I am here. And if this is what they call the world, I don’t think much of it. It’s a very flannelly world and smells of paregoric awfully. It’s a dreadful light world, too, and makes me blink, I tell you. And I don’t know what to do with my hands; I think I’ll dig my fists in my eyes. No, I won’t. I’ll scratch at the corner of my blanket and chew it up, and then I’ll holler; whatever happens, I’ll holler. And the more paregoric they give me, the louder I’ll yell. That old nurse puts the spoon in the corner of my mouth, sidewise like, and keeps tasting my milk herself all the while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and when I hollered she trotted me. That comes of being a two-days-oldbaby. Never mind; when I’m a man, I’ll pay her back good.There’s a pin sticking in me now, and if I say a word about it, I’ll be trotted or fed; and I would rather have catnip-tea. I heard folks say, “Hush! don’t wake up Emeline’s baby;” and I suppose that pretty, white-faced woman on the pillow is Emeline.No, I was mistaken; for a chap was in here just now and wanted to see Bob’s baby and looked at me and said I was a funny little toad, and looked just like Bob. He smelt of cigars. I wonder who else I belong to! Yes, there’s another one—that’s “Gamma.” “It was Gamma’s baby, so it was.” I declare, I don’t know who I belong to; but I’ll holler, and maybe I’ll find out. There comes snuffy with catnip tea. I’m going to sleep. I wonder why my hands won’t go where I want them to!
I am here. And if this is what they call the world, I don’t think much of it. It’s a very flannelly world and smells of paregoric awfully. It’s a dreadful light world, too, and makes me blink, I tell you. And I don’t know what to do with my hands; I think I’ll dig my fists in my eyes. No, I won’t. I’ll scratch at the corner of my blanket and chew it up, and then I’ll holler; whatever happens, I’ll holler. And the more paregoric they give me, the louder I’ll yell. That old nurse puts the spoon in the corner of my mouth, sidewise like, and keeps tasting my milk herself all the while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and when I hollered she trotted me. That comes of being a two-days-oldbaby. Never mind; when I’m a man, I’ll pay her back good.
There’s a pin sticking in me now, and if I say a word about it, I’ll be trotted or fed; and I would rather have catnip-tea. I heard folks say, “Hush! don’t wake up Emeline’s baby;” and I suppose that pretty, white-faced woman on the pillow is Emeline.
No, I was mistaken; for a chap was in here just now and wanted to see Bob’s baby and looked at me and said I was a funny little toad, and looked just like Bob. He smelt of cigars. I wonder who else I belong to! Yes, there’s another one—that’s “Gamma.” “It was Gamma’s baby, so it was.” I declare, I don’t know who I belong to; but I’ll holler, and maybe I’ll find out. There comes snuffy with catnip tea. I’m going to sleep. I wonder why my hands won’t go where I want them to!
I saw a man, with tottering steps,Come down a graveled walk, one day;The honored frost of many yearsUpon his scattered thin locks lay.With trembling hands he strove to raiseThe latch that held the little gate,When rosy lips looked up and smiled,—A silvery child-voice said, “Please wait.”A little girl oped wide the gate,And held it till he passed quite through,Then closed it, raising to his faceHer modest eyes of winsome blue.“May Heaven bless you, little one,”The old man said, with tear-wet eyes;“Such deeds of kindness to the oldWill be rewarded in the skies.”’Twas such a little thing to do—A moment’s time it took—no more;And then the dancing, graceful feetHad vanished through the school-room door.And yet I’m sure the angels smiled,And penned it down in words of gold;’Tis such a blessed thing to seeThe young so thoughtful of the old.
I saw a man, with tottering steps,Come down a graveled walk, one day;The honored frost of many yearsUpon his scattered thin locks lay.With trembling hands he strove to raiseThe latch that held the little gate,When rosy lips looked up and smiled,—A silvery child-voice said, “Please wait.”A little girl oped wide the gate,And held it till he passed quite through,Then closed it, raising to his faceHer modest eyes of winsome blue.“May Heaven bless you, little one,”The old man said, with tear-wet eyes;“Such deeds of kindness to the oldWill be rewarded in the skies.”’Twas such a little thing to do—A moment’s time it took—no more;And then the dancing, graceful feetHad vanished through the school-room door.And yet I’m sure the angels smiled,And penned it down in words of gold;’Tis such a blessed thing to seeThe young so thoughtful of the old.
I saw a man, with tottering steps,Come down a graveled walk, one day;The honored frost of many yearsUpon his scattered thin locks lay.With trembling hands he strove to raiseThe latch that held the little gate,When rosy lips looked up and smiled,—A silvery child-voice said, “Please wait.”
I saw a man, with tottering steps,
Come down a graveled walk, one day;
The honored frost of many years
Upon his scattered thin locks lay.
With trembling hands he strove to raise
The latch that held the little gate,
When rosy lips looked up and smiled,—
A silvery child-voice said, “Please wait.”
A little girl oped wide the gate,And held it till he passed quite through,Then closed it, raising to his faceHer modest eyes of winsome blue.“May Heaven bless you, little one,”The old man said, with tear-wet eyes;“Such deeds of kindness to the oldWill be rewarded in the skies.”
