Zodiac Town

Little Gateways to Science

BY EDITH M. PATCH

VOLUME I. HEXAPOD STORIES

Twelve stories about the six-footed creatures, the fascinating little insects that children see every day. As interesting as fiction, yet holding a wealth of biologic and nature-study information, this is an ideal volume for younger children. Illustrated by Robert J. Sim. Library Edition, bound in light-blue silk cloth. $1.25

VOLUME II. BIRD STORIES

A book of bird Biographies which will be loved by all who love birds both for the sweetness and strength of the stories, and for the illustrations which give such intimate sketches of real birds as can only be drawn by an artist who is also a naturalist. Illustrated by Robert J. Sim. Library Edition, bound in light-blue silk cloth. $1.25

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
BOSTON

Amos and Ann
And the Journeying Man

Copyright, 1921, by

NANCY BYRD TURNER

The author makes grateful acknowledgment of permission to reprint in this book verses that have appeared in The Youth’s Companion, St. Nicholas, and other periodicals.

THE CONTENTS

THE ILLUSTRATIONS

ZODIAC TOWN

Amos and Ann had a poem to learn,
A poem to learn one day;
But alas! they sighed, and alack! they cried,
’Twere better to go and play.
Ann was sure ’twas a waste of time
To bother a child with jingling rhyme.
Amos said, “What’s the sense in rhythm—
Feet and lines?” He had finished with ’em!

They peered at the poem with scowly faces,
And yawned and stumbled and lost their places.
Then—a breeze romped by, and a bluebird sang,
And they shut the book with a snap and a bang;
Shut the book and were off and away,
Away on flying feet;—
Never did squirrels move more light,
Or rabbits run more fleet!

Over a wall and down a lane
And through a field they ran;
And “Where shall we go?” said Amos. “Oh,
And where shall we stop?” cried Ann.
Then all at once, round the curve of a hill,
They pulled up panting and stood stock-still;
For there, by the edge of a ripplety brook,
In a deep little, steep little place,
Sat a long-legged youth, with a staff and a book
And a quaint, very quizzical face.
His cap and his trousers were dusty green
And his jacket was rusty brown,
And he whittled away on sweet white wood,
With shavings showering down.
He whittled away ’twixt a laugh and a tune,
With fingers as light as thistles.

“And what are you making?” asked Amos and Ann.

He said, “I am making whistles.”
He finished one with a notch and a slit,
And threw back his head and blew on it.

The whistle sang like a bird when he blew,
Then he twinkled and put it down.
“And where are you going,” he said, “you two?
Are you going to Zodiac Town?”

Each of them shook a doubtful head
(For truly they didn’t know).

“But make us a whistle like yours,” they said,
“And anywhere we will go!”
“I’ll make you a whistle apiece,” quoth he,
“And if you like, you may follow me;
Zodiac Town’s in the land of Time,
And I go by the road of Rhyme.”

Ann looked at Amos and Amos at Ann;
They blinked with sheer surprise;
And then they looked at the long-legged man,
Who twinkled back with his eyes.
They said (and their voices were meek and low),
“We ran away from a rhyme, you know.”

“You did?” cried the fellow in green and brown.
“Then it’s unmistakably plain, oho,
That you’re due in Zodiac Town!”

He took up his book and shouldered his staff,
And turned to Amos and Ann.
“Call me J. M.,” he said with a laugh.
“That stands for Journeying Man.
I’ll make you some whistles along the way,
While you are remembering rhymes to say;
For more than once in the land of Time
You will have to speak in rhyme.”

“Our names,” said the children, “are Amos and Ann;
And poetry is rather hard for us,
But we’ll do the best we can.”
Then they went away with the young-faced man,
Joyfully up and down,
Talking in rhyme by hill and lea,
Gayly in rhyme—for that, said he,
Was the tongue of Zodiac Town.
To Zodiac after a while they came—
The twistiest, mistiest town,
With odd little collopy, scallopy streets
Meandering up and down.
The home of the years and the hours was there,
Of the minutes, the months, and the days—
Houses with windows that winked and smiled,
And doors with sociable ways;
And leaves and apples and chestnuts brown
Came pattering down, came clattering down,
And stairways wound to the top of a hill
That a person could climb if he had the will—
That a person could climb, then start at the top,
And bumpeting down and thumpeting down,
Go zip! to the bottom with never a stop.

