Bryant, William Cullen,Library of Poetry and Song.
Child, Francis J.,English and Scottish Popular Ballads. [Ed. by Sargent and Kittredge.]
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur,Oxford Book of English Verse.
Stedman, Edmund Clarence,An American Anthology.A Victorian Anthology.
Stevenson, Burton E.,The Home Book of Verse.
The finest single-volume general collection yet made. It runs to nearly 4,000 pages, but is printed on thin paper so that the volume is not unwieldy.
Stevenson, Burton E.,Poems of American History.
Chisholm, L.,The Golden Staircase.
Grahame, Kenneth,The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children.
Henley, William Ernest,Lyra Heroica.
Ingpen, Roger,One Thousand Poems for Children.
Lang, Andrew,The Blue Poetry Book.
Lucas, Edward Verrall,A Book of Verses for Children.Another Book of Verses for Children.
Olcott, Frances J.,Story Telling Ballads.Story Telling Poems for Children.
Palgrave, Francis T.,The Children's Treasury of Poetry and Song.
Repplier, Agnes,A Book of Famous Verse.
Smith, J. C.,A Book of Verse for Boys and Girls.
Stevenson, Burton E.,The Home Book of Verse for Young Folks.
Thacher, Lucy W.,The Listening Child.
Whittier, John Greenleaf,Child Life in Poetry.
Wiggin, K. D., and Smith, N. A.,The Posy Ring.Golden Numbers.
Blake, William,Songs of Innocence.
Cary, Alice and Phoebe,Poems for Children. [InComplete Works.]
Dodge, Mary Mapes,Rhymes and Jingles.
Field, Eugene,Songs of Childhood.
Greenaway, Kate,Marigold Garden.Under the Window.
Lamb, Charles and Mary,Poetry for Children.
Lear, Edward,Nonsense Songs.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth,Complete Poetical Works.
Richards, Laura E.,In My Nursery.
Riley, James Whitcomb,Rhymes of Childhood.
Sherman, Frank Dempster,Little-Folk Lyrics.
Stevenson, Robert Louis,A Child's Garden of Verses.
Rands, William Brighty,Lilliput Lyrics.
Rossetti, Christina G.,Sing-Song.Goblin Market.
Seegmiller, Wilhelmina,Little Rhymes for Little Readers.
Tabb, John B.,Poems.
Taylor, Ann and Jane,"Original Poems" and Others. [Ed. by E. V. Lucas.]
Watts, Isaac,Divine and Moral Songs.
Wells, Carolyn,The Jingle Book.
Many teachers have more difficulty in interesting their pupils in poetry than in any other form of literature. This difficulty may be due to any one of a number of causes. It may be due to a lack of poetic appreciation on the part of the teacher, leading to poor judgment in selecting and presenting poetry. It may be due to the feeling that there is something occult and mysterious about poetry that puts it outside the range of common interests, or to the idea that the technique of verse must in some way be emphasized. The first step in using poetry successfully with children is to brush away all these and other extraneous matters and to realize that poetry is in essence a simple and natural mode of expression, and that all attempts to explain how poetry does its work may be left for later stages of study. It is not necessary even for the teacher to be able to recognize and name all the varieties of rhythm to be able to present poetry enthusiastically and understandingly. Least of all is it necessary to have a prescribed list of the hundred "best poems." Some of the best poems for children would not belong in any such list.
