Transcriber Note

The music scores shown on pages [5] and [6] have been transcribed and saved in Midi, MP3 and MusicMXL formats. A link to each of these formats is provided for the reader's usage.

A STORY GARDEN

For Little Children

LITTLE SLEEPYHEAD.

A STORY GARDEN
for LITTLE CHILDREN
BY
MAUD LINDSAY
ILLUSTRATED BY
FLORENCE LILEY YOUNG.
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE, & SHEPARD CO.

Published, March, 1913

Copyright, 1913, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.

All Rights Reserved

A STORY GARDEN

Norwood Press
Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.

TO
Lulie Jones
THE FOUNDER OF THE FLORENCE FREE
KINDERGARTEN, AND A LOVER OF
LITTLE CHILDREN EVERYWHERE

[INTRODUCTION]

To those who know Miss Maud Lindsay's stories for little children,[1] a new collection needs no heralding. She has proved herself gifted with loving insight, literary ability, and spiritual power. Her stories, whether told in kindergarten, school, or Sunday-school, or perused by little readers, have charmed children and touched their hearts.

[1] "Mother Stories" and "More Mother Stories."

The stories in "A Story Garden" are addressed, in the main, to the nursery public—a public in pinafore and rompers,—to the very youngest listeners. Any one who uses them with little children, whether realizing or not the art required for such writing, will find the stories wonderful in their fitness and enduring interest. Repetition only endears them to the listening child, for, unlike many "simple" stories, which are merely pretty little nothings, Miss Lindsay's have point and truth that the young child can understand.

To invite little children and their retinue of loving attendants to enter "A Story Garden" and enjoy its fair blossoms and wholesome fruit, is a privilege of which I gladly avail myself, because I can unqualifiedly commend Miss Lindsay's stories as the very best I know of for little children. They are by far the best literary product (of their kind) that can be traced to the kindergarten or to the new understanding of childhood that marks our time. Trust them. Use them. They will give joy, refine the taste, enrich the imagination, and gently impel the child toward the True, the Beautiful, and the Good.

Emilie Poulsson.

[PREFACE]

Children delight in folk-tale and fairy lore, but the very little child loves best the story which mirrors the familiar. And it is for him, and for the mother who is striving in this age of profusion to guard the innate simplicity of her child's nature, that I have written my little stories.

Maud Lindsay.

Sheffield, Ala.

Stories in A Story Garden

Pictures in A Story Garden

[A STORY GARDEN]

FOR LITTLE CHILDREN

[LITTLE SLEEPY HEAD]

O

Once upon a time, early in the morning when the sun was just climbing over the hills and all the clouds were rosy pink, a little child lay asleep in his pretty white bed.

"Wake up, wake up," ticked the clock that stood on the mantel. "Wake up, wake up;" but the child did not hear a word that it said.

"I'll wake him up," said a bird that lived in a tree close by the window. "He throws me crumbs to eat every day, and I will wake him with a song." So the bird sat in the tree and sang and sang, "Wake up, dearie, dearie, dearie," till all the birds in the garden waked up and sang with her; but the little child slept on in his pretty white bed.

He was still asleep when the wind from the South blew through the garden. "I know this little child," said the wind. "I turned his windmill for him yesterday, and I will blow through the window and wake him with a kiss." So the wind blew through the window and kissed him on both cheeks, and blew his curls about his face; but the child did not stir in his pretty white bed.

"He is waiting for me to call him," said the rooster in the barnyard. "Nobody knows him so well as I, for I belong to him, and I will wake him." So the rooster stood on the fence and flapped his wings, and crowed:—

"Cock, cock a doo,
I'm calling you.
Wake up, wake up,
Cock, cock a doo."

He waked the yellow chickens and the old hen, the pigeons in the pigeon-house, and the little red calf in the barn. Even the lambs in the meadow heard his call; but he did not wake the little child, though he crowed till he was hoarse.

Now by this time the sun was bright in the sky. It shone over the hills and the meadows. It shone in the barnyard where the noisy rooster crowed and in the garden where the birds sang, and it shone through the window right into the little child's face. And then the little child opened his eyes! "Mamma, Mamma," he called; and his mamma came in at once to dress him. "Who waked my baby child?" asked she; but nobody answered, for not even little Sleepy Head himself knew that it was the sun.

[THE LOVELY MOON]

O

Once upon a time there was a little child who did not want to go to bed.

