The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLullaby-Land: Songs of Childhood

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLullaby-Land: Songs of ChildhoodThis 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: Lullaby-Land: Songs of ChildhoodAuthor: Eugene FieldEditor: Kenneth GrahameIllustrator: Charles RobinsonRelease date: June 9, 2017 [eBook #54874]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS, for Emmy and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LULLABY-LAND: SONGS OF CHILDHOOD ***

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: Lullaby-Land: Songs of ChildhoodAuthor: Eugene FieldEditor: Kenneth GrahameIllustrator: Charles RobinsonRelease date: June 9, 2017 [eBook #54874]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS, for Emmy and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

Title: Lullaby-Land: Songs of Childhood

Author: Eugene FieldEditor: Kenneth GrahameIllustrator: Charles Robinson

Author: Eugene Field

Editor: Kenneth Grahame

Illustrator: Charles Robinson

Release date: June 9, 2017 [eBook #54874]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS, for Emmy and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LULLABY-LAND: SONGS OF CHILDHOOD ***

Contents.

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(etext transcriber's note)

Image unavailable: BOOKS ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES ROBINSON. LULLABY-LAND BY EUGENE FIELD A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES. BY R. L. STEVENSON. “Mr. Robinson’s drawings have an imaginative quality as rare as it is pleasurable to discover, a quality that children themselves are very quick to recognize, and that when set before them in appropriate, graphic form, is one of the most important of all aids to their intellectual development.”—Boston Beacon.

Image unavailable: LULLABY-LAND. Songs of Childhood. by EUGENE FIELD. Selected by KENNETH GRAHAME, and illustrated by CHARLES ROBINSON. 1904 NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS LONDON JOHN LANE

Image unavailable: Lullaby-land.

Image unavailable: LULLABY-LAND.

There is a sort of a garden—or rather an estate, of park and fallow and waste—nay, perhaps we may call it a kingdom, albeit a noman’s-land and an everyman’s land—which lies so close to the frontier of our work-a-day world that a step will take us therein. Indeed,some will have it that we are there all the time, that it is the real fourth dimension, and that at any moment—if we did but know the trick—we might find ourselves trotting along its pleasant alleys, without once quitting our arm-chair. Nonsense-Land is one of the names painted up on the board at the frontier-station; and there the custom-house officers are very strict. You may take as much tobacco as you please, any quantity of spirits, and fripperies of every sort, new and old; but all common-sense, all logic, all serious argument, must strictly be declared, and is promptly confiscated. Once safely across the border, it is with no surprise at all that you greet the Lead Soldier strutting somewhat stiffly to meet you, the Dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels following affably at his heel; on the banks of the streams little Johnny-head-in-air is perpetually being hauled out of the water; while the plaintive voice of the Gryphon is borne inland from the margin of the sea.

Most people, at one time or another, have travelled in this delectable country, if only in young and irresponsible days. Certain unfortunates, unequipped by nature for a voyagein such latitudes, have never visited it at all, and assuredly never will. A happy few never quit it entirely at any time. Domiciled in that pleasant atmosphere, they peep into the world of facts but fitfully, at moments; and decline to sacrifice their high privilege of citizenship at any summons to a low conformity.

Of this fortunate band was Eugene Field. He knew the country thoroughly, its highways and its byways alike. Its language was the one he was fondest of talking; and he always refused to emigrate and to settle down anywhere else. As soon as he set himself to narrate the goings-on there, those of us who had been tourists in bygone days, but had lost our return-tickets, pricked up our ears, and listened, and remembered, and knew. The Dinkey-Bird, we recollected at once, had been singing, the day we left, in the amfalula-tree; and there, of course, he must have been singing ever since, only we had forgotten the way to listen. Eugene Field gently reminded us, and the Dinkey-Bird was vocal once more, to be silent never again. Shut-Eye Train had been starting every night with the utmost punctuality; it waswe who had long ago lost our way to the booking-office (I really do not know the American for booking-office). Now we can hurry up the platform whenever we please, and hear the doors slam and the whistle toot as we sink back on those first-class cushions! And the Chocolate Cat,—why, of course the cats were all chocolate then! And how pleasantly brittle their tails were, and how swiftly, though culled and sucked each day, they sprouted afresh!