The selections in this section cover a wide variety. They are not all equally great, but no teacher can fail to find here something suitable and interesting for any grade. The few suggestions which it is possible to make in this brief introduction may best, perhaps, and without any intention of being exhaustive, be thrown into the form of dogmatic statements:
1. If in doubt about what to use beyond the material in the following pages, depend upon some of the fine collections mentioned in the bibliography. Every teacher should have access to Stevenson'sHome Book of Verse for Young Folks, which contains many poems from recent writers as well as the older favorites. If possible, have the advantage of the fine taste and judgment of the collections made by Andrew Lang, Miss Repplier, E. V. Lucas, and as many of the others as are available.2. Remember that in poetry, more than elsewhere, one can present only what one is really interested in and, as a consequence, enthusiastic about. Even poems about whose fitness all judges agree should be omitted rather than run the risk of deadening them for children by a dead and formal handling.3. Mainly, poetry should be presented orally. The appeal is first to the ear just as in music. The teacher should read or, better, recite the poem in order to get the best results. There should be no effort at "elocution" in its worst sense, but a simple, sincere rendering of the language of the poem. The more informal the process is, the better. There should be much repetition of favorite poems, so that the rich details and pictures may sink into the mind.4. There should be great variety in choice that richness and breadth of impression may thus be gained. It is a mistake to confine the work in poetry entirely to lyrics or entirely to ballads. Wordsworth's "Daffodils" and Gilbert's "Yarnof the Nancy Bell" are far apart, but there is a place for each. Teachers should always be on the lookout for poetry old or new, in the magazines or elsewhere, which they can bring into the schoolroom. Such "finds" are often fresh with some timely suggestion and may prove just what is needed to start some hesitating pupil to reading poetry.5. The earliest poetry should be that in which the music is very prominent and the idea absent or not prominent. The perfection of the Mother Goose jingles for little folks is in their fulfillment of this principle. Use and encourage strongly emphasized rhythm in reading poetry, especially in the early work. Gradually the meaning in poetry takes on more prominence as the work proceeds.6. Children should be encouraged to commit much poetry to memory. They do this very easily after hearing it repeated a time or two. Such memorizing should not be done usually as a task. Children are, however, very obliging about liking what a teacher is enthusiastic about, and what they like they can hold in mind with surprising ease. The game of giving quotations that no one else in the class has given is always a delight. Don't be misled by the fun poked at the "memory gem method" of studying poetry. The error is not in memorizing complete poems and fine poetic passages, but in doing this in a mechanical fashion.7. It is a mistake to use too much poetry at one time. Children, as well as grown people, tire of it more quickly than they do of prose. The mind seems soon to reach the saturation point where it is unable to take in any more. Frequent returns to a poem rather than long periods of study give the best results.8. Encourage children to read poetry aloud. By example and suggestion help them keep their minds on the ideas, the pictures, the characters. Only by doing this can they really read so as to interpret a poem. No one can read with a lazy mind, or merely by imitation. Encourage them to croon or recite the lines when alone.9. It is not necessary that children should understand everything in a poem. If it is worth while they will get enough of its meaning to justify its use and they will gradually see more and more in it as time passes. In fact it is this constantly growing content of a poem that makes its possession in memory such a treasure. Neither should the presence of difficult words be allowed to rule out a poem that possesses some large element of accessible value. Many words are understood by the ear that are not recognized by sight.
1. If in doubt about what to use beyond the material in the following pages, depend upon some of the fine collections mentioned in the bibliography. Every teacher should have access to Stevenson'sHome Book of Verse for Young Folks, which contains many poems from recent writers as well as the older favorites. If possible, have the advantage of the fine taste and judgment of the collections made by Andrew Lang, Miss Repplier, E. V. Lucas, and as many of the others as are available.
2. Remember that in poetry, more than elsewhere, one can present only what one is really interested in and, as a consequence, enthusiastic about. Even poems about whose fitness all judges agree should be omitted rather than run the risk of deadening them for children by a dead and formal handling.
3. Mainly, poetry should be presented orally. The appeal is first to the ear just as in music. The teacher should read or, better, recite the poem in order to get the best results. There should be no effort at "elocution" in its worst sense, but a simple, sincere rendering of the language of the poem. The more informal the process is, the better. There should be much repetition of favorite poems, so that the rich details and pictures may sink into the mind.
4. There should be great variety in choice that richness and breadth of impression may thus be gained. It is a mistake to confine the work in poetry entirely to lyrics or entirely to ballads. Wordsworth's "Daffodils" and Gilbert's "Yarnof the Nancy Bell" are far apart, but there is a place for each. Teachers should always be on the lookout for poetry old or new, in the magazines or elsewhere, which they can bring into the schoolroom. Such "finds" are often fresh with some timely suggestion and may prove just what is needed to start some hesitating pupil to reading poetry.