“Whoopee!” cried Amos—and off and away,
Quick with a kick, like a clown,
He ran to the top of the highest stair,
Ann at his heels—And zip! the pair
Came bumpeting down and thumpeting down.
Then, “Come, you two,” said the Journeying Man,
“We have twelve calls to pay.
We’ll visit the months this time, if we can.
Now listen to me: at every house
Many clocks will be ticking away:
Grandfather clocks and cuckoo clocks
And moon-faced clocks on shelves,
Clocks with alarms and eight-day clocks,
All talking low to themselves;
Little gilt clocks and clocks with chimes,
And all of them keeping different times.
And any minute of any hour
(You never did see their like),
Evening or morning, with never a warning,
One of the lot will strike.
And you may be talking your everyday talk,
But the instant the hour shall chime,
Quick as a flash you must stop, and dash
Right into a rollicking rhyme!”

“What kind of a rhyme?” gasped Amos and Ann.
“What kind of a rhyme, J. M.?”

“Any kind at all,” said the Journeying Man,
As he twinkled his eyes at them.
“But it must begin with the very two sounds,
(Or three or four, if you like,)
The last few sounds that were on your tongue
When the clock began to strike!”

JANUARY

I

JANUARY

Aquarius

They went to the January house,
A house made all of snow,
With windows of ice, and chandeliers
Of icicles all in a row.
The trim young master was dressed in fur
And didn’t seem cold at all—
A red-cheeked, rollicking, frolicking chap,
Who offered each caller an ermine wrap,
And let them skate in his hall.

They went to the January house

While they were skating round the hall, Amos’s feet flew from under him and he sat down hard on the ice.

“Did you break anything?” asked the January boy. “I hope not, indeed,” he added earnestly, “because so many things are broken here.”

“What kind of things?” Amos wanted to know.

“Mainly resolutions,” answered January with a wry face. And then he further said: “So many of them get broken that sometimes I think I’ll move into another house.”

“But then,” put in little Ann, “we shouldn’t have any New Year. And oh, how we’d miss New Year—”

A square-faced clock on the hall-landing struck one just as Ann said she’d miss New Year.

“Oh!” said Ann with a gasp. “Now I’ve got to say a rhyme beginning—‘miss New Year.’ What shall I say?

“Miss New Year, miss New Year—” Then all at once, to her intense surprise, she found herself reciting:

“Miss New Year dressed herself in white,
With crystal buttons shining,
A spangled scarf, all lacy-light
About her shoulders twining;
A bunch of pearly mistletoe,
A twig of ruddy holly,
She tucked among her curls, and oh,
She was so sweet and jolly!

“She tapped upon my window-pane
And waked me, bright and early.
‘Come, come,’ she cried, ‘the sun’s outside,
The winds are gay and whirly!
’Neath winter frost and summer sky,
In spring or autumn weather,
Come out, dear child, and you and I
Will be good chums together!’”

J. M. was the next one to get caught. January had just asked the three to stay to lunch.

“Wish we could,” said the Journeying Man, “but in spite of all these clocks there is no time. I can smell your stew cooking, January—, such stew!”

A clock struck eight just as the Journeying Man said “such stew.” Without hesitation he went on:—

“‘Such stupid days!’ said Willie Green
With long and doleful face.
‘Suppose to-night the whirling globe
Should drop us into space:
Hooray! I’d ride the moon astride,
And, if a cloud sailed up,
Pretend it was a feather-bed,
And dive right in, kerplup!’

“‘What if the moon went in eclipse?’
Said little Johnny Brown;
‘Or if the clouds turned into rain
And sent you drizzling down?
Or if a thunder-bolt went off
And knocked you rather flat?’

“‘Now that’s the truth,’ said Willie Green,
‘I hadn’t thought of that!’

“But, ‘Earth’s so poky,’ still he mused;
‘It must be finer far
To play I Spy across the sky,
And skip from star to star.’

“‘Stars fall, sometimes,’ quoth Johnny Brown,
‘To where, nobody knows.’

