THE VERSES OF
JAMES W. FOLEY
SONG OF SUMMER DAYS
BOYS AND GIRLS
THE VERSES OF
JAMES W. FOLEY
NEW YORK
E·P·DUTTON & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1905, 1907, 1909, 1910, 1911
BY JAMES W. FOLEY
———
COPYRIGHT, 1913
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A·
TO MY WIFE
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
by Reginald Birch
BOYS AND GIRLS
AWAY
“I WON’T be long,” the Little Boy said,
As he clattered him down the stair,
And found him a hat for his curly head
And called to a dog somewhere.
Then off like a flash down the shady lane
With a whistle and cry and song;
And back to us ever it came again:
“I won’t be gone very long.”
“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said,
As we saw him among the trees,
His eyes all bright and his cheeks all red,
A friend of the birds and bees;
Then through the hedges and out of the gate,
For naught in the world goes wrong
With a boy of six or seven or eight—
“I won’t be gone very long.”
“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said,
“I’m just going out to play.”
And the curly dog barked and the two of them sped
Over the clover away.
He waved us a kiss with a little brown hand
And cries rose from here and there,
For oh, but a boy does understand
A dog and the open air!
“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said,
“Don’t wait any supper—you see,
I’ll just have a bowl of milk and bread
And my dog he will eat with me.”
Then he swung his hat on its tangled string
Till the curly dog wagged his tail
And romped and played like a boy in spring
And barked him a comrade’s hail.
“I won’t be long,” the Little Boy said—
Oh, Mother of him, don’t cry!
The leaves come green again, yellow and red,
And the years and the years go by.
But sometime he’ll come, as we’ve seen him do,
With the bark of a dog and a song,
For it must be true—oh, it must be true
That he’ll not be gone very long!
THE RECIPROCITY OF SMILES
SOMETIMES I wonder why they smile so pleasantly at me,
And pat my head when they pass by as friendly as can be;
Sometimes I wonder why they stop to tell me How-d’-do,
And ask me then how old I am and where I’m going to;
And ask me can I spare a curl and say they used to know
A little girl that looked like me, oh, years and years ago;
And I told Mamma how they smiled and asked her why they do,
So she said if you smile at folks they always smile at you.
I never knew I smiled at them when they were going by,
I guess it smiled all by itself and that’s the reason why;
I just look up from playing if it’s any one I know
And they most always smile at me and maybe say Hello;
And I can smile at any one, no matter who or where,
Because I’m just a little girl with lots of them to spare;
And Mamma said we ought to smile at folks, and if you do
Most always they feel better and they smile right back at you.
And when so many smile at me and ask me for a curl
It makes me think most everybody likes a little girl;
And once when I was playing and a man was going by
He smiled at me and then he rubbed some dust out of his eye,
Because it made it water so, and said he used to know
A little girl up in his yard who used to smile just so;
And then I asked why don’t she now and then he said “You see—”
And then he rubbed his eye again and only smiled at me.
A DOMESTIC RIPPLE
SOME days my Pa is thist so cross
’At Ma, she snaps him off an’ said:
“I guess your father must ’a’ got
Up on th’ wrong side of th’ bed.”
An’ ’en Pa says he’d like to eat
Thist bread, he would, in peace once more;
An’ Ma, she bu’sts out cryin’ nen
An’ Pa goes out an’ slams th’ door—
An’ ’en I git a spankin’!
Thist ’fore he gits his breakfast, Pa
He never hardly speaks to us,
An’ Ma, she says it shames her so
T’ have him go an’ make a fuss
Before th’ girl. Pa, he don’t care,
An’ ’en he says—“Th’ girl be——!”
An’ Ma says—“Oh, t’ think he’d swear
Before his child!” Th’ door gits slammed—
An’ ’en I git a spankin’!
An’ ’en, ’em days, th’ littlest things
I do ’ll almost drive her wild,
An’ she says “Goodness sakes alive!
Was ever such another child?”
An’ she says: “Do run out an’ play!”
An’ thist when I git started, nen
She hollers right at me this way:
“Willyum! You march right in again!”
An’ ’en I git a spankin’!
An’ Pa, he don’t come home to lunch
’Cuz Ma, she says he’s too ashamed
To face her after such a scene
An’ says she surely can’t be blamed
For Pa’s mean, ugly, hateful ways,
An’ Ma ain’t got no heart to eat,
Nen, thist ’cuz I want honey on
My bread, er jam, er sumpin sweet—
Why nen I git a spankin’!
An’ ’en, along ’bout supper time
Pa sneaks in thist th’ easiest
You ever see; an’ nen he looks
For Ma; an’ she’s th’ freeziest
’At ever was. An’ Pa, he’s got
Some candy an’ he says he’s ’shamed,
An’ fin’ly Ma says mebbe she
Was also partly to be blamed,
An’ ’en ’at ends my spankin’!
THE ADAMS’S BOYS
THE Adams’s children, they just romp and play
And fall out of trees in the carelessest way,
And might break their legs from the way that they fall,
But they get up laughing and not hurt at all,
’Cause boys’ bones are soft, so their grandfather said;
And John Quincy Adams, he stands on his head
And drinks from a dipper, and all over town
The boys will tell you how he drinks upside down.
The Adams’s children, they make enough noise
In the yard where they live for three times as much boys,
And sometimes they laugh and you hear it as clear
As can be up to Tinker’s and way over here;
And they’ve got a dog which is almost the same
As the rest of the boys and will play every game,
And bark all the time, and he makes so much noise
He’s just like the rest of the Adams’s boys.
The Adams’s children, they go out to ride
On a pony of theirs, with them all three astride,
And the boy up in front makes him kick up and then
The boy way behind, he gets thrown off again;
And the Adams’s pony, he looks just as though
He’s trying to laugh when the others laugh so;
It looks like a laugh, but he can’t make a noise
Like the dog or the rest of the Adams’s boys.
The Adams’s children, they go out to play
And sometimes their mother don’t see them all day,
But she never frets, ’cause the world is too small,
So she said, for three boys to get lost in it all.
And sometimes she listens outdoors and she hears
The laughing and barking way over to Geer’s,
Which is most half a mile, and she smiles, because then
She knows they’ll be home when they’re hungry again.
The Adams’s children, they get on as though
They were three great chums and not brothers, you know;
And folks like to hear them, when they’re going past,
With the big one ahead and the little one last.
They’ve always got playmates of their very own,
And don’t have to do chores or to study alone,
And everything seems to be three times the fun
For the Adams’s children as though there’s just one!
THE ADAMS’S BOYS
BILLY PEEBLE’S CHRISTMAS
BILLY Peeble, he ain’t got no parents—never had none, ’cause
When he’s borned he was an orfunt; an’ he said ’at Santa Claus
Never didn’t leave him nothin’, ’cause he was a county charge,
An’ the overseer told him that his fambly was too large
To remember orfunt children; so I ast Ma couldn’t we
Have Bill Peeble up to our house, so’s to see our Christmas tree.
An’ she ast me if he’s dirty; an’ I said I guessed he was,
But I didn’t think it makes no difference with Santa Claus.
My his clo’es was awful ragged! Ma, she put him in a tub
An’ she poured it full of water, an’ she gave him such a scrub
’At he ’ist set there an’ shivered; an’ he told me afterwurds
’At he never washed all over out to Overseer Bird’s!
’En she burned his ragged trousies an’ she gave him some of mine;
My! she rubbed him an’ she scrubbed him till she almost made him shine,
Nen he ’ist looked all around him like he’s scairt for quite a w’ile,
An’ even w’en Ma’d pat his head he wouldn’t hardly smile.
’En after w’ile Ma took some flour-sacks an’ ’en she laid
’Em right down at the fireplace, ’ist ’cause she is afraid
Santa Claus ’ll soil the carpet when he comes down there, you know;
An’ Billy Peeble watched her, an’ his eyes stuck out—’ist so!
’En Ma said ’at in the mornin’ if we’d look down on the sacks
’At they’d be ’ist full of soot where Santa Claus had made his tracks;
Billy Peeble stood there, lookin’! An’ he told me afterwurds
He was scairt he’d wake right up an’ be at Overseer Bird’s.
