The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDream Blocks

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDream BlocksThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Dream BlocksAuthor: Aileen Cleveland HigginsIllustrator: Jessie Willcox SmithRelease date: January 29, 2013 [eBook #41945]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Emmy, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://archive.org/details/americana)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAM BLOCKS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Dream BlocksAuthor: Aileen Cleveland HigginsIllustrator: Jessie Willcox SmithRelease date: January 29, 2013 [eBook #41945]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Emmy, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://archive.org/details/americana)

Title: Dream Blocks

Author: Aileen Cleveland HigginsIllustrator: Jessie Willcox Smith

Author: Aileen Cleveland Higgins

Illustrator: Jessie Willcox Smith

Release date: January 29, 2013 [eBook #41945]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Emmy, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://archive.org/details/americana)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAM BLOCKS ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Dream Blocks, by Aileen Cleveland Higgins, Illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith

DREAM BLOCKSTitle page with boy sitting in windowDREAM BLOCKSAILEEN CLEVELAND HIGGINSPICTURES BYJESSIE WILLCOX SMITHDUFFIELD & COMPANYNEW YORKCONTENTSPageDream Blocks1Stupid You2Anagrams3Doorsteps4The Big Clock6The New Dress7A Questioning9A Test9A Quandary10Spring Music11A Compromise13A Rainy Day14An Appeal to Science15The Runaway17Playmates19The Echo21The Sick Rose22Afternoon23The Wild24Bud Music25Frills26Gone Somewhere27The Chosen Dream29Home30Dawn31The City Tree32A Prayer34Cap and Bells35Summer's Passing38When You Wait39Punishment40First Pity40Night41Hover-Time42Treasure Craft43The Moon Path45The Ring Charm45ILLUSTRATIONSFacing PageTitle PageiiDream Blocks1Stupid You2Doorsteps4The Big Clock6A Quandary10A Rainy Day14The Runaway18The Sick Rose22Frills26Home30A Prayer34Summer's Passing38Punishment40Treasure Craft44Child at doorCopyright 1908 byDuffield & CompanyEngravings by the Beck Engraving Co.———Presswork by S. H. Burbank & Co.PhiladelphiaDREAM BLOCKSChild in bunny suit reaching down to pat a bunnyback view of lamb with red bow around its neckboy on lawn building tower with blocks, castle in sky above his headCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.Boy lying on floor playing with building blocksDREAM-BLOCKSWITH dream-blocks I can buildA castle to the sky.No one can shake it down,Though he may try and try,Except myself, and then,I make another one,And shape it as I please.This castle-building funNobody takes away,And what I like the best—The dream-blocks change each day.STUPID YOUTHERE is a shining threadTo-day in my rose-bed—A magic net the fairies have outspreadTo catch the dewy sweet—and yet you saidIt was a cobweb there instead!Girl in rose gardenCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.ANAGRAMSTO-DAY when I played anagrams,I spelled a long word out—A word namedsorrow—then I triedTo change it all aboutTo make it spell another word.My mother said, "There is a wayTo make the sorrow-word spell peace."I've tried and tried, almost all day;I've turned the letters round and round,This way and that, to find out how,And yet I can not find the way,And supper time is coming now.DOORSTEPSI TAKE my broom and sweep my step,To make it smooth and brown;Then I sit down and wait with JepUntil the sun goes down.I think some day that I may seeA little brownie elfPeep out of there, and speak to me,When I am by myself.I like my roses at the side,Much better than the flower-rowAlong your path where people ride.I leave my roses just to grow.I like the place that's broken, too,With splintered edges all around,And grasses growing right up through,That smell so fresh like dew and ground.Your steps are nice, but then my ownSeem nicer somehow, just for me;Pine steps are more like home than stone,For once they lived and were a tree.Child sweeping stepsCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.THE BIG CLOCKOUR Big Clock goes so slow,When I am waiting on the stairs,With nice, clean clothes on, dressed to goOut with Aunt Beth to see the bearsAnd funny possums at the Zoo!But oh, at night how fastOur Big Clock goes! It's very rudeTo company, and when time's pastWhen I must always go to bed,The hands just fly in wicked glee.It strikes out long aheadAnd makes them all look round at me.Girl sitting on stairs with big clock behind herCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.THE NEW DRESSGirl in dressI HAVE a very pretty dress,It's made of pink and white,And there are ribbons on it, too,Which make it bright.And yet I think I like it lessThan this dear other one—The worn-out, patched-up blueI wear when I have fun.It clings to me as if it lovedTo have me wear it every day.The pink