5. The earliest poetry should be that in which the music is very prominent and the idea absent or not prominent. The perfection of the Mother Goose jingles for little folks is in their fulfillment of this principle. Use and encourage strongly emphasized rhythm in reading poetry, especially in the early work. Gradually the meaning in poetry takes on more prominence as the work proceeds.
6. Children should be encouraged to commit much poetry to memory. They do this very easily after hearing it repeated a time or two. Such memorizing should not be done usually as a task. Children are, however, very obliging about liking what a teacher is enthusiastic about, and what they like they can hold in mind with surprising ease. The game of giving quotations that no one else in the class has given is always a delight. Don't be misled by the fun poked at the "memory gem method" of studying poetry. The error is not in memorizing complete poems and fine poetic passages, but in doing this in a mechanical fashion.
7. It is a mistake to use too much poetry at one time. Children, as well as grown people, tire of it more quickly than they do of prose. The mind seems soon to reach the saturation point where it is unable to take in any more. Frequent returns to a poem rather than long periods of study give the best results.
8. Encourage children to read poetry aloud. By example and suggestion help them keep their minds on the ideas, the pictures, the characters. Only by doing this can they really read so as to interpret a poem. No one can read with a lazy mind, or merely by imitation. Encourage them to croon or recite the lines when alone.
9. It is not necessary that children should understand everything in a poem. If it is worth while they will get enough of its meaning to justify its use and they will gradually see more and more in it as time passes. In fact it is this constantly growing content of a poem that makes its possession in memory such a treasure. Neither should the presence of difficult words be allowed to rule out a poem that possesses some large element of accessible value. Many words are understood by the ear that are not recognized by sight.
Books such as Woodberry'sHeart of ManandAppreciation of Literatureare of especial value for getting the right attitude toward poetry. The most illuminating practical help would come from consulting the published lectures of Lafcadio Hearn, explaining poetry to Japanese students. His problem was not unlike that faced by the teacher of poetry in the grades. These lectures have been edited by John Erskine asInterpretations of Literature(2 vols.),Appreciations of Poetry, andLife and Literature. The whole philosophy of poetry is treated compactly in Professor Gayley's "The Principles of Poetry," which forms the introduction to Gayley and Young'sPrinciples and Progress of English Poetry.
Books such as Woodberry'sHeart of ManandAppreciation of Literatureare of especial value for getting the right attitude toward poetry. The most illuminating practical help would come from consulting the published lectures of Lafcadio Hearn, explaining poetry to Japanese students. His problem was not unlike that faced by the teacher of poetry in the grades. These lectures have been edited by John Erskine asInterpretations of Literature(2 vols.),Appreciations of Poetry, andLife and Literature. The whole philosophy of poetry is treated compactly in Professor Gayley's "The Principles of Poetry," which forms the introduction to Gayley and Young'sPrinciples and Progress of English Poetry.
Mrs. Follen (1787-1860) was a rather voluminous writer and adapter of juvenile material. Her verses are old-fashioned, simple, and child-like, and have pleased several generations of children. While they have no such air of distinction as belongs to Stevenson's poems for children, they are full of the fancies that children enjoy, and deserve their continued popularity.
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
Three little kittens lost their mittens;And they began to cry,"Oh, mother dear,We very much fearThat we have lost our mittens.""Lost your mittens!You naughty kittens!Then you shall have no pie!""Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.""No, you shall have no pie."The three little kittens found their mittens;And they began to cry,"Oh, mother dear,See here, see here!See, we have found our mittens!""Put on your mittens,You silly kittens,And you may have some pie.""Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,Oh, let us have the pie!Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r."The three little kittens put on their mittens,And soon ate up the pie;"Oh, mother dear,We greatly fearThat we have soiled our mittens!""Soiled your mittens!You naughty kittens!"Then they began to sigh,"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."Then they began to sigh,"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."The three little kittens washed their mittens,And hung them out to dry;"Oh, mother dear,Do not you hearThat we have washed our mittens?""Washed your mittens!Oh, you're good kittens!But I smell a rat close by;Hush, hush! Mee-ow, mee-ow.""We smell a rat close by,Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
O look at the moon!She is shining up there;O mother, she looksLike a lamp in the air.Last week she was smaller,And shaped like a bow;But now she's grown bigger,And round as an O.Pretty moon, pretty moon,How you shine on the door,And make it all brightOn my nursery floor!You shine on my playthings,And show me their place,And I love to look upAt your pretty bright face.And there is a starClose by you, and maybeThat small twinkling starIs your little baby.
