His eyes they seem a-sayin’: “What’s the matter, little Bill?”
The old cat sneaks down off her perch an’ wonders what’s become
Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!
But I am so perlite an’ ’tend so earnestly to biz,
That mother says to father: “How improved our Willie is!”
But father, havin’ been a boy hisself, suspicions me
When, jest ’fore Christmas, I’m as good as I kin be!
For Christmas, with its lots an’ lots of candies, cakes, an’ toys,
Was made, they say, for proper kids, an’ not for naughty boys;
So wash yer face an’ bresh yer hair, an’ mind yer p’s and q’s,
An’ don’t bust out yer pantaloons, and don’t wear out yer shoes;
Say “Yessum” to the ladies, an’ “Yessur” to the men,
An’ when they’s company, don’t pass yer plate for pie again;
But, thinkin’ of the things yer ’d like to see upon that tree,
Jest ’fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!
BEARD AND BABY
I say, as one who never feared
The wrath of a subscriber’s bullet,
I pity him who has a beard
But has no little girl to pull it!
When wife and I have finished tea,
Our baby woos me with her prattle,
And, perching proudly on my knee,
She gives my petted whiskers battle.
With both her hands she tugs away,
While scolding at me kind o’ spiteful;
You’ll not believe me when I say
I find the torture quite delightful!
No other would presume, I ween,
To trifle with this hirsute wonder,
Else would I rise in vengeful mien
And rend his vandal frame asunder!
But when _her_ baby fingers pull
This glossy, sleek, and silky treasure,
My cup of happiness is full--
I fairly glow with pride and pleasure!
And, sweeter still, through all the day
I seem to hear her winsome prattle--
I seem to feel her hands at play,
As though they gave me sportive battle.
Yes, heavenly music seems to steal
Where thought of her forever lingers,
And round my heart I always feel
The twining of her dimpled fingers!
THE DINKEY-BIRD
In an ocean, ’way out yonder
(As all sapient people know),
Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
Whither children love to go;
It’s their playing, romping, swinging,
That give great joy to me
While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
In the amfalula tree!
There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
And taffy’s thick as peas--
Caramels you pick like berries
When, and where, and how you please;
Big red sugar-plums are clinging
To the cliffs beside that sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree.
[Illustration: _The Dinkey-bird_]
So when children shout and scamper
And make merry all the day,
When there’s naught to put a damper
To the ardor of their play;
When I hear their laughter ringing,
Then I’m sure as sure can be
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree.
For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras
And staccatos are so sweet--
His roulades, appoggiaturas,
And robustos so complete,
That the youth of every nation--
Be they near or far away--
Have especial delectation
In that gladsome roundelay.
Their eyes grow bright and brighter
Their lungs begin to crow,
Their hearts get light and lighter,
And their cheeks are all aglow;
For an echo cometh bringing
The news to all and me,
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree.
I’m sure you like to go there
To see your feathered friend--
And so many goodies grow there
You would like to comprehend!
_Speed, little dreams, your winging
To that land across the sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree!_
THE DRUM
I’m a beautiful red, red drum,
And I train with the soldier boys;
As up the street we come,
Wonderful is our noise!
There’s Tom, and Jim, and Phil,
And Dick, and Nat, and Fred,
While Widow Cutler’s Bill
And I march on ahead,
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum--
Oh, there’s bushels of fun in that
For boys with a little red drum!
The Injuns came last night
While the soldiers were abed,
And they gobbled a Chinese kite
And off to the woods they fled!
The woods are the cherry-trees
Down in the orchard lot,
And the soldiers are marching to seize
The booty the Injuns got.
With tum-titty-um-tum-tum,
And r-r-rat-tat-tat,
When soldiers marching come
Injuns had better scat!
Step up there, little Fred,
And, Charley, have a mind!
Jim is as far ahead
As you two are behind!
Ready with gun and sword
Your valorous work to do--
Yonder the Injun horde
Are lying in wait for you.
And their hearts go pitapat
When they hear the soldiers come
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum!
Course it’s all in play!