stands out so straight and stiffIt's in my way.How can I get to know it well,When it's soSunday-clean?Perhaps when it is old and stainedWith dust and grass, it will not seemSo strange and dignified as now.But then I thinkI nevercouldmake mud pies rightIf I had on my pink.A QUESTIONINGI WONDER, when I die,If some one there will see,And hold me close,And take good care of me,As when I came on earth to beA little child?A TESTSOME day when I've had lots to eat,Then I should like to beA ragged beggar child,A little while, to seeIf you—andyou—are kind.A QUANDARYWHEN they are tall and all grown up,I wonder where the children go?I wonder how one finds the place—My mother says she doesn't know.The little boy that's I, must goTo this strange meeting-place some day,When I outgrow my starchy kilts,And nursery things are put away.Must I go there quite by myself?How shall I find the proper door,That hides so close and shuts awayThe little children gone before?boy walking through doorwayCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.lambsSPRING MUSICI HEARD a violin one day—It sounded like the Spring;Like woolly lambs at play,Like baby birds that singIn snatches, when they're learning how.I know the one who playedCould see pink blossoms on a bough,Where children came beneath its shadeTo make white clover in a crown.Then while they laughed there in the grass,Soft petals fluttered down;They hushed and saw some angels pass,With friendly eyes that smile—The kind that I have often seenWhen mother sings awhile,Just as I go to sleep and dream.I held my breath and then there roseThe last sweet note so high.I felt as when the sunshine goes—I could not help but cry.A COMPROMISEWHEN I have done a Something Wrong,I feel ashamed to kneel and pray.But then the dark-time lasts so long,And God seems—oh, so far away!—That when the lights are out awhile,I clamber out of bed once moreAnd pour my pennies in a pile.. . . I listen at the door,And then I get upon my knees,And whisper just for God to hear,To ask him, oh, just once more,please,Will he forgive and come back near,If I will make a promisequickTo give my pennies to the sick?A RAINY DAYWHEN I woke up and saw the rainIn blurs upon the window-pane,I said I hated such a day,Because I couldn't run and play,Out in the sunshine and the grass.It's queer how such a day can passSo soon, before you know it 'most,And while I eat my milk and toast,Before I go to bed, I thinkI've never had a day sopink.Without the sun to make the shine,This whole day long has been just mineAnd Mother's, in the fireplace glow.—Because it rained, it made it so.Girl being read to by her motherCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.Row of medicine bottles and boxesAN APPEAL TO SCIENCEI WISH the clever men who madeThe whirly things with patents on,The telephone and phonograph,The watch that tells how far you've gone,Would just invent some bottled sleepThat we could take at night,And then again when it grows light.It might keep little boys awakeWhen there is company.All I should have to do, would beTo pour a glass of sleep to take.The things I leave undone,Because I haven't time enough,The things I've only half begun—My castle-house, my doll-queen's ruff—I'd get quite finished in a day.I'd have some time left over, too.I'd have the chance to do new things.And first of all, I'd learn to playThe games the flowers frolic through,Each afternoon, and I'd find whoHas charge of yesterday.I think that made-to-order dreamsOf rainbow-folk and orange-creamsWould be much nicer than the kindWhich on dark nights I always find.THE RUNAWAYTHERE'S something that is calling me—Far off from Here—It calls for me to come and see,Away from Near.Sometimes it tinkles like a bell.Then echo songs above the blue,And sometimes silver whistles tellAbout a shining dream come true.This call sings low of wonder-worlds.It tells in runs and soft-blown trillsOf hidden places near that lineWhere distance smooths the little hills.The call is begging me to come.It makes me dance and singAlong the meadow road,Far past the street's dust-ring.There's something waiting just for me,And I must go—must go,Away from houses here, to see,Where lights begin to glow.Child in bunny suit feeding a bunnyPLAYMATESTO-DAY I met a rabbit in the pathWho stopped and looked at me,While I was laughing at a frogHop sidewise from a bee.The little rabbit's eyes laughed too.He would have like to stay;And if my clothes had been like his,He might have come to play.I wish I had a rabbit dress,A furry one, from head to toe,Then I could go away with himFrom streets in line, all set just so.I think my clothes are stupid thingsTo rob me of my friends,But then, the kind of playmate clothesI want, nobody lends!THE ECHOI LAUGHED in woods down where a brookRan off with little leaps,An answer came from some fern-nook,And then another made me lookOff in the dark tree-deeps.I ran to all the nooks to seeIf I could find the oneWho heard me first, and answered me—Each place was still as it could be,As far as I could run.Nurse said, "There's no one