“‘Oh, dearie me!’ cried Willie Green,
‘I only said Suppose!’”

Amos had a question to ask as the travelers turned to leave the January house.

“Don’t you keep any pets?” he said.

January grinned. “It would have to be a cold kind of pet,” he replied. “And I don’t like seals and walruses. The very animal that I want I can’t have: the alligator has always been my favorite.”

“The alligator?” echoed Amos and Ann.

“Yes,” said January, firmly. “Always the al—”

But a little nickel clock caught him just there, so he remarked instead:—

“Always the alphabet to me
Is like a happy family.
They work in groups, they work in pairs,
But each one has his little airs:
R runs and romps, and so does S,
And Z is full of foolishness;
H always smiles, and A is jolly;
G’s somehow sort of melancholy.
Q sticks his tongue into his cheek
And always waits for U to speak;
D’s fat and lazy; so is C;
And O makes funny mouths at me.
Among the pleasant alphabet
It’s hard to pick and choose—and yet,
When all is said, I can’t deny
(You’ll understand), my choice is I!”

FEBRUARY

II

FEBRUARY

Pisces

They went to the February place:
’Twas fashioned, with curious art,
Of colored sugar and paper lace,
With a front door shaped like a heart.
A trim little, slim little maid within
Was rolling out cookies crisp and thin;
She blew them a kiss through the window wide,
And bade them step inside.

They went to the February place

The little valentine girl in the February house was very sociable; but she talked so much, and there were so many clocks striking all around, that she was always getting side-tracked into a rhyme.

For example, she was just about to describe a jolly party she went to one day last year, when a clock struck six, and she was obliged to say, instead:—

“One day last year, with hems and haws and sidelong steps and nervous caws, the crows came mincing forth to mail gay valentines, you know. The post box was a hollow tree. They did not know, unluckily, that squirrels had gnawed the floor away, and owls moved in below.

“The crows went flapping off with glee. They said, ‘Our woodland friends will see that, though we dress so solemnly, we’re sociable at heart.’

“The valentines came hurrying down, came scurrying down, came flurrying down, and waked the owls, all fast asleep, and gave them quite a start.

“‘What’s this, my dear, amiss, my dear?’ cried Father Owl.

“‘Oh, bliss, my dear,’ said Mrs. Owl. ‘A shower of mail for us. How very fine!’

“The daughter owls were full of joy, and quick the little owlet boy ruffed up his feathers roguishly and seized a valentine.

“Excitement reigned among those owls; but, being such nocturnal fowls, they could not read the valentines at all in broad daylight. They blinked a bit and winked a bit, but found them not distinct a bit; then did not go to bed again, but waited for the night.

“Just after dusk a thing occurred, unfortunate for every bird: a wild, wild wind came romping in (it was a dreadful prank), and with a swoop, in boisterous play, swept all the envelopes away.

“The poor owls cried, ‘Alackaday, we shan’t know whom to thank!’

“Next morning all the crows came out and pranced about and glanced about, expecting greetings from their friends, and praise, and everything; but when they got no single word of gratitude from any bird, they held a meeting in the trees that made the whole woods ring.

“Oh, well, it surely seemed a shame, but no one really was to blame; and this year all the birds around (I heard it from a wren) will put their mail most carefully safe in a holeproof hollow tree. And every crow is going to be a happy crow again!”

Little Ann was enchanted with the February house; she planned in her own mind to copy it in chocolate and taffy.

“I’d like to see upstairs,—the beds and bureaus and things,—” she said shyly, “if you don’t mind my looking—”

A big clock began to boom somewhere near.

“My looking—” repeated Ann. “Dear me suz, I’m caught again! What shall I say?”

Then all at once she said:—

“My looking-glass is like a pool,
As still and clear, as blank and cool.

“It fronts the clean white nursery wall,
With no look on its face at all.

“But when in front of it I go,
Why, there I am, from top to toe.

“Oh, just suppose I hurried there
Some day to brush my tousled hair,

“And stood and stared, and could not see
One single, single sign of me!”

When it was nearly time to leave the February house, Ann remarked that Amos had talked in prose straight along ever since they came.

