SO LONESOME NOW

SOMETIMES w’en I got to pile wood in theyard,’Ist wringin’ with sweat ’cuz I’m workin’ sohard,An’ see all the neighbors’ boys startin’ to fish,I can’t hardly work any more, an’ I wish’At I wuz a-goin’ an’ ’en right awayI run an’ ast Ma if I can’t go today,An’ she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can runOff an’ fish ’ist as soon as your work is all done.You must work while you work,You must play while you playAn’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”An’ mebbe it’s so,But my goodness! to goWith the boys ’at’s gone fishin’!—I guess she dunno!Sometimes w’en I got to hoe garden an’ hearThe boys playin’ ball in the next lot, so nearI hear ’em all cheerin’ an’ see ’em all score,I can’t hardly stand it to hoe any more.So ’en I ast Ma if I can’t go an’ playAn’ promise to hoe twict as much the next day,But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can runOff an’ play ’ist as soon as your work is all done.You must work while you work,You must play while you playAn’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”An’ mebbe it’s so,But, my goodness! to hoeW’en you hear ’em a-playin’!—I guess she dunno.Sometimes w’en the snow gets all piled up so deepOn the walk ’at she tells me to go out an’ sweepIt all off, an’ Sam Russell comes by with his sled,My broom ’at I’m usin’ gets heavy as lead.An’ I can’t hardly sweep, an’ I ast Ma if ICan’t go out a-slidin’ an’ sweep by an’ by,But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can runOff and slide ’ist as soon as your work is all done.You must work while you work,You must play while you playAn’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”An’ mebbe it’s so,But to have to sweep snowW’en the boys are a-slidin’!—I guess she dunno.

You must work while you work,You must play while you playAn’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”An’ mebbe it’s so,But my goodness! to goWith the boys ’at’s gone fishin’!—I guess she dunno!

Sometimes w’en I got to hoe garden an’ hearThe boys playin’ ball in the next lot, so nearI hear ’em all cheerin’ an’ see ’em all score,I can’t hardly stand it to hoe any more.So ’en I ast Ma if I can’t go an’ playAn’ promise to hoe twict as much the next day,But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can runOff an’ play ’ist as soon as your work is all done.

You must work while you work,You must play while you playAn’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”An’ mebbe it’s so,But, my goodness! to hoeW’en you hear ’em a-playin’!—I guess she dunno.

Sometimes w’en the snow gets all piled up so deepOn the walk ’at she tells me to go out an’ sweepIt all off, an’ Sam Russell comes by with his sled,My broom ’at I’m usin’ gets heavy as lead.An’ I can’t hardly sweep, an’ I ast Ma if ICan’t go out a-slidin’ an’ sweep by an’ by,But she says to me ’en: “Johnny Jones, you can runOff and slide ’ist as soon as your work is all done.

You must work while you work,You must play while you playAn’ ’en you’ll be happy for many a day.”An’ mebbe it’s so,But to have to sweep snowW’en the boys are a-slidin’!—I guess she dunno.

OVER t’ Henry Murray’s, why,They always had lots an’ lots o’ pie,An’ toy automobiles an’ v’locipedesAn’ walkin’ toys, like a fellow readsAbout sometimes, but he seldom sees,An’ swings out under th’ big oak trees,An’ childurn a-playin’ on every bough—But my! It is turrible lonesome now.Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,His mother an’ father ’ist seemed t’ tryAn’ see if they couldn’t get some new toysFor Henry an’ all of us other boys’At played with him; an’ she used t’ makeTh’ dandiest currant an’ raisin cake,An’ boys ’ist flocked there like flies, somehow—But my! It is turrible lonesome now.Over’t Henry Murray’s, why,His mother ’ud see you goin’ byAn’ ast you why you didn’t come an’ playWith Henry an’ all of his toys, some day.An’ every Christmas she’d have a treeWith presents, th’ finest you ever see,An’ nobody got forgot, somehow—But my! It is turrible lonesome now.An’ over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,We boys ’ist look while we’re goin’ by,An’ see all his toys layin’ there outside.Once Big Bill Skinner broke down an’ criedAn’ says he don’t care—it was ’ist too bad,’Cause Henry was all of th’ boy they had.An’ th’ swings ’ist hang from th’ big oak bough bough—An’ my! It is turrible lonesome now.

Over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,His mother an’ father ’ist seemed t’ tryAn’ see if they couldn’t get some new toysFor Henry an’ all of us other boys’At played with him; an’ she used t’ makeTh’ dandiest currant an’ raisin cake,An’ boys ’ist flocked there like flies, somehow—But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

Over’t Henry Murray’s, why,His mother ’ud see you goin’ byAn’ ast you why you didn’t come an’ playWith Henry an’ all of his toys, some day.An’ every Christmas she’d have a treeWith presents, th’ finest you ever see,An’ nobody got forgot, somehow—But my! It is turrible lonesome now.

