E-text prepared by Al Haines
Juvenile Library Young Folks Series
A JOLLY JINGLE-BOOK
COMPILED
BY
LAURA CHANDLER
ILLUSTRATED WITH BLACK AND WHITE DRAWINGS
THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.
CLEVELAND ————— NEW YORK
Copyright, 1913
By
LUTHER H. CARY
CONTENTS
[A JOLLY BOOK]
[MR. TONGUE]
[KISSES]
[TRIALS OF TRAVEL]
[THE QUARREL]
[MY PLAYMATES]
[A PUZZLING THING]
[HER NAME]
[GAME OF GOING-TO-BED]
[THE BALL]
[A VOYAGE]
[APPLE-TREE-INN]
[AN OUTDOOR GIRL]
[THE BEDTIME STORY BOOK]
[THE BROWNIES]
[HER ANSWER]
[A TROUBLESOME DAUGHTER]
[THE RACE]
[A BIG PLAYFELLOW]
[HAYING TIME]
[NOBODY]
[MY GARDEN]
[MAMMA'S LITTLE HOUSEMAID]
[TOYS]
[THE BATH]
[NAP-TIME]
[CHUMS]
[A TOUCH OF NATURE]
[A LESSON IN NATURAL HISTORY]
[PICTURE BOOK TIME]
[THE TOPSY-TURVY DOLL]
[POOR OLD BOOKS]
[SYMPATHY]
[A SPRING SONG]
[SECRETS]
[SOMEBODY DID IT]
[IN SUMMER]
[OUR LITTLE BROOK]
[THE PINEWOOD PEOPLE]
[THE STUDENTS]
[THE LADY MOON]
[THE JOURNEY]
[PRETENDING]
[A LITTLE APRIL FOOL]
[FROST FIRES]
[WHISTLING IN THE RAIN]
[THE WOODEN HORSE]
[AFTER SCHOOL]
[A SLEEPY-HEAD TOP]
[A CHRISTMAS TELEPHONE]
[A LOST BABY]
[VELOCIPEDE]
[A RAINY DAY PLAN]
[THE BIRTHDAY ONES]
[A DUTCH WISH]
[A SIGN OF SPRING]
[MY DOLLY]
[ONE MILE TO TOYLAND]
[A BATH TUB JOKE]
[HER OWN WAY]
[THE MONTH OF MAY]
[THE BIRTHDAY]
[BABY'S PLAYTHINGS]
[WHEN IT RAINS]
[THE SLEEPING TREES]
[A SUMMER HOLIDAY]
[TWO POCKETS]
[MY HORSE]
[MAY TIME]
[BOOKS]
[THE LITTLE BOOK PEOPLE]
[CHARLOTTE THE CONQUEROR]
[THE SCARECROW]
ILLUSTRATIONS
[ The Game of Going-to-Bed ]
[ The Ball ]
[ An Outdoor Girl ]
[ The Bedtime Story-Book ]
[ Bad Luck and Good Luck Brownies ]
[ A Big Playfellow ]
[ Nobody ]
[ Sympathy ]
[ Secrets ]
[ A Little April Fool ]
[ Whistling in the Rain ]
[ The Dutch Wish ]
[ When It Rains ]
A JOLLY BOOK
How can they put in black and white
What little children think at night,
When lights are out and prayers are said,
And you are all tucked up in bed?
Such funny dreams go dancing through
Your head, of things nobody knew,
Or saw, or ever half believes!—
They're all inside these singing leaves.
And little children laugh and go
A-ring-a-round-a-rosy-O;
And birds sing gay—you'd almost think
You listened to a bobolink.
Look at the pictures, one by one!
The rhymes are only half the fun.
It laughs and bubbles like a brook—
My pretty, jolly jingle-book!
MR. TONGUE
A little red man in a little red house
With gates of ivory!
He might stay there, as still as a mouse,
And nobody could see;
But talk he will, and laugh he will,
At everything you do;
And come to the door and peep, until
I know his name—don't you?
KISSES
"Here's a kiss for every year,
And here is one to grow on!"
Father says and mother says
And auntie says, and so on.