A little girl oped wide the gate,
And held it till he passed quite through,
Then closed it, raising to his face
Her modest eyes of winsome blue.
“May Heaven bless you, little one,”
The old man said, with tear-wet eyes;
“Such deeds of kindness to the old
Will be rewarded in the skies.”
’Twas such a little thing to do—A moment’s time it took—no more;And then the dancing, graceful feetHad vanished through the school-room door.And yet I’m sure the angels smiled,And penned it down in words of gold;’Tis such a blessed thing to seeThe young so thoughtful of the old.
’Twas such a little thing to do—
A moment’s time it took—no more;
And then the dancing, graceful feet
Had vanished through the school-room door.
And yet I’m sure the angels smiled,
And penned it down in words of gold;
’Tis such a blessed thing to see
The young so thoughtful of the old.
Lines written for Edward Everett, when a child.
Pray, how should I, a little lad,In speaking make a figure?You’re only joking, I’m afraid—Do wait till I am bigger.But, since you wish to hear my part,And urge me to begin it,I’ll strive for praise, with all my heart,Though small the hope to win it.I’ll tell a tale how Farmer JohnA little roan colt bred, sir,And every night and every mornHe watered and he fed, sir.Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John,“Aren’t you a silly dolt, sir,To spend such time and care uponA little useless colt, sir?”Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe,“I bring my little roan up,Not for the good he now can do,But will do when he’s grown up.”The moral you can well espy,To keep the tale from spoiling;The little colt, you think, is I—I know it by your smiling.And now, my friends, please to excuseMy lisping and my stammers;I, for this once, have done my best,And so—I’ll make my manners.Thaddeus Mason Harris.
Pray, how should I, a little lad,In speaking make a figure?You’re only joking, I’m afraid—Do wait till I am bigger.But, since you wish to hear my part,And urge me to begin it,I’ll strive for praise, with all my heart,Though small the hope to win it.I’ll tell a tale how Farmer JohnA little roan colt bred, sir,And every night and every mornHe watered and he fed, sir.Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John,“Aren’t you a silly dolt, sir,To spend such time and care uponA little useless colt, sir?”Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe,“I bring my little roan up,Not for the good he now can do,But will do when he’s grown up.”The moral you can well espy,To keep the tale from spoiling;The little colt, you think, is I—I know it by your smiling.And now, my friends, please to excuseMy lisping and my stammers;I, for this once, have done my best,And so—I’ll make my manners.Thaddeus Mason Harris.
Pray, how should I, a little lad,In speaking make a figure?You’re only joking, I’m afraid—Do wait till I am bigger.
Pray, how should I, a little lad,
In speaking make a figure?
You’re only joking, I’m afraid—
Do wait till I am bigger.
But, since you wish to hear my part,And urge me to begin it,I’ll strive for praise, with all my heart,Though small the hope to win it.
But, since you wish to hear my part,
And urge me to begin it,
I’ll strive for praise, with all my heart,
Though small the hope to win it.
I’ll tell a tale how Farmer JohnA little roan colt bred, sir,And every night and every mornHe watered and he fed, sir.
I’ll tell a tale how Farmer John
A little roan colt bred, sir,
And every night and every morn
He watered and he fed, sir.
Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John,“Aren’t you a silly dolt, sir,To spend such time and care uponA little useless colt, sir?”
Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John,
“Aren’t you a silly dolt, sir,
To spend such time and care upon
A little useless colt, sir?”
Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe,“I bring my little roan up,Not for the good he now can do,But will do when he’s grown up.”
Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe,
“I bring my little roan up,
Not for the good he now can do,
But will do when he’s grown up.”
The moral you can well espy,To keep the tale from spoiling;The little colt, you think, is I—I know it by your smiling.
The moral you can well espy,
To keep the tale from spoiling;
The little colt, you think, is I—
I know it by your smiling.
And now, my friends, please to excuseMy lisping and my stammers;I, for this once, have done my best,And so—I’ll make my manners.
And now, my friends, please to excuse
My lisping and my stammers;
I, for this once, have done my best,
And so—I’ll make my manners.
Thaddeus Mason Harris.
Thaddeus Mason Harris.
I knew him for a gentlemanBy signs that never fail;His coat was rough and rather worn,His cheeks were thin and pale—A lad who had his way to make,With little time for play;I knew him for a gentlemanBy certain signs to-day.He met his mother on the street;Off came his little cap.My door was shut; he waited thereUntil I heard his rap.He took the bundle from my hand,And when I dropped my pen,He sprang to pick it up for me—This gentleman of ten.He does not push and crowd along;His voice is gently pitched;He does not fling his books aboutAs if he were bewitched,He stands aside to let you pass;He always shuts the door;He runs on errands willinglyTo forge and mill and store.He thinks of you before himself,He serves you if he can;For, in whatever company,The manners make the man.At ten or forty, ’tis the same;The manner tells the tale,And I discern the gentlemanBy signs that never fail.Margaret E. Sangster.
