My Papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading forbooks;But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa,—I know by hislooks.So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk allthe day,And they only say, "Do stop that child!" or, "Nurse, take Miss Edithaway."But Papa said if I was good I could ask you—alone by myself—If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make THEM you've got tobe smartBut the reading that runs all around them, you know,—just theeasiest part.You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but me,And Jane,—that's my nurse,—and John,—he's the coachman,—justonly us three.You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold andall that;And then you're to write, if you please, something good—very good—of a cat!This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, andmild,And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such a badchild;And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress—that's me—was so bad,And blink, just as if she would say, "Oh, Edith! you make my heartsad."And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic catWas blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, she'dget at.And when John drank my milk,—don't you tell me! I know just theway it was done,—They said 'twas the cat,—and she sitting and washing her face inthe sun!And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left its cage open oneday,They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that the birdflew away.And why? Just because she was playing with a feather she found onthe floor.As if cats couldn't play with a feather without people thinking'twas more!Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down a vase fromthe shelf,That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it herself;And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came out untiltea,—So they say, for they sent ME to bed, and she never came even to me.No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of that cat.Why, once when I tore my apron,—she was wrapped in it, and I called"Rat!"—Why, they blamed that on HER. I shall never—no, not to my dyingday—Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped ME andtook me away.Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is as lovelyas that:She wasted quite slowly away; it was goodness was killing that cat.I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly nice;But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad coldfrom the ice.And you'll promise to make me a book like that little one up on theshelf,And you'll call her "Naomi," because it's a name that she just gaveherself;For she'd scratch at my door in the morning, and whenever I'd callout, "Who's there?"She would answer, "Naomi! Naomi!" like a Christian, I vow and declare.And you'll put me and her in a book. And mind, you're to say I wasbad;And I might have been badder than that but for the example I had.And you'll say that she was a Maltese, and—what's that you asked?"Is she dead?"Why, please, sir, THERE AIN'T ANY CAT! You're to make one up out ofyour head!
"Crying!" Of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying,too,If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, about YOU.Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you didn't carehow,And get your brains softened like uncle's. Dr. Jones says you'regettin' it now.Why don't you say "Stop!" to Miss Ilsey? She cries twice as much asI do,And she's older and cries just from meanness,—for a ribbon oranything new.Ma says it's her "sensitive nature." Oh my! No, I sha'n't stop mytalk!And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want to go take awalk!I know why you're mad! Yes, I do, now! You think that Miss Ilseylikes YOU,And I've heard her REPEATEDLY call you the bold-facest boy that sheknew;And she'd "like to know where you learnt manners." Oh yes! Kickthe table,—that's right!Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma that I looklike a fright!What stories? Pretend you don't know that they're saying I brokeoff the matchTwixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called him"Crosspatch,"When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was, sheCared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, Jack, yousaid that to me.And it's true! But it's ME, and I'm scolded, and Pa says if I keepon I mightBy and by get my name in the papers! Who cares? Why, 'twas onlylast nightI was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some lots, andit's plainIf it's awful to be in the papers, why, Papa would go and complain.You think it ain't true about Ilsey? Well, I guess I know girls,and I sayThere's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you, anyway!I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat after oneboyGoes and changes its name to another's. And she's done it—and Iwish you joy!
Oh, you're the girl lives on the corner? Come in—if you want to—come quick!There's no one but me in the house, and the cook—but she's only astick.Don't try the front way, but come over the fence—through thewindow—that's how.Don't mind the big dog—he won't bite you—just see him obey me!there, now!What's your name? Mary Ellen? How funny! Mine's Edith—it'snicer, you see;But yours does for you, for you're plainer, though maybe you'regooder than me;For Jack says I'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all folks, needn'ttalk,For I don't call the seamstress an angel till Ma says the poor thingmust "walk."Come in! It's quite dark in the parlor, for sister will keep theblinds down,For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she isn't asbrown;Though Jack says that isn't the reason she likes to sit here withJim Moore.Do you think that he meant that she kissed him? Would you—if yourlips wasn't sore?If you like, you can try our piano. 'Tain't ours. A man left ithereTo rent by the month, although Ma says he hasn't been paid for ayear.Sister plays—oh, such fine variations!—why, I once heard agentleman sayThat she didn't mind THAT for the music—in fact, it was just in herway!Ain't I funny? And yet it's the queerest of all that, whatever Isay,One half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest, they all lookt'other way.And some say, "That child!" Do they ever say that to such people asyou?Though maybe you're naturally silly, and that makes your eyes soaskew.Now stop—don't you dare to be crying! Just as sure as you live, ifyou do,I'll call in my big dog to bite you, and I'll make my Papa kill you,too!And then where'll you be? So play pretty. There's my doll, and anice piece of cake.You don't want it—you think it is poison! Then I'LL eat it, dear,just for your sake!