"Here's a pat and there's a pat!"
If growing comes of kisses,
I know how one girl found a way
To grow as big as this is!
THE TRIALS OF TRAVEL
Boohoo, boohoo, boohoo, boohoo!
My mother says I can't take Sue
And Grace and Maud and Clarabel
And Ruth and Beth and sweet Estelle,
Unless I pack them with our things.
Oh dear! oh dear! my heart it wrings
To put them in that hot, dark place,
With paper wrapped around each face.
I'm sure they all would suffocate
Or meet some other dreadful fate.
I'd gladly take them on my arm
And keep them safe from every harm,
But mother says that that won't do;
She draws the line at more than two.
I'd like to know what she would say
To sending me packed in a tray.
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
THE QUARREL
The Wooden Dog and the China Cat
Face to face in the doll-house sat,
And they picked a quarrel that grew and grew,
Because they had nothing else to do.
Said the dog, "I really would like to hear
Why you never stir nor frisk nor purr,
But sit like a mummy there."
Up spoke in a temper the china puss,
Glad of an opening for a fuss:
"Dear Mr. Puppy, I can't recall
That I ever heard you bark at all.
Your bark is a wooden bark, 'tis true,
But as to that," said the China Cat,
"My mew is a china mew."
So they bristled and quarreled, more and more,
Till the baby came creeping across the floor.
He took the cat by his whiskers frail,
He grasped the dog by his wooden tail,
And banged them together—and after that
Left them, a wiser Wooden Dog
And a sadder China Cat.
Now, children, just between you and me,
Don't you think in the future they will agree?
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
MY PLAYMATES
When Willie comes to visit me
We play menagerie.
He says, "Pretend that you're a lamb,
And I'll a lion be."
Then he begins to growl and roar
And make a dreadful noise.
I don't mind much when he goes home;
It's hard to play with boys.
When Julia comes to visit me
I am her waiting maid,
While she's a lady, grand and stern.
Of her I'm 'most afraid.
She sends me for my mother's hat,
Then takes her nicest skirt,
And trails it all around the house
Until it's full of dirt.
When Alice comes to play with me
She asks, "What shall we play?"
I answer, "Anything you like."
She coaxes, "Do please say."
Sometimes it's dolls, sometimes it's games,
No matter what it be,
I have the very nicest time
When Alice plays with me.
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
A PUZZLING THING
Eight of us went to a party—
The nicest ever given.
There was apple fluff, and frosted stuff,
And cake and candy and fruit enough,
But seats for only seven!
Eight of us hurried homeward
After the happy treat,
With run and bound; yet there were found
Only the tracks on the dusty ground
Of seven pairs of feet!
Eight of us got back safely,
And seven told with glee
Of all we'd done, and the feast and the fun—
But one of us was a silent one.
Now, which can that one be?
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
HER NAME
"I'm losted! Could you find me, please?"
Poor little frightened baby!
The wind had tossed her golden fleece;
The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;
I stooped and lifted her with ease,
And softly whispered, "Maybe;
Tell me your name, my little maid—
I can't find you without it."
"My name is Shiny-eyes," she said.
"Yes, but your last?" She shook her head.
"Up to my house they never said
A single 'fing about it!"
"But, Dear," I said, "what is your name?"
"Why, di'n't you hear me told you?
Dust Shiny-eyes!" A bright thought came.
"Yes, when you're good; but when they blame
You, little one—it's not the same
When mother has to scold you?"
"My mother never scolds!" she moans,
A little blush ensuing;
"'Cept when I've been a-frowing stones,
And then she says (the culprit owns),
'Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,
What has you been a-doing!'"
THE GAME OF GOING-TO-BED
Says father, when the lamps are lit,
"Now just five minutes you may sit
Down-stairs, and then away you go
To play a little game I know!"
He gives a kiss and pulls a curl:
"Let's play you were my little girl,
And play you jump up on my back,
And play we run!" And clackity-clack,
We both go laughing up the stair!
(If I should fuss he'd say "No fair!")
And then he says, "Night, Sleepyhead."
It's fun, the game of Going-to-Bed.