Well, ’en she hung our stockin’s up an’ after w’ile she said:
“Now, you an’ Billy Peeble better go right off to bed,
An’ if you hear a noise tonight, don’t you boys make a sound,
’Cause Santa Claus don’t never come with little boys around!”
So me an’ Billy went to bed, an’ Billy Peeble, he
Could hardly go to sleep at all—’ist tossed an’ tossed. You see
We had such w’ite sheets on the bed an’ he said afterwurds
They never had no sheets at all at Overseer Bird’s.
So we ’ist laid an’ talked an’ talked. An’ Billy ast me who
Was Santa Claus. An’ I said I don’t know if it’s all true,
But people say he’s some old man who ’ist loves little boys
An’ keeps a store at the north pole with heaps an’ heaps of toys
W’ich he brings down in a big sleigh, with reindeers for his steeds,
An’ comes right down the chimbly flue an’ leaves ’ist what you needs.
My! he’s excited w’en I told him that! An’ afterwurds
He said they never had no toys at Overseer Bird’s.
I’m fallin’ pretty near asleep w’en Billy Peeble said:
“Sh-sh! What’s that noise?” An’ w’en he spoke I set right up in bed
Till sure enough I heard it in the parlor down below,
An’ Billy Peeble, he set up an’ ’en he said: “Le’s go!”
So we got up an’ sneaked down stairs, an’ both of us could see
’At it was surely Santa Claus, ’ist like Ma said he’d be;
But he must heard us comin’ down, because he stopped an’ said:
“You, Henry Blake an’ William Peeble, go right back to bed!”
My goodness, we was awful scairt! An’ both of us was pale,
An’ Billy Peeble said up stairs: “My! Ain’t he ’ist a whale!”
We didn’t hardly dare to talk and got back into bed
An’ Billy pulled the counterpane clear up above his head,
An’ in the mornin’ w’en we looked down on the flour-sacks,
W’y sure enough we saw the soot where he had made his tracks,
An’ Billy got a suit of clothes, a drum, an’ sled an’ books,
Till he ’ist never said a word, but my! how glad he looks!
’En after w’ile it’s dinner time an’ Billy Peeble set
Right next to Pa, an’ my! how he ’ist et an’ et an’ et!
Till he ’ist puffed an’ had to leave his second piece of pie
BILLY PEEBLE’S CHRISTMAS
BECAUSE he couldn’t eat no more. An’ after dinner, w’y,
Ma dressed him up in his new clo’es, an Billy Peeble said
He’s sorry he’s an orfunt, an’ Ma patted Billy’s head,
W’ich made him cry a little bit, an’ he said afterwurds
Nobody ever pats his head at Overseer Bird’s.
An’ all day long Pa looked at Ma an’ Ma she looked at him,
Because, Pa said ’at Billy looked a little bit like Jim
’At was my baby brother, but he died oncet, years ago,
An’ ’at’s w’y Billy Peeble makes my mother like him so.
She says ’at Santa brought him as a present, ’ist instead
Of little Jim ’at died oncet. So she ’ist put him to bed
On Christmas night an’ tucked him in an’ told me afterwurds
’At he ain’t never goin’ back to Overseer Bird’s.
THE WAY HE USED TO DO
SOMETIMES when I come in at night
And take my shoes off at the stair,
I hear my Pop turn on the light
And holler: “William, are you there?”
And then he says: “You go to bed—
I knew that stealthy step was you.”
And I asked how and then he said:
“’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
Sometimes when I come home at six
O’clock and hurry up my chores,
And get a big armful of sticks
Of wood and bring it all indoors,
My Pop he comes and feels my head
And says: “You’ve been in swimmin’—you!”
When I asked how he knew, he said:
“’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
Sometimes before a circus comes,
When I’m as willing as can be
To do my chores, and all my chums
They all take turns at helping me,
My Pop, he pats ’em on the head
And says: “You like a circus, too?”
When I asked how he knew, he said:
“’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
And lots of times when he gets mad
Enough to whip me and declares
He never saw another lad
Like I am—well, at last he spares
Me from a whipping and he lays
His rawhide down: “I can’t whip you
For that, although I should,” he says,
“’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
A BOY’S VACATION TIME
HAIL, that long-awaited day
When, the school books laid away,
All the thoughts of merry youngsters turn from pages back to play!
Done with lesson and with rule,
Done with teacher and with school,
Stray the vagrant hearts of childhood to the tempting wood and pool!
Who will tell in rune and rhyme
Of the glory and the grime
In the dusty lanes and byways of a boy’s vacation time?
Hark, the whistle and the cry
That is piping shrill and high
From the chorus of glad youngsters trooping riotously by!
Say, did sun e’er brightly shine
As when, with his rod and line
Tramps the barefoot lad a-fishing, and the water clear and fine?
Sweet the murmur of the trees,
And what glory now he sees
In the chatter of the wild birds and the buzz of bumble-bees!
Hear the green woods cry and call,
Through the Summer to the Fall,
“We are waiting, waiting, waiting, with a welcome for you all!”
Hear the lads take up the cry,
With an echo, shrill and high:
“We are coming, coming, coming, for vacation time is nigh!”
How the skies are blue and fair,
How the clover scents the air
With a witchery of fragrance that is delicate and rare!
How the blossoms bud and blow,
And the great waves flood and flow
In the ocean of boy happiness, like billows, to and fro!
Ah, my heart goes back and sighs
When the piping calls and cries
From the hearts of merry youngsters like a song of triumph rise!
And I would that rune and rhyme
Might be splendid and sublime
In my heart to tell the story of a boy’s vacation time!
A BOY’S CHOICE
I’D ruther take a w’ippin’ ’an a scoldin’ any day,
’Cuz a w’ippin’ makes you tingle, but you go right out an’ play,
An’ after w’ile you’re over it an’ ’en at dinner, w’y,
Your mother’s awful sorry an’ she brings a piece of pie
An’ says she hates to do it, ’cuz it hurts her ’ist as bad
As it does anybody w’en she w’ips her little lad.
An’ ’en at night she kisses you an’ puts you into bed
An’ tucks the covers in an’ says you’re Mamma’s Turly-head,
An’ my! she’s ’ist so lovely! An’ she sits beside of you
’Ist ’cuz she feels so sorry over w’at she had to do.
An’ ’en she leaves the candle burn an’ says for you to call
If you want anything from her, an’ you ain’t scairt at all!
But w’en you get a scoldin’ she don’t never bring you pie,
Becuz you’ll surely break her heart; an’ ’en she starts to cry;
An’ my! you feel so sorry, an’ you wisht she wouldn’t, ’cuz
It shows you how you’ve grieved her an’ how turble bad you wuz.
An’ all day long she never smiles; an’ w’en you go to bed
She never leaves the candle burn or calls you Turly-head.
An’ sometimes you see big, w’ite things a-lookin’ at your bed,
’At makes you scairt an’ pull the covers up above your head,
An’ ’en you s’pose how would you feel if Mamma wuz to die,
An’ biumby you feel so bad ’at you ’ist start to cry.
So w’en she looks at you so hurt an’ talks to you ’at way—
I’d ruther take a w’ippin’ ’an a scoldin’ any day!
A DISCOURAGED KINDERGARTNER
’IS mornin’ mamma told me
’At I mus’ be awful dood,
’Tuz I’m startin’ on my schooldays
An’ I promised her I would.
But I’m awful much ’iscouraged
’Tuz I tried so hard to det
All the lessons teacher gave me,
But I tant read yet!
My! it’s awful long till dinner,
An’ I couldn’t hardly wait
Wen I dot done wif my letters
An’ I wrote ’em on my slate,
An’ I’m ’shamed to tell my mamma
’At I dess she’ll have to let
Me go back again tomorrow,
’Tuz I tant read yet.
She’ll be awful disappointed,
’Tuz I’ve been there half a day,
An’ she’ll think I didn’t study
Or it wouldn’t be that way.
But I don’t s’pose I tan help it,
An’ it does no dood to fret,
’Tuz I’ve been to school all mornin’
An’ I tant read yet.
I dess our teacher’s stupid,
’Tuz she didn’t seem to care
W’en I went right up an’ told her
Were she’s sittin’ in her chair,
’At I’m awful much ’iscouraged
An’ my Mamma she would fret
’Tuz I’ve been to school all mornin’
An’ I tant read yet.
