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 ICan 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 sayThat my little broom and I work for mamma every day.
HARRIET CROCKER LEROY.
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.
It always has seemed queer to me,When I give Bess a bathIn our big, shiny, new, white tub,She shorter grows by half.
But when I take her out againShe hasn't changed at all.If you have doubts of what I say,Just try it with your doll!
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
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-hopThe 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.
We're chums, and we love it—-dear father and I!He's tall and grown-up, of course—ever so high!Butyoudon't mind that, though you're little as me;He always stoops down, or you sit on his kneeWhen 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 toadsAnd 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 badAnd worry-lines come in his face, I look gladAnd get him a-laughing, and smooth them away.He says, "Little Partner, it's your turn today!"So we're chums.
A little maid upon my kneeSighs wearily, sighs wearily;"I'm tired out of dressin' dolls,And havin' stories read," says she.
"Thereisa book, if I could see,I should be happy,puffickly!My mamma keeps it on a shelf—'Butthatyou cannot have,' says she!"
"But here's your Old Man of the Sea,And Jack the Giant!" (LovinglyI tried the little maid to soothe.)"Theinterestin'one," says she,
"Is that high-up one!—seems to meThe fings you want just has to beSomethin' you hasn't got; andthat'sThe interestin' one!" says she.
"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!"
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.
Topsy-Turvy came to meOn 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.
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 looksThat I hate to take down my picture-books.
The nice new books on the lower shelvesAre 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 readThe books that nobody else will heed.
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN.
Sometimes the world's asleep so soonWhen all the winds are still,That I can see the little moonCome peeping o'er the hill.
It looks so small and scared and white,The way I feel in bedWhen I have just put out the lightAnd 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."
SympathySympathy
SympathySympathy
Out in the woods,Where the wild birds sing,It is all aliveWith the happy spring.
It gets in my feet,And the first I knowThey are dancing-glad,And away they go.
I race with the brookTill my breath is gone,And it laughs at meAs it races on.
I rock with the trees,And I sway and swing,And make believeI am part of the spring.
I know a man that's big and tall,With glasses on his nose,And canes and shiny hats and allSuch grown-up things as those;But we have secrets I won't tell!Here in the nursery,Before they ring the dinner-bellsHe's just a boy like me.
He comes home from the office, whereThey think he's just a manThe same as they are, with his hairAll 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 guessI'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 bellMeans business. Here's your toy!"And off he goes. I'll never tellHe's nothing but a boy.
SecretsSecrets
SecretsSecrets
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 sureI hung it"—"Right on the parlor floor?""Whereis my 'Tam'?" cried Margery;And the household echoes, "Wherecanit 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 onAnd 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,Wason a nail—of the garden fence;And Margery's little pink Tam-o'-shanterI chanced to spy in a morning saunterOut through the barn, where 'tis wont to hideWhen they've been having a "hay-mow slide."
When all the roads are white with dust,And thirsty flowers complain,Our little lassie cries, "I mustGo carry round the rain."
As up and down the garden plotsWith busy feet she treads,The pansies and forget-me-notsLift 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 growsAnd blooms, and blooms again,When every grateful blossom knowsWho "carries round the rain!"
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
Our little brook just sings and singsIn 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 nowThe brook can see the sky.
It loves to glisten in the sunAnd sparkle in its light.I'm sure it loves the silvery moonAnd sings to it at night.
The summer song is not so gay,The brook is now quite still,With here and there a darling songSung 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 treesAs 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 boatsAnd start out merrily,But sometimes find a stopping placeBefore they reach the sea.
The winter brook is soon with iceAll covered up with care,But I can hear a tiny voice,I know the brook is there!
EDITH DUNHAM.
When winds are noisy-winged and high,And crystal-clear the day,Down where the forest meets the skyThe Pinewood People play.
Far off I see them bow, advance,Swing partners and retreat,As though some slow, old-fashioned danceHad 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.
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 nightAbout the cheery study light.I often think how wise it looks,And wish I could stay, too.
So I coax Tommy every dayTo read a little while.I know my M's and N's and P'sAnd everything, 'way down to Z's.When Tommy reads I have to smile,For Tommy just knows A!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
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 smilesThrough my narrow window way,As she sails on miles and miles,Making night as fair as day.
ALICE TURNER CURTIS.
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 skyHow many things shall he learn?
Baby'll journey all safe and soundOut 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.
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 headAs 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.
One day in the midstOf an April shower.This dear little girlWas missed for an hour.
And under the treesAnd over the grass,We all went huntingThe little lost lass.
We found her at lastWhere two walls met,A-looking naughtyAnd a-dripping wet.
"I was April-fooling,"She softly said;And down she droppedA shamed little head.