An’ over t’ Henry Murray’s, why,We boys ’ist look while we’re goin’ by,An’ see all his toys layin’ there outside.Once Big Bill Skinner broke down an’ criedAn’ says he don’t care—it was ’ist too bad,’Cause Henry was all of th’ boy they had.An’ th’ swings ’ist hang from th’ big oak bough bough—An’ my! It is turrible lonesome now.

SHE understands. I do not need to goAnd tell her she is all the world to me.I never speak a word to let her knowI will be faithful till Eternity,But when, upon the way to school, she seesMe come with two red apples in my handsAnd hears me say: “Please, Sally Jane, take these,”It is no wonder that she understands.Or when she sees me at the old front gateWith my new sled right after the first snow,And from her window calls to me to waitUntil she asks her Mother can she go,I do not need to tell her why I comeIn my fur cap with mittens on my hands,For even if my feelings make me dumbShe looks at me and then she understands.Or if she whispers something when in school,As children are quite often apt to do,Forgetting all about the teacher’s rule,And teacher says to Sally: “Was that you?”Why then I see how scared she is and riseUp in my seat and hold up both my handsAnd take the blame—she looks into my eyes eyes—I do not need to speak—she understands.Or if she has the measles so I dareNot go up to her house, but I can lookIn through the window and she sees me there,And if I bring a dandy story bookAnd leave it on the fence post where the nurseCan come and take it in, and if my handsHave written, “Dear, I hope you’ll be no worse,”I do not need to speak—she understands.I do not need to tell her how I feel—She only has to watch the things I do;She knows my heart is true to her as steel,And if it rains or if the sky is blueI wait for her to walk to school with me,And carry all her school-books in my hands,And I am just as happy as can be,And so is she—because she understands.

Or when she sees me at the old front gateWith my new sled right after the first snow,And from her window calls to me to waitUntil she asks her Mother can she go,I do not need to tell her why I comeIn my fur cap with mittens on my hands,For even if my feelings make me dumbShe looks at me and then she understands.

Or if she whispers something when in school,As children are quite often apt to do,Forgetting all about the teacher’s rule,And teacher says to Sally: “Was that you?”Why then I see how scared she is and riseUp in my seat and hold up both my handsAnd take the blame—she looks into my eyes eyes—I do not need to speak—she understands.

Or if she has the measles so I dareNot go up to her house, but I can lookIn through the window and she sees me there,And if I bring a dandy story bookAnd leave it on the fence post where the nurseCan come and take it in, and if my handsHave written, “Dear, I hope you’ll be no worse,”I do not need to speak—she understands.

I do not need to tell her how I feel—She only has to watch the things I do;She knows my heart is true to her as steel,And if it rains or if the sky is blueI wait for her to walk to school with me,And carry all her school-books in my hands,And I am just as happy as can be,And so is she—because she understands.

A LITTLE LOVE STORY

ON a noiseless street stood a crackerless lad with a screechless fife and a headless drum,Venting his glee in a voiceless shout, as a blareless band, all still and dumb,Came down the length of the avenue, and a bugle corps blew a noteless blare,While a screechless rocket with noiseless hiss cut a fireless path through the silent air.The blareless band played a soundless tune and the crackerless lad gave a voiceless shoutAs the rippling folds of the unfurled flag from the upheld standard fluttered out.“Hurrah!” he cried with a voiceless cry, put forth from his lips in a speechless way.“Hurrah for the guns of Lexington and the noiseless Independence Day!”Then far away down the village street a smokeless gun belched a soundless roar,A popless cracker fizzless died, and the band played a blareless tune once more;The clickless guns of the village guards with a thudless sound dropped on the ground.The marshal left his neighless horse, and the voiceless mob ranged all around;A fizzless pinwheel silent whirred, and the drum corps joined in a tootless screech,The lips of the village speaker moved in the tongueless strains of a wordless speech.Then a graceless benediction fell, and the crackerless lad, in a voiceless way,Gave a soundless shout for Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day.Oh, the pulseless thrill of the noiseless guns and the tootless fifes and the headless drums,The heartless joy of the crackerless lad, as the soundless pageant noiseless comesDown the village street, and the sightless glow of the hissless rocket’s fireless glareWith noiseless swish from the silent earth through the measureless breadth of the lightless air!But a fingerless youth of the olden time, when crackers popped and cannons roared,Looked on the scene with much disgust and the look of a lad who is greatly bored;And he cried aloud—’twas the only sound that was heard, not made in a voiceless way:“Dog-gone the guns at Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day!”

Then far away down the village street a smokeless gun belched a soundless roar,A popless cracker fizzless died, and the band played a blareless tune once more;The clickless guns of the village guards with a thudless sound dropped on the ground.The marshal left his neighless horse, and the voiceless mob ranged all around;A fizzless pinwheel silent whirred, and the drum corps joined in a tootless screech,The lips of the village speaker moved in the tongueless strains of a wordless speech.Then a graceless benediction fell, and the crackerless lad, in a voiceless way,Gave a soundless shout for Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day.