Amos smiled proudly. “So I have,” he said. He was about to go on to say that he wondered if he would be caught at all, when—whiz! with a scramble and a scuffle a cuckoo rushed out of a clock just above his head and bobbed intently up and down twelve times. Amos had got only as far as “wonder.” “Wonder—wonder—” he stammered, as he heard the clock. “Wonder—wonder—

“Wonder if George Washington
Did just the way we do?
Wonder if he slid on ice,
And now and then broke through;
Slid on ice, and fought with snow,
And whittled hickory sticks,
Called his brother ‘April Fool!’
And played him April tricks?

“Wonder if he shed his shirt
Down beneath the beeches,
Kicked his buckled slippers off,
And his buckled breeches,
Jumped into the swimming-pool,
And gave a splendid shout,
Glad and wiggly, clean and cool,
Splashing like a trout?

“Wonder did he sit in school,
And try to work a sum,
With bumblebees all mumbling,
‘Summer’s come, summer’s come!’
If he used to count the days,
And give a sort of sigh,
Because—how queer!—there couldn’t be
A Fourth in his July!

“Wonder if he ever took
His history and read
Tales of mighty generals,
Glorious and dead;
Turned the leaves and wished that he
Could be a hero, too?
Wonder if George Washington
Felt the way we do?”

MARCH

III

MARCH

Aries

The March house, strangely, was built in a tree,
With a fluttering roof of leaves,
And strong, straight boughs for the walls of the house,
And an apple or two in the eaves.
A pair of fun-loving twins lived there,
Who romped on the roof all day,
And flew great kites when the weather was fair,
In a most remarkable way.

The March house, strangely, was built in a tree

Amos and Ann were very curious to know why the twins lived in a tree.

“Well, it saves time,” the black-haired twin explained. “There are one or two days in the year when we’re bound to be up here anyhow.”

The children looked puzzled.

“You see,” said the yellow-haired twin, “we never have the slightest idea how March is going to come in. If he comes in like a lion—”

“Then, of course, you want to be out of the way,” interrupted Ann, delighted with herself for knowing.

“Exactly,” said the twin. “And if he comes in like a lamb, then we know how he’s going out, of course. So we simply get up here and stay. Listen to our song.”

Then they sang in duet:

“When March comes in roaring, growling,
Winds swoop over the hilltop howling;
Bushes toss in the lashing gale,
Right and left, like a lion’s tail;
Branches shake in the road and lane,
Tawny and wild, like a lion’s mane.
Fierce and furious, he—

But he’s going out like a lamb;
You watch and see!

“When March comes in gentle, easy,
Waggy and warm and mild and breezy,
Little buds bob all down the trail,
Short and white as a lambkin’s tail;
Hedges and ledges with blooms are full,
Fluffy and fair as a lambkin’s wool.
Mighty switchy and sweet, and all that—
But he’s going out like a lion.
Hold on to your hat!”

“There’s not a single solitary clock at this place, anyway,” Amos remarked.

“Don’t be too sure,” J. M. told him. “It may be, you see, that the tree keeps a clock in its trunk. First thing you know, the clock may speak up and tell on itself, the way Tom Tuttle used to do.”

“We never heard of Tom Tuttle,” said little Ann.

“Never heard of Tom Tuttle?” echoed the Journeying Man. “Then you shall hear of him, as soon as—”

From a hole in the tree came the sound of a clock striking loudly. J. M. was bound to go on, then, just as he had begun, and so he said:—

“As soon as ever spring drew near, and brooks and winds were loose,
Tom Tuttle would be late to school with never an excuse.

“So little and so very late! And when the teacher said
That he must take his punishment, he merely hung his head.

“She’d ask him all the hardest things in all the hardest books;
And queerly he would answer her, with absent-minded looks.

“‘How many yards make twenty rods?’ And Tommy said, ‘Oh, dear,
Twelve rods I’ve cut for fishing poles in our own yard this year.’

“‘How many perches make a mile? Now think before you speak.’
‘Perches?’ he said, ‘There’s millions in the upper sawmill creek.’

“‘What grows in southern Hindustan?’ Said Tom, ‘I do not know;
But I can take you to a tree where blackheart cherries grow.’