to be caught.It's just the echo's glee."But then I know that it wasnot!The little wood-elves all forgot,And laughed out loud with me.THE SICK ROSETHIS rose I picked, began to die,And so, I've brought it back againTo where it used to live. I'll tryTo make it as it was—and then,I'll whisper to it how I care.Whycan'tit grow now any more,A rose with other roses there,Upon the rosebush by the door?Girl picking rosesCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.ButterfliesAFTERNOONJUST since the night, the wind has wonThe last pink bud to open bloom.The long path whitens in the sun;All grown folks hunt a darkened room.Cool sweet of morning time is goneFrom all the leaves and grass.Here in this place the shade falls on,I wait for butterflies to pass.THE WILDI LOVE the gold-brown flutter-birdYou caught for me;But from its song is gone a note I heardWhen it was free.And when I bring the lace-ferns homeI can not bringThe wood-charm too—the spell of that wee gnomeWhich makes birds sing.The trees you painted with your brushAre like the real,But that still harking of the soft leaf-hushYou could not steal.It is the spirit of the wold—the sameThat's part of me,—The gipsy wild of me without a name,Unhoused and free.BUD MUSICI KNOW when little buds come out,And spread their colors all about,They make soft music—Yet it's trueMost people never hear. Do you?There is the faintest, tinkly sound.Birds fly to listen all around,Then all the leaves stand just as still,And sunshine dances on the hill.FRILLSTHE dainty frills upon my frocksMake me all twinkly smiles inside.I want to take my sweets around,—A something in me says "Divide."I run to give my mother dearMy nicest, clean-face kiss.I feed the sparrows on the steps,And think what others miss.I put some water on my fern;To every one I want to sayNicevelvetthings. It is so queerThat we can dress our moods away!Girl wattering a fern in a potCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.GONE SOMEWHEREChild in striped dress standing at doorONE day a little boy,With a poor broken toy,And ragged clothes, went by.He looked as if he'd like to cry,To see my soldiers fine,In scarlet coats, so straight in line.Would he have liked to play with me,Here beneath my shady tree?I wonder, but I did not call him back again.I thought he'd come next day the same,And I would ask him in to play,And when he had to go awayGive him my nicest toys—The drum that makes the loudest noise,My whistle, and perhaps my sword,Or even my soldier hat with braids and cord.But though I watch here by the gateUntil it grows quite dark and late,I never hear his footsteps there,The little boy is gone somewhere.THE CHOSEN DREAMIF I could choose a dream to-night,I'd choose a splendid dreamAbout big soldiers in a fight,—So real that it would seemA truly one not in a book,With flags and banners waving highAnd horses with a prancing lookAnd powder smoke that filled the sky,And lots of swords to flash.Perhaps this dream would frighten me,More than a noisy game,If too much blood should splash,And any soldiers die.And yet I think I'd choose it just the sameAnd then wake up and cry.HOMEYOU think my home is up the streetIn that big house with lots of steps,All worn in places by our feet—With tracks that look like mine and Jep's.You think it's where I always eat,Where I can find my spoon and bowl,My napkin folded clean and neat,And milk, and sometimes jelly-roll.You think it's where I always sleep,Where I get in my puffy bed,And fall right in a comfy heap,Some nights before my prayers are said.But that's not home—just roof and walls,A place that anybody buys,With shiny floors and stairs and halls.—Myhome is in my mother's eyes.girl hugging her motherCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.DAWNTHERE are no sounds of feetOr wagons in the street,So still, so beautiful,With air so fresh and cool.I love the dawn to come—But oh, I know that someAre not so glad as I,—For they must wake to cry.THE CITY TREEA SOLEMN, dressed-up City Tree,As stiff and straight as it can be,All cut and trimmed and kept just so,Is trying very hard to growCorrectly, with its top so queer,In front of my big window here.It is not like my Country Tree,Good friend of every bird and bee,Who keep it merry companyAnd always sing and talk to me.My Country Tree laughs all day long.Its fresh leaves whisper in a songTheir secrets just for me to hear.Its branches lean so very nearThe ground, that grasses stretch and tryTo meet the boughs not swung too high.There is the place, the very bestIn all the world, to play and rest.The City Tree stands all aloneAbove the clean-swept pavement stone.No little children ever stayBeneath its trimmed-off shade to play—They aren't brave enough to dare,Because it is so proper there.There are no lady-birds about;No crickets frolic in and out.The City Tree is very proud,It hasn't even looked or bowed.We're not at all acquainted yet—It's just as if we'd never met.The days seem long—I wonder whenI'll see my country tree again?A PRAYERDEAR God, may InotdreamThe Dragon-dream to-night,—And