I knew him for a gentlemanBy signs that never fail;His coat was rough and rather worn,His cheeks were thin and pale—A lad who had his way to make,With little time for play;I knew him for a gentlemanBy certain signs to-day.He met his mother on the street;Off came his little cap.My door was shut; he waited thereUntil I heard his rap.He took the bundle from my hand,And when I dropped my pen,He sprang to pick it up for me—This gentleman of ten.He does not push and crowd along;His voice is gently pitched;He does not fling his books aboutAs if he were bewitched,He stands aside to let you pass;He always shuts the door;He runs on errands willinglyTo forge and mill and store.He thinks of you before himself,He serves you if he can;For, in whatever company,The manners make the man.At ten or forty, ’tis the same;The manner tells the tale,And I discern the gentlemanBy signs that never fail.Margaret E. Sangster.
I knew him for a gentlemanBy signs that never fail;His coat was rough and rather worn,His cheeks were thin and pale—A lad who had his way to make,With little time for play;I knew him for a gentlemanBy certain signs to-day.
I knew him for a gentleman
By signs that never fail;
His coat was rough and rather worn,
His cheeks were thin and pale—
A lad who had his way to make,
With little time for play;
I knew him for a gentleman
By certain signs to-day.
He met his mother on the street;Off came his little cap.My door was shut; he waited thereUntil I heard his rap.He took the bundle from my hand,And when I dropped my pen,He sprang to pick it up for me—This gentleman of ten.
He met his mother on the street;
Off came his little cap.
My door was shut; he waited there
Until I heard his rap.
He took the bundle from my hand,
And when I dropped my pen,
He sprang to pick it up for me—
This gentleman of ten.
He does not push and crowd along;His voice is gently pitched;He does not fling his books aboutAs if he were bewitched,He stands aside to let you pass;He always shuts the door;He runs on errands willinglyTo forge and mill and store.
He does not push and crowd along;
His voice is gently pitched;
He does not fling his books about
As if he were bewitched,
He stands aside to let you pass;
He always shuts the door;
He runs on errands willingly
To forge and mill and store.
He thinks of you before himself,He serves you if he can;For, in whatever company,The manners make the man.At ten or forty, ’tis the same;The manner tells the tale,And I discern the gentlemanBy signs that never fail.
He thinks of you before himself,
He serves you if he can;
For, in whatever company,
The manners make the man.
At ten or forty, ’tis the same;
The manner tells the tale,
And I discern the gentleman
By signs that never fail.
Margaret E. Sangster.
Margaret E. Sangster.
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,And grandma said with a frown:“It never will do to keep them both,The black one we had better drown.”“Don’t cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess,“One kitten is enough to keep,Now run to nurse, for ’tis growing lateAnd time you were fast asleep.”The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet,Came little Bess from her nap,The nurse said, “Go in mamma’s room,And look in grandma’s lap.”“Come here,” said grandma, with a smile,From the rocking-chair, where she sat,“God has sent you two little sisters,What do you think of that?”Bess looked at the babies a moment,With their wee heads, yellow and brown,And then to grandma soberly said:“Which one are you going to drown?”L. M. Hadley.
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,And grandma said with a frown:“It never will do to keep them both,The black one we had better drown.”“Don’t cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess,“One kitten is enough to keep,Now run to nurse, for ’tis growing lateAnd time you were fast asleep.”The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet,Came little Bess from her nap,The nurse said, “Go in mamma’s room,And look in grandma’s lap.”“Come here,” said grandma, with a smile,From the rocking-chair, where she sat,“God has sent you two little sisters,What do you think of that?”Bess looked at the babies a moment,With their wee heads, yellow and brown,And then to grandma soberly said:“Which one are you going to drown?”L. M. Hadley.
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,And grandma said with a frown:“It never will do to keep them both,The black one we had better drown.”
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,
And grandma said with a frown:
“It never will do to keep them both,
The black one we had better drown.”
“Don’t cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess,“One kitten is enough to keep,Now run to nurse, for ’tis growing lateAnd time you were fast asleep.”
“Don’t cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess,
“One kitten is enough to keep,
Now run to nurse, for ’tis growing late
And time you were fast asleep.”
The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet,Came little Bess from her nap,The nurse said, “Go in mamma’s room,And look in grandma’s lap.”
The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet,
Came little Bess from her nap,
The nurse said, “Go in mamma’s room,
And look in grandma’s lap.”
“Come here,” said grandma, with a smile,From the rocking-chair, where she sat,“God has sent you two little sisters,What do you think of that?”
“Come here,” said grandma, with a smile,
From the rocking-chair, where she sat,
“God has sent you two little sisters,
What do you think of that?”
Bess looked at the babies a moment,With their wee heads, yellow and brown,And then to grandma soberly said:“Which one are you going to drown?”
Bess looked at the babies a moment,
With their wee heads, yellow and brown,
And then to grandma soberly said:
“Which one are you going to drown?”