Our window's not much, though it fronts on the street;There's a fly in the pane that gets nothin' to eat;But it's curious how people think it's a treatFor ME to look out of the window!Why, when company comes, and they're all speaking low,With their chairs drawn together, then some one says, "Oh!Edith dear!—that's a good child—now run, love, and goAnd amuse yourself there at the window!"Or Bob—that's my brother—comes in with his chum,And they whisper and chuckle, the same words will come.And it's "Edith, look here! Oh, I say! what a rumLot of things you can see from that window!"And yet, as I told you, there's only that flyBuzzing round in the pane, and a bit of blue sky,And the girl in the opposite window, that ILook at when SHE looks from HER window.And yet, I've been thinking I'd so like to seeIf what goes on behind HER, goes on behind ME!And then, goodness gracious! what fun it would beFor us BOTH as we sit by our window!How we'd know when the parcels were hid in a drawer,Or things taken out that one never sees more;What people come in and go out of the door,That we never see from the window!And that night when the stranger came home with our JaneI might SEE what I HEARD then, that sounded so plain—Like when my wet fingers I rub on the pane(Which they won't let ME do on my window).And I'd know why papa shut the door with a slam,And said something funny that sounded like "jam,"And then "Edith—where are you?" I said, "Here I am.""Ah, that's right, dear, look out of the window!"They say when I'm grown up these things will appearMore plain than they do when I look at them here,But I think I see some things uncommonly clear,As I sit and look down from the window.What things? Oh, the things that I make up, you know,Out of stories I've read—and they all pass below.Ali Baba, the Forty Thieves, all in a row,Go by, as I look from my window.That's only at church time; other days there's no crowd.Don't laugh! See that big man who looked up and bowed?That's our butcher—I call him the Sultan MahoudWhen he nods to me here at the window!And THAT man—he's our neighbor—just gone for a rideHas three wives in the churchyard that lie side by side.So I call him "Bluebeard" in search of his bride,While I'm Sister Anne at the window.And what do I call you? Well, here's what I DO:When my sister expects you, she puts me here, too;But I wait till you enter, to see if it's you,And then—I just OPEN the window!"Dear child!" Yes, that's me! "Oh, you ask what that's for?Well, Papa says you're 'Poverty's self,' and what's more,I open the window, when YOU'RE at the door,To see Love fly out of the window!"
(AN IDYL OF THE BALUSTERS)
BOBBY, aetat. 3 1/2. JOHNNY, aetat. 4 1/2.
BOBBYDo you know why they've put us in that back room,Up in the attic, close against the sky,And made believe our nursery's a cloak-room?Do you know why?JOHNNYNo more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother,What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye,Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other!No more don't I!BOBBYDo you know why Nurse says it isn't mannersFor you and me to ask folks twice for pie,And no one hits that man with two bananas?Do you know why?JOHNNYNo more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress isOff of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die,When you and me gets croup when WE undresses!No more don't I!BOBBYPerhaps she ain't as good as you and I is,And God don't want her up there in the sky,And lets her live—to come in just when pie is—Perhaps that's why!JOHNNYDo you know why that man that's got a cropped headRubbed it just now as if he felt a fly?Could it be, Bobby, something that I dropped?And is that why?BOBBYGood boys behaves, and so they don't get scolded,Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by.JOHNNY (piously)Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones' bald head—But I sha'n't try!BOBBYDo you know why Aunt Jane is always snarlingAt you and me because we tells a lie,And she don't slap that man that called her darling?Do you know why?JOHNNYNo more I don't, nor why that man with MammaJust kissed her hand.BOBBYShe hurt it—and that's why;He made it well, the very way that MammaDoes do to I.JOHNNYI feel so sleepy.... Was that Papa kissed us?What made him sigh, and look up to the sky?BOBBYWe weren't downstairs, and he and God had missed us,And that was why!
THE LOST GALLEON. As the custom on which the central incident of this legend is based may not be familiar to all readers, I will repeat here that it is the habit of navigators to drop a day from their calendar in crossing westerly the 180th degree of longitude of Greenwich, adding a day in coming east; and that the idea of the lost galleon had an origin as prosaic as the log of the first China Mail Steamer from San Francisco. The explanation of the custom and its astronomical relations belongs rather to the usual text-books than to poetical narration. If any reader thinks I have overdrawn the credulous superstitions of the ancient navigators, I refer him to the veracious statements of Maldonado, De Fonte, the later voyages of La Perouse and Anson, and the charts of 1640. In the charts of that day Spanish navigators reckoned longitude E. 360 degrees from the meridian of the Isle of Ferro. For the sake of perspicuity before a modern audience, the more recent meridian of Madrid was substituted. The custom of dropping a day at some arbitrary point in crossing the Pacific westerly, I need not say, remains unaffected by any change of meridian. I know not if any galleon was ever really missing. For two hundred and fifty years an annual trip was made between Acapulco and Manila. It may be some satisfaction to the more severely practical of my readers to know that, according to the best statistics of insurance, the loss during that period would be exactly three vessels and six hundredths of a vessel, which would certainly justify me in this summary disposition of ONE.
THE PLIOCENE SKULL. This extraordinary fossil is in the possession of Prof. Josiah D. Whitney, of the State Geological Survey of California. The poem was based on the following paragraph from the daily press of 1868: "A human skull has been found in California, in the pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant not only of the earliest pioneer of this State, but the oldest known human being.... The skull was found in a shaft 150 feet deep, two miles from Angels in Calaveras County, by a miner named James Watson, who gave it to Mr. Scribner, a merchant, who gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent it to the State Geological Survey.... The published volume of the State Survey of the Geology of California states that man existed here contemporaneously with the mastodon, but this fossil proves that he was here before the mastodon was known to exist."