An’ ’en she started laughin’,
It’s as true as I’m alive,
An’ ast how old I am, an’ ’en
I told her half past five,
An’ ’en she tame an’ tissed me,
’Tuz my eyes are dettin’ wet,
An’ told me not to worry
’Tuz I tant read yet.
I dess if she had Mother Goose
She’d be ’isturbed herself,
If she ’ud go an’ det it
Down f’m off th’ lib’ry shelf,
An’ ’en w’en it is open,
I dess she’s apt to fret
If she’s been to school all mornin’
An’ she tant read yet!
THE DELUSION OF GHOSTS
SOMETIMES when I got to do errands at night
An’ th’ moon is all dark an’ th’ ain’t any light,
An’ th’ wind, when it blows, makes a shivery sound,
An’ everything seems awful still all around;
Sometimes when a hoot-owl goes “Woo-oo-oo-oo!”
My legs feel so funny; I’m all goose-flesh, too.
An’ maybe I’m startled when I hear it call,
But I ain’t a bit scairt; I’m thes’ nervous, that’s all.
Oncet me an’ Joe Simpson wuz walkin’ one night
A’ past th’ old graveyard, an’ saw somethin’ white
’Et looked like a ghost, standin’ right in th’ road,
An’ my, Joe wuz scairt! ’Cuz he said ’et he knowed
It wuz surely a ghost; an’ I wisseled, becuz
When you wissel you scare ’em; an’ all that it wuz
Wuz a great, big, white cow; an’ it thes’ walked away,
An’ I wuzn’t no more scairt ’n if it wuz day!
’Cuz I don’t b’lieve in ghosts, an’ I’d thes’ as lieve go
A’ past any graveyard an’ walk awful slow,
An’ wissel, an’ sit on th’ top of th’ fence,
’Cuz th’ ain’t any ghosts if you got any sense.
An’ when we saw that big white thing by th’ road
’Et Joe wuz so scairt of, I wuzn’t. I knowed
All th’ time it’s no ghost. I wuz nervous becuz
I knowed what it wuzn’t, but not what it wuz!
A STORY OF SELF-SACRIFICE
POP took me to the circus ’cause it disappoints me so
To have to stay at home, although he doesn’t care to go;
He’s seen it all so many times, the wagons and the tents;
The cages of wild animals and herds of elephants;
This morning he went down with me to watch the big parade,
He was so dreadful busy that he oughtn’t to have stayed,
He said he’d seen it all before and all the reason he
Went down and watched it coming was because it’s new to me.
Then we walked to the circus grounds and Pop he says: “I guess
You want a glass of lemonade, of course,” and I says: “Yes.”
And he bought one for each of us, and when he drank his he
Told me he drank it only just to keep me company;
And then he says, “The sideshow is, I s’pose, the same old sell,
But everybody’s goin’ in, so we might just as well.”
He said he’d seen it all before, and all the reason he
Went in and saw it was because it was all new to me.
Well, by and by we both came out and went in the big tent,
And saw the lions and tigers and the bigges’ elephant
With chains on his front corner and an awful funny nose
That looks around for peanuts that the crowd of people throws;
And Pop, he bought some peanuts and it curled its nose around
Until it found most every one that he threw on the ground;
He said he’d seen it all before, and all the reason he
Stayed there and threw ’em was because it was all new to me.
Well, then the band began to play the liveliestest tune,
And Pop, he says he guessed the show would open pretty soon;
So we went in the other tent, and Pop, he says to me:
“I guess we’ll get some reserved seats so you will surely see.”
And then some lovely ladies came and stood there on the ground,
And jumped up on the horses while the horses ran around;
Pop said he’d seen it all before, and all the reason he
Looked at the ladies was because it was all new to me.
Well, finally it’s over, but a man came out to say
That they’re going to have a concert, and Pop said we’d better stay;
He said they’re always just the same and always such a sell,
But lots of folks was staying and he guessed we might as well.
Then by and by we’re home again, and Mamma wants to know
What kind of circus was it, and Pop said, “The same old show,”
And said he’d seen it all before and all the reason he
Had stayed and seen it all was ’cause it’s all so new to me.
THE LOST CHILD
I ’MEMBER when they cut my curls not very long ago,
Because they looked just like a girl’s, and I’m a boy, you know;
I used to wear ’em awful long, and once my Pa, he said,
It’s time I had my curls cut off and wore short hair instead;
Because I’m big enough for that; and then they took the shears
And snipped my curls off one by one right close up to my ears,
But every time a curl came off, my Mother, she just hid
Her face a little bit and cried. I wonder why she did!
And after while she picked one up and held it in her hand
With something shining in her eyes I didn’t understand;
She petted it as if it was a little boy or girl,
And acted fond of it when it was nothing but a curl.
And after while they’re all cut off and down there on the floor,
And I looked much more like a boy than I had been before,
But there was something in her eyes she tried and tried and tried
To brush away, but still it came. I wonder why she cried.
And after while I’m all trimmed off, and then my Pa, he said,
I’m not a baby any more, but I’m a boy instead,
And he is awful proud of me, and then my Ma, she smiled
And said we found a boy that day and lost a little child;
So I said I would hunt for him and bring him back but then
She said she was afraid that he would not come back again;
And picked the curls I had all up from off the floor and hid
Them in her bureau drawer and cried. I wonder why she did.
DOUGHNUTTING TIME
WUNST w’en our girl wuz makin’ pies an’ doughnuts—’ist a lot—
We stood around with great, big eyes, ’cuz we boys like ’em hot;
An’ w’en she dropped ’em in the lard they sizzled ’ist like fun.
An’ w’en she takes ’em out it’s hard to keep from takin’ one.
An’ ’en she says: “You boys’ll get all spattered up with grease,
An’ biumby she says she’ll let us have ’ist one apiece;
So I took one for me an’ one for little James McBride,
The widow’s only orfunt son ’at’s waitin’ there outside.
An’ Henry, he took one ’ist for himself an’ Nellie Flynn,
’At’s waitin’ at the kitchen door an’ dassent to come in
Becuz her mother told her not, an’ Johnny, he took two,
’Cuz Amy Brennan likes ’em hot, ’ist like we chinnern do.
’En Henry happened ’ist to think he didn’t get a one
For little Ebenezer Brink, the carpet beater’s son,
Who never gets ’em home becuz he says he ain’t quite sure
But thinks perhaps the reason wuz his folkses are too poor.
An’ ’en I give my own away to little Willie Beggs
’At fell way down his stairs one day an’ give him crooked legs,
’Cuz Willie always seems to know w’en our girl’s goin’ to bake,
He wouldn’t ast for none-oh, no! But, my! he’s fond of cake.
So I went back an’ ’en I got another one for me
Right out the kettle, smokin’ hot an’ brown as it could be,
An’ John, he got one, too, becuz he give his own to Clare,
An’ w’en our girl, she looked, there wuz ’ist two small doughnuts there!
My! She wuz angry w’en she looked an’ saw ’ist them two there,
An’ says she knew ’at she had cooked a crock full an’ to spare,
She says it’s awful ’scouragin’ to bake an’ fret an’ fuss,
An’ w’en she thinks she’s got ’em in the crock they’re all in us!
A MODERN MIRACLE
ONCE w’en I’m sick th’ doctor come
An’ ’en I put my tongue ’way out,
An’ he says, “H-m-m! Nurse, get me some
Warm water, please.” An’ in about
A minute, w’y, she did an’ ’en
He put a glass thing into it
An’ ’en he wiped it off again
An’ put it in my mouth a bit.
’En after w’ile he took it out
An’ held it up w’ere he could see,
An’ ’en he says, “H-m-m! ’Ist about
Too high a half of a degree.”
An’ ’en Ma asked him if I’m bad
An’ he says “Nope!” ’ist gruff an’ cross
’An says “W’y you can’t kill a lad,
An’ if you do it ain’t much loss!”
An’ ’en she’s mad an’ he ’ist bust
Out laughin’ an’ he says, “Don’t fret,
He’s goin’ t’ be all right, I trust.
W’y he ain’t even half dead yet.”