L. M. Hadley.
L. M. Hadley.
There was a little chicken that was shut up in a shell,He thought to himself, “I’m sure I cannot tellWhat I am walled in here for—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in May,Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only proper way;“This yard is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a crack,The world stretched wide before him, and just as widely back;“This world is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.“I should like to have ideals, I should like to tread the stars,To get the unattainable, and free my soul from bars;I should like to leave this dark earth, and some other dwelling findMore fitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.“There’s a place where ducks and pleasure boats go sailing to and fro,There’s one world on the surface and another world below.”The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink inclined,They swallowed up the chicken with an enterprising mind.A. G. Waters.
There was a little chicken that was shut up in a shell,He thought to himself, “I’m sure I cannot tellWhat I am walled in here for—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in May,Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only proper way;“This yard is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a crack,The world stretched wide before him, and just as widely back;“This world is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.“I should like to have ideals, I should like to tread the stars,To get the unattainable, and free my soul from bars;I should like to leave this dark earth, and some other dwelling findMore fitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.“There’s a place where ducks and pleasure boats go sailing to and fro,There’s one world on the surface and another world below.”The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink inclined,They swallowed up the chicken with an enterprising mind.A. G. Waters.
There was a little chicken that was shut up in a shell,He thought to himself, “I’m sure I cannot tellWhat I am walled in here for—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”
There was a little chicken that was shut up in a shell,
He thought to himself, “I’m sure I cannot tell
What I am walled in here for—a shocking coop I find,
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”
He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in May,Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only proper way;“This yard is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”
He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in May,
Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only proper way;
“This yard is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.”
He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a crack,The world stretched wide before him, and just as widely back;“This world is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.
He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a crack,
The world stretched wide before him, and just as widely back;
“This world is much too narrow—a shocking coop I find,
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.
“I should like to have ideals, I should like to tread the stars,To get the unattainable, and free my soul from bars;I should like to leave this dark earth, and some other dwelling findMore fitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.
“I should like to have ideals, I should like to tread the stars,
To get the unattainable, and free my soul from bars;
I should like to leave this dark earth, and some other dwelling find
More fitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind.
“There’s a place where ducks and pleasure boats go sailing to and fro,There’s one world on the surface and another world below.”The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink inclined,They swallowed up the chicken with an enterprising mind.
“There’s a place where ducks and pleasure boats go sailing to and fro,
There’s one world on the surface and another world below.”
The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink inclined,
They swallowed up the chicken with an enterprising mind.
A. G. Waters.
A. G. Waters.
My name’s Jack. I’m eight years old. I’ve a sister Arathusa, and she calls me a little torment. I’ll tell you why: You know Arathusa has got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas ’way, ’way down ’till you can’t hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night.I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went to the door to let Alphonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa, and I couldn’t hear nothing but smack! smack! smack! Then I reached out and jerked Arathusa’s foot. Then she jumped and said, “Oh, mercy, what’s that?” and Alphonso said she was a “timid little creature.” “Oh, Alphonso, I’m happy by your side, but when I think of your going away it almost breaks my heart.”Then I snickered right out, I couldn’t help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the keyhole and said, “I do believe that’s Jack, nasty little torment, he’s always where he isn’t wanted.” Do you know this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa and stood up before her and said, “You think you are smart because you have got a beau. I guess I know what you’ve been doing; you’ve been sitting on Alphonso’s lap, and letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If it hadn’t been for that old false front of yours, Pa would have let me have a bicycle like Tom Clifford’s. You needn’t be grinding them false teeth of yours at me, I ain’t a-going out of here. I ain’t so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don’t care if you are 28 years old, you ain’t no boss of me!”
My name’s Jack. I’m eight years old. I’ve a sister Arathusa, and she calls me a little torment. I’ll tell you why: You know Arathusa has got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas ’way, ’way down ’till you can’t hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night.
I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went to the door to let Alphonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa, and I couldn’t hear nothing but smack! smack! smack! Then I reached out and jerked Arathusa’s foot. Then she jumped and said, “Oh, mercy, what’s that?” and Alphonso said she was a “timid little creature.” “Oh, Alphonso, I’m happy by your side, but when I think of your going away it almost breaks my heart.”
Then I snickered right out, I couldn’t help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the keyhole and said, “I do believe that’s Jack, nasty little torment, he’s always where he isn’t wanted.” Do you know this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa and stood up before her and said, “You think you are smart because you have got a beau. I guess I know what you’ve been doing; you’ve been sitting on Alphonso’s lap, and letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If it hadn’t been for that old false front of yours, Pa would have let me have a bicycle like Tom Clifford’s. You needn’t be grinding them false teeth of yours at me, I ain’t a-going out of here. I ain’t so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don’t care if you are 28 years old, you ain’t no boss of me!”
A Boston master said, one day,“Boys, tell me, if you can, I pray,Why Washington’s birthday should shineIn to-day’s history, more than mine?”At once such stillness in the hallYou might have heard a feather fall;Exclaims a boy not three feet high,“Becausehenever told a lie!”
A Boston master said, one day,“Boys, tell me, if you can, I pray,Why Washington’s birthday should shineIn to-day’s history, more than mine?”At once such stillness in the hallYou might have heard a feather fall;Exclaims a boy not three feet high,“Becausehenever told a lie!”