The skulking Injun crew
That hustled the kite away
Are little white boys, like you!
But “honest” or “just in fun,”
It is all the same to me;
And, when the battle is won,
Home once again march we
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
And tum-titty-um-tum-tum;
And there’s glory enough in that
For the boys with their little red drum!
THE DEAD BABE
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
In agony I knelt and said:
“O God! what have I done,
Or in what wise offended Thee,
That Thou shouldst take away from me
My little son?
“Upon the thousand useless lives,
Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives,
Thy wrath were better spent!
Why shouldst Thou take my little son--
Why shouldst Thou vent Thy wrath upon
This innocent?”
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
Before mine eyes the vision spread
Of things that _might_ have been:
Licentious riot, cruel strife,
Forgotten prayers, a wasted life
Dark red with sin!
Then, with sweet music in the air,
I saw another vision there:
A Shepherd in whose keep
A little lamb--my little child!
Of worldly wisdom undefiled,
Lay fast asleep!
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
In those two messages I read
A wisdom manifest;
And though my arms be childless now,
I am content--to Him I bow
Who knoweth best.
THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD
It’s when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks,
That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes;
Then it’s sleep no more for baby, and it’s sleep no more for me,
For, when he wants his dinner, why it’s dinner it must be!
And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado.
While gran’ma laughs,
And gran’pa laughs,
And wife, she laughs,
And I--well, _I_ laugh, _too_!
You’d think, to see us carrying on about that little tad,
That, like as not, that baby was the first we’d ever had;
But, sakes alive! he isn’t, yet we people make a fuss
As if the only baby in the world had come to _us_!
And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do,
Gran’ma, she laughs,
Gran’pa, he laughs,
Wife, she laughs,
And _I_, of course, laugh, too!
But once--a likely spell ago--when that poor little chick
From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick,
You wouldn’t know us people as the same that went about
A-feelin’ good all over, just to hear him crow and shout;
And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he’d pull him
through,
Old gran’ma cried,
And gran’pa cried,
And wife, she cried,
And I--yes, _I_ cried, _too_!
It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place,
With his everlastin’ crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face;
The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere,
And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care!
No matter _what_ our trouble is, when _he_ begins to _coo_,
Old gran’ma laughs,
And gran’pa laughs,
Wife, she laughs,
And I--you bet, _I_ laugh, _too_!
SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO!
So, so, rock-a-by so!
Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;
And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,
And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek
And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies
In the beautiful garden way up in the skies
Which you seek.
Now mind these three kisses wherever you go--
So, so, rock-a-by so!
There’s one little fumfay who lives there, I know,
For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;
I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,
I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek.
And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise
When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies
Which you seek.
Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe--
So, so, rock-a-by so!
And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,
Don’t forget mother who loveth you so!
And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,
And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,
And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies
Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies
Which you seek--
The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow--
So, so, rock-a-by so!
THE SONG OF LUDDY-DUD
A sunbeam comes a-creeping
Into my dear one’s nest,
And sings to our babe a-sleeping,
The song that I love the best:
“’Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning--
’Tis little Luddy-Dud at night;
And all day long
’Tis the same sweet song
Of that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite, Luddy-Dud.”
The bird to the tossing clover,
The bee to the swaying bud,
Keep singing that sweet song over
Of wee little Luddy-Dud.
“’Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning--
’Tis little Luddy-Dud at night;
And all day long
’Tis the same dear song
Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite, Luddy-Dud!”
Luddy-Dud’s cradle is swinging
Where softly the night winds blow,
And Luddy-Dud’s mother is singing
A song that is sweet and low:
“’Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning--
’Tis little Luddy-Dud at night;
And all day long
’Tis the same sweet song
Of my nearest and my dearest heart’s delight, Luddy-Dud!”
THE DUEL
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t’other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(_I wasn’t there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!_)
The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”
And the calico cat replied “mee-ow!”