Oh, the pulseless thrill of the noiseless guns and the tootless fifes and the headless drums,The heartless joy of the crackerless lad, as the soundless pageant noiseless comesDown the village street, and the sightless glow of the hissless rocket’s fireless glareWith noiseless swish from the silent earth through the measureless breadth of the lightless air!But a fingerless youth of the olden time, when crackers popped and cannons roared,Looked on the scene with much disgust and the look of a lad who is greatly bored;And he cried aloud—’twas the only sound that was heard, not made in a voiceless way:“Dog-gone the guns at Bunker Hill and the noiseless Independence Day!”

I’M only ’ist a little girl,An’ w’en I want to playAn’ Mamma says don’t go outsideOur yard this livelong day,An’ w’en some other girls ’ey comeAn’ pester me to go,It may be wrong, but I’m so young,How does she s’pose I know?An’ ’en w’en she goes out sometimesAn’ says: “Now go to bedAt eight o’clock this very night,”I ’member what she said.But w’en the mantel clock strikes eightAn’ I don’t want to go,It may be wrong, but I’m so young,How does she s’pose I know?An’ w’en she says: “Now, don’t go nearThe cookie jar this day,”I want some cookies awful muchAn’ try to stay away.But all the time I’m hungry forSome cookies, an’ I go—It may be wrong, but I’m so young,How does she s’pose I know?I’m only ’ist a little girlNot more ’n six years old,An’ my, I always try to doE’zactly as I’m told.But w’en I make ’ist one mistake,My Ma ought not to goAn’ punish me, ’cause I’m so young,How does she s’pose I know?

An’ ’en w’en she goes out sometimesAn’ says: “Now go to bedAt eight o’clock this very night,”I ’member what she said.But w’en the mantel clock strikes eightAn’ I don’t want to go,It may be wrong, but I’m so young,How does she s’pose I know?

An’ w’en she says: “Now, don’t go nearThe cookie jar this day,”I want some cookies awful muchAn’ try to stay away.But all the time I’m hungry forSome cookies, an’ I go—It may be wrong, but I’m so young,How does she s’pose I know?

I’m only ’ist a little girlNot more ’n six years old,An’ my, I always try to doE’zactly as I’m told.But w’en I make ’ist one mistake,My Ma ought not to goAn’ punish me, ’cause I’m so young,How does she s’pose I know?

OUR Uncle Bill’s a bachelur, an’ it’s an awful shame,’Cuz he knows stories about bears an’ knows ’em all by name.An’ growls ’ist like a really one an’ makes you think a bearIs underneath th’ table, but of course it isn’t there.An’ when he takes you on his knee he talks ’ist like a bookAn’ after w’ile your eyes get big an’ you’re a-scairt to lookW’en he says: “Nen a bear come out an’ ’ist went Boo-oo-oo!”Becuz you almost think a bear is really after you.An’ ’en he plays wild Indian an’ hides himself somewheresW’ile we look in th’ corners an’ behind th’ parlor chairs,An’ peek in th’ dark closets an’ p’tend we’re on a scoutTill after w’ile he makes a whoop an’ ’en comes rushin’ out’Ist like he’s on th’ warpath; an’ us chinnern run upstairsAn’ hide in Mamma’s closet an’ he makes us think ’at bearsAre comin’ in to get us an’ he growls ’ist like he’s one,An’ my! we’re turble scairt an’ yet it’s awful lots o’ fun.An’ ’en he is a pirate an’ he makes us chinnern playAt we are in a shipwreck an’ th’ crew is cast awayUpon a desert island w’ere his treasure chest is hid,An’ we are only sailors an’ his name is Captain Kidd.An’ w’en we hear him comin’ he ’ist roars an’ ’en we run,’Cuz he has broomsticks for a sword an’ pokers for a gun,An’ after w’ile he kills us all but it don’t hurt, an’ w’enHe sails away in his big ship we come to life again.’En after w’ile our Mother comes an’ taps him on th’ head,An’ says it’s time for bears an’ scouts an’ things to be in bed,An’ leads us chinnern all upstairs an’ maybe if we keepRight still she’ll let th’ candle burn until we go to sleep.’En after w’ile our Uncle Bill comes up to say good-night,An’ see how snug an’ warm we are an’ all tucked in so tight,An’ ’en he kisses us good-night an’ ’en his eyes ’ist blur:I guess we make him sorry ’at he is a bachelur!

An’ ’en he plays wild Indian an’ hides himself somewheresW’ile we look in th’ corners an’ behind th’ parlor chairs,An’ peek in th’ dark closets an’ p’tend we’re on a scoutTill after w’ile he makes a whoop an’ ’en comes rushin’ out’Ist like he’s on th’ warpath; an’ us chinnern run upstairsAn’ hide in Mamma’s closet an’ he makes us think ’at bearsAre comin’ in to get us an’ he growls ’ist like he’s one,An’ my! we’re turble scairt an’ yet it’s awful lots o’ fun.