A Boston master said, one day,“Boys, tell me, if you can, I pray,Why Washington’s birthday should shineIn to-day’s history, more than mine?”
A Boston master said, one day,
“Boys, tell me, if you can, I pray,
Why Washington’s birthday should shine
In to-day’s history, more than mine?”
At once such stillness in the hallYou might have heard a feather fall;Exclaims a boy not three feet high,“Becausehenever told a lie!”
At once such stillness in the hall
You might have heard a feather fall;
Exclaims a boy not three feet high,
“Becausehenever told a lie!”
She was ironing dolly’s new gown,Maid Marian, four years old,With her brows puckered downIn a painstaking frownUnder her tresses of gold.’Twas Sunday, and nurse coming inExclaimed in a tone of surprise:“Don’t you know it’s a sinAny work to beginOn the day that the Lord sanctifies?”Then, lifting her face like a rose,Thus answered this wise little tot:“Now, don’t you supposeThe good Lord He knowsThis little iron ain’t hot?”
She was ironing dolly’s new gown,Maid Marian, four years old,With her brows puckered downIn a painstaking frownUnder her tresses of gold.’Twas Sunday, and nurse coming inExclaimed in a tone of surprise:“Don’t you know it’s a sinAny work to beginOn the day that the Lord sanctifies?”Then, lifting her face like a rose,Thus answered this wise little tot:“Now, don’t you supposeThe good Lord He knowsThis little iron ain’t hot?”
She was ironing dolly’s new gown,Maid Marian, four years old,With her brows puckered downIn a painstaking frownUnder her tresses of gold.
She was ironing dolly’s new gown,
Maid Marian, four years old,
With her brows puckered down
In a painstaking frown
Under her tresses of gold.
’Twas Sunday, and nurse coming inExclaimed in a tone of surprise:“Don’t you know it’s a sinAny work to beginOn the day that the Lord sanctifies?”
’Twas Sunday, and nurse coming in
Exclaimed in a tone of surprise:
“Don’t you know it’s a sin
Any work to begin
On the day that the Lord sanctifies?”
Then, lifting her face like a rose,Thus answered this wise little tot:“Now, don’t you supposeThe good Lord He knowsThis little iron ain’t hot?”
Then, lifting her face like a rose,
Thus answered this wise little tot:
“Now, don’t you suppose
The good Lord He knows
This little iron ain’t hot?”
A plain, grave man once grew quite celebrated;Dame Grundy met him with her blandest smile,And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much feted,Gave him a dinner in her swellest style.Her dining-table was a blaze of glory;Soft light from many colored candles fellUpon the young, the middle aged, and hoary—On beauty and on those who “made up” well.Her china was a miracle of beauty—No service like it ever had been sold,And, being unsmuggled, with the price and duty,Was nearly worth its weight in gold.The flowers were wonderful—I think that maybeOnly another world has flowers more fair;Each rose was big enough to brain a baby,And there were several bushels of them there.The serving was the acme of perfection;Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet;Their manners seemed a reverent affectionAnd oh! what stacks of things there were to eat!And yet the man, for all this honor singled,Would have exchanged it with the greatest joyFor one plain meal of pork and cabbage mingled,Cooked by his mother when he was a boy.
A plain, grave man once grew quite celebrated;Dame Grundy met him with her blandest smile,And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much feted,Gave him a dinner in her swellest style.Her dining-table was a blaze of glory;Soft light from many colored candles fellUpon the young, the middle aged, and hoary—On beauty and on those who “made up” well.Her china was a miracle of beauty—No service like it ever had been sold,And, being unsmuggled, with the price and duty,Was nearly worth its weight in gold.The flowers were wonderful—I think that maybeOnly another world has flowers more fair;Each rose was big enough to brain a baby,And there were several bushels of them there.The serving was the acme of perfection;Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet;Their manners seemed a reverent affectionAnd oh! what stacks of things there were to eat!And yet the man, for all this honor singled,Would have exchanged it with the greatest joyFor one plain meal of pork and cabbage mingled,Cooked by his mother when he was a boy.
A plain, grave man once grew quite celebrated;Dame Grundy met him with her blandest smile,And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much feted,Gave him a dinner in her swellest style.
A plain, grave man once grew quite celebrated;
Dame Grundy met him with her blandest smile,
And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much feted,
Gave him a dinner in her swellest style.
Her dining-table was a blaze of glory;Soft light from many colored candles fellUpon the young, the middle aged, and hoary—On beauty and on those who “made up” well.
Her dining-table was a blaze of glory;
Soft light from many colored candles fell
Upon the young, the middle aged, and hoary—
On beauty and on those who “made up” well.
Her china was a miracle of beauty—No service like it ever had been sold,And, being unsmuggled, with the price and duty,Was nearly worth its weight in gold.
Her china was a miracle of beauty—
No service like it ever had been sold,
And, being unsmuggled, with the price and duty,
Was nearly worth its weight in gold.