"The yellow chickens are all asleep," said his mother, as she undressed him. "I heard the old hen calling them, cluck, cluck, cluck, before you had eaten your supper."

"But I do not want to go to sleep," said the child.

"The pigeons are all asleep," said his mother, "up in the pigeon house. 'Coo-roo, coo-roo, good-night,' they said, then tucked their heads under their wings."

"But I do not want to go to sleep," said the child.

"The little red calf is asleep in the barn," said the mother; "and the lambs are asleep on green clover beds;" and she put the child into his own white bed.

THE LOVELY MOON.

It was a soft downy bed close beside a window, but the child did not want to lie there. He tossed about under the coverlet, and the tears were beginning to run down his cheeks when, all at once, the moon looked in at the window.

"There!" said his mother. "The moon has come to tell you good-night. See how it is smiling."

The moon shone right into the child's eyes. "Good night, little child, sleep well," it seemed to say.

"Good night," said he; and he lay still on his bed, and watched the moon while his mother sang:—

[Mid] [[audio/mpeg]] [Mxl]

Music by Elizabeth K. Dingus

Lovely moon, lovely moon, smiling on high,
Like a bright angel's face up in the sky,
Baby is watching you, Baby and I,
Lovely moon, lovely moon, up in the sky.

"Can the moon see the lambs?" asked the child sleepily. His eyelids were so heavy that he could scarcely keep them open, while the moon looked in at the window and his mother sang:—

[Mid] [[audio/mpeg]] [Mxl]

Tell us, oh, lovely moon, what do you see,
As you shine down upon meadow and tree?
I see the little lambs, I see the sheep,
I see a baby child going to sleep.

The moon smiled at the child and his mother, and the mother smiled at the moon; but the little child did not see them, for he was fast asleep.

[THE WIND'S FUN]

O

One day the wind blew through the town, and oh, how merry it was! It whistled down the chimneys, and scampered round the corners, and sang in the tree tops. "Come and dance, come and dance, come and dance with me," that is what it seemed to say.

And what could keep from dancing to such a merry tune? The clothes danced on the clothes-line, the leaves danced on the branches of the trees, a bit of paper danced about the street, and a little boy's hat danced off of his head and down the sidewalk as fast as it could go.

It was a sailor hat with a blue ribbon around it; and the ends of the ribbons flew out behind like little blue flags.

"Stop!" cried the little boy as it blew away; but the hat could not stop. The wind whirled it and twirled it, and landed it at last right in the middle of the street.

"Now I'll get it," said the child, and he was just reaching his hand out for it when off it went again, rolling over and over like a hoop.

"Nobody can catch me," thought the hat proudly; "and I do not know myself how far I shall go."

Just then the wind whisked it into an alley, and dropped it behind a barrel there. When the little boy looked into the alley, it was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is my new sailor hat?" he cried.

"Ho! ho! I know," laughed the wind, and it blew behind the barrel, and fluttered the ends of the blue ribbon till the little boy spied them.

"Hurrah!" said he; and he ran to pick up the hat in a hurry.

"The wind shall not get my new hat again," he said; and he put it on his head and held it with both hands all the way home.

THE WIND'S FUN.

But as for the clothes on the clothes-line, and the leaves on the trees, and the bit of paper in the street, they danced on and on, till the wind blew away; and that is the end of the story.

[THE BROWN BIRDS]

O

One fair spring morning two bonny brown birds sat on a lilac bush twittering and chirping:—

"Chee, chee, cheeree. Where shall we make our little nest?"

"Make it here in my branches," said the maple tree that grew by the garden gate. "Many a nest have I held in my arms. Make it here."

The maple tree was strong and green and beautiful. Its wide-spreading branches reached from the garden path far over the road beyond the gate; and they rocked like a cradle in the wind that fair spring morning. Oh! it was the very place to make a nest, and as soon as the brown birds had looked at it they decided to build there.

"Chee, chee, cheeree," they sang in the sunshine.

"We'll make our nest in the maple tree,
Oh! we are so happy, chee, chee, cheeree."

They twittered and chirped and trilled and sang till a cow, that was eating her breakfast of hay in the barnyard near by, put her head over the fence to ask the news. When the brown birds told her what they were going to do she did not wonder at their singing.

"If you need any hay," said she, "fly over the fence and help yourselves to some of mine. There is plenty here for you and me; and I have heard my friend the speckled hen say that there is nothing better for a nest than hay."

"Very true," said the maple tree. "Every bird must suit himself, but I agree with the speckled hen, and I have held enough nests to know something about them."