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(_Now mind: I’m only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!_)
The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw--
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(_Don’t fancy I exaggerate--
I got my news from the Chinese plate!_)
Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
(_The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know._)
GOOD-CHILDREN STREET
There’s a dear little home in Good-Children street--
My heart turneth fondly to-day
Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
Make sweetest of music at play;
Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.
For dear little children go romping about
With dollies and tin tops and drums,
And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
Till bedtime too speedily comes!
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street.
See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
The captain rides gayly and proudly ahead
On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
Oh, legions of soldiers you’re certain to meet--
Nice make-believe soldiers--in Good-Children street.
And yonder Odette wheels her dolly about--
Poor dolly! I’m sure she is ill,
For one of her blue china eyes has dropped out
And her voice is asthmatic’ly shrill.
Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet,
Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street.
’Tis so the dear children go romping about
With dollies and banners and drums,
And I venture to say they are sadly put out
When an end to their jubilee comes:
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street!
But when falleth night over river and town,
Those little folk vanish from sight,
And an angel all white from the sky cometh down
And guardeth the babes through the night,
And singeth her lullabies tender and sweet
To the dear little people in Good-Children street.
Though elsewhere the world be o’erburdened with care,
Though poverty fall to my lot,
Though toil and vexation be always my share,
What care I--they trouble me not!
_This_ thought maketh life ever joyous and sweet:
There’s a dear little home in Good-Children street.
THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT
Up yonder in Buena Park
There is a famous spot,
In legend and in history
Yclept the Waller Lot.
There children play in daytime
And lovers stroll by dark,
For ’tis the goodliest trysting-place
In all Buena Park.
Once on a time that beauteous maid,
Sweet little Sissy Knott,
Took out her pretty doll to walk
Within the Waller Lot.
While thus she fared, from Ravenswood
Came Injuns o’er the plain,
And seized upon that beauteous maid
And rent her doll in twain.
Oh, ’twas a piteous thing to hear
Her lamentations wild;
She tore her golden curls and cried:
“My child! My child! My child!”
Alas, what cared those Injun chiefs
How bitterly wailed she?
They never had been mothers,
And they could not hope to be!
“Have done with tears,” they rudely quoth,
And then they bound her hands;
For they proposed to take her off
To distant border lands.
But, joy! from Mr. Eddy’s barn
Doth Willie Clow behold
The sight that makes his hair rise up
And all his blood run cold.
He put his fingers in his mouth
And whistled long and clear,
And presently a goodly horde
Of cow-boys did appear.
Cried Willie Clow: “My comrades bold,
Haste to the Waller Lot,
And rescue from that Injun band
Our charming Sissy Knott!
“Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw,
But smite them hide and hair!
Spare neither sex nor age nor size,
And no condition spare!”
Then sped that cow-boy band away,
Full of revengeful wrath,
And Kendall Evans rode ahead
Upon a hickory lath.
And next came gallant Dady Field
And Willie’s brother Kent,
The Eddy boys and Robbie James,
On murderous purpose bent.
For they were much beholden to
That maid--in sooth, the lot
Were very, very much in love
With charming Sissy Knott.
What wonder? She was beauty’s queen,
And good beyond compare;
Moreover, it was known she was
Her wealthy father’s heir!
Now when the Injuns saw that band
They trembled with affright,
And yet they thought the cheapest thing
To do was stay and fight.
So sturdily they stood their ground,
Nor would their prisoner yield,
Despite the wrath of Willie Clow
And gallant Dady Field.
Oh, never fiercer battle raged
Upon the Waller Lot,
And never blood more freely flowed
Than flowed for Sissy Knott!
An Injun chief of monstrous size
Got Kendall Evans down,
And Robbie James was soon o’erthrown
By one of great renown.
And Dady Field was sorely done,
And Willie Clow was hurt,
And all that gallant cow-boy band
Lay wallowing in the dirt.
But still they strove with might and main
Till all the Waller Lot
Was strewn with hair and gouts of gore--
All, all for Sissy Knott!
Then cried the maiden in despair:
“Alas, I sadly fear
The battle and my hopes are lost,
Unless some help appear!”
