The Dutch WishThe Dutch Wish
The Dutch WishThe Dutch Wish
The blue-bird is a-wing;he has heard the call of spring;And a dozen times this morningI have heard a robin sing;But I know a sign that's surer,and I see the twinkling feetOf a score of little childrenat the corner of the street.
The crocus-bed's abloom;in the shadow of my roomGlows a vase of golden jonquilslike a star amid the gloom;But the sign that's sure and certainis the children's merry feetDancing round the organ-grinderat the corner of the street.
Song of bird or hum of bee,there's no sign of spring for meLike the jolly little dancersand the frolic melody;And my heart shall catch the rhythmof the happy little feetDancing round the organ-grinderat the corner of the street.
There's nothing so nice as dolly!She comforts me when I'm sad,She keeps me from getting lonely,She smiles at me when I'm glad.She's such a delightful playmate,And causes me so much joy,I wouldn't exchange her for all the toysThat people give to a boy.
ANNIE WILLIS MCCULLOUGH.
"One mile, one mile to Toyland!"Just s'pose, to your intenseAstonishment, you found this signPlain written on a fence.Just one short mile to Toyland,To happy girl and boy-land,Where one can play the livelong day!
Now who will hurry hence?There dollies grow on bushes,And wooden soldiers standWith frisky rocking-horses near,A brave and dauntless band;And whips and tops and whistlesThey grow as thick as thistles,And every kind of toy you find—A strange and magic land!
"Only a mile to Toyland!"How big your eyes would grow,And how you'd come and stand stock-stillTo read it, in a row;Then, brother, girls, and maybeThe puppy and the baby,You'd make that mile in little while,And find that land, I know!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
Clean and sweet from head to feetIs Jerry, but not his twin."Now for the other!" says merry mother,And quickly dips him in.Jim and Jerry, with lips of cherry,And eyes of the selfsame blue;Twins to a speckle, yes, even a freckle—What can a mother do?They wink and wriggle and laugh and giggle—A joke on mother is nice!"We played a joke,"—'twas Jimmie who spoke,—"And you've washed the same boy twice!"
When Polly goes into the parlor to play,She never minds what the little notes say,Nor peeps at a music-book;"I play by ear," says the little dear(When some of us think the music's queer),"So why should I need to look?"
When Polly goes into the kitchen to cook,She never looks at a cookery-book,Nor a sign of a recipe;It's a dot of this and a dab of that,And a twirl of the wrist and a pinch and a pat—"I cook by hand," says she.
It comes just after April,And right before 'tis June;And every bird that's singingHas this same lovely tune:You needn't ask your motherTo let you go and play;The very breezes whisper,"You may! You may! You may!"
There are no frosts to freeze you,And no fierce winds to blow;But winds that seem like kisses,So soft and sweet and slow;The lovely sun is shining'Most every single day.Of course you may go out, dears—It is themonthof "May"!
Bring the birthday-marker!That's the way to showHow much I've been growingSince a year ago.
All my last year's dressesAre too short for me;This one—with the tucks out—Only to my knee!
Grandpa rubs his glasses;Whispers, "Yes, indeed!How that child is growing—Growing like a weed!"
Mother's word is sweetest:"Yes, in sun and showerShe's been growing, growing,Growing like a flower!"
Ten cunning little playthingsHe never is without—His little wiggle-waggle toesThat carry him about.
They look so soft and pinky,And good enough to eat!How lucky that the little toesAre fastened to his feet!
Ten little pinky playthingsHe cannot eat or lose;Except when Nursey hides them allIn little socks and shoes.
We don't mind rainy days a bit,my brother Ted and I;There's such a lot of games to playbefore it comes blue sky.Sometimes we play I'm Mrs. Noah,and Ted's Methusalem!I put him in his little box andhand his little drum(There has to be some way, you see,to let the Ark-folks knowThat Father Noah expects them all,and where they are to go)And then they come by twos and twos,and twos and twos andtwos,Till trotting with them 'cross the floor'most wears out my new shoes.They all go in, and when it's time,we let the flood begin;The rainier it rains the morewe like it staying in.
Staying InStaying In
Staying InStaying In
I know how the apple-tree went to sleep!Its fluttering leaves were so tired of play!—Like frolicsome children when dusk grows deep,And mother says "Come!" and they gladly creepTo knee and to nest at the end of day.
Its work was all done and it longed to rest;The reddening apples dropped softly down;The leaves fell in heaps to the brown earth's breastsAnd then, of a sudden, its limbs were dressed(The better to sleep) in a soft white gown.
The maples and beeches and oaks and all—When summer was over, each cool green tentSeemed suddenly turned to a banquet hall,Pavilions with banners, a flaming wall!And then all was gone and their glory spent.
Then quickly the sky shook her blankets out,And robes that were softer than wool to donShe gave all her children the winds to flout—I wish I knew what they are dreaming about,So quiet and still with their white gowns on!