The flowers were wonderful—I think that maybeOnly another world has flowers more fair;Each rose was big enough to brain a baby,And there were several bushels of them there.
The flowers were wonderful—I think that maybe
Only another world has flowers more fair;
Each rose was big enough to brain a baby,
And there were several bushels of them there.
The serving was the acme of perfection;Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet;Their manners seemed a reverent affectionAnd oh! what stacks of things there were to eat!
The serving was the acme of perfection;
Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet;
Their manners seemed a reverent affection
And oh! what stacks of things there were to eat!
And yet the man, for all this honor singled,Would have exchanged it with the greatest joyFor one plain meal of pork and cabbage mingled,Cooked by his mother when he was a boy.
And yet the man, for all this honor singled,
Would have exchanged it with the greatest joy
For one plain meal of pork and cabbage mingled,
Cooked by his mother when he was a boy.
He wore a pair of tattered pants,A ragged roundabout,And through the torn crown of his hatA lock of hair stuck out;He had no shoes upon his feet,No shirt upon his back;His home was on the friendless street,His name was “Little Jack.”One day a toddling baby-boyWith head of curly hairEscaped his loving mother’s eyes,Who, busy with her care,Forgot the little one, that creptUpon the railroad nearTo play with the bright pebbles there,Without a thought of fear.But see! around the curve there comesA swiftly flying train—It rattles, roars! the whistle shrieksWith all its might and main;The mother sees her child, but standsTransfixed with sudden fright!The baby clasps his little handsAnd laughs with low delight.Look! look! a tattered figure fliesAdown the railroad track!His hat is gone, his feet are bare!’Tis ragged “Little Jack!”He grasps the child, and from the trackThe babe is safely tossed—A slip! a cry! the train rolls by—Brave “Little Jack” is lost.They found his mangled body there,Just where he slipped and fell,And strong men wept who never caredFor him when he was well.If there be starry crowns in heavenFor little ones to wear,The star in “Little Jack’s” shall shineAs bright as any there!Eugene J. Hall.
He wore a pair of tattered pants,A ragged roundabout,And through the torn crown of his hatA lock of hair stuck out;He had no shoes upon his feet,No shirt upon his back;His home was on the friendless street,His name was “Little Jack.”One day a toddling baby-boyWith head of curly hairEscaped his loving mother’s eyes,Who, busy with her care,Forgot the little one, that creptUpon the railroad nearTo play with the bright pebbles there,Without a thought of fear.But see! around the curve there comesA swiftly flying train—It rattles, roars! the whistle shrieksWith all its might and main;The mother sees her child, but standsTransfixed with sudden fright!The baby clasps his little handsAnd laughs with low delight.Look! look! a tattered figure fliesAdown the railroad track!His hat is gone, his feet are bare!’Tis ragged “Little Jack!”He grasps the child, and from the trackThe babe is safely tossed—A slip! a cry! the train rolls by—Brave “Little Jack” is lost.They found his mangled body there,Just where he slipped and fell,And strong men wept who never caredFor him when he was well.If there be starry crowns in heavenFor little ones to wear,The star in “Little Jack’s” shall shineAs bright as any there!Eugene J. Hall.
He wore a pair of tattered pants,A ragged roundabout,And through the torn crown of his hatA lock of hair stuck out;He had no shoes upon his feet,No shirt upon his back;His home was on the friendless street,His name was “Little Jack.”
He wore a pair of tattered pants,
A ragged roundabout,
And through the torn crown of his hat
A lock of hair stuck out;
He had no shoes upon his feet,
No shirt upon his back;
His home was on the friendless street,
His name was “Little Jack.”
One day a toddling baby-boyWith head of curly hairEscaped his loving mother’s eyes,Who, busy with her care,Forgot the little one, that creptUpon the railroad nearTo play with the bright pebbles there,Without a thought of fear.
One day a toddling baby-boy
With head of curly hair
Escaped his loving mother’s eyes,
Who, busy with her care,
Forgot the little one, that crept
Upon the railroad near
To play with the bright pebbles there,
Without a thought of fear.
But see! around the curve there comesA swiftly flying train—It rattles, roars! the whistle shrieksWith all its might and main;The mother sees her child, but standsTransfixed with sudden fright!The baby clasps his little handsAnd laughs with low delight.
But see! around the curve there comes
A swiftly flying train—
It rattles, roars! the whistle shrieks
With all its might and main;
The mother sees her child, but stands
Transfixed with sudden fright!
The baby clasps his little hands
And laughs with low delight.
Look! look! a tattered figure fliesAdown the railroad track!His hat is gone, his feet are bare!’Tis ragged “Little Jack!”He grasps the child, and from the trackThe babe is safely tossed—A slip! a cry! the train rolls by—Brave “Little Jack” is lost.
Look! look! a tattered figure flies
Adown the railroad track!
His hat is gone, his feet are bare!
’Tis ragged “Little Jack!”
He grasps the child, and from the track
The babe is safely tossed—
A slip! a cry! the train rolls by—
Brave “Little Jack” is lost.