An’ ’en he is a pirate an’ he makes us chinnern playAt we are in a shipwreck an’ th’ crew is cast awayUpon a desert island w’ere his treasure chest is hid,An’ we are only sailors an’ his name is Captain Kidd.An’ w’en we hear him comin’ he ’ist roars an’ ’en we run,’Cuz he has broomsticks for a sword an’ pokers for a gun,An’ after w’ile he kills us all but it don’t hurt, an’ w’enHe sails away in his big ship we come to life again.

’En after w’ile our Mother comes an’ taps him on th’ head,An’ says it’s time for bears an’ scouts an’ things to be in bed,An’ leads us chinnern all upstairs an’ maybe if we keepRight still she’ll let th’ candle burn until we go to sleep.’En after w’ile our Uncle Bill comes up to say good-night,An’ see how snug an’ warm we are an’ all tucked in so tight,An’ ’en he kisses us good-night an’ ’en his eyes ’ist blur:I guess we make him sorry ’at he is a bachelur!

DON’T you dast kill a toad, Henry Blake says, for trueAs your’re born it’ll rain right away if you do.For Henry Blake says oncet some boys ’at he knowedWere goin’ a-fishin’ an’ one killed a toad,An’ it all clouded up an’ it got just as black,An’ it thundered an’ lightninged before they got backTill they were awful scairt. He says he dunno why,But he thinks toads has somethin’ t’ do with the sky.An’ Henry Blake showedUs th’ place in th’ roadWhere the boys went an’ kilt him an’ that’s how he knowed.Henry Blake says if you just split a beanAn’ put half of it on a wart when it’s green,An’ throw half of it between midnight an’ dawnIn a cistern somewhere, why, your wart’ll be goneJust as soon as it rots. Henry Blake says it’s true’Cuz a friend of his showed him a bean cut in twoThat took off a big wart, an’ th’ half was all blackAn’ Henry Blake says that it never came back.An’ Henry’s friend showedHim th’ cistern he throwedThe other half into an’ that’s how he knowed!

Henry Blake says if you just split a beanAn’ put half of it on a wart when it’s green,An’ throw half of it between midnight an’ dawnIn a cistern somewhere, why, your wart’ll be goneJust as soon as it rots. Henry Blake says it’s true’Cuz a friend of his showed him a bean cut in twoThat took off a big wart, an’ th’ half was all blackAn’ Henry Blake says that it never came back.An’ Henry’s friend showedHim th’ cistern he throwedThe other half into an’ that’s how he knowed!

HIS curls are like rings of red gold on his head,His lips are as red as a cherry,His cheeks are as round as an apple, and red,His eyes full of mischief and merry.His heart is as pure as a snowflake in air,A fig for the whole of his troubles!For he’s my Boy Careless—you’ve seen him somewhere,And he lives in the land of Blow Bubbles!Now he’s riding a stick that is legless and dead,Through the lanes and across the sere stubbles,For a stick is a horse with four legs and a headIn that magic boy land of Blow Bubbles!He bears at his side a sword cut from a lath,With a big wooden gun on his shoulder,And woe to the wild beast that crosses his pathFor never a huntsman was bolder.Now down from his steed leaps Boy Careless in haste,He drops on one knee in the stubbles,For stubbles are woods full of wild beasts, all chasedTo their death by the boys in Blow Bubbles!His musket he brings to his shoulder and shoots,The sound of it echoes and doubles,For a make-believe gun kills the make-believe brutesIn that magic boy land of Blow Bubbles.Then out from the forest a savage all redWith blood-curdling yell leaps to battle,A thrust from the big wooden sword—he is deadWith a most melancholy death-rattle.Then up from the ground lifts Boy Careless his horse,And back o’er the all-trackless stubbles,For it’s many a mile to his cabin, of course,In the magic boy land of Blow Bubbles.Oh, joy to the lad in his make-believe rideWith the make-believe gun on his shoulder,With the make-believe sword cut from lath at his side,And a sigh from the heart that is older!A whistle for Care from the harp of his lips,A fig for the whole of his troubles,When he’s off like the wind on his make-believe tripsIn the magic boy land of Blow Bubbles!

Now he’s riding a stick that is legless and dead,Through the lanes and across the sere stubbles,For a stick is a horse with four legs and a headIn that magic boy land of Blow Bubbles!He bears at his side a sword cut from a lath,With a big wooden gun on his shoulder,And woe to the wild beast that crosses his pathFor never a huntsman was bolder.

Now down from his steed leaps Boy Careless in haste,He drops on one knee in the stubbles,For stubbles are woods full of wild beasts, all chasedTo their death by the boys in Blow Bubbles!His musket he brings to his shoulder and shoots,The sound of it echoes and doubles,For a make-believe gun kills the make-believe brutesIn that magic boy land of Blow Bubbles.

Then out from the forest a savage all redWith blood-curdling yell leaps to battle,A thrust from the big wooden sword—he is deadWith a most melancholy death-rattle.Then up from the ground lifts Boy Careless his horse,And back o’er the all-trackless stubbles,For it’s many a mile to his cabin, of course,In the magic boy land of Blow Bubbles.