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
"Stop, stop, pretty water!"Said Mary one day,To a frolicsome brookThat was running away."You run on so fast!I wish you would stay;My boat and my flowersYou will carry away."But I will run after:Mother says that I may;For I would know whereYou are running away."So Mary ran on;But I have heard say,That she never could findWhere the brook ran away.
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
Ding dong! ding dong!I'll sing you a song;'Tis about a little bird;He sat upon a tree,And he sang to me,And I never spoke a word.Ding dong! ding dong!I'll sing you a song;'Tis about a little mouse;He looked very cunning,As I saw him runningAbout my father's house.Ding dong! ding dong!I'll sing you a songAbout my little kitty;She's speckled all over,And I know you'll love her,For she is very pretty.
Mrs. Prentiss (1818-1878) was the author ofThe Susy Books, published from 1853 to 1856, forerunners of many series of such juvenile publications. The following poem has retained its hold on the affections of children.
ELIZABETH PRENTISS
Once there was a little kittyWhiter than snow;In a barn she used to frolic,Long time ago.In the barn a little mousieRan to and fro;For she heard the kitty coming,Long time ago.Two eyes had little kittyBlack as a sloe;And they spied the little mousie,Long time ago.Four paws had little kitty,Paws soft as dough;And they caught the little mousie,Long time ago.Nine teeth had little kitty,All in a row;And they bit the little mousie,Long time ago.When the teeth bit little mousie,Little mouse cried, "Oh!"But she got away from kitty,Long time ago.
Mrs. Hale (1788-1879), left a widow with five children to support, devoted herself to a literary career. She wrote fiction, edited theLadies' Magazineof Boston, afterward theLadies' Bookof Philadelphia, compiled a book of poetical quotations, andbiographies of celebrated women. Most of her work was ephemeral in character, and she lives for us in the one poem that follows. It is usually printed without the last stanza which is here restored. Younger children, as a rule, do not object to such moralizing.
SARA J. HALE
Mary had a little lamb,Its fleece was white as snow,And everywhere that Mary went,The lamb was sure to go.He followed her to school one day,That was against the rule;It made the children laugh and play,To see a lamb at school.And so the Teacher turned him out,But still he lingered near,And waited patiently about,Till Mary did appear:And then he ran to her, and laidHis head upon her arm,As if he said, "I'm not afraid,You'll save me from all harm.""What makes the lamb love Mary so?"The eager children cry—"Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"The Teacher did reply.And you each gentle animalIn confidence may bind,And make them follow at your will,If you are only kind.
Theodore Tilton (1835-1907) was a very brilliant New York orator, poet, and journalist. His poetry, published in a complete volume in 1897, contains some really distinguished verse. He is largely known to the new generation, however, by some stanzas from the following poem, which are usually found in readers and poetic compilations for children. The entire poem is given here. Does our "Swat the fly" campaign of recent years negate the kindly attitude emphasized in the poem?
THEODORE TILTON
Baby bye,Here's a fly;Let us watch him, you and I.How he crawlsUp the walls,Yet he never falls!I believe with six such legsYou and I could walk on eggs.There he goesOn his toes,Tickling baby's nose.Spots of redDot his head;Rainbows on his back are spread;That small speckIs his neck;See him nod and beck.I can show you, if you choose,Where to look to find his shoes,—Three small pairs,Made of hairs;These he always wears.Black and brownIs his gown;He can wear it upside down;It is lacedRound his waist;I admire his taste.Yet though tight his clothes are madeHe will lose them, I'm afraid,If to-nightHe gets sightOf the candle-light.In the sunWebs are spun;What if he gets into one?When it rainsHe complainsOn the window-panes.Tongue to talk have you and I;God has given the little flyNo such things,So he singsWith his buzzing wings.He can eatBread and meat;There's his mouth between his feet.On his backIs a packLike a pedler's sack.Does the baby understand?Then the fly shall kiss her hand;Put a crumbOn her thumb,Maybe he will come.Catch him? No,Let him go,Never hurt an insect so;But no doubtHe flies outJust to gad about.Now you see his wings of silkDrabbled in the baby's milk;Fie, oh fie,Foolish fly!How will he get dry?All wet fliesTwist their thighs,Thus they wipe their head and eyes;Cats, you know,Wash just so,Then their whiskers grow.Flies have hair too short to comb,So they fly bareheaded home;But the gnatWears a hat,Do you believe that?Flies can seeMore than we.So how bright their eyes must be!Little fly,Ope your eye;Spiders are near by.For a secret I can tell,—Spiders never use flies well.Then away!Do not stay.Little fly, good-day!