Can you guess where I have been?On the hillsides fresh and green!Out where all the winds are blowing,Where the free, bright streamlet's flowingLeap and laugh and race and runLike a child that's full of fun!—Crinkle, crinkle through the meadows,Hiding in the woodland shadows;Making here and there a poolIn some leafy covert coolFor the Lady Birch to seeJust how fair and sweet is she.
Can you guess where I have been?By a brook where willows lean;With a book whereon to look,In some little shady nook,If that I should weary growOf that lovelier book I knowWhose sweet leaves the wind is turning—Full of lessons for my learning.There are little songs to hearIf you bend a listening ear;And no printed book can beHalf so dear and sweet to me.
There are two bulging pockets that I have in mind.Just listen and see if the owners you'll find.In one—it's quite shocking—there's a round wad of gum,A china doll's head and a half finished sum,A thimble, a handkerchief—sticky, I fear—A dolly's blue cap and some jackstones are here.In the other are marbles and fishhooks and strings,Some round shiny stones and a red top that sings,A few apple cores and a tin full of bait,A big black jack-knife in a sad bladeless state.And now I wonder how many can guessWhich pocket Bob owns and which one does Bess?
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
I give my pony corn and hay,With oats to tempt him twice a week;I smooth and curry every dayUntil his coat is bright and sleek;At night he has a cosy stall;He does not seem to care at all.
I mount him often, hurriedly,And ride him fast and ride him far;With whip and spur I make him flyAlong the road where robbers are;But when I've galloped madly homeHe is not wet or flecked with foam.
He does not plunge against the rein,Nor take a ditch nor clear a rail.He does not toss his flowing mane,He does not even switch his tail.Oh, well, he does his best, of course;He's nothing but a hobby-horse!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
Sing a song of May-time,And picnics in the park.Such a happy playtime!Birds are singing—hark!Bluebird calls to bluebird,Robins chirp between,And little lads and lassesAre dancing on the green.
Marigolds are goldenAll along the brooks.Violets are peepingIn the shady nooks.Out into the fields now!Choose your happy queen;For all the lads and lassesAre dancing on the green.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
My father's books are made of words,As long and hard as words can be,They look so very dull to me!No pictures there of beasts and birds,Of dear Miss Muffet eating curds,And things a child would like to see.
My books have pictures, large and small,Some brightly colored, some just plain,I look them through and through again.Friends from their pages seem to call,Jack climbs his bean-stalk thick and tall,I know he will not climb in vain.
Here comes Red-Riding-Hood, and hereThe Sleeping Beauty lies in state,The prince will come ere 'tis too late!And this is Cinderella dear.The godmother will soon appearAnd send her to her happy fate.
Oh, father's books are very wise,As wise as any books can be!Yet he wants stories, I can see;For really, it's a great surpriseHow many picture-books he buys,And reads the fairy tales to me!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
At half past eight I say "good night" and snuggle up in bed.I'm never lonely, for it's then I hear the gentle treadOf all the tiny book people. They come to visit me,And lean above my pillow just as friendly as can be!Sometimes they cling against the wall or dance about in air.I never hear them speak a word, but I can see them there.When Cinderella comes she smiles with happy, loving eyes,And makes a funny nod at me when she the slipper tries.Dear Peter Pan flies in and out. I see his shadow, too,And often see his little house and all his pirate crew.I think they know I love them and that's why they come at night,When other people do not know that they've slipped out of sight;But I have often been afraid that while they visit meSome other little boy, perhaps, may stay up after tea,And when he tries to find them on the pages of his bookHe cannot see them anywhere, though he may look and look!That's why I never stay awake nor keep them here too long.I go to sleep and let them all slip back where they belong.
EDNA A. FOSTER.
When Charlotte is playing croquetIt's really refreshing to see.She wins in the cheerfullest way,Or loses (but rarely!) with glee.She chooses the ball that is blue,And dashes straight into the fray.I want to be present—don't you?—When Charlotte is playing croquet.
And Charlotte is playing croquetFrom breakfast-time almost till tea.She coaxes us, "Please, won't you play?"And somehow, we always agree.Then oh, for the ball that is blue!What matter the tasks of the day?There's something important to do,For Charlotte is playing croquet!
When Charlotte is playing croquet,The neighbors come over to see,The grocer is tempted to stay,The butcher's boy gives advice free,The doctor, forgetting his care,Will linger a bit on his way.There are partners enough and to spare,When Charlotte is playing croquet.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
He doesn't wander up and downAnd hoarsely call all day,"O' clo'! O' clo'!" This old-clothes manHas not a word to say.
He stands so stiff among the corn,His one stiff arm stuck out,And points a musket at the crowsThat circle all about.
He doesn't tramp the dusty streets,Nor travel, ankle-deep,Through mush and slush, but quiet standsWhere baby corn-cobs sleep.
He's such a funny old-clothes man!I wonder if it's hardTo stand amid the growing cornAll summer long on guard.