They found his mangled body there,Just where he slipped and fell,And strong men wept who never caredFor him when he was well.If there be starry crowns in heavenFor little ones to wear,The star in “Little Jack’s” shall shineAs bright as any there!
They found his mangled body there,
Just where he slipped and fell,
And strong men wept who never cared
For him when he was well.
If there be starry crowns in heaven
For little ones to wear,
The star in “Little Jack’s” shall shine
As bright as any there!
Eugene J. Hall.
Eugene J. Hall.
Little Tommy and Peter and Archy and BobWere walking one day, when they foundAn apple; ’twas mellow and rosy and red,And lying alone on the ground.Said Tommy: “I’ll have it.” Said Peter: “’Tis mine.”Said Archy: “I’ve got it; so there!”Said Bobby: “Now let us divide in four parts,And each of us boys have a share.”“No, no!” shouted Tommy, “I’ll have it myself.”Said Peter: “I want it, I say.”Said Archy: “I’ve got it, and I’ll have it all;I won’t give a morsel away.”Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he fought,(’Tis sad and distressing to tell!)And Archy held on with his might and his main,Till out of his fingers it fell.Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew,And then down a green little hillThat apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolledAs if it would never be still.A lazy old brindle was nipping the grassAnd switching her tail at the flies,When all of a sudden the apple rolled downAnd stopped just in front of her eyes.She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—That apple was seen nevermore!“I wish,” whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom,“We’d kept it and cut it in four.”Sydney Dayre.
Little Tommy and Peter and Archy and BobWere walking one day, when they foundAn apple; ’twas mellow and rosy and red,And lying alone on the ground.Said Tommy: “I’ll have it.” Said Peter: “’Tis mine.”Said Archy: “I’ve got it; so there!”Said Bobby: “Now let us divide in four parts,And each of us boys have a share.”“No, no!” shouted Tommy, “I’ll have it myself.”Said Peter: “I want it, I say.”Said Archy: “I’ve got it, and I’ll have it all;I won’t give a morsel away.”Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he fought,(’Tis sad and distressing to tell!)And Archy held on with his might and his main,Till out of his fingers it fell.Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew,And then down a green little hillThat apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolledAs if it would never be still.A lazy old brindle was nipping the grassAnd switching her tail at the flies,When all of a sudden the apple rolled downAnd stopped just in front of her eyes.She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—That apple was seen nevermore!“I wish,” whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom,“We’d kept it and cut it in four.”Sydney Dayre.
Little Tommy and Peter and Archy and BobWere walking one day, when they foundAn apple; ’twas mellow and rosy and red,And lying alone on the ground.
Little Tommy and Peter and Archy and Bob
Were walking one day, when they found
An apple; ’twas mellow and rosy and red,
And lying alone on the ground.
Said Tommy: “I’ll have it.” Said Peter: “’Tis mine.”Said Archy: “I’ve got it; so there!”Said Bobby: “Now let us divide in four parts,And each of us boys have a share.”
Said Tommy: “I’ll have it.” Said Peter: “’Tis mine.”
Said Archy: “I’ve got it; so there!”
Said Bobby: “Now let us divide in four parts,
And each of us boys have a share.”
“No, no!” shouted Tommy, “I’ll have it myself.”Said Peter: “I want it, I say.”Said Archy: “I’ve got it, and I’ll have it all;I won’t give a morsel away.”
“No, no!” shouted Tommy, “I’ll have it myself.”
Said Peter: “I want it, I say.”
Said Archy: “I’ve got it, and I’ll have it all;
I won’t give a morsel away.”
Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he fought,(’Tis sad and distressing to tell!)And Archy held on with his might and his main,Till out of his fingers it fell.
Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he fought,
(’Tis sad and distressing to tell!)
And Archy held on with his might and his main,
Till out of his fingers it fell.
Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew,And then down a green little hillThat apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolledAs if it would never be still.
Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew,
And then down a green little hill
That apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolled
As if it would never be still.
A lazy old brindle was nipping the grassAnd switching her tail at the flies,When all of a sudden the apple rolled downAnd stopped just in front of her eyes.
A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass
And switching her tail at the flies,
When all of a sudden the apple rolled down
And stopped just in front of her eyes.
She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—That apple was seen nevermore!“I wish,” whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom,“We’d kept it and cut it in four.”
She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—
That apple was seen nevermore!
“I wish,” whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom,
“We’d kept it and cut it in four.”
Sydney Dayre.
Sydney Dayre.
Idle Ben was a naughty boy;(If you please, this story’s true;)He caused his teachers great annoy,And his worthy parents, too.Idle Ben, in a boastful way,To his anxious parents told,That, while he was young, he thought he’d play,And he’d learn when he grew old.“Ah, Ben!” said his mother, and dropped a tear,“You’ll be sorry for this by-and-by.”Says Ben, “To me, that’s not very clear,But at any rate I’ll try.”So Idle Ben, he refused to learn,Thinking that he could wait;But, when he had his living to earn,He found it was just too late.Little girls, little boys, don’t delay your work;Some day you’ll be women and men:Whenever your task you’re inclined to shirk,Take warning by Idle Ben.