The Game of Going-to-Bed
THE BALL
Close cuddled in my own two hands,
My big round ball with yellow bands!
They've filled my playroom up with toys—
Dolls, horses, things to make a noise,
Engines that clatter on a track,
And tip-carts that let down the back;
Arks, just like Noah's, with two and two
Of every animal he knew;
Whole rows of houses built of blocks,
A mouse that squeaks, a doll that talks,
But when the Sleepy Man comes by
And I'm too tired to want to try
To think of anything at all,
Here's my old, dear old, rubber ball.
Close cuddled in my own two hands,
My big round ball with yellow bands.
The Ball
A VOYAGE
She rowed 'way out on the Daisy Sea,
with a really-truly oar,
Out of a really-truly boat, and what
could you ask for more?
Her sea and her boat were make-believe,
but the daisy waves dashed high,
And 'twas pleasant to know if the boat
went down that her frock would still be dry.
She rowed 'way out on the Daisy Sea, with
a really-truly oar,
Past the perilous garden gate where the
fierce white breakers roar,
Past the rocks where the mermaids sing as
they comb their golden hair,
Past an iceberg grim and tall, and a great,
white polar bear.
She rowed 'way out on the Daisy Sea, with
a really-truly oar,
Till she came to an island castle, where she
brought her boat ashore.
She entered the castle boldly, and—wonderful
sight to see!—
She had rowed straight home to the dining-room
and the table spread for tea.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
APPLE-TREE INN
It stands by the roadside, cool-shuttered and high,
With cordial welcome for all who pass by;
And here's how you enter—you make a quick dash
And scale the steep stair with a bound, in a flash.
You cross the clean threshold and find you a chair.
There's room for all comers and plenty to spare.
You can rock, you can rest, happy lodging you win
Who stop for an hour at Apple-tree Inn.
The walls and the roof and the ceiling are green,
With rifts of light blue that are painted between.
The seats are upholstered in brown and dark gray,
And yet, for it all, not a penny to pay.
Then, when you are hungry, the table is spread
With fare that is dainty, delicious, and red.
Oh, hurry and come if you never have been
A guest in your travels at Apple-tree Inn!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
AN OUTDOOR GIRL
The wind and the water and a merry little girl—
Her yellow hair a-blowing and her curls all out of curl,
Her lips as red as cherries and her cheeks like any rose,
And she laughs to see the little waves come curling round her toes.
The breezes a-blowing and the blue sky overhead,
A laughing little maiden,—and this is what she said:
"Oh, what's the use of houses? I think it is a sin
To take a lot of boards and bricks and shut the outdoors in!"
An Outdoor Girl
THE BEDTIME STORY-BOOK
There's something very, very queer
About a story-book,
No matter what's the time of year,
Nor where you chance to look;
No matter when it is begun,
How many pages read,
The very best of all the fun
Comes just the time for bed,
When mother whispers in your ear:
"'Tis almost eight—just look!
Now finish up your chapter, dear,
And put away your book."
The minutes almost seem to race
When it is growing late;
The very most exciting place
Is just half after eight.
The Bedtime Story-Book
THE BROWNIES
The little Bad Luck Brownies,
They cry and pout and frown;
They pucker up a crying-mouth,
And pull the corners down;
They blot the smile from every face
And hush the happy song—
The little Bad Luck Brownies
That make the world go wrong!
The little Good Luck Brownies,
They sing and laugh and shout;
If any cloud of trouble comes,
They turn it inside out
To show the silver lining
That's always, always there,—
The little Good Luck Brownies
That make the world so fair!
Bad Luck and Good Luck Brownies
HER ANSWER
It was an easy question and Margie thought it so,
An easy one to answer, as any one would know.
She smiled and smiled again as it hung upon the wall:
"In going to school what do you like the very best of all?"
Then grew a little sober as she began to write,
With wrinkles on her forehead and lips a little tight.
She wrote her answer carefully, with look so grave and wise,
She minded all her capitals and dotted all her I's,
She crossed her T's precisely, she smiled a little more
At all the pleasant images the pleasant question bore
Of all the merry, laughing hours, and all the joyous play—
"The thing I like the best of all in school—a holiday."