Oh, joy to the lad in his make-believe rideWith the make-believe gun on his shoulder,With the make-believe sword cut from lath at his side,And a sigh from the heart that is older!A whistle for Care from the harp of his lips,A fig for the whole of his troubles,When he’s off like the wind on his make-believe tripsIn the magic boy land of Blow Bubbles!

THE Gingercake man was a lump of brown doughTill a great rolling pin was run over him, so!To flatten him out, and he lay there so thin,His bones almost popped through the holes in his skin;They sifted him over with flour and spice,And made him some eyes with two kernels of rice,And took some dried currants, the biggest and best,To make him some buttons for closing his vest.The Gingercake man wabbled this way and that,When they seeded a raisin and made him a hatThat was stuck on his head in the jauntiest way,For a Gingercake man is not made every day.They stuck in some cloves for his ears; yes, indeed!And made him some teeth out of caraway seed,And when he was finished they buttered a pan—The biggest they had—for the Gingercake man.Then into the oven they put him to bakeUntil he was hard and could stand and not breakHis legs when he stood; and they set him to coolUntil all the children should come home from school.And oh, the delight and the wonder and glee,When mother invited the children to see,

The Gingercake man wabbled this way and that,When they seeded a raisin and made him a hatThat was stuck on his head in the jauntiest way,For a Gingercake man is not made every day.They stuck in some cloves for his ears; yes, indeed!And made him some teeth out of caraway seed,And when he was finished they buttered a pan—The biggest they had—for the Gingercake man.

Then into the oven they put him to bakeUntil he was hard and could stand and not breakHis legs when he stood; and they set him to coolUntil all the children should come home from school.And oh, the delight and the wonder and glee,When mother invited the children to see,

THE GINGERCAKE MAN

ALL sifted with sugar and out of the pan,The good-natured face of the Gingercake man.But alas and alas! ’Tis a short life and sweetIs the Gingercake man’s—for they ate off his feet,They broke off his arms with the hungriest zest,And picked all the buttons from out of his vest;They nibbled his legs off and ate up his hat,And everything edible went just like that,Till the cloves and the kernels of rice you may scanAs all that is left of the Gingercake man!

ALL sifted with sugar and out of the pan,The good-natured face of the Gingercake man.

But alas and alas! ’Tis a short life and sweetIs the Gingercake man’s—for they ate off his feet,They broke off his arms with the hungriest zest,And picked all the buttons from out of his vest;They nibbled his legs off and ate up his hat,And everything edible went just like that,Till the cloves and the kernels of rice you may scanAs all that is left of the Gingercake man!

SAY, little boy, be friends with me and I’ll be friends with you;And I won’t never tell on you, no matter what you do.It’s awful lonesome over here and, goodness, but it’s hardTo have your mother say that you must play in your back yard.There’s lots of daisies where I am, and butterflies as brightAs anything you ever saw, and I just saw one light;Perhaps you’d catch it in your cap if I would help you to—Come over and be friends with me and I’ll be friends with you.I’m all the children we have got—I’m lonesome as can be,I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to come and play with me.I don’t care if your face ain’t clean or if your clothes are torn,I didn’t have no clothes at all the time that I was born.We got ripe apples on our trees and I will boost you soThat you can get some if you come, and when it’s time to goWe’ll fill your cap and pockets full to take home. Don’t you seeI’m willing to be friends with you if you’ll be friends with me?I’ve got a lot of wooden toys, as fine as they can be,But I want something that’s alive to run around with me,And play wild Indians and bears, and if you’ll come and playPerhaps my Mamma ’ll let me come and play with you some day.We’ve got some dandy hollow trees, the finest anywheres,And one of us can hide in them when we are playing bears,And growl just like he’s awful cross, and all the time you knowIt’s only make-believe, of course, but then it scares you so.I wish you’d come and play with me. I’ve got a jumping-jackI’ll give you for your very own to keep when you go back,And you can ride my v’locipede most all the afternoonAnd blow some bubbles with my pipe and play with my balloon.I’ve got an awful lot of toys and I will let you playThat they are yours as much as mine for all the time you stay,I’m all the boys my folks have got. I’m lonesome as can be,Come on, and I’ll be friends with you if you’ll be friends with me.

I’m all the children we have got—I’m lonesome as can be,I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to come and play with me.I don’t care if your face ain’t clean or if your clothes are torn,I didn’t have no clothes at all the time that I was born.We got ripe apples on our trees and I will boost you soThat you can get some if you come, and when it’s time to goWe’ll fill your cap and pockets full to take home. Don’t you seeI’m willing to be friends with you if you’ll be friends with me?

I’ve got a lot of wooden toys, as fine as they can be,But I want something that’s alive to run around with me,And play wild Indians and bears, and if you’ll come and playPerhaps my Mamma ’ll let me come and play with you some day.We’ve got some dandy hollow trees, the finest anywheres,And one of us can hide in them when we are playing bears,And growl just like he’s awful cross, and all the time you knowIt’s only make-believe, of course, but then it scares you so.