An’ ’en he felt my pulse, ’at way,
An’ patted me upon my head
An’ says “There ain’t no school today,
’Cuz one of th’ trustees is dead!”
A MODERN MIRACLE
AN’ my, I’m awful sorry w’en
He told me that. An’ ’en he said
“He’ll be all right by noon.” An’ ’en
He went away. An’ Ma says “Ned,
How do you feel?” An’ ’en, you know,
Since Doctor told me that, somehow,
I’m awful sick a while ago,
But, my! I’m almost well right now!
NERVOUSTOWN
OH, there’s never a noise in Nervoustown;
Not the cry of a youngster; and up or down
There’s never a cheer or a whistle shrill;
Just silence, like that of the grave, so still;
The horses trot with a muffled tread,
But the place seems lonesome and drear and dead,
For a cloth-bound head and a nervous frown
Are all you may see in Nervoustown.
Sh-h! you must walk with noiseless tread
For there’s many a hot and aching head;
The doors are closed and the blinds are down,
For it must be dark in Nervoustown.
And you mustn’t whistle or shout or cheer
Or slam the doors! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
Lest a cloth-bound head and a terrible frown
Poke out at you from Nervoustown.
Oh, there’s never a person there but goes
On the very tip of his tippy-toes;
Nor ever a lad has heard at all
Of follow-my-leader or rude baseball;
It’s much as your life is worth to yell,
The flowers can’t grow for the camphor-smell;
While a big policeman, up and down,
Cries “Sh-h!” through the streets of Nervoustown.
And a little boy, who didn’t know,
Once years and years and years ago,
Gave three loud, lusty cheers one day
For something or other, I can’t say,
And they snipped his head off—Oh! Oh! Oh!
With big, red, rusty shears, you know,
And cloth-bound heads bobbed up and down
With gladness all through Nervoustown.
But, oh, it’s gloomy in Nervoustown,
With the doors tight shut and the blinds all down,
Where the frightened lad his whole life goes
On the very tips of his tippy-toes,
Where the hens don’t cluck and the birds don’t sing,
And even the church bells dare not ring
Lest a cloth-bound head with a terrible frown
Poke out at them from Nervoustown.
SONG OF SUMMER DAYS
SING a song of hollow logs,
Chirp of cricket, croak of frogs,
Cry of wild bird, hum of bees,
Dancing leaves and whisp’ring trees;
Legs all bare and dusty toes,
Ruddy cheeks and freckled nose,
Splash of brook and swish of line,
Where the song that’s half so fine?
Sing a song of summer days,
Leafy nooks and shady ways,
Nodding roses, apples red,
Clover like a carpet spread;
Sing a song of running brooks,
Cans of bait and fishing hooks,
Dewy hollows, yellow moons,
Birds a-pipe with merry tunes.
Sing a song of skies of blue,
Eden’s garden made anew,
Scarlet hedges, leafy lanes,
Vine-embowered sills and panes;
Stretch of meadows, splashed with dew,
Silver clouds with sunlight through,
Cry of loon and pipe of wren,
Sing and call it home again.
WHAT MOTHER DOESN’T KNOW
SOMETIMES w’en I got to pile wood in the
yard,
’Ist wringin’ with sweat ’cuz I’m workin’ so
hard,
An’ see all the neighbors’ boys startin’ to fish,
I can’t hardly work any more, an’ I wish
’At I wuz a-goin’ an’ ’en right away
I run an’ ast Ma if I can’t go today,
An’ she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run
Off an’ fish ’ist as soon as your work is all done.
You must work while you work,
You must play while you play
An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”
An’ mebbe it’s so,
But my goodness! to go
With the boys ’at’s gone fishin’!—I guess she dunno!
Sometimes w’en I got to hoe garden an’ hear
The boys playin’ ball in the next lot, so near
I hear ’em all cheerin’ an’ see ’em all score,
I can’t hardly stand it to hoe any more.
So ’en I ast Ma if I can’t go an’ play
An’ promise to hoe twict as much the next day,
But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run
Off an’ play ’ist as soon as your work is all done.
You must work while you work,
You must play while you play
An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”
An’ mebbe it’s so,
But, my goodness! to hoe
W’en you hear ’em a-playin’!—I guess she dunno.
Sometimes w’en the snow gets all piled up so deep
On the walk ’at she tells me to go out an’ sweep
It all off, an’ Sam Russell comes by with his sled,
My broom ’at I’m usin’ gets heavy as lead.
An’ I can’t hardly sweep, an’ I ast Ma if I
Can’t go out a-slidin’ an’ sweep by an’ by,
But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can run
Off and slide ’ist as soon as your work is all done.
You must work while you work,
You must play while you play
An’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”
An’ mebbe it’s so,
But to have to sweep snow
W’en the boys are a-slidin’!—I guess she dunno.
SO LONESOME NOW
OVER t’ Henry Murray’s, why,
They always had lots an’ lots o’ pie,
An’ toy automobiles an’ v’locipedes
An’ walkin’ toys, like a fellow reads
About sometimes, but he seldom sees,
An’ swings out under th’ big oak trees,
An’ childurn a-playin’ on every bough—
But my! It is turrible lonesome now.
Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,
His mother an’ father ’ist seemed t’ try
An’ see if they couldn’t get some new toys
For Henry an’ all of us other boys
’At played with him; an’ she used t’ make
Th’ dandiest currant an’ raisin cake,
An’ boys ’ist flocked there like flies, somehow—
But my! It is turrible lonesome now.
Over’t Henry Murray’s, why,
His mother ’ud see you goin’ by
An’ ast you why you didn’t come an’ play
With Henry an’ all of his toys, some day.
An’ every Christmas she’d have a tree
With presents, th’ finest you ever see,
An’ nobody got forgot, somehow—
But my! It is turrible lonesome now.
An’ over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,
We boys ’ist look while we’re goin’ by,
An’ see all his toys layin’ there outside.
Once Big Bill Skinner broke down an’ cried
An’ says he don’t care—it was ’ist too bad,
’Cause Henry was all of th’ boy they had.
An’ th’ swings ’ist hang from th’ big oak bough bough—
An’ my! It is turrible lonesome now.
A LITTLE LOVE STORY
SHE understands. I do not need to go
And tell her she is all the world to me.
I never speak a word to let her know
I will be faithful till Eternity,
But when, upon the way to school, she sees
Me come with two red apples in my hands
And hears me say: “Please, Sally Jane, take these,”
It is no wonder that she understands.
Or when she sees me at the old front gate
With my new sled right after the first snow,
And from her window calls to me to wait
Until she asks her Mother can she go,
I do not need to tell her why I come
In my fur cap with mittens on my hands,
For even if my feelings make me dumb
She looks at me and then she understands.
Or if she whispers something when in school,
As children are quite often apt to do,
Forgetting all about the teacher’s rule,
And teacher says to Sally: “Was that you?”
Why then I see how scared she is and rise
Up in my seat and hold up both my hands
And take the blame—she looks into my eyes eyes—
I do not need to speak—she understands.
Or if she has the measles so I dare
Not go up to her house, but I can look
In through the window and she sees me there,
And if I bring a dandy story book
And leave it on the fence post where the nurse
Can come and take it in, and if my hands
Have written, “Dear, I hope you’ll be no worse,”
I do not need to speak—she understands.
I do not need to tell her how I feel—
She only has to watch the things I do;
She knows my heart is true to her as steel,
And if it rains or if the sky is blue
I wait for her to walk to school with me,
And carry all her school-books in my hands,
And I am just as happy as can be,
And so is she—because she understands.
A LITTLE LOVE STORY
ON A NOISELESS FOURTH
ON a noiseless street stood a crackerless lad with a screechless fife and a headless drum,
Venting his glee in a voiceless shout, as a blareless band, all still and dumb,
Came down the length of the avenue, and a bugle corps blew a noteless blare,
While a screechless rocket with noiseless hiss cut a fireless path through the silent air.
The blareless band played a soundless tune and the crackerless lad gave a voiceless shout
As the rippling folds of the unfurled flag from the upheld standard fluttered out.
“Hurrah!” he cried with a voiceless cry, put forth from his lips in a speechless way.
“Hurrah for the guns of Lexington and the noiseless Independence Day!”