Prominent among American writers who have contributed to the happiness of children is Lucy Larcom (1826-1893). One of a numerous family, she worked as a child in the Lowell mills, later taught school in Illinois, was one of the editors ofOur Young Folks, and wrote a most fascinating autobiography calledA New England Girlhood. Several of her poems are still used in schools. The one that follows is, perhaps, the most popular of these. It is semi-dramatic, and the three voices of the poem can be easily discovered. Miss Larcom's finest poem is the one entitled "Hannah Binding Shoes."
LUCY LARCOM
There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,He's singing to me! He's singing to me!And what does he say, little girl, little boy?"Oh, the world's running over with joy!Don't you hear? Don't you see?Hush! Look! In my treeI'm as happy as happy can be!"And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy,Or the world will lose some of its joy!Now I'm glad! Now I'm free!And I always shall be,If you never bring sorrow to me."So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,To you and to me, to you and to me.And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,"Oh, the world's running over with joy!"But long it won't be,Don't you know? don't you see?Unless we are as good as can be.
Mrs. Child (1802-1880) was the editor of the first monthly for children in the United States, theJuvenile Miscellany. She wrote and compiled several works for children, and her optimistic outlook has led someone to speak of her as the "Apostle of Cheer." She wrote a novel,Hobomak(1821), which is still spoken of with respect, and she was a prominent figure in the anti-slavery agitation. The two poems following have held their own with children for reasons easily recognized.
LYDIA MARIA CHILD
Over the river and through the wood,To grandfather's house we go;The horse knows the wayTo carry the sleighThrough the white and drifted snow.Over the river and through the wood—Oh, how the wind does blow!It stings the toesAnd bites the nose,As over the ground we go.Over the river and through the wood,To have a first-rate play.Hear the bells ring,"Ting-a-ling-ding!"Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!Over the river and through the wood,Trot fast, my dapple-gray!Spring over the ground,Like a hunting-hound!For this is Thanksgiving Day.Over the river and through the wood,And straight through the barnyard gate.We seem to goExtremely slow,It is so hard to wait!Over the river and through the wood—Now grandmother's cap I spy!Hurrah for the fun!Is the pudding done?Hurrah for pumpkin-pie!
LYDIA MARIA CHILD
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do.I gave you a wisp of hay,But didn't take your nest away.Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do.""To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!Now what do you think?Who stole a nest awayFrom the plum-tree, to-day?""Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!I gave the hairs the nest to make,But the nest I did not take.Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!I'm not so mean, anyhow.""To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!Now what do you think?Who stole a nest awayFrom the plum-tree, to-day?""Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!Let me speak a word, too!Who stole that pretty nestFrom little yellow-breast?""Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no!I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.I gave wool the nest to line,But the nest was none of mine.Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no,I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.""To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!Now what do you think?Who stole a nest awayFrom the plum-tree, to-day?""Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!Let me speak a word, too!Who stole that pretty nestFrom little yellow-breast?""Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;"I should like to knowWhat thief took awayA bird's nest to-day?""Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen;"Don't ask me again,Why, I haven't a chickWould do such a trick.We all gave her a feather,And she wove them together.I'd scorn to intrudeOn her and her brood.Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,"Don't ask me again.""Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!All the birds make a stir!Let us find out his name,And all cry 'For shame!'""I would not rob a bird,"Said little Mary Green;"I think I never heardOf anything so mean.""It is very cruel, too,"Said little Alice Neal;"I wonder if he knewHow sad the bird would feel?"A little boy hung down his head,And went and hid behind the bed,For he stole that pretty nestFrom poor little yellow-breast;And he felt so full of shame,He didn't like to tell his name.