The brown birds looked at each other wisely.

"Chee, chee, cheeree," they sang again.

"We'll weave our little nest of hay;
And we'll begin this very day
To make it in the maple tree.
Oh! we are so happy, chee, chee, cheeree,"

sang the birds as they hurried into the barnyard.

They could take only a little hay at a time in their bills, but they chose the nicest, longest pieces they could find, and were just ready to fly away with them when a horse came galloping up.

"This is no way to carry hay," he cried. "Tell me where you live, and I will bring it to your barn in a wagon."

Then the two birds laughed till they dropped the hay from their bills; the cow laughed till her bell tinkled; the maple tree laughed till its leaves shook; and the horse laughed, too, though he did not know what the joke was, till the cow told him.

THE BROWN BIRDS.

"Well, well," he said to the birds, "if I cannot haul your hay for you, perhaps I may give you some hairs from my mane for your nest. I am sure I can't see what use they can be, but a bird in the pasture begged for some, and she said she was building a nest in the hedge."

"Chee, chee, cheeree. 'T is nice to line
A nest of hay with horsehair fine.
We're building in the maple tree,
And we are so happy, chee, chee, cheeree,"

chirped the birds.

By this time everybody in the barnyard knew that two brown birds were making a nest in the maple tree by the garden gate; and everybody wanted to help them.

"Take this with my love," called the pigeon; and she dropped a feather from her soft white breast, as she flew from the pigeon house.

"We, too, have feathers to spare," cried the hen and the goose.

"Every nest is the better for a bit of down," said the duck. "And I can give that."

The two birds were pleased with everything.

"Chee, chee, chee, chee, cheeree," sang they,
"With feathers soft, and hair, and hay,
How fine our little nest will be
Up in the dear old maple tree.
Oh! we are so happy, chee, chee, cheeree."

They were busy all the fair spring morning carrying the gifts to the maple tree; and as they flew back and forth a little girl spied them, and called to her mother:—

"Oh, mother, come and see these little birds with feathers and hay in their bills. What are they doing?"

"I know," said her mother. "They are building a nest in our maple tree. Would you like to give them a piece of cloth like your new pink dress for their nest?"

"Oh, yes, yes," said the child; and she ran and got the cloth from the scrap bag, and hung it on the lilac bush. It had not been there longer than a minute when down flew a brown bird to get it.

"Chee, chee," he sang, "what do you think?
I've found a lovely bit of pink
To trim our nest up in the tree.
Oh! I am so happy, chee, chee, cheeree."

"Just what we needed," said the other brown bird; and she made haste to weave it into the nest, for there was no time to waste.

Over and under, in and out, twisting and pulling, they wove the cloth and the hay together, with a lining of hair and downy feathers.

The nest was finished by the time the little girl's papa came home to dinner, and he held her up in his arms to see it.

"I'm glad I gave them a piece like my new dress," she said, when she spied the bit of pink woven into the nest.

"Chee, chee, so are we," sang the brown birds in the tree top.

"We're glad we made our nest of hay.
We're glad we finished it to-day.
We're glad we built in the maple tree.
Oh! we are so happy, chee, chee, cheeree."

[THE STICK HORSE]

T

There was once a little boy who was too tired to walk; or at least he thought he was. He and his mother and the baby were at his grandmother's house and it was time to go home, but he sat down on the doorstone and felt very sure that he could not go a step farther.

"Somebody will have to carry me," he said.

"Well," said his mother, who had the baby in her arms, "what shall we do?"

And I am sure I do not know what they would have done if the little boy's grandmother had not come out just then to see what the matter was.

"If he cannot walk he must ride," she said; and she went into the house and got the old hearth broom, and the mop handle, and one of Grandfather's walking-sticks and brought them all out to the little boy.

"Now," said she, "will you ride a slow and steady gray horse, or a sleek-as-satin bay horse, or will you ride a black horse that is spirited and gay?"

"I like black horses best," said the little boy; "and I will ride that one, please."

"Very well," said Grandmother; and she took Grandfather's walking-stick and gave it to the little boy. "This is a very fast horse," she said. "I should not be surprised if you got home before your mother and the baby; but do be careful."

"I will," promised the little boy; and away he rode on the stick horse, gallop, gallop, gallop!

By the time Mother and the baby came out of Grandmother's gate the little boy was at the corner. When they reached the corner he had passed the big elm tree that grew by the sidewalk. When he rode up the little hill beyond the elm, trot, trot, trot, they almost caught up with him; but when they went down on the other side he was far ahead.