Then far away down the village street a smokeless gun belched a soundless roar,
A popless cracker fizzless died, and the band played a blareless tune once more;
The clickless guns of the village guards with a thudless sound dropped on the ground.
The marshal left his neighless horse, and the voiceless mob ranged all around;
A fizzless pinwheel silent whirred, and the drum corps joined in a tootless screech,
The lips of the village speaker moved in the tongueless strains of a wordless speech.
Then a graceless benediction fell, and the crackerless lad, in a voiceless way,
Gave a soundless shout for Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day.
Oh, the pulseless thrill of the noiseless guns and the tootless fifes and the headless drums,
The heartless joy of the crackerless lad, as the soundless pageant noiseless comes
Down the village street, and the sightless glow of the hissless rocket’s fireless glare
With noiseless swish from the silent earth through the measureless breadth of the lightless air!
But a fingerless youth of the olden time, when crackers popped and cannons roared,
Looked on the scene with much disgust and the look of a lad who is greatly bored;
And he cried aloud—’twas the only sound that was heard, not made in a voiceless way:
“Dog-gone the guns at Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day!”
CONSCIOUS IGNORANCE
I’M only ’ist a little girl,
An’ w’en I want to play
An’ Mamma says don’t go outside
Our yard this livelong day,
An’ w’en some other girls ’ey come
An’ pester me to go,
It may be wrong, but I’m so young,
How does she s’pose I know?
An’ ’en w’en she goes out sometimes
An’ says: “Now go to bed
At eight o’clock this very night,”
I ’member what she said.
But w’en the mantel clock strikes eight
An’ I don’t want to go,
It may be wrong, but I’m so young,
How does she s’pose I know?
An’ w’en she says: “Now, don’t go near
The cookie jar this day,”
I want some cookies awful much
An’ try to stay away.
But all the time I’m hungry for
Some cookies, an’ I go—
It may be wrong, but I’m so young,
How does she s’pose I know?
I’m only ’ist a little girl
Not more ’n six years old,
An’ my, I always try to do
E’zactly as I’m told.
But w’en I make ’ist one mistake,
My Ma ought not to go
An’ punish me, ’cause I’m so young,
How does she s’pose I know?
THE PLAYTIME OF BACHELOR BILL
OUR Uncle Bill’s a bachelur, an’ it’s an awful shame,
’Cuz he knows stories about bears an’ knows ’em all by name.
An’ growls ’ist like a really one an’ makes you think a bear
Is underneath th’ table, but of course it isn’t there.
An’ when he takes you on his knee he talks ’ist like a book
An’ after w’ile your eyes get big an’ you’re a-scairt to look
W’en he says: “Nen a bear come out an’ ’ist went Boo-oo-oo!”
Becuz you almost think a bear is really after you.
An’ ’en he plays wild Indian an’ hides himself somewheres
W’ile we look in th’ corners an’ behind th’ parlor chairs,
An’ peek in th’ dark closets an’ p’tend we’re on a scout
Till after w’ile he makes a whoop an’ ’en comes rushin’ out
’Ist like he’s on th’ warpath; an’ us chinnern run upstairs
An’ hide in Mamma’s closet an’ he makes us think ’at bears
Are comin’ in to get us an’ he growls ’ist like he’s one,
An’ my! we’re turble scairt an’ yet it’s awful lots o’ fun.
An’ ’en he is a pirate an’ he makes us chinnern play
At we are in a shipwreck an’ th’ crew is cast away
Upon a desert island w’ere his treasure chest is hid,
An’ we are only sailors an’ his name is Captain Kidd.
An’ w’en we hear him comin’ he ’ist roars an’ ’en we run,
’Cuz he has broomsticks for a sword an’ pokers for a gun,
An’ after w’ile he kills us all but it don’t hurt, an’ w’en
He sails away in his big ship we come to life again.
’En after w’ile our Mother comes an’ taps him on th’ head,
An’ says it’s time for bears an’ scouts an’ things to be in bed,
An’ leads us chinnern all upstairs an’ maybe if we keep
Right still she’ll let th’ candle burn until we go to sleep.
’En after w’ile our Uncle Bill comes up to say good-night,
An’ see how snug an’ warm we are an’ all tucked in so tight,
An’ ’en he kisses us good-night an’ ’en his eyes ’ist blur:
I guess we make him sorry ’at he is a bachelur!
HOW HENRY BLAKE KNOWS
DON’T you dast kill a toad, Henry Blake says, for true
As your’re born it’ll rain right away if you do.
For Henry Blake says oncet some boys ’at he knowed
Were goin’ a-fishin’ an’ one killed a toad,
An’ it all clouded up an’ it got just as black,
An’ it thundered an’ lightninged before they got back
Till they were awful scairt. He says he dunno why,
But he thinks toads has somethin’ t’ do with the sky.
An’ Henry Blake showed
Us th’ place in th’ road
Where the boys went an’ kilt him an’ that’s how he knowed.
Henry Blake says if you just split a bean
An’ put half of it on a wart when it’s green,
An’ throw half of it between midnight an’ dawn
In a cistern somewhere, why, your wart’ll be gone
Just as soon as it rots. Henry Blake says it’s true
’Cuz a friend of his showed him a bean cut in two
That took off a big wart, an’ th’ half was all black
An’ Henry Blake says that it never came back.
An’ Henry’s friend showed
Him th’ cistern he throwed
The other half into an’ that’s how he knowed!
THE LAND OF BLOW BUBBLES
HIS curls are like rings of red gold on his head,
His lips are as red as a cherry,
His cheeks are as round as an apple, and red,
His eyes full of mischief and merry.
His heart is as pure as a snowflake in air,
A fig for the whole of his troubles!
For he’s my Boy Careless—you’ve seen him somewhere,
And he lives in the land of Blow Bubbles!
Now he’s riding a stick that is legless and dead,
Through the lanes and across the sere stubbles,
For a stick is a horse with four legs and a head
In that magic boy land of Blow Bubbles!
He bears at his side a sword cut from a lath,
With a big wooden gun on his shoulder,
And woe to the wild beast that crosses his path
For never a huntsman was bolder.
Now down from his steed leaps Boy Careless in haste,
He drops on one knee in the stubbles,
For stubbles are woods full of wild beasts, all chased
To their death by the boys in Blow Bubbles!
His musket he brings to his shoulder and shoots,
The sound of it echoes and doubles,
For a make-believe gun kills the make-believe brutes
In that magic boy land of Blow Bubbles.
Then out from the forest a savage all red
With blood-curdling yell leaps to battle,
A thrust from the big wooden sword—he is dead
With a most melancholy death-rattle.
Then up from the ground lifts Boy Careless his horse,
And back o’er the all-trackless stubbles,
For it’s many a mile to his cabin, of course,
In the magic boy land of Blow Bubbles.
Oh, joy to the lad in his make-believe ride
With the make-believe gun on his shoulder,
With the make-believe sword cut from lath at his side,
And a sigh from the heart that is older!
A whistle for Care from the harp of his lips,
A fig for the whole of his troubles,
When he’s off like the wind on his make-believe trips
In the magic boy land of Blow Bubbles!
THE GINGERCAKE MAN
THE Gingercake man was a lump of brown dough
Till a great rolling pin was run over him, so!
To flatten him out, and he lay there so thin,
His bones almost popped through the holes in his skin;
They sifted him over with flour and spice,
And made him some eyes with two kernels of rice,
And took some dried currants, the biggest and best,
To make him some buttons for closing his vest.
The Gingercake man wabbled this way and that,
When they seeded a raisin and made him a hat
That was stuck on his head in the jauntiest way,
For a Gingercake man is not made every day.
They stuck in some cloves for his ears; yes, indeed!
And made him some teeth out of caraway seed,
And when he was finished they buttered a pan—
The biggest they had—for the Gingercake man.
Then into the oven they put him to bake
Until he was hard and could stand and not break
His legs when he stood; and they set him to cool
Until all the children should come home from school.
And oh, the delight and the wonder and glee,
When mother invited the children to see,
THE GINGERCAKE MAN
ALL sifted with sugar and out of the pan,
The good-natured face of the Gingercake man.