“‘Name Christopher Columbus’s boats.’ ‘I can’t remember, quite;
But mine, that lies below the falls, is named the Water Sprite.’

“‘Now what is “whistle”—noun or verb?’ ‘I do not know indeed;
But just the other day I made a whistle from a reed.’

“Then all the little listening boys would wiggle in their places,
And all the little watching girls would have to hide their faces;

“And, ‘Thomas, Thomas!’ teacher’d say, and shake her head in doubt,
And make him write a hundred words before the day was out.

“’T was always so when grass turned green and blue was in the sky—
Tom Tuttle coming late to school and never telling why.”

They had a good laugh at Tom Tuttle; but presently the thoughts of Amos turned to March hares.

“Do they ever come near enough for you to touch them?” he asked the twins.

“No, March hares are very timid,” the twins said. “They are terribly afraid of meeting the March lion at a sudden corner,” the yellow-haired twin added. “That is on their minds a great deal.”

“The very best way to get close to a March hare,” said the black-haired boy, “is to take a reserved seat at the annual March-hare ball.”

Then the two brothers told this tale; and Amos and Ann saw no reason for not believing it:—

“Maybe nobody’s told you
(For very few people know)
What happens down in the meadow brown
At the fall of the first March snow.

“A flute-note sounds on the midnight,
Blown by a fairy boy,
And the rabbits rush from the underbrush,
All nearly mad with joy.

“Round and round in the wild wind,
Faster and faster they prance;
The moon comes out and looks about,
And laughs to see them dance.

“Cold frost covers their whiskers,
But never their hind legs tire,
And whenever a hare feels a flake on his ear,
He leaps a full inch higher!

“Harum-scarum and happy,
They frolic the whole night through;
Maybe you’ll hear them dance, this year
(Though very few mortals do).”

APRIL

IV

APRIL

Taurus

The April house was near a pond;
It was made of reeds and of rushes,
All helter-skelter and out of kelter,
And ringed by gooseberry bushes.
The April Fool on the chimney sat,
In pointed shoes and a pointed hat,
And welcomed the three with a tee-hee-hee—
Fair and funny and fat.

The April house was near a pond

The owner of the house bowed pleasantly as the visitors approached.

“I’m delighted that you happened to come on the first of April,” he said.

“But this isn’t the first of April,” the children began, astonished.

J. M. pinched their elbows. “Don’t contradict him,” he whispered. “He really doesn’t know any better, you see.”

“Have you heard the latest news? [asked the Fool]
Cows, this year, wear button shoes;
Dogs will dress in pantaloons;
So will monkeys, minks, and coons;
Cats go gay in capes and shawls;
Robins carry parasols;
Bossy calves and nanny-goats
Skip in scalloped petticoats;
Molly hares and bunny rabbits
Look their best in jumping-habits;
Babies are to dress in bearskins
(If they can be made to wear skins);
Grown-up folks in straw or leather,
Just whichever suits the weather.
These styles are the latest thing,
Brought from Paris for the Spring,
Neat and natty, trim and cool”—

“April Fool!” cried Amos. He felt sure that was coming.

But the Fool merely put his hand to his ear. “Did you call me?” he asked politely.

The children shook with laughter at that, and the April Fool turned to the Journeying Man. “Your turn,” he said.

This is the April poem that the Journeying Man recited for the rest:—

“Young Peter Puck and his brothers wrote
To the wise wood-people a little note.
It said, ‘If you’ll meet us by Ripply Pond,
Wonders we’ll show with our magic wand.’
‘What shall we do?’ said the forest-folk.
‘Maybe it’s merely a practical joke.’
But they went, good souls, and they only found
A bare, bare bush and the green, green ground.
‘But watch,’ said the fairies, ‘and you shall see
Animals grow on a tiny tree.’

“The rabbits and squirrels felt aggrieved;
They thought that surely they’d been deceived.
But Peter Puck, at the head of the band,
Called, ‘Come, come, Kitty!’ and waved his hand.
Then the buds on the pussy-willow bush
All became kittens as soft as plush—
Smooth, round kittens, quite calm and fat;
On every twig hung a little cat.
And the fairies danced, and the glad wood-folk
Cried, ‘Oh, what a beautiful, beautiful joke!’”