THE STICK HORSE.

Gallop, gallop, gallop—almost before the little boy knew it himself he was at home; and when Mother and the baby got there the stick horse was hitched to the red rose bush, and the little boy sat on the doorstep laughing.

"I got home first. I got home first. I can ride fast on my black horse," said the little boy.

["TICKITY-TOCK"]

O

Once upon a time there was a clock that stood on the mantel in a little boy's mother's room, ticking merrily night and day, "Tickity, tickity tock." It told the little boy's father when to go to work and his mother when to get dinner, and sometimes it talked to the little boy himself. "Go to bed, Sleepy Head," that is what it seemed to say at bedtime; and in the morning it ticked out loud and clear, as if it were calling, "Wake up! wake up! wake up!"

The little boy's mother always knew just what it meant by its tickity, tickity tock, and late one afternoon, when he was playing with his toys and the clock was ticking on the mantel, she said:—

"Listen, little boy, the clock has something to tell you:—

TICKETY TOCK.

"'Tickity, tickity tock,' it is saying,
'Tickity tock, it is time to stop playing;
Somebody's coming so loving and dear,
You must be ready to welcome him here.'"

Then the little boy jumped up in a hurry and put his hobby-horse in the corner and his pony lines on a hook in the closet and his tin soldiers in a straight row on the cupboard shelf.

"Now I'm ready," he said, but:—

"'Tickity, tickity, tickity tock!
Time to tidy yourself,' said the clock."

"Oh!" said the little boy, when his mother told him this; but he stood very still while she washed his hands and his rosy face and combed his curls till they were smooth and shining.

"Now I'm ready," he cried, but Mother said:—

"Why, are you going to forget your nice little blouse that you've never worn yet?"

"'Tickity, tickity, tickity tock,
Time for clean clothes, little boy,' says the clock."

Then she made haste to get the blouse out of the dresser drawer, where it had been ever since it was finished. It had a big collar and a tie, and when the little boy put it on he looked like a sailor man.

"Now I'm ready," he said, and—do you believe it?—the very next minute the door opened and in walked the little boy's father.

"I knew you were coming," said the little boy, "and so did Mother. The clock told us and I have on my new blouse."

[THE SAUCER PIE]

O

Once upon a time there was a saucer pie. A saucer pie is one that is baked in a saucer instead of a pan; and if you have never seen one, I hope you will before you are a hundred years old.

This pie was baked in a saucer that belonged to a little girl named Polly. Her grandmother had given her the saucer, and it was as blue as the sky.

When her mamma took the pie out of the oven, and put it on the table to cool, she said:—

"Here is a nice little, brown little pie,
Baked in a saucer as blue as the sky."

The pie belonged to Polly, as well as the saucer. Her mamma had baked it for her because it was her birthday; and she was very proud of it.

"Tell me about it again," she said, as she stood on tiptoe by the table to see it. Then her mamma said:—

"Here is a pie that is dainty and sweet,
Baked in a saucer, for Polly to eat."

But Polly did not want to eat her saucer pie by herself.

"I will have a party," she said; and away she went with dancing feet to call her neighbors in.

There was Martha, and Margaret, and little boy John; and all of them came to Polly's party.

When they got there the table was set with Polly's doll dishes, and in the middle of the table was the pie.

THE SAUCER PIE.

"A nice little pie, in a saucer blue,
Baked in the oven for Polly and you,"

said Mamma, as she cut the pie, once across this way, and once across that. Each child had a slice; and then, nibble, nibble,—

All that was left of the saucer-pie,
Was a crumb in the saucer as blue as the sky.

[THIMBLE BISCUIT]

O

Once upon a time Polly's mamma was making biscuit for supper.

She sifted the flour so fine, and white;
And kneaded the dough till it was light,
And rolled it out with a rolling pin;
And cut the biscuit round and thin.

Polly watched her do everything; and when the last biscuit was in the biscuit pan, Mamma said:—

"Here is a piece of dough left on my biscuit board. I wonder if there is a little girl in this kitchen who would like to make some little biscuit?"

"Yes, yes," said Polly, clapping her hands with delight, for, of course, she knew her mamma meant her. "I'd like to make little biscuit all by myself."

THIMBLE BISCUIT.

So Mamma tied one of her big aprons around Polly's neck, and Polly rolled up her sleeves just as Mamma did when she cooked. Then she was ready to begin her biscuit.