please do not forgetTo make it lightOn time againFor me. Amen.child praying beside bedCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.three clownsCAP AND BELLSTHEY make me laugh and clap my handsWhen they run out in wide striped clothesOf white, with red and yellow bands,With pointed caps and pointed toes,—The "funny men" at circus shows.I wish I knew just how a clownCan make his mouth up in a smile,And wrinkle in a crinkly frownHis forehead all the while,In that queer circus style.Boy sitting on stoolOne day when I had cried and criedBecause I lost the picture bookWhich I had made, and mother triedTo comfort me, we went and tookA walk, to see how clown men look.I soon forgot my book, and thoughI loved it just the same,I couldn't cry and miss it so,And think about each picture's nameWhen all the clown men came.Clown playing fluteI think we ought to say our thanks,To each of them who makes and sellsSuch fun and jokes, such jigs and pranks,—How dull we'd be without the spellsThey make with cap and bells!SUMMER'S PASSINGMY mother says that Summer's gone away.It seems so queer I didn't see her go,Or know till now; she didn't say good-bye—And oh, I loved her so!Now that I know, I miss her all the time.To-day I found this piece torn from her gown.It fluttered softly down the path to me.Perhaps my nurse would call it thistledown,But grown folks often make such strange mistakes.Nobody knows such wonder-things as I.On fresh, dew mornings, when I used to play,Out where the friendly rose-hedge grows so high,The pinks and four-o'clocks would lean to meAnd tell me secrets of my Summer dear.It's lonesome now, and sad as it can be,Since Summer is no longer here.The Dark comes down so soon, and it is cold.I wait and watch the sunset track,But Mother says I'll be a year more oldBefore my Summer will come back.Girl standing in fall leavesCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.WHEN YOU WAITDO you know that when you waitTo tell the truth, and fear—Until it growsalmosttoo late—God leans to hear?PUNISHMENTSOME days my doll-child is so bad,I have to whip her very hard.I put her in the corner there,And take away her picture-card.She's put to bed without a kiss.She doesn't have her way one bit,But then,Iam the one it hurts,And so what is the use of it?Grumpy child sitting in chair with dolly in corner behind herCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.FIRST PITYI 'VE found a bird that's hurt.It flutters so and cries,Then looks its pain at meWith such bright frightened eyes.Its feathers are so soft!How quiet it is now!I want to make it well—I wish my hands knew how!NIGHTI DO not like to say good-night,—I hate to shut my eyes,When fringe-beams of the stars and moonMake day-things play surprise.The night is such a wonder-world,I love it more than day.The Dark comes close and calls. That's whyMy prayers are hard to say.HOVER-TIMEIT is the hover-timeThat comes between the light and dark.The little squirrels climbInto their nests in trees and harkTo rustly leaves about.Far off, I hear new insect cries—From things which never dare call outIn daytime: they're afraid ofEyes.Out from the purply woodThe first bat circles on the fly.Far things draw on a hoodAnd shadows hide the place where skyAnd earth make dim their line.The trees change shape, and soon the grayBlurs into black; and that's the hourWhen dark comes down to stay.TREASURE CRAFTUPON the brook, for treasure-craft,I sail some petals, red and white;They always go away from me—They float much faster in their flight,Than I can run along the bank.My precious wee bit things bear freight;Which very soon falls overboard,And sinks where miser-folk awaitTo snatch my sparkling treasure-store.Perhaps the waters dash too highFor such a little fleet of ships,And that may be the reason whyMy crafts do not return again.Still, I expect them any day.I've lost some things I love the best,—My flower-chains and ribbons gay—But, though I miss these pretty things,I love much more the sailing-fun,And launch new ships when morning sings,And rainbow mist floats in the sun.Child plaing with boat in waterCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.THE MOON PATHIF I could walk along the pathThe moonlight makes upon the sea,I know that I should find the oneWho sings the Silver Song to me.THE RING CHARMI HAVE a little charmA gypsy gave to me,To keep me safe from harm,So ugly things can't seeWhen I am all alone.It keeps the 'Fraid all outWhen trees cry so, and moan,And throw their leaves about.It keeps away the Woops that creepAbout my bed when I'm asleep.And even by day my charm keeps anythingFrom hurting me, and that is whyI love my gypsy-ringMore than the ones I buy.The gypsy put it on for meAnd said some words so strangeI knew that they must beSome fairy charm to changeThe sad things into gay,And keep me safe and well.I wear it every day,For that's to keep the spell.Each morning when I wake,I kiss and turn my ringThree times for sake of luckThese wishes bring.ring bell on red ribbonBoy sitting on stoolEndpapers: Children playing