“Now look here,” said the April Fool, when J. M. was done. “I have several important questions to ask this crowd.”

He then proceeded to ask the questions, not one of which anyone even tried to answer.

“Now, speech is very curious:
You never know what minute
A word will show a brand-new side,
With brand-new meaning in it.
This world could hardly turn around,
If some things acted like they sound.

“Suppose the April flower-beds,
Down in the garden spaces,
Were made with green frog-blanket spreads
And caterpillar-cases;
Or oak trees locked their trunks to hide
The countless rings they keep inside!

“Suppose from every pitcher-plant
The milk-weed came a-pouring;
That tiger-lilies could be heard
With dandelions roaring,
Till all the cat-tails, far and near,
Began to bristle up in fear!

“What if the old cow blew her horn
Some peaceful evening hour,
And suddenly a blast replied
From every trumpet-flower,
While people’s ears beat noisy drums
To ‘Hail, the Conquering Hero Comes!’

“If barn-yard fowls had honey-combs,
What should we think, I wonder?
If lightning-bugs should swiftly strike,
Then peal with awful thunder?
And would it turn our pink cheeks pale
To see a comet switch its tail?”

The queer little fellow did not seem to be at all disturbed by the failure of the company to answer his questions. He turned courteously to little Ann.

“It’s your turn to ask a riddle, you know,” he reminded her.

To little Ann’s astonishment a riddle popped right into her head—a rhymed riddle, at that!

“Busy Mistress One-Eye
With her long white train
Dips her nose and down she goes—
Up she comes again.

“Not a hand and not a foot;
Has no need for those;
Makes her trip without a slip,
Following her nose.

“Two she has to guide her:
One, a sturdy chap,
Other, tall beside her,
In a silver cap.

“As she moves—how funny!
Yet it’s very plain—
Brighter grows her one eye
And shorter grows her train.

“Now, what’s the answer?” she cried.

“That’s easy,” the Fool said promptly. “The answer is, of course, a mushroom.”

Amos laughed loudly at that; but kind little Ann was distressed to think what a pitifully poor guess her host had made.

“Oh, not a mushroom, Mr. Fool,” she said. “Don’t you see it has something to do with sewing?”

“Then of course it’s a mushroom,” the Fool said calmly. “Don’t I sow mushrooms every year all over my backyard? Nobody can fool me,” he finished with a chuckle, “about mushrooms.”

And after that naturally there was nothing more to be said.

The children were very reluctant to leave the April house; but J. M. glanced at one of the many topsy-turvy clocks that hung from the ceiling (of all places!), and reminded them that it was high time to be moving on.

MAY

V

MAY

Gemini

A green-thatched cottage was May’s sweet home
With velvet moss for a floor,
And a clambering vine in the gay sunshine,
And a Maypole set by the door.
And May herself, with a dimple and curl,
Dressed in a flouncy gown,
Was filling baskets—the prettiest girl
In all of Zodiac Town!

And May herself, with a dimple and curl

The Journeying Man swept off his green hat when he caught sight of May.

“I knew you’d be here,” he said. “May I tell my two young companions how the joyful animals welcomed you when you came?”

May smiled at Amos and Ann. “How did you know?” she asked J. M.

“I saw it all,” was the answer. “I was passing through the wood one day—”

The Journeying Man was interrupted here by a clock striking ten, and so he was obliged to dash into rhyme:—

“One day the cheery wood-folk heard
A robin tell another bird
A piece of news, a joyful word
Repeated often over.
‘Oho,’ said they, ‘we’ll plan a way
To welcome back our pretty May.
We’ll have a celebration day
To show her how we love her.’

“Professor Bear should speak, they planned,
With Dr. Fox upon the stand;
The bird quintette from Mapleville
Would sing its loveliest;
And Mr. Owl, the baritone,
Should give selections of his own;
And all the rabbit girls and boys
Should wear their very best.

“The day was fair with balmy air,
And banners waving everywhere;
The woolliest lamb, all curled and frilled,
Was sent to meet the guest;
And even little rats and things,
And creatures that had only wings,
Were given tiny parts to play,
And waited with the rest.