I wish you’d come and play with me. I’ve got a jumping-jackI’ll give you for your very own to keep when you go back,And you can ride my v’locipede most all the afternoonAnd blow some bubbles with my pipe and play with my balloon.I’ve got an awful lot of toys and I will let you playThat they are yours as much as mine for all the time you stay,I’m all the boys my folks have got. I’m lonesome as can be,Come on, and I’ll be friends with you if you’ll be friends with me.

OUT in the Garden of Childhood gayRomp three glad youngsters with merry cries,Startling the birds with their boisterous play,Lightheart and Laughter and big Brighteyes.Ever you see them and hear them there,Morning or evening or blossomy noon,And oh, but the Garden of Youth is fair,And oh, but the years of it pass too soon!Over the Garden arch cloudless skies,(Ah, but the skies of all Youth are blue!)Lightheart and Laughter and big BrighteyesFind in each nook something rare and new.Cool is the shade of the coaxing trees,Bidding them hide from the sun at noon,And oh, but what glorious days are these,And oh, but the hours of them pass too soon!Rare is the Garden with fragrant flowers(Ah, but the flowers of Youth are fair!)Garlands they weave of the golden hours,Sweet with the song of the birds in air.Splashed all the earth with a rosy light,Light of the sun at its splendid noon,And oh, but the sunshine of Youth is bright,And oh, but the light of it dies too soon!Sweet to mine ears from the Garden gayEcho their calls and their merry cries,Startling the birds with their boisterous play,Lightheart and Laughter and big Brighteyes.Dips the red sun to its shadowed west,These are the years of mine afternoon,And oh, but the years of my youth were best,And oh, but the joy of them passed too soon!

Over the Garden arch cloudless skies,(Ah, but the skies of all Youth are blue!)Lightheart and Laughter and big BrighteyesFind in each nook something rare and new.Cool is the shade of the coaxing trees,Bidding them hide from the sun at noon,And oh, but what glorious days are these,And oh, but the hours of them pass too soon!

Rare is the Garden with fragrant flowers(Ah, but the flowers of Youth are fair!)Garlands they weave of the golden hours,Sweet with the song of the birds in air.Splashed all the earth with a rosy light,Light of the sun at its splendid noon,And oh, but the sunshine of Youth is bright,And oh, but the light of it dies too soon!

Sweet to mine ears from the Garden gayEcho their calls and their merry cries,Startling the birds with their boisterous play,Lightheart and Laughter and big Brighteyes.Dips the red sun to its shadowed west,These are the years of mine afternoon,And oh, but the years of my youth were best,And oh, but the joy of them passed too soon!

US boys ain’t scared o’ Pa so much,He only makes a noise,An’ says he never did see suchOnmanageable boys.But when Ma looks around I seeJust somethin’ long an’ flatAn’ always make a point to beSome better after that.Pa promises an’ promises,But never does a thing;But what Ma says she does she does,An’ when I go to bringHer slipper or her hair brush whenShe says she’ll dust my pants,I think I could be better thenIf I had one more chance.Pa always says nex’ time ’at heWill have a word to say,But Ma she is more apt to beA-doin’ right away;Pa turns around at us an’ glaresAs fierce as he can look,But when we’re out o’ sight, upstairs,He goes back to his book.Ma doesn’t glare as much as PaOr make as big a fuss,But what she says is law is law,And when she speaks to usShe’s lookin’ carelessly aroundF’r somethin’ long an’ flat,And when we notice it, we’re boundTo be good after that.So we ain’t scairt o’ Pa at all,Although he thinks we are;But when we hear Ma come an’ call,No difference how farWe are away we answer quick,An’ tell her where we’re at,When she stoops down and starts to pickUp somethin’ long an’ flat!

Pa promises an’ promises,But never does a thing;But what Ma says she does she does,An’ when I go to bringHer slipper or her hair brush whenShe says she’ll dust my pants,I think I could be better thenIf I had one more chance.

Pa always says nex’ time ’at heWill have a word to say,But Ma she is more apt to beA-doin’ right away;Pa turns around at us an’ glaresAs fierce as he can look,But when we’re out o’ sight, upstairs,He goes back to his book.

Ma doesn’t glare as much as PaOr make as big a fuss,But what she says is law is law,And when she speaks to usShe’s lookin’ carelessly aroundF’r somethin’ long an’ flat,And when we notice it, we’re boundTo be good after that.

So we ain’t scairt o’ Pa at all,Although he thinks we are;But when we hear Ma come an’ call,No difference how farWe are away we answer quick,An’ tell her where we’re at,When she stoops down and starts to pickUp somethin’ long an’ flat!

SHE isn’t worth a fortune and she hasn’t any stocks,Her wealth is all in little shoes and pinafores and frocks.In little rings of curling hair and big blue, laughing eyes,In leaves and grass and buds and flowers and bees and butterflies.But when she comes in tired from play and crawls upon my kneeShe’s worth a hundred millions to her mother and to me.She sits among her dolls and toys and doesn’t seem to careIf wealth is all in rosy cheeks and locks of curly hair.She toddles up to me and like an artful fairy clipsA coupon bearing love from off the sweetness of her lips.And when she puts her arms around my neck and goos in glee,She’s worth uncounted millions to her mother and to me.And when she’s in her crib at night and daintily tucked in,The wealth of Croesus couldn’t buy the dimple in her chin,And as she blinks her roguish eyes to play at peek-a-boo,She chuckles me a fortune with each archly spoken goo.And though she has no fortune, I am sure you will agree,She’s a fortune, more than money, to her mother and to me.