"Susan Coolidge" was the pseudonym used by Sarah C. Woolsey (1845-1905). She wrote numerous tales and verses for young people, and her series ofKaty Bookswas widely known and enjoyed. The poem that follows is a very familiar one, and its treatment of its theme may be compared with that in Henry Ward Beecher's little prose apologue (No.249).
"SUSAN COOLIDGE"
I'll tell you how the leaves came down:The great Tree to his children said,"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,Yes, very sleepy, little Red;It is quite time to go to bed.""Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,"Let us a little longer stay;Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!'Tis such a very pleasant day,We do not want to go away."So, just for one more merry dayTo the great Tree the leaflets clung,Frolicked and danced and had their wayUpon the autumn breezes swung,Whispering all their sports among,"Perhaps the great Tree will forgetAnd let us stay until the spring,If we all beg and coax and fret."But the great Tree did no such thing;He smiled to hear their whispering."Come, children all, to bed," he cried;And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,He shook his head, and far and wide,Fluttering and rustling everywhere,Down sped the leaflets through the air.I saw them; on the ground they lay,Golden and red, a huddled swarm,Waiting till one from far away,White bedclothes heaped up on her arm,Should come to wrap them safe and warm.The great bare Tree looked down and smiled."Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;And from below each sleepy childReplied, "Good-night," and murmurèd,"It issonice to go to bed."
The poems for young readers produced by the sisters Alice Cary (1820-1871) and Phoebe Cary (1824-1871) constitute the most successful body of juvenile verse yet produced in this country. One of Alice Cary's poems, "An Order for a Picture," is of a very distinguished quality, but as its appeal is largely to mature readers, two of Phoebe Cary's poems of simpler quality are chosen for use here. The first of these marks, by means of three illustrations within the range of children's observation, a very common defect of child nature and is, by the force of these illustrations, a good lesson in practical ethics. The appeal of the second is to that inherent ideal of disinterested heroism which is so strong in children. The setting of the story amidst the ever-present threat of the sea affords a good chance for the teacher to do effective work in emphasizing the geographical background. This should be done, however, not as geography merely, but with the attention on the human elements involved.
PHOEBE CARY
Once a trap was baitedWith a piece of cheese;Which tickled so a little mouseIt almost made him sneeze;An old rat said, "There's danger,Be careful where you go!""Nonsense!" said the other,"I don't think you know!"So he walked in boldly—Nobody in sight;First he took a nibble,Then he took a bite;Close the trap togetherSnapped as quick as wink,Catching mousey fast there,'Cause he didn't think.Once a little turkey,Fond of her own way,Wouldn't ask the old onesWhere to go or stay;She said, "I'm not a baby,Here I am half-grown;Surely, I am big enoughTo run about alone!"Off she went, but somebodyHiding saw her pass;Soon like snow her feathersCovered all the grass.So she made a supperFor a sly young mink,'Cause she was so headstrongThat she wouldn't think.Once there was a robinLived outside the door,Who wanted to go insideAnd hop upon the floor."Ho, no," said the mother,"You must stay with me;Little birds are safestSitting in a tree.""I don't care," said Robin,And gave his tail a fling,"I don't think the old folksKnow quite everything."Down he flew, and Kitty seized him.Before he'd time to blink."Oh," he cried, "I'm sorry,But I didn't think."Now my little children,You who read this song,Don't you see what troubleComes of thinking wrong?And can't you take a warningFrom their dreadful fateWho began their thinkingWhen it was too late?Don't think there's always safetyWhere no danger shows,Don't suppose you know moreThan anybody knows;But when you're warned of ruin,Pause upon the brink,And don't go under headlong,'Cause you didn't think.