“Then, tripping light and skipping light
And laughing clear, a happy sight,
And flinging flowers left and right,
Came merry, merry May.
‘Oh, welcome, welcome home!’ they cried;
The banners dipped on every side.
She curtsied low, ‘Just think,’ she said,
‘I have a month to stay!’”

May looked as pleased as Amos and Ann when the rhyme was finished.

“It’s every word true,” she said. “And here’s some more news that the little bird told—if you’d like to hear it:—

“Miss Butterfly sent word one day to all the garden people
That she would give a social tea beneath the hollyhock.
A robin read the message from a slender pine-tree steeple—
A note that begged them sweetly to be there by six o’clock.
They came a-wing, they came a-foot, they came from flower and thicket;
Miss Hummingbird was present in a coat and bonnet gay,
And portly Mr. Bumblebee and cheerful Mr. Cricket,
And tiny Mrs. Ladybug in polka-dot array.
There were seats for four-and-twenty, and the guest of honor there
Was a gray Granddaddy-long-legs in a little mushroom chair.

“The table was a toadstool with a spider-woven cover;
The fare was served in rose-leaf plates and bluebell cups a-ring—
Sweet honey from the latest bloom, and last night’s dew left over,
And a crumb of mortal cake for which an ant went pilfering.
A mockingbird within the hedge sang loudly for their revel;
A lily swayed above them, slow, to keep the moths away;
So they laughed and buzzed and chattered till the shadows lengthened level,
And Miss Katydid said sadly that she must no longer stay.
Then all arose and shook their wings, and curtsied, every one,
‘Good-night, good-bye, Miss Butterfly, we never had such fun.’”

Little Ann looked wistful when she heard all the butterfly tale.

“I do wish I might go to a party like that,” she said.

Amos reflected. “I don’t know but what I’d be afraid of stepping on the guests,” he remarked.

“That’s true,” Ann agreed. “Just think how it would seem to have Miss Butterfly say to you, ‘Oh, you’ve crushed Mrs. Ant,’ or ‘Excuse me, but you seem to be sitting on Colonel Grasshopper, Sir.’”

“Tell you what I wish,” Amos went on. “I wish—Oh, there goes a clock—I wish—I wish—

“I wish, when summer’s drawing near about the end of May,
With bees and birds and other things, that teacher’d teach this way:

“‘Bound Pine Wood north and south and east, and all the way around;
Tell where the sassafras bushes grow, and where wild flags are found;

“‘How far from Huckleberry Hill to Sandy-Bottom Creek?
How many cherries at a time can a boy hold in his cheek?

“‘Suppose three fish were in a pond, three fishers close at hand,
Each fisher with a hook and line—how many would they land?

“‘What is the shortest cut to where the buttercups are yellow?
How many fortnights does it take to turn May apples mellow?

“‘Two pickers in a berry patch—when they had picked all day,
How many quarts, inside and out, would those two take away?

“‘If twenty boys turned loose and ran from here in front of school,
How many seconds would they take to reach the swimming-pool?’

“And then I wish the teacher’d say, ‘Well, if you can’t remember,
Go find the answers, right away, and tell me in September!’”

JUNE

VI

JUNE

Cancer

The June house wasn’t a house at all,
But a level and leafy place,
Where a gypsy scamp had pitched his camp—
A gypsy merry of face.
He welcomed J. M. and Amos and Ann,
And gave them some savory stew,
Piping hot from a big black pot—
And all of them ate it, too!

The June house wasn’t a house at all

It was so cool and delightful at the June house that at first the travelers didn’t have much to say—they simply sat and rested and looked around. But presently Ann began to feel lively again.

“No clocks here, anyway!” she exclaimed.

The gypsy rolled his black eyes. He had a clock, he said, but it ran too fast. “In fact it ran down,” he added.

“Where is it?” asked little Ann.

“How can I tell?” returned the gypsy chap. “It ran down, you know—down into the woods. And since it runs so fast, I didn’t even try to overtake it.”

“But a clock has no feet,” cried Amos.

“It has hands, though,” retorted the gypsy. “Will you deny that?”