SIDNEY DAYRE.
A TROUBLESOME DAUGHTER
Angelica Sue is the carelessest child!
The trouble she makes me is perfectly fearful.
I told her this morning, but she only smiled,
And swung in her hammock, and looked just as cheerful.
I'm sure I should feel I had nothing to do,
If some one adopted Angelica Sue.
It's always Angelica falls in the dust,
Angelica's frock that gets torn on the fences,
The other dolls sit as I tell them they must,
But when she comes out, then the trouble commences.
Wherever I go, or whatever I do,
She's sure to be with me—Angelica Sue.
Oh, nobody knows how I work for that child!
But once, when I spoke of her ways to my brother,
He said, and he looked at us both, and he smiled,
"Angelica Susan takes after her mother!"
I've wondered since then if it really can be
Angelica Sue is a little like me.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
THE RACE
Across the field and down the hill
I ran a race with Cousin Will,
And lost my shoe, I ran so fast,
And that is why I came in last.
But Cousin Will would try once more
Across the field down to the shore.
This time all would have ended well,
Only I stubbed my toe and fell.
And then we raced across the yard,
And though I ran as swift and hard
As Cousin Will, yet some way he
Got to the place ahead of me.
Will says to lose is no disgrace,
That trying really makes a race.
Twas trying, he says, made the fun,
That all we wanted was the run.
ALICE TURNER CURTIS.
A BIG PLAYFELLOW
It's lots of fun down in the grass,
A-watching all the things that pass!
You won't come too? I wonder why
It's fun a-playing with the sky!
I guess you are too tall to see;
If you would come down here with me,
And just ungrow a little, you
Could see just what you wanted to.
Such big cloud-ships with sails spread out
To catch the breeze that's all about!
And big gray birds with soft cloud-wings,
And wolves and bears and tiger things!
Just lying down here in the grass,
I've seen about a million pass;
They creep and run and sail and fly—
It's fun a-playing with the sky!
A Big Playfellow
HAYING TIME
In haying-time my grandpa says
I'm lots of use to him;
I take my nice new wheelbarrow
and fill it to the brim;
The big team comes out, too, and
takes the hay-cocks one by one,
And that and my new wheelbarrow
soon get the haying done.
F. LILEY-YOUNG.
NOBODY
"Nobody b'oke it! It cracked itself;
It was clear 'way up on the toppest shelf.
I—p'rhaps the kitty-cat knows!"
Says poor little Ned,
With his ears as red
As the heart of a damask rose.
Nobody lost it. I carefully
Put my cap just where it ought to be
(No, 'tisn't ahind the door),
And it went and hid,
Why, of course it did,
For I've hunted an hour or more.
"Nobody tore it! You know things will
Tear if you're sitting just stock stone still!
I was just jumping over the fence—
There's some spikes on top,
And you have to drop
Before you can half commence."
Nobody! Wicked Sir Nobody!
Playing such tricks on my children three!
If I but set eyes on you,
You should find what you've lost!—
But that, to my cost,
I never am like to do!
Nobody
MY GARDEN
I have a little garden
All edged with four-o'clocks;
And some of it is sunflowers,
And some is hollyhocks.
And all around the border
I've planted little stones—
A lot of round beach pebbles—
To keep out Rover's bones.
And then, as plain as daylight,
A sign, "Keep off the grass,"
Warns hens and everybody
That here they shouldn't pass.
But Rover makes his pantry
Right in that garden patch;
And all the hens and chickens
Think that's the place to scratch.
ANNA BURNHAM BRYANT.
MAMMA'S LITTLE HOUSEMAID
I am mamma's little housemaid, don't you see?
They couldn't get along so well if it were not for me;
For every Friday morning I take my little broom,
And sweep and sweep the pretty rugs that lie in mamma's room.
And then I sweep the door-steps off, and do not leave a crumb,
And wipe the dishes, too, and oh, it is the bestest fun!
And then, when mamma starts to bake, she says that maybe I
Can make all by my very self a cunning little pie.