Lo, as she spoke, she saw afar
The rescuer looming up--
The pride of all Buena Park,
Clow’s famous yellow pup!
“Now, sick ’em, Don,” the maiden cried,
“Now, sick ’em, Don!” cried she;
Obedient Don at once complied--
As ordered, so did he.
He sicked ’em all so passing well
That, overcome by fright,
The Indian horde gave up the fray
And safety sought in flight.
They ran and ran and ran and ran
O’er valley, plain, and hill;
And if they are not walking now,
Why, then, they ’re running still.
The cow-boys rose up from the dust
With faces black and blue;
“Remember, beauteous maid,” said they,
“We’ve bled and died for you!
“And though we suffer grievously,
We gladly hail the lot
That brings us toils and pains and wounds
For charming Sissy Knott!”
But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept,
And still her fate reviled;
For who could patch her dolly up--
Who, who could mend her child?
Then out her doting mother came,
And soothed her daughter then;
“Grieve not, my darling, I will sew
Your dolly up again!”
Joy soon succeeded unto grief,
And tears were soon dried up,
And dignities were heaped upon
Clow’s noble yellow pup.
Him all that goodly company
Did as deliverer hail--
They tied a ribbon round his neck,
Another round his tail.
And every anniversary day
Upon the Waller Lot
They celebrate the victory won
For charming Sissy Knott.
And I, the poet of these folk,
Am ordered to compile
This truly famous history
In good old ballad style.
Which having done as to have earned
The sweet rewards of fame,
In what same style I did begin
I now shall end the same.
So let us sing: Long live the King,
Long live the Queen and Jack,
Long live the ten-spot and the ace,
And also all the pack.
THE FLY-AWAY HORSE
Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse--
Perhaps you have seen him before;
Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept
Through the moonlight that floats on the floor.
For it’s only at night, when the stars twinkle bright,
That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh
And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane,
Is up on his heels and away!
The Moon in the sky,
As he gallopeth by,
Cries: “Oh! what a marvellous sight!”
And the Stars in dismay
Hide their faces away
In the lap of old Grandmother Night.
It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse
Speedeth ever and ever away--
Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains,
Over streamlets that sing at their play;
And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he,
While the ships they go sailing below,
And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast
Adjudge him some portent of woe.
“What ho there!” they cry,
As he flourishes by
With a whisk of his beautiful tail;
And the fish in the sea
Are as scared as can be,
From the nautilus up to the whale!
[Illustration: _The Fly-away Horse_]
And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those far-away lands
You little folk dream of at night--
Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow,
And corn-fields with popcorn are white;
And the beasts in the wood are ever so good
To children who visit them there--
What glory astride of a lion to ride,
Or to wrestle around with a bear!
The monkeys, they say:
“Come on, let us play,”
And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees:
While the parrots, that cling
To the peanut-vines, sing
Or converse with comparative ease!
Off! scamper to bed--you shall ride him to-night!
For, as soon as you’ve fallen asleep,
With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away
Over forest and hillside and deep!
But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear
In those beautiful lands over there,
Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his far-away course
With the wee one consigned to his care.
Then grandma will cry
In amazement: “Oh, my!”
And she’ll think it could never be so;
And only we two
Shall know it is true--
You and I, little precious! shall know!
THE STORK
Last night the Stork came stalking,
And, Stork, beneath your wing
Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber,
The tiniest little thing!
From Babyland, out yonder
Beside a silver sea,
You brought a priceless treasure
As gift to mine and me!
Last night my dear one listened--
And, wife, you knew the cry--
The dear old Stork has sought our home
A many times gone by!
And in your gentle bosom
I found the pretty thing
That from the realm out yonder
Our friend the Stork did bring.
Last night a babe awakened,
And, babe, how strange and new
Must seem the home and people
The Stork has brought you to;
And yet methinks you like them--
You neither stare nor weep,
But closer to my dear one
You cuddle, and you sleep!
Last night my heart grew fonder--
O happy heart of mine,
Sing of the inspirations
That round my pathway shine!