But alas and alas! ’Tis a short life and sweet
Is the Gingercake man’s—for they ate off his feet,
They broke off his arms with the hungriest zest,
And picked all the buttons from out of his vest;
They nibbled his legs off and ate up his hat,
And everything edible went just like that,
Till the cloves and the kernels of rice you may scan
As all that is left of the Gingercake man!
LONESOME
SAY, little boy, be friends with me and I’ll be friends with you;
And I won’t never tell on you, no matter what you do.
It’s awful lonesome over here and, goodness, but it’s hard
To have your mother say that you must play in your back yard.
There’s lots of daisies where I am, and butterflies as bright
As anything you ever saw, and I just saw one light;
Perhaps you’d catch it in your cap if I would help you to—
Come over and be friends with me and I’ll be friends with you.
I’m all the children we have got—I’m lonesome as can be,
I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to come and play with me.
I don’t care if your face ain’t clean or if your clothes are torn,
I didn’t have no clothes at all the time that I was born.
We got ripe apples on our trees and I will boost you so
That you can get some if you come, and when it’s time to go
We’ll fill your cap and pockets full to take home. Don’t you see
I’m willing to be friends with you if you’ll be friends with me?
I’ve got a lot of wooden toys, as fine as they can be,
But I want something that’s alive to run around with me,
And play wild Indians and bears, and if you’ll come and play
Perhaps my Mamma ’ll let me come and play with you some day.
We’ve got some dandy hollow trees, the finest anywheres,
And one of us can hide in them when we are playing bears,
And growl just like he’s awful cross, and all the time you know
It’s only make-believe, of course, but then it scares you so.
I wish you’d come and play with me. I’ve got a jumping-jack
I’ll give you for your very own to keep when you go back,
And you can ride my v’locipede most all the afternoon
And blow some bubbles with my pipe and play with my balloon.
I’ve got an awful lot of toys and I will let you play
That they are yours as much as mine for all the time you stay,
I’m all the boys my folks have got. I’m lonesome as can be,
Come on, and I’ll be friends with you if you’ll be friends with me.
THE GARDEN OF PLAY
OUT in the Garden of Childhood gay
Romp three glad youngsters with merry cries,
Startling the birds with their boisterous play,
Lightheart and Laughter and big Brighteyes.
Ever you see them and hear them there,
Morning or evening or blossomy noon,
And oh, but the Garden of Youth is fair,
And oh, but the years of it pass too soon!
Over the Garden arch cloudless skies,
(Ah, but the skies of all Youth are blue!)
Lightheart and Laughter and big Brighteyes
Find in each nook something rare and new.
Cool is the shade of the coaxing trees,
Bidding them hide from the sun at noon,
And oh, but what glorious days are these,
And oh, but the hours of them pass too soon!
Rare is the Garden with fragrant flowers
(Ah, but the flowers of Youth are fair!)
Garlands they weave of the golden hours,
Sweet with the song of the birds in air.
Splashed all the earth with a rosy light,
Light of the sun at its splendid noon,
And oh, but the sunshine of Youth is bright,
And oh, but the light of it dies too soon!
Sweet to mine ears from the Garden gay
Echo their calls and their merry cries,
Startling the birds with their boisterous play,
Lightheart and Laughter and big Brighteyes.
Dips the red sun to its shadowed west,
These are the years of mine afternoon,
And oh, but the years of my youth were best,
And oh, but the joy of them passed too soon!
WE AIN’T SCARED O’ PA
US boys ain’t scared o’ Pa so much,
He only makes a noise,
An’ says he never did see such
Onmanageable boys.
But when Ma looks around I see
Just somethin’ long an’ flat
An’ always make a point to be
Some better after that.
Pa promises an’ promises,
But never does a thing;
But what Ma says she does she does,
An’ when I go to bring
Her slipper or her hair brush when
She says she’ll dust my pants,
I think I could be better then
If I had one more chance.
Pa always says nex’ time ’at he
Will have a word to say,
But Ma she is more apt to be
A-doin’ right away;
Pa turns around at us an’ glares
As fierce as he can look,
But when we’re out o’ sight, upstairs,
He goes back to his book.
Ma doesn’t glare as much as Pa
Or make as big a fuss,
But what she says is law is law,
And when she speaks to us
She’s lookin’ carelessly around
F’r somethin’ long an’ flat,
And when we notice it, we’re bound
To be good after that.
So we ain’t scairt o’ Pa at all,
Although he thinks we are;
But when we hear Ma come an’ call,
No difference how far
We are away we answer quick,
An’ tell her where we’re at,
When she stoops down and starts to pick
Up somethin’ long an’ flat!
A PEARL OF PRICE
SHE isn’t worth a fortune and she hasn’t any stocks,
Her wealth is all in little shoes and pinafores and frocks.
In little rings of curling hair and big blue, laughing eyes,
In leaves and grass and buds and flowers and bees and butterflies.
But when she comes in tired from play and crawls upon my knee
She’s worth a hundred millions to her mother and to me.
She sits among her dolls and toys and doesn’t seem to care
If wealth is all in rosy cheeks and locks of curly hair.
She toddles up to me and like an artful fairy clips
A coupon bearing love from off the sweetness of her lips.
And when she puts her arms around my neck and goos in glee,
She’s worth uncounted millions to her mother and to me.
And when she’s in her crib at night and daintily tucked in,
The wealth of Croesus couldn’t buy the dimple in her chin,
And as she blinks her roguish eyes to play at peek-a-boo,
She chuckles me a fortune with each archly spoken goo.
And though she has no fortune, I am sure you will agree,
She’s a fortune, more than money, to her mother and to me.
DEAR LITTLE, QUEER LITTLE MAN
DEAR little, queer little man,
With his hair all a tumble of curls,
With a light in his eyes
Like the blue of the skies
When the dawn’s rosy banner unfurls!
Sweet little, fleet little man,
Who fills all the house with his toys,
Whose laugh has the truth
Of the heart of his youth:
A toast to the health of our boys!
Dear little, queer little man,
With a big, paper cap on his head,
And a sword at his side
As he gets up to ride
On his hobby-horse, gaudy and red!
Play, little, gay little man;
Fill all of the house with your noise,
For, oh, it were ill
If your laughter were still!
A toast to the laughter of boys!
Dear little, queer little man,
With dreams of the future to be,
When he shall grow tall
And shall care for us all,
His mother, his sister and me!
Brave little, grave little man,
With thoughts, like his youth, incomplete,
But bearing the seed
That shall blossom and lead
To manhood all gracious and sweet.
Dear little, queer little man,
Whose heart is so boyish and pure,
May the sweetness and truth
That are flowers of youth
Through all of your being endure!
Play, little, gay little man;
Fill all of the house with your noise,
For, oh, what so sweet
As the pattering feet
And the echoing laughter of boys?
Dear little, queer little man,
The light of the dawn’s rosy beams
Be evermore spread
On your dear, curly head,
And truth to your innocent dreams!
Blest little, best little man,
God keep you as pure as the truth
That lingers and lies
In the light of your eyes:
Long life to the heart of your youth!
GIRL OF MINE
OH, her frock is crisp and white,
And her hair is curled up tight
To her roguish little head, just like an aureole of light.
Not a heart but she could win
With the ribbon at her chin
And her cheeks that have such very little merry dimples in.
Ah, the laughter in her eyes,
And the wonder and surprise
As she toddles through the waving grass in search of butterflies;
And the flowers nod and sway
In their love of her and say
By their homage as she passes she’s a fairer flower than they.
Ah, the sweetness and the grace
In her radiant little face
As she scampers through the sunlight in her airy, fairy race;
How the roguish laughter trips
From the gateway of her lips
Like the lilting of the robin through the leafy bough that slips.
And the birds in branches high
Seem to join her merry cry,
And to chirp a fearless greeting as she gaily toddles by;
And so light her footsteps fall
That the clover blossoms call:
“See! She stepped on us in passing but we’re scarcely bruised at all!”
CHUMS
HE lives acrost the street from us
An’ ain’t as big as me;
His mother takes in washin’ ’cuz
They’re poor as they can be;
But every night he brings his slate
An’ ’en I do his sums,
An’ help him get his lessons straight,
’Cuz him an’ me is chums.
His clo’es ain’t quite as good as mine,
But I don’t care for that;
His mother makes his face ’ist shine,
An’ I lent him a hat.