She sits among her dolls and toys and doesn’t seem to careIf wealth is all in rosy cheeks and locks of curly hair.She toddles up to me and like an artful fairy clipsA coupon bearing love from off the sweetness of her lips.And when she puts her arms around my neck and goos in glee,She’s worth uncounted millions to her mother and to me.

And when she’s in her crib at night and daintily tucked in,The wealth of Croesus couldn’t buy the dimple in her chin,And as she blinks her roguish eyes to play at peek-a-boo,She chuckles me a fortune with each archly spoken goo.And though she has no fortune, I am sure you will agree,She’s a fortune, more than money, to her mother and to me.

DEAR little, queer little man,With his hair all a tumble of curls,With a light in his eyesLike the blue of the skiesWhen the dawn’s rosy banner unfurls!Sweet little, fleet little man,Who fills all the house with his toys,Whose laugh has the truthOf the heart of his youth:A toast to the health of our boys!Dear little, queer little man,With a big, paper cap on his head,And a sword at his sideAs he gets up to rideOn his hobby-horse, gaudy and red!Play, little, gay little man;Fill all of the house with your noise,For, oh, it were illIf your laughter were still!A toast to the laughter of boys!Dear little, queer little man,With dreams of the future to be,When he shall grow tallAnd shall care for us all,His mother, his sister and me!Brave little, grave little man,With thoughts, like his youth, incomplete,But bearing the seedThat shall blossom and leadTo manhood all gracious and sweet.Dear little, queer little man,Whose heart is so boyish and pure,May the sweetness and truthThat are flowers of youthThrough all of your being endure!Play, little, gay little man;Fill all of the house with your noise,For, oh, what so sweetAs the pattering feetAnd the echoing laughter of boys?Dear little, queer little man,The light of the dawn’s rosy beamsBe evermore spreadOn your dear, curly head,And truth to your innocent dreams!Blest little, best little man,God keep you as pure as the truthThat lingers and liesIn the light of your eyes:Long life to the heart of your youth!

Dear little, queer little man,With a big, paper cap on his head,And a sword at his sideAs he gets up to rideOn his hobby-horse, gaudy and red!Play, little, gay little man;Fill all of the house with your noise,For, oh, it were illIf your laughter were still!A toast to the laughter of boys!

Dear little, queer little man,With dreams of the future to be,When he shall grow tallAnd shall care for us all,His mother, his sister and me!Brave little, grave little man,With thoughts, like his youth, incomplete,But bearing the seedThat shall blossom and leadTo manhood all gracious and sweet.

Dear little, queer little man,Whose heart is so boyish and pure,May the sweetness and truthThat are flowers of youthThrough all of your being endure!Play, little, gay little man;Fill all of the house with your noise,For, oh, what so sweetAs the pattering feetAnd the echoing laughter of boys?

Dear little, queer little man,The light of the dawn’s rosy beamsBe evermore spreadOn your dear, curly head,And truth to your innocent dreams!Blest little, best little man,God keep you as pure as the truthThat lingers and liesIn the light of your eyes:Long life to the heart of your youth!

OH, her frock is crisp and white,And her hair is curled up tightTo her roguish little head, just like an aureole of light.Not a heart but she could winWith the ribbon at her chinAnd her cheeks that have such very little merry dimples in.Ah, the laughter in her eyes,And the wonder and surpriseAs she toddles through the waving grass in search of butterflies;And the flowers nod and swayIn their love of her and sayBy their homage as she passes she’s a fairer flower than they.Ah, the sweetness and the graceIn her radiant little faceAs she scampers through the sunlight in her airy, fairy race;How the roguish laughter tripsFrom the gateway of her lipsLike the lilting of the robin through the leafy bough that slips.And the birds in branches highSeem to join her merry cry,And to chirp a fearless greeting as she gaily toddles by;And so light her footsteps fallThat the clover blossoms call:“See! She stepped on us in passing but we’re scarcely bruised at all!”

Ah, the laughter in her eyes,And the wonder and surpriseAs she toddles through the waving grass in search of butterflies;And the flowers nod and swayIn their love of her and sayBy their homage as she passes she’s a fairer flower than they.

Ah, the sweetness and the graceIn her radiant little faceAs she scampers through the sunlight in her airy, fairy race;How the roguish laughter tripsFrom the gateway of her lipsLike the lilting of the robin through the leafy bough that slips.

And the birds in branches highSeem to join her merry cry,And to chirp a fearless greeting as she gaily toddles by;And so light her footsteps fallThat the clover blossoms call:“See! She stepped on us in passing but we’re scarcely bruised at all!”