Then he pointed his funny brown finger at Ann. “You can make a rhyme without a clock striking, you know,” he said. “Make one, this minute, Miss.”

Ann was alarmed. “What shall I make it about?” she said in a flustered voice.

“Anything,” the gypsy answered. “Hats will do.”

“Hats?” echoed Ann. “However in the world can I make a poem about hats?”

But all at once she did begin to make one; it ran along as smoothly as A B C.

“If hats were made of flowers,
I think my party bonnet
Would be a satin tulip
With a touch of green upon it.

“I’d wear for fun and frolic
A crinkled daffodil,
With a crown quite comfortable
And a flaring yellow frill.

“I’d choose for church a beauty:
The sweetest flower that grows
Would be my Sunday bonnet—
A soft, pink, ruffled rose.

“A daisy crisp and snowy
Would be the choice for school;
A fresh hat every morning,
With scallops starched and cool.

“For picnics and for rambles
A polished buttercup.
If hats were made of flowers,
How people would dress up!”

Just as Ann said the last word of her poem, an inquisitive thousand-leg worm scuttled along the ground about a yard away, and she almost turned a summersault.

“He wouldn’t think of hurting you,” said the gypsy chap. “Speaking of hats, little Ann—did you ever hear the tale of the centipede lady and her shoes?”

Then he told it.

“Little Miss Centipede
Went out to shop,
And at Shoofly & Company’s
Made her first stop.
Mr. Shoofly came forward,
All beaming and gay:
‘And what can I do for you,
Madam, to-day?’
He bowed and he beckoned;
He showed her a seat;
But the poor clerks turned pale
When she put out her feet.
‘How many?’ they faltered.
‘As many as these,’
She replied very sweetly,
‘And hurry up, please.’

“So they hurried and scurried,
The ten Shoofly clerks,
All hustling together
And working like Turks.
They cleared all the counters;
They emptied the shelves;
They made, in their haste,
Perfect slaves of themselves.
They laced and they buttoned,
They pushed and they squeezed,
Miss Centipede watching,
Quite placid and pleased;
They used a short ladder
To fit her top feet,
And never drew breath
Till the job was complete.

“And here’s what they sold her—
Now count if you choose:
A pair of cloth gaiters,
A pair of tan shoes,
A pair of black pumps,
And a pair of tan ties,
Two pairs of galoshes
And boots, ladies’ size;
Five pairs of silk slippers
For thin evening wear—
Rose, green, red, and buff,
And a rich purple pair;
And soft bedroom slippers
Of crimson and gray;
And a pair of bootees,
By red tassels made gay;

“And five sets of sandals,
Two basket-ball shoes,
And two pairs for lounging—
Pale pinks and pale blues;
And six pairs for walking,
And six pairs for snow,
And six pairs to hunt in—
Though what, I don’t know;
And two pairs of goatskin,
And two pairs of duck,
And four pairs of kid—
And on all of them stuck
The daintiest rubbers.
Indeed, she looked sweet,
Miss Centipede did,
As she tripped down the street!”

By this time they had finished their stew. The Journeying Man rose and picked up his staff. “That was good soup,” he said.

The gypsy looked gratified. “Maybe,” he answered, “it had some of Contrary Mary’s truck in it, and maybe it didn’t. I’m not saying as to that.”

Amos and Ann were filled with curiosity. They wanted to know what “Contrary Mary’s truck” might be.

“You tell them,” the gypsy said to the Journeying Man. And J. M. did.

“You ask why Mary was called contrary?
Well, this is why, my dear:
She planted the most outlandish things
In her garden every year;
She was always sowing the queerest seed,
And when advised to stop,
Her answer was merely, ‘No, indeed—
Just wait till you see the crop!’

“And here are some of the crops, my child
(Although not nearly all):
Bananarcissus and cucumberries,
And violettuce small;
Potatomatoes, melonions rare,
And rhubarberries round,
With porcupineapples prickly-rough
On a little bush close to the ground.

“She gathered the stuff in mid-July
And sent it away to sell—
And now you’ll see how she earned her name,
And how she earned it well.
Were the crops hauled off in a farmer’s cart?
No, not by any means,
But in little June-buggies and automobeetles
And dragonflying-machines!”

JULY