An’ every mornin’, ’ist by rule,
W’en nine o’clock it comes,
He takes my hand an’ goes to school,
’Cuz him an’ me is chums.
Nobody better plague him, too,
No matter if he’s small,
’Cuz I’m his friend, for tried and true,
An’ ’at’s th’ reason all
Th’ boys don’t dare to plague him, ’cuz
I ’ist wait till he comes,
An’ he walks close to me, he does,
’Cuz him an’ me is chums.
He fell an’ hurt hi’self one day
Th’ summer before last,
An’ ’at’s w’at makes him limp ’at way
An’ don’t grow very fast.
So w’en I get a piece of pie,
Or maybe nuts or plums,
I always give him some, ’cuz I
Get lots—an’ we are chums.
An’ w’en it’s nuttin’ time, we go,
An’ I climb all th’ trees,
’Cuz he can’t climb—he’s hurt, you know—
But he gets all he sees
Come droppin’ down, an’ my! he’s glad;
An’ w’en th’ twilight comes
He says w’at a fine time he had,
’Cuz him an’ me is chums.
But my! his mother’s awful queer;
’Cuz w’en we’re home again,
She wipes her eye—a great, big tear—
An’ says: “God bless you, Ben!
Th’ Lord will bless you all your days
W’en th’ great Judgment comes.”
But I say I don’t need no praise,
’Cuz him an’ me is chums.
THE LOST BOY
LITTLE Boy Careless has strewn his blocks
From end to end of the nursery;
He has broken the top of the gaudy box
That held sliced animals—My, Ah Me!
His wooden soldiers are seamed and scarred
From battle with him, and his jumping-jack
Is lodged half-way from a blow too hard,
Nor all of my coaxing will get him back.
Little Boy Careless has split his drum
And bent the tube of his screeching fife
Till all of its martial airs are dumb,
And the doll that squeaked has lost her life
From a mallet blow on her waxen head,
And none of her sister dolls knows or cares
How the sawdust in her is strewn and spread
From the bedroom door to the hall downstairs.
Little Boy Careless has gone away
And Big Boy Hopeful has come to me,
The toys that were scattered here yesterday
Are stored up there in the nursery.
The broken drum and the jumping-jack,
The waxen doll in her crib alone,
Nor Little Boy Careless will e’er come back
To scatter the toys by his years outgrown.
And ah, but the heart of me aches and cries
For the Little Boy Careless to come and play,
The light of the dawn in his big, brown eyes,
With the toys that are gathered and laid away.
The Big Boy Hopeful will come to pine
For the world out there and will yearn to go,
But the Little Boy Careless was mine, all mine,
And that is the reason I loved him so!
LINES TO A BABY GIRL
OH, she has such a way with her!
I stay with her
And play with her,
Her cheeks are round and dimpled and
Her eyes are Heaven’s blue;
My life is spent quite half with her,
I laugh with her
And chaff with her,
Till she looks up with laughing eyes,
And all she says is “Goo!”
Sometimes I try to walk with her,
I talk with her
And rock with her;
She knows some way my love for her
Is tender and is true.
And so I sit and speak with her
And seek with her
The cheek of her
To brush with little kisses and
Quite all she says is “Goo!”
She toddles in to share with me
My chair with me;
Her air with me
Is that of queen imperious,
My heart her subject true.
Upon the floor she lies with me
And tries with me
To rise with me
When romping time is over, and
She looks up and says “Goo!”
Oh, she is such a part of me,
The heart of me,
And art of me
Could not express my love for her,
So tender and so true;
She is the treasure blessed of me,
Heart’s guest of me,
The best of me,
This little baby girl of me
Who looks up and says “Goo!”
LITTLE MISCHEFUSS
SOMEBODY went and broke my doll, an’ let her sawdust out
On Mamma’s floor an’ my! there’s sawdust scattered all about!
Dess scandalous! An’ bien by my Mamma’ll come an’ say:
“I see ’at Little Mischefuss has been around today!”
An’ sometimes w’en th’ sugar bowl’s lef’ open, she says ’en:
“I dess ’at Little Mischefuss has been around again!”
An’ my! I’m awful much surprised! an’ ast how does she know,
But she dess says a little bird flew in an’ told her so!
One time somebody went, she did, and broke my jumpin’-jack
An’ Mamma says: “I see ’at Little Mischefuss is back.”
An’ w’en somebody spilled p’eserves right on the pantry shelf
She says: “I see ’at Mischefuss has tried to he’p herself!”
One day somebody tored my dress an’ en she says: “I see
At Little Mischefuss is dess as busy as can be!”
An’ my! I’m awful much surprised an’ ast how does she know,
But she dess says a little bird flew in an’ told her so!
Somebody frowed my blocks out doors an’ ’en ’ey dot all wet
An’ all peeled off tuz why it rained an’ Mamma says she bet
’At Little Mischefuss is back from Topsyturvytown
An’ mus’ be hidin’ in th’ house or else somew’eres aroun’.
Oncet Mamma’s goin’ t’ spank her w’en she catches her, an’ so
I ast her not to tuz she’s dess a little girl, you know,
An’ don’t know any better ’an t’ plague an’ pester us,
Till she dess laughs, tuz why she says I’m Little Mischefuss!
THE TRAVELS OF MORTIMER BROWN
THIS is the story of Mortimer Brown
Who went for his mother some errands in town,
Who was told he must come back as quick as he could
And as earnestly promised his mother he would.
He went down the front steps full three at a time
And swung on the gate, for the swinging was prime.
He teetered on all the loose boards in the walk
And met Jimmy Brady and sat down to talk;
He climbed up the trunk of a big tree that stands
Not so far from his home, and he swung with both hands.
He passed the cow pasture and stopped for a stroll,
Climbed the fence and turned twice on the very top pole.
Then he turned a few handsprings all through the long grass
And sat on the fence to watch Peter Bates pass
With a big flock of sheep, and he got himself chased
By the biggest black ram and he fell in his haste
Down the bank of the brook and he sat there about
Half an hour in the sun till his clothes were dried out.
He laid off his coat since the day was so hot
And chose a bypath through the strawberry plot;
He gathered some berries to eat on his way
Till alarmed by the watch-dog’s deep, ominous bay.
Then he followed a rabbit as far as he could
Until it was lost in the depth of a wood,
And marked a bee tree so to find it again
When he and Jim Brady should visit Beech Glen.
So tired then he was that he sat down to rest
And he fell sound asleep with his coat and his vest
Spread under his head, when the rumble of wheels
On the road waked him up and he saw Elmer Beals
Driving by in the lane and he climbed up beside
On a big load of squashes and had a fine ride,
And helped lead the horses to water as soon
As they both reached the town in the late afternoon.
And then, oh, alas! The long list Mother wrote
Of the things he should get had dropped out of his coat,
So he bought some stick candy and cookies—he knew
Of the things she would need they must surely be two,
And munching them sadly the whole of the way
Back homeward he wondered what Mother would say.
I wonder if ever in country or town
You have known such a lad as this Mortimer Brown?
ADVENTURERS THREE
I KNOW a little sailor who has never been to sea,
But walks the deck of our back porch as bold as he can be.
He never shows a sign of fear when in the stoutest gale,
Nor ever lost a ship, although he never reefed a sail.
I’ve heard him send his crew aloft when fearful tempests blew,
But though I’ve searched the rigging oft, I never saw the crew.
I’m sure he is a sailor, for his mother showed to me
His clothes, such as the sailors wear when they go forth to sea.
I know a little hunter who has never fired a gun,
But roams about our orchard with a painted wooden one;
A hunter of such prowess that he hasn’t left a bear,
A tiger or an animal of that description there.
I know he used to see them, for I’ve seen him creep and crawl,
And finally destroy one that I never saw at all.
I’m sure he was a hunter, for I saw his buckskins spread
Just as a plainsman leaves them—on the foot-board of his bed.
I know a little soldier who has never been to war,
But wears a splendid uniform, all buttoned down before.
I’ve seen him drill in our back yard a dozen times a day,
I’ve seen him march and counter in a military way.
I’ve heard him shout commands with all a captain’s dignity,
But though I’ve searched the lawn, I never saw his company.
I’m sure he was a soldier, for I saw the clothes he wore
Last night beside his bed, when he had finished with the war.