Title page with boy sitting in window

DREAM BLOCKSAILEEN CLEVELAND HIGGINSPICTURES BYJESSIE WILLCOX SMITHDUFFIELD & COMPANYNEW YORK

PageDream Blocks1Stupid You2Anagrams3Doorsteps4The Big Clock6The New Dress7A Questioning9A Test9A Quandary10Spring Music11A Compromise13A Rainy Day14An Appeal to Science15The Runaway17Playmates19The Echo21The Sick Rose22Afternoon23The Wild24Bud Music25Frills26Gone Somewhere27The Chosen Dream29Home30Dawn31The City Tree32A Prayer34Cap and Bells35Summer's Passing38When You Wait39Punishment40First Pity40Night41Hover-Time42Treasure Craft43The Moon Path45The Ring Charm45

Facing PageTitle PageiiDream Blocks1Stupid You2Doorsteps4The Big Clock6A Quandary10A Rainy Day14The Runaway18The Sick Rose22Frills26Home30A Prayer34Summer's Passing38Punishment40Treasure Craft44

Child at door

DREAM BLOCKS

Child in bunny suit reaching down to pat a bunny

back view of lamb with red bow around its neck

boy on lawn building tower with blocks, castle in sky above his headCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

Boy lying on floor playing with building blocks

WITH dream-blocks I can buildA castle to the sky.No one can shake it down,Though he may try and try,Except myself, and then,I make another one,And shape it as I please.This castle-building funNobody takes away,And what I like the best—The dream-blocks change each day.

THERE is a shining threadTo-day in my rose-bed—A magic net the fairies have outspreadTo catch the dewy sweet—and yet you saidIt was a cobweb there instead!

Girl in rose gardenCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

TO-DAY when I played anagrams,I spelled a long word out—A word namedsorrow—then I triedTo change it all aboutTo make it spell another word.My mother said, "There is a wayTo make the sorrow-word spell peace."I've tried and tried, almost all day;I've turned the letters round and round,This way and that, to find out how,And yet I can not find the way,And supper time is coming now.

I TAKE my broom and sweep my step,To make it smooth and brown;Then I sit down and wait with JepUntil the sun goes down.I think some day that I may seeA little brownie elfPeep out of there, and speak to me,When I am by myself.I like my roses at the side,Much better than the flower-rowAlong your path where people ride.I leave my roses just to grow.I like the place that's broken, too,With splintered edges all around,And grasses growing right up through,That smell so fresh like dew and ground.Your steps are nice, but then my ownSeem nicer somehow, just for me;Pine steps are more like home than stone,For once they lived and were a tree.

Child sweeping stepsCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

OUR Big Clock goes so slow,When I am waiting on the stairs,With nice, clean clothes on, dressed to goOut with Aunt Beth to see the bearsAnd funny possums at the Zoo!But oh, at night how fastOur Big Clock goes! It's very rudeTo company, and when time's pastWhen I must always go to bed,The hands just fly in wicked glee.It strikes out long aheadAnd makes them all look round at me.

Girl sitting on stairs with big clock behind herCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

Girl in dress

I HAVE a very pretty dress,It's made of pink and white,And there are ribbons on it, too,Which make it bright.And yet I think I like it lessThan this dear other one—The worn-out, patched-up blueI wear when I have fun.It clings to me as if it lovedTo have me wear it every day.The pink stands out so straight and stiffIt's in my way.How can I get to know it well,When it's soSunday-clean?Perhaps when it is old and stainedWith dust and grass, it will not seemSo strange and dignified as now.But then I thinkI nevercouldmake mud pies rightIf I had on my pink.