It is an engaging theory, that we are all of us just as well informed as the great philosophers, poets, wits, who are getting all the glory; only unfortunately our memories are not equally good—we forget, we forget so terribly! Those belauded gentlemen, termed by our fathers “makers”—creators, to wit—they are onlyremindersafter all: flappers, Gulliver would have called them. The parched peas in their gaily-painted bladders rattle with reminiscences as they flap us on the ears; and at once we recall what we are rightly abashed beyond measure to have for one instant forgotten. At any rate, it is only when the writer comes along who strikes a new clear note, who does athing both true and fresh, that we say to ourselves, not only “How I wish I had done that myself!”—but also “And Iwouldhave done it, too—if only I had remembered it in time!” Perhaps this is one of the tests of originality.

Of course I am touching upon but one side of Eugene Field the writer. An American of Americans, much of his verse was devoted to the celebration of what we may call the minor joys which go to make social happiness in the life he lived with so frank and rounded a completion—a celebration which appealed to his countrymen no less keenly, that the joys were of a sort which, perhaps from some false sense of what makes fitness in subject, had hitherto lacked their poet—on that side at least. This, of course, was the fault of the poets. And though I spoke just now of minor joys, there are really no such things as minor joys—or minor thrushes and blackbirds. Fortunately this other aspect does not need to be considered here. I say fortunately, because it is not given to a writer to know more than one Land—to know it intimately, that is to say, so as to dare to write about it. This is the Lawand the Prophets. Even that most native utterance, which sings of “the clink of the ice in the pitcher that the boy brings up the hall,” appeals to us but faintly, at second-hand. That pitcher does not clink in England.

In this spheral existence all straight lines, sufficiently prolonged, prove to be circles: and a line of thought is no exception. We are back at the point we started from—the consideration of Eugene Field as a citizen; of a sort of a cloud-country, to start with; and later, of a land more elemental. In either capacity we find the same note, of the joy of life. We find the same honest resolve, to accept the rules and to play out the game accordingly; the same conviction, that the game is in itself a good one, well worth the playing. And so, with no misgiving, he takes his America with just the same heartiness as his Nonsense-land.

The little boy who should by rights have been lost in the forest, by the white pebbles he had warily dropped found his way back safely to sunlight and to home; and to keep in touch with earth is at least to ensure progression intemperate and sweet-breathed atmosphere, as well as in a certain zone, and that no narrow one, of appreciation; the appreciation of our fellows, the world over; those who, whatever their hemisphere, daily find themselves pricked by a common sun, with the same stimulus for every cuticle, towards pleasures surprisingly similar.

KENNETH GRAHAME.

Image unavailable: POEMS FROM “LOVE SONGS OF CHILDHOOD.”

THE Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby streetComes stealing; comes creeping;The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet—She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,When she findeth you sleeping!

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum—“Rub-a-dub!” it goeth;There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,

Image unavailable: “THERE IS ONE LITTLE DREAM OF A BEAUTIFUL DRUM”—“THERE IS ONE LITTLE DREAMOF A BEAUTIFUL DRUM”—

“THERE IS ONE LITTLE DREAMOF A BEAUTIFUL DRUM”—

And lo! thick and fast the other dreams comeOf popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,And a trumpet that bloweth!And dollies peep out of those wee little dreamsWith laughter and singing;And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,

And lo! thick and fast the other dreams comeOf popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,And a trumpet that bloweth!

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreamsWith laughter and singing;And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,

And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,The fairies go winging!Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?They’ll come to you sleeping;So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,Comes stealing; comes creeping.

And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,The fairies go winging!

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?They’ll come to you sleeping;So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,Comes stealing; comes creeping.

WHEN our babe he goeth walking in his garden,Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;The posies they are good to him,And bow them as they should to him,As fareth he upon his kingly way;And birdlings of the wood to himMake music, gentle music, all the day,When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;The little stars are kind to him,The moon she hath a mind to himAnd layeth on his head a golden crown;And singeth then the wind to himA song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.

When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;The little stars are kind to him,The moon she hath a mind to himAnd layeth on his head a golden crown;And singeth then the wind to himA song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.

HAVE you ever heard the wind go “Yooooo”?’Tis a pitiful sound to hear!It seems to chill you through and throughWith a strange and speechless fear.’Tis the voice of the night that broods outsideWhen folks should be asleep,And many and many’s the time I’ve criedTo the darkness brooding far and wideOver the land and the deep:“Whom do you want, O lonely night,That you wail the long hours through?”And the night would say in its ghostly way:“Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!”My mother told me long ago(When I was a little tad)That when the night went wailing so,Somebody had been bad;And then, when I was snug in bed,Whither I had been sent,With the blankets pulled up round my head.I’d think of what my mother’d said,And wonder what boy she meant!And “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d askOf the wind that hoarsely blew,And the voice would say in its meaningful way:“Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!”