Sometimes he gets a wetting when the seas are very high,
And has to have his sailor clothes hung on the line to dry,
So he becomes a soldier and upon a march he goes,
And what he is this moment quite depends upon his clothes.
He never shoots a lion when he wears a sailor suit,
Or walks the deck in buckskins, which he only wears to shoot,
And never thinks of drilling or of marching off to war
Unless he wears his uniform with buttons down before.
WHEN THEY LOVE YOU SO
ONE time I’m awful sick in bed,
An’ sometimes I’m delirious,
’Cuz I got fever in my head,
An’ when I’m th’ most serious
My Pa, he sits beside of me
An’ ’en he rubs my head, an’ ’en
He says when I get well, why, he
Won’t ever scold his boy again.
An’ ’en my Ma, she rubs my head
’Ist burnin’ hot, an’ ’en her chin
’Ist shivers an’ she says: “Poor Ned!
His little hands so white an’ thin!”
An’ ’en she says she never knew
How precious ’ist a boy could be,
An’ when I’m well she’s goin’ t’ do
’Ist what I want her to for me.
An’ by and by my Aunty comes
An’ says when I get well why she
Don’t care if I have twenty drums,
An’ she will buy a sled for me.
An’ my big sister’s goin’ t’ buy
A really pony ’ist as quick
As ever doctor says ’at I
Am well again from bein’ sick.
An’ even our old hired man
Comes in an’ stays a while with me,
Whenever doctor says he can,
’Ist kind an’ gentle as can be,
’Cuz once he had a boy, an’ ’en
He had th’ fever an’ ’at’s why
He’s awful kind to me an’ when
He sees me, why he starts t’ cry.
An’ even teacher comes to see
Me on her way from school, an’ ’en
She says it won’t be hard for me
When I come back to school again.
’Cuz she won’t make my lessons long,
Or keep me after school; an’ she
’Ist wants me to get well an’ strong
An’ ’en she stoops an’ kisses me.
An’ ’at’s th’ way you really know
How much they love you, when your head
’Ist burnin’ up an’ you can’t go
Nowheres except to stay in bed.
An’ even if you’re awful bad
An’ hot with fever, why, you know,
It makes you feel ’ist sweet an’ glad
Becuz they all ’ist love you so.
SOMEBODY DID
SOMEBODY stood up right on top of a chair
An’ reached in the cooky-jar, way, way up there,
W’en nobody’s lookin’ an’ Mamma’s asleep,
An’ all of us chinnern wuz playin’ Bo-peep
Now’eres near the pantry; an’ tryin’ to get
Some cookies, an’ someway the jar got upset,
An’ my! it ’ist busted all over the floor.
But John, he ain’t scairt; an’ he rapped on the door,
W’ile all of us chinnern we runned off an’ hid,
An’ ’en he says: “Ma, see w’at Somebody did!”
An’ all of us chinnern we runned off an’ hid,
’Cuz we don’t know who done it—but Somebody did!
Somebody crawled up in the big leather chair
By the lib’ary table w’at stood over there
W’en we wuz a-playin’ now’eres near the ink
An’ Mamma was sewin’—an’ w’at do you think?
Somebody upset it and knocked it, ’ist Chug!
Right off’n the table an’ down on the rug,
An’ my! it ’ist busted an’ runned everyw’eres.
But John, he ain’t scairt; an’ he runned right upstairs,
W’ile all of us chinnern we runned off an’ hid,
An’ ’en he says: “Ma, see w’at Somebody did!”
An’ all of us chinnern we runned off an’ hid,
’Cuz we don’t know who done it—but Somebody did!
An’ wunst w’en the kitchen wuz all scrubbed so clean,
The floor wuz ’ist shiny as ever you seen,
An’ we wuz all playin’ outdoors in the street,
Somebody went in with the muddies’ feet
An’ tracked it all over the floor, ’ist a sight;
An’ my! when we seen it we ’ist shook with fright,
’Cuz none of us chinnern went near it all day.
But John, he ain’t scairt; an’ he went right away,
W’ile all of us chinnern we runned off an’ hid,
An’ ’en he says: “Ma, see w’at Somebody did!”
An’ all of us chinnern we runned off an’ hid,
’Cuz we don’t know who done it—but Somebody did!
THE WADERS
THE queerest things rained down all over our street,
With long legs, like spiders, and muddy brown feet;
They must have rained down, for I saw them all run
Through puddles and mud ere the shower was done.
They’re some sort of Waders, and all over town
Through pools and deep gutters they splash up and down,
Bareheaded, barelegged, barefooted and wet,
The Waders of Frogpond—I hear them splash yet.
The rain fell in torrents, the gutters’ deep tides
Were black, and the rain barrels ran o’er their sides,
The frothy white waters whirled from the eavespout,
But with the first lull all the Waders came out.
They danced in the frogponds, they sounded the streams
In gutters and made the air shrill with their screams,
They rolled up their dresses and trousers and dashed
Through mud, froth and water, and waded and splashed.
And forth with the Waders came all kinds of dogs,
Came sailors with bark boats, came navies of frogs.
Came big rubber boots on such tiny brown legs,
Came floating armadas of cans and half-kegs;
Came long poles for sounding, came all sorts of crafts,
Unseaworthy boxes made over to rafts,
I wonder if ever in my life again
I’ll see so much gladness come down with the rain.
They must have rained down, for a minute ago
The frogpond was dry and deserted, you know;
There wasn’t a Wader, a dog or a craft,
A pair of gum boots, a bark boat or a raft;
The eave’s but done dripping, scarce dry is the spout,
When lo, all the navy of Waders is out!
The pond’s full of ships as the old Spanish Main.
Who’d think so much fun could come down with the rain?
THE WADERS
THEN THE PRISONED PUPIL
SHE kept him aftur skool when awl the burds
Were singen swetely in the woods an wurds
Kood not deskribe his sufferens. the air
Was full uv blossums an the urth was fare
Ecksept to himm. becaws he did not no
His jogafy she wood not let him go
An when he hurd us cloas the dore the teers
Rolld down his cheeks an he livd menny yeers
In just a singul owr. it was like sum
Old torchure ur sum krewel marturdum.
How kood he study when he noo that we
Were goen gayly homewurd glad an free
Wile he was kept a prizzuner becaws
He did not no ware venna zweela was.
An when he thot uv how weere ap too go
In swimmen aftur skool his greef an wo
Was almoast moar than he kood bare an yet
She sturnly kept him thare an wood not let
Him leev his seet altho he felt he must
An so she bowd his spearut in the dust.
An aftur wile when its too late to play
She lookt at him in sutch a skornful way
Az tho he was a krimminle an sed
He mite go home. his proud and hotty hed
Was bent with greef and he went slowly owt
The skoolroom dore and then lookt awl abowt
Az tho releest from prizzen an the brand
Uv sin on him was moar than he kood stand.
An he went sloly homewurd bowd with shaim
O liburtey the krimes dun in thi naim.
A PRAYER FOR JIMMY BANKS
DEAR Lord, excuse Jim Banks and me
For hitting Aunty Griggs when we
Threw snowballs at the cat, because
We did not know where Aunty was!
Jim Banks and me are sorry, Lord,
For, drawing Teacher on the board,
And after what we got, we do
Not need more punishment from you!
Excuse Jim Banks especially,
Because his mother’s dead and he
Just heard of you the other day
And is too bashful yet to pray!
But you would like him if you knew
Jim Banks as well as we all do.
And if you have some clothes to spare
Remember him, for he’s quite bare!
He says old shoes will help him some,
And some worn pants; and he will come
Most any night, but where he stays
He earns his keep by working days!
And if there is an angel there
Who might like him and you can spare,
Would you mind telling this to him
And see what he can do for Jim?
And Jimmy’s hat is straw and old,
You know the weather’s pretty cold,
And Jimmy’s ears stick out into
The weather, and his nose gets blue!
Dear Lord, please do the very best
You can for him! I’ve got a vest
And sweater on the closet shelf
That I am going to give myself!
And beg your pardon, Lord, and pray
My soul to keep; and Jimmy may
Be President some day, and then
We’ll all be proud of him. Amen!
A PRAYER FOR JIMMY BANKS