I WONDER, when I die,If some one there will see,And hold me close,And take good care of me,As when I came on earth to beA little child?

SOME day when I've had lots to eat,Then I should like to beA ragged beggar child,A little while, to seeIf you—andyou—are kind.

WHEN they are tall and all grown up,I wonder where the children go?I wonder how one finds the place—My mother says she doesn't know.The little boy that's I, must goTo this strange meeting-place some day,When I outgrow my starchy kilts,And nursery things are put away.Must I go there quite by myself?How shall I find the proper door,That hides so close and shuts awayThe little children gone before?

boy walking through doorwayCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

lambs

I HEARD a violin one day—It sounded like the Spring;Like woolly lambs at play,Like baby birds that singIn snatches, when they're learning how.I know the one who playedCould see pink blossoms on a bough,Where children came beneath its shadeTo make white clover in a crown.Then while they laughed there in the grass,Soft petals fluttered down;They hushed and saw some angels pass,With friendly eyes that smile—The kind that I have often seenWhen mother sings awhile,Just as I go to sleep and dream.I held my breath and then there roseThe last sweet note so high.I felt as when the sunshine goes—I could not help but cry.

WHEN I have done a Something Wrong,I feel ashamed to kneel and pray.But then the dark-time lasts so long,And God seems—oh, so far away!—That when the lights are out awhile,I clamber out of bed once moreAnd pour my pennies in a pile.. . . I listen at the door,And then I get upon my knees,And whisper just for God to hear,To ask him, oh, just once more,please,Will he forgive and come back near,If I will make a promisequickTo give my pennies to the sick?

WHEN I woke up and saw the rainIn blurs upon the window-pane,I said I hated such a day,Because I couldn't run and play,Out in the sunshine and the grass.It's queer how such a day can passSo soon, before you know it 'most,And while I eat my milk and toast,Before I go to bed, I thinkI've never had a day sopink.Without the sun to make the shine,This whole day long has been just mineAnd Mother's, in the fireplace glow.—Because it rained, it made it so.

Girl being read to by her motherCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

Row of medicine bottles and boxes

I WISH the clever men who madeThe whirly things with patents on,The telephone and phonograph,The watch that tells how far you've gone,Would just invent some bottled sleepThat we could take at night,And then again when it grows light.It might keep little boys awakeWhen there is company.All I should have to do, would beTo pour a glass of sleep to take.The things I leave undone,Because I haven't time enough,The things I've only half begun—My castle-house, my doll-queen's ruff—I'd get quite finished in a day.I'd have some time left over, too.I'd have the chance to do new things.And first of all, I'd learn to playThe games the flowers frolic through,Each afternoon, and I'd find whoHas charge of yesterday.I think that made-to-order dreamsOf rainbow-folk and orange-creamsWould be much nicer than the kindWhich on dark nights I always find.

THERE'S something that is calling me—Far off from Here—It calls for me to come and see,Away from Near.Sometimes it tinkles like a bell.Then echo songs above the blue,And sometimes silver whistles tellAbout a shining dream come true.This call sings low of wonder-worlds.It tells in runs and soft-blown trillsOf hidden places near that lineWhere distance smooths the little hills.The call is begging me to come.It makes me dance and singAlong the meadow road,Far past the street's dust-ring.There's something waiting just for me,And I must go—must go,Away from houses here, to see,Where lights begin to glow.

Child in bunny suit feeding a bunny

TO-DAY I met a rabbit in the pathWho stopped and looked at me,While I was laughing at a frogHop sidewise from a bee.The little rabbit's eyes laughed too.He would have like to stay;And if my clothes had been like his,He might have come to play.I wish I had a rabbit dress,A furry one, from head to toe,Then I could go away with himFrom streets in line, all set just so.I think my clothes are stupid thingsTo rob me of my friends,But then, the kind of playmate clothesI want, nobody lends!

I LAUGHED in woods down where a brookRan off with little leaps,An answer came from some fern-nook,And then another made me lookOff in the dark tree-deeps.I ran to all the nooks to seeIf I could find the oneWho heard me first, and answered me—Each place was still as it could be,As far as I could run.Nurse said, "There's no one to be caught.It's just the echo's glee."But then I know that it wasnot!The little wood-elves all forgot,And laughed out loud with me.