When I am big enough for school I think I'll like to go,
But truly I would rather stay at home, you know,
And help my mamma do the work, and bake a little pie,
For mamma says all little girls, if they would only try,
Can help their mammas very much with willing hands and feet,
By sweeping rugs and door-steps and keeping porches neat.
So I am mamma's housemaid, and she pays me with a kiss,
And papa, when he comes at night, says, "Bless me, what is this!
How bright and clean the rugs do look!" And then I laugh and say
That my little broom and I work for mamma every day.
HARRIET CROCKER LEROY.
TOYS
Toys have a bedtime, too.
Oh, but it's really true!
This is what you should do,—
Just as the sun sinks low,
Off to bed make them go,
Laid in a tidy row.
There let them rest all night,
Sleep until morning light,
Then wake when day shines bright.
ALICE VAN LEER CARRICK.
THE BATH
It always has seemed queer to me,
When I give Bess a bath
In our big, shiny, new, white tub,
She shorter grows by half.
But when I take her out again
She hasn't changed at all.
If you have doubts of what I say,
Just try it with your doll!
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
NAP-TIME
Rock-a-bye me! Rock-a-bye me!
I'm just as tired as I can be.
We've swung and swung as high as the sky,
Then slower, to let the "old cat die;"
We played we were grasshoppers—hippity-hop
The grasshoppers go, and they never stop;
And then we played kangaroo—just look,
The way they do in the picture-book!
And then—I want to get on your knee!
Rock-a-bye me! Rock-a-bye me!
F. LILEY-YOUNG.
CHUMS
We're chums, and we love it—-dear father and I!
He's tall and grown-up, of course—ever so high!
But you don't mind that, though you're little as me;
He always stoops down, or you sit on his knee
When you're chums.
We go for long walks—he says, "Now for a hike!"—
With beautiful talks about things that I like;
Some folks do not care about beetles and toads
And little green snakes that you find in the roads,
But we're chums.
Sometimes mother gets into trouble with me;
She tells him about it, and he says, "I see!"
His arm gets around me, and pretty soon, then,
I'm telling him I'll never do it again,
'Cause we're chums.
We tell all our secrets, and when things go bad
And worry-lines come in his face, I look glad
And get him a-laughing, and smooth them away.
He says, "Little Partner, it's your turn today!"
So we're chums.
A TOUCH OF NATURE
A little maid upon my knee
Sighs wearily, sighs wearily;
"I'm tired out of dressin' dolls,
And havin' stories read," says she.
"There is a book, if I could see,
I should be happy, puffickly!
My mamma keeps it on a shelf—
'But that you cannot have,' says she!"
"But here's your Old Man of the Sea,
And Jack the Giant!" (Lovingly
I tried the little maid to soothe.)
"The interestin' one," says she,
"Is that high-up one!—seems to me
The fings you want just has to be
Somethin' you hasn't got; and that's
The interestin' one!" says she.
A LESSON IN NATURAL HISTORY
"Now who can tell," the teacher said,
"Who the five members be
(The one who knows may go to the head)
Of the cat family?"
"I guess I know as much as that,"
Cried the youngest child in glee;
"The father cat and the mother cat,
And the baby kittens three!"
PICTURE-BOOK TIME
Whenever the rain-drops come pattering down,
And the garden's too dripping for play,
Whenever poor nursie's determined to frown,
Or mother dear's just gone away,
Then up to the nursery book-shelves we climb,
For trouble time's always a picture-book time!
When some one's been naughty, and some one is sad,
When the new walking bear will not go,
When the kitten is lost or the puppy is bad,
When Mary hates learning to sew,
Then up to the nursery book-shelves we climb,
For trouble time's always a picture-book time!
And there in the pictures the world seems so gay,
And everything always goes right.
The gardens are sunny, the children at play,
There's seldom a picture-book night.
No wonder we love to sit cosily curled,
Forgetting our woes in the picture-book world.
The dear, merry pages! we know them so well,
And when they are folded away,
Our troubles have vanished as if by a spell,
And nothing is wrong with the day.