"May I sift flour, too?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed," said Mamma. "You must always sift flour on your board if you want your biscuit to be smooth and nice."

So Polly sifted the flour so fine and white;
And kneaded the bit of dough so light;
And rolled it out with the rolling pin;
And—

What do you think? Mamma's biscuit cutter was larger than Polly's piece of dough!

"I think you will have to borrow Grandmother's thimble for a biscuit cutter," said Mamma. A thimble biscuit cutter! Was there ever anything so funny as that? Polly laughed about it all the way upstairs to Grandmother's room; but when she told Grandmother what she wanted, Grandmother did not think it was strange at all.

"I used to make thimble biscuit when I was a little girl," she said; and she made haste to get the thimble out of her workbag for Polly.

Grandmother's thimble was made of shining gold; and oh, what a fine biscuit cutter it made! The biscuit were as small and as round as buttons, and Polly cut enough for Grandmother, and Papa, and Mamma, and Brother Ned, and herself, each to have one for supper that night.

"I think it is fun to make thimble biscuit," she said as she handed them around in her own blue saucer; and if you don't believe she was right, make some yourself, and see.

[THE WEE NEST]

O

Once upon a time two little birds built a wee little nest in a pink rose tree.

(And a little boy saw them; but he did not tell,
For it was a secret, he knew very well.)

The nest was round and cozy and soft; and when it was finished the mother-bird put eggs in it—the prettiest eggs!

(And the little boy peeped in the nest to see,
But he was as careful as he could be.)

The mother-bird sat on the nest almost all the time to keep the eggs safe and warm; and when she was tired the father-bird took her place.

(And the little boy watched them, and wondered, too,
What would become of those eggs of blue.)

Day after day the mother-bird sat on the nest; but one morning she flew away singing her sweetest song. The father-bird sang, too, for something wonderful had happened. The pretty blue eggs were broken, but in their place were—what do you think? Baby birds, cunning and weak and wee.

(The little boy counted them, one, two, three,
Three baby birds in the pink rose tree.)

The father bird and the mother bird were busy all day getting their babies something to eat.

(And the little boy threw them some crumbs of bread:
"Perhaps they'll like these for their dinner," he said.)

THE WEE NEST.

The little birds grew very fast. It was not long before they were ready to learn to fly. Mother bird and father bird showed them how to spread their wings, and hold their feet; and the little birds tried to do just as they were told.

(And the little boy laughed to see them try;
They were so funny, and fat and shy!)

At first they could only fly from the rose tree to the ground; but soon their wings grew strong, and then away they went over the rose tree, over the fence, into the world.

(And the little boy called as he watched them fly,
"Dear little birdies, good-by, good-by.")

[THE STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE]

O

Once upon a time there was a strawberry shortcake, all juicy and sweet and pleasant to eat.

A little boy named Ben picked the berries for it. He went out to the field where the wild strawberries grew, all by himself; and when he came home he had a bucket full of the very ripest and reddest ones.

A little girl, Cousin Pen, who was visiting on the farm, capped the berries, and that was not nearly so easy to do as it sounds. It took Cousin Pen every bit of a half-hour to do it, and—do you believe it?—she did not eat a single berry. She saved every one of them for the strawberry shortcake.

Mamma made the shortcake. She was the best cook! If I should try to tell you all the good things she could make, it would take me longer than it took Cousin Pen to cap the berries; but I will tell you this, if there was one thing she liked to make better than another it was a strawberry shortcake.

THE STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE.

A big boy almost nine years old, whom every one called Brother Fred, cut the wood, and split the kindling, and made the fire that baked the pastry for the strawberry shortcake. He had a little axe of his own, and the way he could make chips fly was simply astonishing. Mamma said if he kept on as he had begun he would be as much help as his papa when he grew up.

Papa was away at work when the shortcake was made, and when he came home to dinner nobody said a word about it. They did not even tell him there was a dessert. They just sat down and ate their dinner as if there were not a strawberry shortcake in the world, much less one in their own kitchen. It was the funniest thing! Papa did not know anything about it; but by and by he said:—

"Wild strawberries are ripe. Who wants to go and get some for a shortcake?"

And then how the children did laugh! They laughed and laughed until Mamma knew they could not keep the secret another minute.

"Shut your eyes, Papa, and don't open them until we call 'ready,'" she said, and she slipped out into the kitchen and got the strawberry shortcake, and put it on the table right in front of him.