THIS rose I picked, began to die,And so, I've brought it back againTo where it used to live. I'll tryTo make it as it was—and then,I'll whisper to it how I care.Whycan'tit grow now any more,A rose with other roses there,Upon the rosebush by the door?

Girl picking rosesCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

Butterflies

JUST since the night, the wind has wonThe last pink bud to open bloom.The long path whitens in the sun;All grown folks hunt a darkened room.Cool sweet of morning time is goneFrom all the leaves and grass.Here in this place the shade falls on,I wait for butterflies to pass.

I LOVE the gold-brown flutter-birdYou caught for me;But from its song is gone a note I heardWhen it was free.And when I bring the lace-ferns homeI can not bringThe wood-charm too—the spell of that wee gnomeWhich makes birds sing.The trees you painted with your brushAre like the real,But that still harking of the soft leaf-hushYou could not steal.It is the spirit of the wold—the sameThat's part of me,—The gipsy wild of me without a name,Unhoused and free.

I KNOW when little buds come out,And spread their colors all about,They make soft music—Yet it's trueMost people never hear. Do you?There is the faintest, tinkly sound.Birds fly to listen all around,Then all the leaves stand just as still,And sunshine dances on the hill.

THE dainty frills upon my frocksMake me all twinkly smiles inside.I want to take my sweets around,—A something in me says "Divide."I run to give my mother dearMy nicest, clean-face kiss.I feed the sparrows on the steps,And think what others miss.I put some water on my fern;To every one I want to sayNicevelvetthings. It is so queerThat we can dress our moods away!

Girl wattering a fern in a potCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

Child in striped dress standing at door

ONE day a little boy,With a poor broken toy,And ragged clothes, went by.He looked as if he'd like to cry,To see my soldiers fine,In scarlet coats, so straight in line.Would he have liked to play with me,Here beneath my shady tree?I wonder, but I did not call him back again.I thought he'd come next day the same,And I would ask him in to play,And when he had to go awayGive him my nicest toys—The drum that makes the loudest noise,My whistle, and perhaps my sword,Or even my soldier hat with braids and cord.But though I watch here by the gateUntil it grows quite dark and late,I never hear his footsteps there,The little boy is gone somewhere.

IF I could choose a dream to-night,I'd choose a splendid dreamAbout big soldiers in a fight,—So real that it would seemA truly one not in a book,With flags and banners waving highAnd horses with a prancing lookAnd powder smoke that filled the sky,And lots of swords to flash.Perhaps this dream would frighten me,More than a noisy game,If too much blood should splash,And any soldiers die.And yet I think I'd choose it just the sameAnd then wake up and cry.

YOU think my home is up the streetIn that big house with lots of steps,All worn in places by our feet—With tracks that look like mine and Jep's.You think it's where I always eat,Where I can find my spoon and bowl,My napkin folded clean and neat,And milk, and sometimes jelly-roll.You think it's where I always sleep,Where I get in my puffy bed,And fall right in a comfy heap,Some nights before my prayers are said.But that's not home—just roof and walls,A place that anybody buys,With shiny floors and stairs and halls.—Myhome is in my mother's eyes.

girl hugging her motherCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

THERE are no sounds of feetOr wagons in the street,So still, so beautiful,With air so fresh and cool.I love the dawn to come—But oh, I know that someAre not so glad as I,—For they must wake to cry.

A SOLEMN, dressed-up City Tree,As stiff and straight as it can be,All cut and trimmed and kept just so,Is trying very hard to growCorrectly, with its top so queer,In front of my big window here.It is not like my Country Tree,Good friend of every bird and bee,Who keep it merry companyAnd always sing and talk to me.My Country Tree laughs all day long.Its fresh leaves whisper in a songTheir secrets just for me to hear.Its branches lean so very nearThe ground, that grasses stretch and tryTo meet the boughs not swung too high.There is the place, the very bestIn all the world, to play and rest.The City Tree stands all aloneAbove the clean-swept pavement stone.No little children ever stayBeneath its trimmed-off shade to play—They aren't brave enough to dare,Because it is so proper there.There are no lady-birds about;No crickets frolic in and out.The City Tree is very proud,It hasn't even looked or bowed.We're not at all acquainted yet—It's just as if we'd never met.The days seem long—I wonder whenI'll see my country tree again?