A Story of HollandPHOEBE CARY
The good dame looked from her cottageAt the close of the pleasant day,And cheerily called to her little sonOutside the door at play:"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,While there is light to see,To the hut of the blind old man who livesAcross the dike, for me;And take these cakes I made for him—They are hot and smoking yet;You have time enough to go and comeBefore the sun is set."Then the good-wife turned to her labor,Humming a simple song,And thought of her husband, working hardAt the sluices all day long;And set the turf a-blazing,And brought the coarse black bread;That he might find a fire at night,And find the table spread.And Peter left the brother,With whom all day he had played,And the sister who had watched their sportsIn the willow's tender shade;And told them they'd see him back beforeThey saw a star in sight,Though he wouldn't be afraid to goIn the very darkest night!For he was a brave, bright fellow,With eye and conscience clear;He could do whatever a boy might do,And he had not learned to fear.Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest,Nor brought a stork to harm,Though never a law in HollandHad stood to stay his arm!And now, with his face all glowing,And eyes as bright as the dayWith the thoughts of his pleasant errand,He trudged along the way;And soon his joyous prattleMade glad a lonesome place—Alas! if only the blind old manCould have seen that happy face!Yet he somehow caught the brightnessWhich his voice and presence lent;And he felt the sunshine come and goAs Peter came and went.And now, as the day was sinking,And the winds began to rise,The mother looked from her door again,Shading her anxious eyes;And saw the shadows deepenAnd birds to their homes come back,But never a sign of PeterAlong the level track.But she said: "He will come at morning,So I need not fret or grieve—Though it isn't like my boy at allTo stay without my leave."But where was the child delaying?On the homeward way was he,And across the dike while the sun was upAn hour above the sea.He was stopping now to gather flowers,Now listening to the sound,As the angry waters dashed themselvesAgainst their narrow bound."Ah! well for us," said Peter,"That the gates are good and strong,And my father tends them carefully,Or they would not hold you long!You're a wicked sea," said Peter;"I know why you fret and chafe;You would like to spoil our lands and homes;But our sluices keep you safe!"But hark! Through the noise of watersComes a low, clear, trickling sound;And the child's face pales with terror,And his blossoms drop to the ground.He is up the bank in a moment,And stealing through the sand,He sees a stream not yet so largeAs his slender, childish hand.'Tis a leak in the dike!He is but a boy,Unused to fearful scenes;But, young as he is, he has learned to knowThe dreadful thing that means.A leak in the dike!The stoutest heartGrows faint that cry to hear,And the bravest man in all the landTurns white with mortal fear.For he knows the smallest leak may growTo a flood in a single night;And he knows the strength of the cruel seaWhen loosed in its angry might.And the boy! He has seen the danger,And, shouting a wild alarm,He forces back the weight of the seaWith the strength of his single arm!He listens for the joyful soundOf a footstep passing nigh;And lays his ear to the ground, to catchThe answer to his cry.And he hears the rough winds blowing,And the waters rise and fall,But never an answer comes to him,Save the echo of his call.He sees no hope, no succor,His feeble voice is lost;Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,Though he perish at his post!So, faintly calling and cryingTill the sun is under the sea;Crying and moaning till the starsCome out for company;He thinks of his brother and sister,Asleep in their safe warm bed;He thinks of his father and mother,Of himself as dying—and dead;And of how, when the night is over,They must come and find him at last:But he never thinks he can leave the placeWhere duty holds him fast.The good dame in the cottageIs up and astir with the light,For the thought of her little PeterHas been with her all night.And now she watches the pathway,As yester eve she had done;But what does she see so strange and blackAgainst the rising sun?Her neighbors are bearing between themSomething straight to her door;Her child is coming home, but notAs he ever came before!"He is dead!" she cries; "my darling!"And the startled father hears,And comes and looks the way she looks,And fears the thing she fears:Till a glad shout from the bearersThrills the stricken man and wife—"Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,And God has saved his life!"So, there in the morning sunshineThey knelt about the boy;And every head was bared and bentIn tearful, reverent joy.'Tis many a year since then; but still,When the sea roars like a flood,Their boys are taught what a boy can doWho is brave and true and good.For every man in that countryTakes his son by the hand,And tells him of little Peter,Whose courage saved the land.They have many a valiant hero,Remembered through the years:But never one whose name so oftIs named with loving tears.And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,And told to the child on the knee,So long as the dikes of HollandDivide the land from the sea!