross each other I lay--"
"To be sure," said the crow, "why I knew
"It must be begun with two sticks,
And I thought that they crossed should be."
Said the pie, "Then some straw and moss mix
In the way you now see done by me."
"O yes, certainly," said the jackdaw,
"That must follow, of course, I have thought;
Though I never before building saw,
I guess'd that, without being taught."
"More moss, straw, and feathers, I place
In this manner," continued the pie.
"Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the case;
Though no builder myself, so thought I."
* * * * *
Whatever she taught them beside,
In his turn every bird of them said,
Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried
He had just such a thought in his head.
Still the pie went on showing her art,
Till a nest she had built up half-way;
She no more of her skill would impart,
But in her anger went fluttering away.
And this speech in their hearing she made,
As she perch'd o'er their heads on a tree:
"If ye all were well skill'd in my trade,
Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"
When a scholar is willing to learn,
He with silent submission should hear;
Too late they their folly discern,
The effect to this day does appear.
For whenever a pie's nest you see,
Her charming warm canopy view,
All birds' nests but hers seem to be
A magpie's nest just cut in two.
Charles and Mary Lamb.
_The Owl and the Pussy-Cat_
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat;
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the moon above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,--
You are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How wonderful sweet you sing!
O let us be married,--too long we have tarried,--
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the Bong tree grows
And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,--
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined upon mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon,
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon,--
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Edward Lear.
_A Lobster Quadrille_
"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?
"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance--
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance,
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied,
"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France--
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"
Lewis Carroll.
_The Fairies' Shopping_
Where do you think the Fairies go
To buy their blankets ere the snow?
When Autumn comes, with frosty days
The sorry shivering little Fays
Begin to think it's time to creep
Down to their caves for Winter sleep.
But first they come from far and near
To buy, where shops are not too dear.
(The wind and frost bring prices down,
So Fall's their time to come to town!)
Where on the hill-side rough and steep
Browse all day long the cows and sheep,
The mullein's yellow candles burn
Over the heads of dry sweet fern:
All summer long the mullein weaves
His soft and thick and woolly leaves.
Warmer blankets were never seen
Than these broad leaves of fuzzy green--
(The cost of each is but a shekel
Made from the gold of honeysuckle!)
To buy their sheets and fine white lace
(With which to trim a pillow-case),
They only have to go next door,
Where stands a sleek brown spider's store,
And there they find the misty threads
Ready to cut into sheets and spreads;
Then for a pillow, pluck with care
Some soft-winged seeds as light as air;
Just what they want the thistle brings,
But thistles are such surly things--
And so, though it is somewhat high,
The clematis the Fairies buy.
The only bedsteads that they need
Are silky pods of ripe milk-weed,
With hangings of the dearest things--
Autumn leaves, or butterflies' wings!
And dandelions' fuzzy heads
They use to stuff their feather beds;
And yellow snapdragons supply
The nightcaps that the Fairies buy,