The nursery book-shelves are easy to climb,
And no time is better than picture-book time!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
THE TOPSY-TURVY DOLL
Topsy-Turvy came to me
On our last year's Christmas tree.
She is just the queerest doll,
Much the strangest of them all.
Now you see her, cheeks of red,
Muslin cap upon her head,
Bright blue eyes and golden hair,
Never face more sweet and fair.
Presto! change! She's black as night,
Woolly hair all curling tight,
Coal-black eyes, thick lips of red,
Bright bandanna on her head.
She's not two, as you'd suppose,
When Topsy comes, Miss Turvy goes.
Perhaps it's as it is with me.
Sometimes another child there'll be,
And mother says, "Where is my Flo?
I wish that naughty girl would go."
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
POOR OLD BOOKS
The poor old books that nobody reads,
How lonely their days must be!
They stand up high on the dusty shelves,
Waiting and wishing, beside themselves,—
And nobody cares but me.
They have no pictures, they are no good,
But I'd read them through, if I only could.
The poor old books! They are fat and dull,
Their covers are dark and queer;
But every time I push the door,
And patter across the library floor,
They seem to cry, "Here, oh here!"
And I feel so sad for their lonely looks
That I hate to take down my picture-books.
The nice new books on the lower shelves
Are giddy in gold and red;
And they are happy and proud and gay,
For somebody reads in them every day,
And carries them up to bed.
But when I am big I'm going to read
The books that nobody else will heed.
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN.
SYMPATHY
Sometimes the world's asleep so soon
When all the winds are still,
That I can see the little moon
Come peeping o'er the hill.
It looks so small and scared and white,
The way I feel in bed
When I have just put out the light
And covered up my head.
It half seems wishing it had stayed,
And half creeps softly out.
"Dear moon," I say, "don't be afraid!
No bogies are about."
Sympathy
A SPRING SONG
Out in the woods,
Where the wild birds sing,
It is all alive
With the happy spring.
It gets in my feet,
And the first I know
They are dancing-glad,
And away they go.
I race with the brook
Till my breath is gone,
And it laughs at me
As it races on.
I rock with the trees,
And I sway and swing,
And make believe
I am part of the spring.
SECRETS
I know a man that's big and tall,
With glasses on his nose,
And canes and shiny hats and all
Such grown-up things as those;
But we have secrets I won't tell!
Here in the nursery,
Before they ring the dinner-bells
He's just a boy like me.
He comes home from the office, where
They think he's just a man
The same as they are, with his hair
All slick and spick and span.
Oh, don't I make it in a mess!
It makes us scream for joy.
"Sh—sh!" he says, "they mustn't guess
I'm nothing but a boy!"
And sometimes when the doorbell rings,
The girl knocks at the door.
"An' is the doctor in?" she sings,
A dozen times or more.
"Good-by, old man!" he says. "That bell
Means business. Here's your toy!"
And off he goes. I'll never tell
He's nothing but a boy.
Secrets
SOMEBODY DID IT
Hunting, hunting, high and low,
Where do the caps and "tammies" go?
Ned's—he hung it, he knows he did,
Right on a nail, and it went and hid!
Rob's—"Well, mother, I'm almost sure
I hung it"—"Right on the parlor floor?"
"Where is my 'Tam'?" cried Margery;
And the household echoes, "Where can it be?"
"Somebody does it!" Yes, they do!
And not a person to "lay things to!"
Ned will sputter and Rob complain,
And Margery weeps till it looks like rain;
And the family puts its glasses on
And hunts and hunts till the day is gone;
Somebody! wicked old Somebody!
No end of trouble you make for me.
Hunting, hunting, here and there!
Rob's was under the Morris-chair;
Ned's, by a strange coincidence,
Was on a nail—of the garden fence;
And Margery's little pink Tam-o'-shanter
I chanced to spy in a morning saunter
Out through the barn, where 'tis wont to hide
When they've been having a "hay-mow slide."
IN SUMMER
When all the roads are white with dust,
And thirsty flowers complain,
Our little lassie cries, "I must
Go carry round the rain."
As up and down the garden plots
With busy feet she treads,
The pansies and forget-me-nots
Lift up their drooping heads.