DEAR God, may InotdreamThe Dragon-dream to-night,—And please do not forgetTo make it lightOn time againFor me. Amen.

child praying beside bedCopyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

three clowns

THEY make me laugh and clap my handsWhen they run out in wide striped clothesOf white, with red and yellow bands,With pointed caps and pointed toes,—The "funny men" at circus shows.I wish I knew just how a clownCan make his mouth up in a smile,And wrinkle in a crinkly frownHis forehead all the while,In that queer circus style.

Boy sitting on stool

One day when I had cried and criedBecause I lost the picture bookWhich I had made, and mother triedTo comfort me, we went and tookA walk, to see how clown men look.I soon forgot my book, and thoughI loved it just the same,I couldn't cry and miss it so,And think about each picture's nameWhen all the clown men came.

Clown playing flute

I think we ought to say our thanks,To each of them who makes and sellsSuch fun and jokes, such jigs and pranks,—How dull we'd be without the spellsThey make with cap and bells!

MY mother says that Summer's gone away.It seems so queer I didn't see her go,Or know till now; she didn't say good-bye—And oh, I loved her so!Now that I know, I miss her all the time.To-day I found this piece torn from her gown.It fluttered softly down the path to me.Perhaps my nurse would call it thistledown,But grown folks often make such strange mistakes.Nobody knows such wonder-things as I.On fresh, dew mornings, when I used to play,Out where the friendly rose-hedge grows so high,The pinks and four-o'clocks would lean to meAnd tell me secrets of my Summer dear.It's lonesome now, and sad as it can be,Since Summer is no longer here.The Dark comes down so soon, and it is cold.I wait and watch the sunset track,But Mother says I'll be a year more oldBefore my Summer will come back.

Girl standing in fall leavesCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

DO you know that when you waitTo tell the truth, and fear—Until it growsalmosttoo late—God leans to hear?

SOME days my doll-child is so bad,I have to whip her very hard.I put her in the corner there,And take away her picture-card.She's put to bed without a kiss.She doesn't have her way one bit,But then,Iam the one it hurts,And so what is the use of it?

Grumpy child sitting in chair with dolly in corner behind herCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

I 'VE found a bird that's hurt.It flutters so and cries,Then looks its pain at meWith such bright frightened eyes.Its feathers are so soft!How quiet it is now!I want to make it well—I wish my hands knew how!

I DO not like to say good-night,—I hate to shut my eyes,When fringe-beams of the stars and moonMake day-things play surprise.The night is such a wonder-world,I love it more than day.The Dark comes close and calls. That's whyMy prayers are hard to say.

IT is the hover-timeThat comes between the light and dark.The little squirrels climbInto their nests in trees and harkTo rustly leaves about.Far off, I hear new insect cries—From things which never dare call outIn daytime: they're afraid ofEyes.Out from the purply woodThe first bat circles on the fly.Far things draw on a hoodAnd shadows hide the place where skyAnd earth make dim their line.The trees change shape, and soon the grayBlurs into black; and that's the hourWhen dark comes down to stay.

UPON the brook, for treasure-craft,I sail some petals, red and white;They always go away from me—They float much faster in their flight,Than I can run along the bank.My precious wee bit things bear freight;Which very soon falls overboard,And sinks where miser-folk awaitTo snatch my sparkling treasure-store.Perhaps the waters dash too highFor such a little fleet of ships,And that may be the reason whyMy crafts do not return again.Still, I expect them any day.I've lost some things I love the best,—My flower-chains and ribbons gay—But, though I miss these pretty things,I love much more the sailing-fun,And launch new ships when morning sings,And rainbow mist floats in the sun.

Child plaing with boat in waterCopyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

IF I could walk along the pathThe moonlight makes upon the sea,I know that I should find the oneWho sings the Silver Song to me.

I HAVE a little charmA gypsy gave to me,To keep me safe from harm,So ugly things can't seeWhen I am all alone.It keeps the 'Fraid all outWhen trees cry so, and moan,And throw their leaves about.It keeps away the Woops that creepAbout my bed when I'm asleep.And even by day my charm keeps anythingFrom hurting me, and that is whyI love my gypsy-ringMore than the ones I buy.The gypsy put it on for meAnd said some words so strangeI knew that they must beSome fairy charm to changeThe sad things into gay,And keep me safe and well.I wear it every day,For that's to keep the spell.Each morning when I wake,I kiss and turn my ringThree times for sake of luckThese wishes bring.

ring bell on red ribbon

Boy sitting on stool

Endpapers: Children playing

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