And sing your sweetest love-song
To this dear nestling wee
The Stork from ’Way-Out-Yonder
Hath brought to mine and me!
THE BOTTLE TREE
A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land--
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
A snug little berth in that ship I demand
That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away
Where the Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day
And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand;
You take of that fruit as much as you list,
For colic’s a nuisance that doesn’t exist!
So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast,
And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast--
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
The Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day!
Heigh-ho for Winkyway land!
And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I’ve heard people say)
Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand--
And that is a trick I would fain understand!
Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day!
And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night--
A bottle of milk that is creamy and white!
So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast,
And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast--
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
GOOGLY-GOO
Of mornings, bright and early,
When the lark is on the wing
And the robin in the maple
Hops from her nest to sing,
From yonder cheery chamber
Cometh a mellow coo--
’Tis the sweet, persuasive treble
Of my little Googly-Goo!
The sunbeams hear his music,
And they seek his little bed,
And they dance their prettiest dances
Round his golden curly head:
Schottisches, galops, minuets,
Gavottes and waltzes, too,
Dance they unto the music
Of my googling Googly-Goo.
My heart--my heart it leapeth
To hear that treble tone;
What music like _thy_ music,
My darling and mine own!
And patiently--yes, cheerfully
I toil the long day through--
My labor seemeth lightened
By the song of Googly-Goo!
I may not see his antics,
Nor kiss his dimpled cheek:
I may not smooth the tresses
The sunbeams love to seek;
It mattereth not--the echo
Of his sweet, persuasive coo
Recurreth to remind me
Of my little Googly-goo.
And when I come at evening,
I stand without the door
And patiently I listen
For that dear sound once more;
And oftentimes I wonder,
“Oh, God! what should I do
If any ill should happen
To my little Googly-Goo!”
Then in affright I call him--
I hear his gleeful shouts!
Begone, ye dread forebodings--
Begone, ye killing doubts!
For, with my arms about him,
My heart warms through and through
With the oogling and the googling
Of my little Googly-Goo!
THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE
Speakin’ of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce
Hed most o’ the virtues, an’ nary a vice.
Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose
From his predisposition to chronic repose;
But, rouse his ambition, he couldn’t be beat--
Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet!
Mos’ dorgs hez some forte--like huntin’ an’ such,
But the sports o’ the field didn’t bother _him_ much;
Wuz just a plain dorg, an’ contented to be
On peaceable terms with the neighbors an’ me;
Used to fiddle an’ squirm, and grunt “Oh, how nice!”
When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce!
He wuz long in the bar’l, like a fyce oughter be;
His color wuz yaller as ever you see;
His tail, curlin’ upward, wuz long, loose, an’ slim--
When he didn’t wag _it_, why, the tail it wagged _him_!
His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pup
Wuz as tall settin’ down as he wuz standin’ up!
He’d lie by the stove of a night an’ regret
The various vittles an’ things he had et;
When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along,
He’d lift up his voice in significant song--
You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space
In that bosom o’ his’n to hold so much bass!
Of daytimes he’d sneak to the road an’ lie down,
An’ tackle the country dorgs comin’ to town;
By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe,
For what he took hold of he never let go!
An’ a dude that come courtin’ our girl left a slice
Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce!
He wuz good to us kids--when we pulled at his fur
Or twisted his tail he would never demur;
He seemed to enjoy all our play an’ our chaff,
For his tongue ’u’d hang out an’ he’d laff an’ he’d laff;
An’ once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice,
He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce!
We all hev our choice, an’ you, like the rest,
Allow that the dorg which you’ve got is the best;
I wouldn’t give much for the boy ’at grows up
With no friendship subsistin’ ’tween him an’ a pup!
When a fellow gits old--I tell you it’s nice
To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce!
To think of the springtime ’way back in St. Joe--
Of the peach-trees abloom an’ the daisies ablow;
To think of the play in the medder an’ grove,
When little legs wrassled an’ little han’s strove;
To think of the loyalty, valor, an’ truth
Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth!
LITTLE MISS BRAG