She waters all the lilies tall,
The fragrant mignonette,
And hollyhocks beside the wall—
Not one does she forget.
What wonder that her garden grows
And blooms, and blooms again,
When every grateful blossom knows
Who "carries round the rain!"
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
OUR LITTLE BROOK
Our little brook just sings and sings
In such a happy way,
I'd love to sit beside it,
And listen all the day.
In spring it has a merry sound,
I know the reason why—
Because the ice has gone and now
The brook can see the sky.
It loves to glisten in the sun
And sparkle in its light.
I'm sure it loves the silvery moon
And sings to it at night.
The summer song is not so gay,
The brook is now quite still,
With here and there a darling song
Sung by a tiny rill.
I love to watch the bubbles float,
I wonder where they go,
I see the little "skaters"
All darting to and fro.
When leaves are falling from the trees
As fast as they can fall,
I love to sail them in the brook—
Though there's not room for all.
They sail like little fairy boats
And start out merrily,
But sometimes find a stopping place
Before they reach the sea.
The winter brook is soon with ice
All covered up with care,
But I can hear a tiny voice,
I know the brook is there!
EDITH DUNHAM.
THE PINEWOOD PEOPLE
When winds are noisy-winged and high,
And crystal-clear the day,
Down where the forest meets the sky
The Pinewood People play.
Far off I see them bow, advance,
Swing partners and retreat,
As though some slow, old-fashioned dance
Had claimed their tripping feet.
Or hand to hand they wave, and so,
With dip and bend and swing,
Through "tag" and "hide" and "touch and go"
They flutter, frolicking.
But when I run to join the play,
I find my search is vain.
Always they see me on the way,
And change to pines again.
ELIZABETH THORNTON TURNER.
THE STUDENTS
I say to Tommy every day,
"Now let us read awhile,"
But Tommy doesn't like to read,
He'd rather be a prancing steed,
And have me drive him many a mile,
And often run away.
I like to do as grown folks do.
Our house is full of books.
My sisters gather every night
About the cheery study light.
I often think how wise it looks,
And wish I could stay, too.
So I coax Tommy every day
To read a little while.
I know my M's and N's and P's
And everything, 'way down to Z's.
When Tommy reads I have to smile,
For Tommy just knows A!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
THE LADY MOON
There's a lady in the moon,
With a floating gown of white;
You can see her very soon,
When mamma turns out the light.
Tis a lady and she smiles
Through my narrow window way,
As she sails on miles and miles,
Making night as fair as day.
ALICE TURNER CURTIS.
THE JOURNEY
Whither away shall the baby ride?
How many miles shall he fare?
Under the trees whose arms spread wide,
Out to the meadow there.
Down by the brook that flows rippling by,
Bordered by moss and fern.
From flower and bird and tree and sky
How many things shall he learn?
Baby'll journey all safe and sound
Out in the world of green,
Traveling over the grassy ground,
Where wild flowers are seen.
Leaves will whisper and birds will trill,
And all things display their charms,
And, when he's journeyed as far as he will,
He'll ride back to mother's arms.
Then, though he thought the green world good,
He'll gladly come back to rest,
And will drowsily feel, as a baby should,
That mother's arms are the best.
ANNIE WILLIS MCCULLOUGH.
PRETENDING
We played we were lost in the wood,
But home was just over the hill.
With only one cooky for food,
We played we were lost in the wood.
We talked just as loud as we could,
The world seemed so big and so still.
We wished we had always been good,
And we said in our hearts, "Now we will."
We gathered fresh grass for our bed,
And then there was nothing to do.
A robin flew over my head
As we gathered fresh grass for our bed.
"He'll cover us up," brother said,
And then he began to boo-hoo,
And home to our mother we fled,
Or, really, I might have cried too.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
A LITTLE APRIL FOOL
One day in the midst
Of an April shower.
This dear little girl
Was missed for an hour.
And under the trees
And over the grass,
We all went hunting
The little lost lass.
We found her at last
Where two walls met,
A-looking naughty
And a-dripping wet.
"I was April-fooling,"
She softly said;
And down she dropped
A shamed little head.