A Little April FoolA Little April Fool
A Little April FoolA Little April Fool
Look! look! look!The woods are all afire!See! see! see!Aflame are bush and brier!The trees are all unhurt, I know—Oak, maple, elm and all—But, oh, they all seem burning upIn red fires of the fall!
Whistle, whistle, up the road,And whistle, whistle down the lane!That's the laddie takes my heart,A-whistling in the rain.Winter wind may whistle too—That's a comrade gay!Naught that any wind can doDrives his cheer away.
Whistle, whistle, sun or storm;And whistle, whistle, warm or cold!Underneath his ragged coatThere beats a heart of gold.He will keep a courage high,Bear the battle's brunt;Let the coward whine and cry!—His the soldier's front.
Shoes, I know, are out at toe,And rags and patches at the knee;He whistles still his merry tune,For not a fig cares he.Whistle, whistle, up the road,Whistle, whistle, down the lane!That's the laddie for my love,Whistling in the rain.
Whistling in the rainWhistling in the rain
Whistling in the rainWhistling in the rain
I'm just a wooden horsy, and I work hard all the dayAt hauling blocks and dollies in my little painted dray.
Sometimes they feed me make-believe, sometimes nothing at all,And sometimes I'm left standing on my head out in the hall.
I try to be most patient, but 'twas just the other dayI got provoked with Teddy Bear and almost ran away.
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
I've come to you again, my dear. There's no more school today.Let's cuddle down a little while before we go to play,And you shall tell me what you've done, and whether you've felt sad.I always hurry home because I know you'll be so glad.
I had a thought in school today—I quite forgot my book—I seemed to see you waiting, and how lonely you must look,And all the other children's dolls, ten thousand, I suppose,All sitting up so patiently, and turning out their toes.
And then when I was called upon to answer "four times four,"I failed, and teacher told me that I ought to study more.She asked if I had done my best. I had to answer, "No'm."I don't believe she leaves a little lonely doll at home!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
My top is just the very best,But, my! it is the laziest.It sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps all day,And doesn't want to come and play.Then, when it spins, it sleeps the more.It stands up straight, but it will snore,Until it is so sound asleepIt tumbles over in a heap.
SINCLAIR LEWIS.
"Ullo, Mr. Santa! Ullo! Ullo! Ullo!If must be 'most to Christmas, and I think you ought to knowAbout the things we're needing most—of course I'd like a doll,And Jimmy wants a rocking-horse, and Charlie wants a ball.
"And all of us would like a lot of striped candy sticks(There's just six boys and girls of us—be sure to make it six),And gum-drops; and oh, if you could, some red-and-white gibraltars!I had some once, and half was mine, and half of them was Walter's.
"But, dear old Santa, don't forget, whatever you leave out,To put in some surprises that we never thought about;For in the whole long stocking, clear down into the toe,The presents that are nicest are the ones you didn't know."
Baby's hidden all away!Nobody can find her!Where's the baby, mamma? Say,Let's go look behind her!
Baby? No, she isn't there—Have we lost our baby?Let's go hunting down the stair,There we'll find her, maybe.
Papa's lost his little girl!What will he do for kisses?What is this? A yellow curl?And please to say what this is
Inside my coat! "I 'ant some breff!It makes me almost 'oasted!Next time don't smovver me to deff—Let's play aden I'm losted!"
I know of a staid and sober horseThat goes by a great, long name.The little ones like this trusty steedThat always goes at a proper speed.They call him the good Velocipede,And he's never tired or lame.
Ah, he is the horse that gives you fun,And he is the horse you need!He's never balky, he eats no hay,He's ready to either go or stay,And never was known to run away—This good horse Velocipede.
ANNIE WILLIS MCCULLOUGH.
The world's wet and stormy,The wind's in a rage.We are shut in the houseLike poor birds in a cage.There's a sigh in the chimney,A roar on the wall.Good-by to "I Spy"And to swinging and all!But the child that complainsCannot better the day,So the harder it rains,Why, the harder we'll play!
There are tears on the windowAnd sighs in the trees,But who's going to fretOver matters like these?If the sky's got to cry,Then it's better by halfThat the longer it weeps,Why, the louder we'll laugh!And look! I declare,There's the sun coming outTo see what on earthAll the fun is about!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
I am the birthday baby,And this is the birthday horse.They gave him to me because I was threeAnd knew how to drive, of course.He's trotted and walked and galloped,And traveled the whole birthday;He's carried a load up the hilly road,And once he has run away.
I've fed him high in the stable,I've watered him at the trough,I've curried him down to a glossy brown,And taken his harness off.Now we are resting a little,Because there has got to beA long, stiff run before we're done,For the birthday horse and me!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
The little Dutch children,With little Dutch shoes,Go clitter-clatterWherever they choose.
But we must move lightly,In slippers, at that,And walk on our tip-toes,And go like a cat.
But, oh, noise is lovely!We wish very muchThat we were Dutch childrenWith shoes that were Dutch.