HE lives acrost the street from usAn’ ain’t as big as me;His mother takes in washin’ ’cuzThey’re poor as they can be;But every night he brings his slateAn’ ’en I do his sums,An’ help him get his lessons straight,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.His clo’es ain’tquiteas good as mine,But I don’t care for that;His mother makes his face ’ist shine,An’ Ilenthim a hat.An’ every mornin’, ’ist by rule,W’en nine o’clock it comes,He takes my hand an’ goes to school,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.Nobody better plague him, too,No matter if he’s small,’Cuz I’m his friend, for tried and true,An’ ’at’s th’ reason allTh’ boys don’t dare to plague him, ’cuzI ’ist wait till he comes,An’ he walks close to me, he does,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.He fell an’ hurt hi’self one dayTh’ summer before last,An’ ’at’s w’at makes him limp ’at wayAn’ don’t grow very fast.So w’en I get a piece of pie,Or maybe nuts or plums,I always give him some, ’cuz IGet lots—an’ we are chums.An’ w’en it’s nuttin’ time, we go,An’ I climb all th’ trees,’Cuz he can’t climb—he’s hurt, you know—But he gets all he seesCome droppin’ down, an’ my! he’s glad;An’ w’en th’ twilight comesHe says w’at a fine time he had,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.But my! his mother’s awful queer;’Cuz w’en we’re home again,She wipes her eye—a great, big tear—An’ says: “God bless you, Ben!Th’ Lord will bless you all your daysW’en th’ great Judgment comes.”But I say I don’t need no praise,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.

His clo’es ain’tquiteas good as mine,But I don’t care for that;His mother makes his face ’ist shine,An’ Ilenthim a hat.An’ every mornin’, ’ist by rule,W’en nine o’clock it comes,He takes my hand an’ goes to school,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.

Nobody better plague him, too,No matter if he’s small,’Cuz I’m his friend, for tried and true,An’ ’at’s th’ reason allTh’ boys don’t dare to plague him, ’cuzI ’ist wait till he comes,An’ he walks close to me, he does,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.

He fell an’ hurt hi’self one dayTh’ summer before last,An’ ’at’s w’at makes him limp ’at wayAn’ don’t grow very fast.So w’en I get a piece of pie,Or maybe nuts or plums,I always give him some, ’cuz IGet lots—an’ we are chums.

An’ w’en it’s nuttin’ time, we go,An’ I climb all th’ trees,’Cuz he can’t climb—he’s hurt, you know—But he gets all he seesCome droppin’ down, an’ my! he’s glad;An’ w’en th’ twilight comesHe says w’at a fine time he had,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.

But my! his mother’s awful queer;’Cuz w’en we’re home again,She wipes her eye—a great, big tear—An’ says: “God bless you, Ben!Th’ Lord will bless you all your daysW’en th’ great Judgment comes.”But I say I don’t need no praise,’Cuz him an’ me is chums.

LITTLE Boy Careless has strewn his blocksFrom end to end of the nursery;He has broken the top of the gaudy boxThat held sliced animals—My, Ah Me!His wooden soldiers are seamed and scarredFrom battle with him, and his jumping-jackIs lodged half-way from a blow too hard,Nor all of my coaxing will get him back.Little Boy Careless has split his drumAnd bent the tube of his screeching fifeTill all of its martial airs are dumb,And the doll that squeaked has lost her lifeFrom a mallet blow on her waxen head,And none of her sister dolls knows or caresHow the sawdust in her is strewn and spreadFrom the bedroom door to the hall downstairs.Little Boy Careless has gone awayAnd Big Boy Hopeful has come to me,The toys that were scattered here yesterdayAre stored up there in the nursery.The broken drum and the jumping-jack,The waxen doll in her crib alone,Nor Little Boy Careless will e’er come backTo scatter the toys by his years outgrown.And ah, but the heart of me aches and criesFor the Little Boy Careless to come and play,The light of the dawn in his big, brown eyes,With the toys that are gathered and laid away.The Big Boy Hopeful will come to pineFor the world out there and will yearn to go,But the Little Boy Careless was mine, all mine,And that is the reason I loved him so!

Little Boy Careless has split his drumAnd bent the tube of his screeching fifeTill all of its martial airs are dumb,And the doll that squeaked has lost her lifeFrom a mallet blow on her waxen head,And none of her sister dolls knows or caresHow the sawdust in her is strewn and spreadFrom the bedroom door to the hall downstairs.

Little Boy Careless has gone awayAnd Big Boy Hopeful has come to me,The toys that were scattered here yesterdayAre stored up there in the nursery.The broken drum and the jumping-jack,The waxen doll in her crib alone,Nor Little Boy Careless will e’er come backTo scatter the toys by his years outgrown.

And ah, but the heart of me aches and criesFor the Little Boy Careless to come and play,The light of the dawn in his big, brown eyes,With the toys that are gathered and laid away.The Big Boy Hopeful will come to pineFor the world out there and will yearn to go,But the Little Boy Careless was mine, all mine,And that is the reason I loved him so!

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