My mother told me long ago(When I was a little tad)That when the night went wailing so,Somebody had been bad;And then, when I was snug in bed,Whither I had been sent,With the blankets pulled up round my head.I’d think of what my mother’d said,And wonder what boy she meant!And “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d askOf the wind that hoarsely blew,And the voice would say in its meaningful way:“Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!”

That this was true I must allow—You’ll not believe it, though!Yes, though I’m quite a model now,I was not always so.And if you doubt what things I say,Suppose you make the test;Suppose, when you’ve been bad some dayAnd up to bed are sent awayFrom mother and the rest—Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?”And then you’ll hear what’s true;For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:“Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!”

IN an ocean, ’way out yonder(As all sapient people know),Is the land of Wonder-Wander,Whither children love to go;It’s their playing, romping, swinging,That give great joy to meWhile the Dinkey-Bird goes singingIn the amfalula tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries,And taffy’s thick as peas—Caramels you pick like berriesWhen, and where, and how you please;Big red sugar-plums are clingingTo the cliffs beside that seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.So when children shout and scamperAnd make merry all the day,When there’s naught to put a damperTo the ardor of their play;When I hear their laughter ringing,Then I’m sure as sure can beThat the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravurasAnd staccatos are so sweet—His roulades, appoggiaturas,And robustos so complete,That the youth of every nation—Be they near or far away—Have especial delectationIn that gladsome roundelay.Their eyes grow bright and brighter,Their lungs begin to crow,Their hearts get light and lighter,And their cheeks are all aglow;For an echo cometh bringingThe news to all and me,That the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.I’m sure you like to go thereTo see your feathered friend—And so many goodies grow thereYou would like to comprehend!Speed, little dreams, your wingingTo that land across the seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree!

So when children shout and scamperAnd make merry all the day,When there’s naught to put a damperTo the ardor of their play;When I hear their laughter ringing,Then I’m sure as sure can beThat the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravurasAnd staccatos are so sweet—His roulades, appoggiaturas,And robustos so complete,That the youth of every nation—Be they near or far away—Have especial delectationIn that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter,Their lungs begin to crow,Their hearts get light and lighter,And their cheeks are all aglow;For an echo cometh bringingThe news to all and me,That the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.

I’m sure you like to go thereTo see your feathered friend—And so many goodies grow thereYou would like to comprehend!Speed, little dreams, your wingingTo that land across the seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree!

SO, so, rock-a-by so!Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheekAnd here is a kiss for the treasure that liesIn the beautiful garden way up in the skiesWhich you seek.Now mind these three kisses wherever you go—So, so, rock-a-by so!There’s one little fumfay who lives there, I know,For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,I send him this kiss on your rosy-red cheek.And here is a kiss for the dream that shall riseWhen the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skiesWhich you seek.Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe—So, so, rock-a-by so!And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,Don’t forget mother who loveth you so!And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,

There’s one little fumfay who lives there, I know,For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,I send him this kiss on your rosy-red cheek.And here is a kiss for the dream that shall riseWhen the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skiesWhich you seek.Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe—So, so, rock-a-by so!

And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,Don’t forget mother who loveth you so!And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,

And here is her kiss for the dreamland that liesLike a babe on the breast of those far-away skiesWhich you seek—The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow—So, so, rock-a-by so!

THE gingham dog and the calico catSide by side on the table sat;’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)Nor one nor t’other had slept a wink!The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plateAppeared to know as sure as fateThere was going to be a terrible spat.(I wasn’t there; I simply stateWhat was told me by the Chinese plate!)The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”And the calico cat replied “mee-ow!”The air was littered, an hour or so,With bits of gingham and calico,While the old Dutch clock in the chimney placeUp with its hands before its face,For it always dreaded a family row!(Now mind: I’m only telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true!)The Chinese plate looked very blue,And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do?”But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that,Employing every tooth and clawIn the awfullest way you ever saw—And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!(Don’t fancy I exaggerate!I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”And the calico cat replied “mee-ow!”The air was littered, an hour or so,With bits of gingham and calico,While the old Dutch clock in the chimney placeUp with its hands before its face,For it always dreaded a family row!(Now mind: I’m only telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do?”But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that,Employing every tooth and clawIn the awfullest way you ever saw—And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!(Don’t fancy I exaggerate!I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning, where the two had sat,They found no trace of dog or cat;And some folks think unto this dayThat burglars stole that pair away!But the truth about the cat and pupIs this: they ate each other up!Now what do you really think of that!(The old Dutch clock it told me so,And that is how I came to know.)

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