Idle Ben was a naughty boy;(If you please, this story’s true;)He caused his teachers great annoy,And his worthy parents, too.Idle Ben, in a boastful way,To his anxious parents told,That, while he was young, he thought he’d play,And he’d learn when he grew old.“Ah, Ben!” said his mother, and dropped a tear,“You’ll be sorry for this by-and-by.”Says Ben, “To me, that’s not very clear,But at any rate I’ll try.”So Idle Ben, he refused to learn,Thinking that he could wait;But, when he had his living to earn,He found it was just too late.Little girls, little boys, don’t delay your work;Some day you’ll be women and men:Whenever your task you’re inclined to shirk,Take warning by Idle Ben.
Idle Ben was a naughty boy;(If you please, this story’s true;)He caused his teachers great annoy,And his worthy parents, too.
Idle Ben was a naughty boy;
(If you please, this story’s true;)
He caused his teachers great annoy,
And his worthy parents, too.
Idle Ben, in a boastful way,To his anxious parents told,That, while he was young, he thought he’d play,And he’d learn when he grew old.
Idle Ben, in a boastful way,
To his anxious parents told,
That, while he was young, he thought he’d play,
And he’d learn when he grew old.
“Ah, Ben!” said his mother, and dropped a tear,“You’ll be sorry for this by-and-by.”Says Ben, “To me, that’s not very clear,But at any rate I’ll try.”
“Ah, Ben!” said his mother, and dropped a tear,
“You’ll be sorry for this by-and-by.”
Says Ben, “To me, that’s not very clear,
But at any rate I’ll try.”
So Idle Ben, he refused to learn,Thinking that he could wait;But, when he had his living to earn,He found it was just too late.
So Idle Ben, he refused to learn,
Thinking that he could wait;
But, when he had his living to earn,
He found it was just too late.
Little girls, little boys, don’t delay your work;Some day you’ll be women and men:Whenever your task you’re inclined to shirk,Take warning by Idle Ben.
Little girls, little boys, don’t delay your work;
Some day you’ll be women and men:
Whenever your task you’re inclined to shirk,
Take warning by Idle Ben.
The drouth had been long—oh, very long—The whole long month of blithesome May;The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong,From the pinched, brown land so far away:Leaves fell; and the blue-birds hushed their song,As field and forest grew dim and gray.Then one night the clouds had gathered: the windCame in from the east; but it needed trustTo believe that the soft rain lurked behind,To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust:So soon we forget that God is kind!So easily cease to hope and to trust!But it rained at morning: oh, welcome fallOf the drops from heaven, that had such need!Those drops that have fallen alike on all,Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed,Since the plant of life was so tiny and smallWhen the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed.Did we wonder, to see it come at last—This coveted blessing?—wee Alice did not,As quick to the window all dimpled she passed,Springing up in glee from her little cot,And bearing a love so holy and vastIn such limited space—dear baby tot!“Look, mamma! look, papa!—oh yes, it yanes!“I tought dere ood be some ’ittle showers!“Detoration Day—Dod take such pains!“Don’t ’u see Dod’s waterin’ de soldiers’ f’owers?”Oh, lips of the children!—there’s something remainsYet, of Eden’s prime, in this world of ours.John Hay Furness.
The drouth had been long—oh, very long—The whole long month of blithesome May;The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong,From the pinched, brown land so far away:Leaves fell; and the blue-birds hushed their song,As field and forest grew dim and gray.Then one night the clouds had gathered: the windCame in from the east; but it needed trustTo believe that the soft rain lurked behind,To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust:So soon we forget that God is kind!So easily cease to hope and to trust!But it rained at morning: oh, welcome fallOf the drops from heaven, that had such need!Those drops that have fallen alike on all,Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed,Since the plant of life was so tiny and smallWhen the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed.Did we wonder, to see it come at last—This coveted blessing?—wee Alice did not,As quick to the window all dimpled she passed,Springing up in glee from her little cot,And bearing a love so holy and vastIn such limited space—dear baby tot!“Look, mamma! look, papa!—oh yes, it yanes!“I tought dere ood be some ’ittle showers!“Detoration Day—Dod take such pains!“Don’t ’u see Dod’s waterin’ de soldiers’ f’owers?”Oh, lips of the children!—there’s something remainsYet, of Eden’s prime, in this world of ours.John Hay Furness.
The drouth had been long—oh, very long—The whole long month of blithesome May;The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong,From the pinched, brown land so far away:Leaves fell; and the blue-birds hushed their song,As field and forest grew dim and gray.
The drouth had been long—oh, very long—
The whole long month of blithesome May;
The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong,
From the pinched, brown land so far away:
Leaves fell; and the blue-birds hushed their song,
As field and forest grew dim and gray.
Then one night the clouds had gathered: the windCame in from the east; but it needed trustTo believe that the soft rain lurked behind,To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust:So soon we forget that God is kind!So easily cease to hope and to trust!
Then one night the clouds had gathered: the wind
Came in from the east; but it needed trust
To believe that the soft rain lurked behind,
To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust:
So soon we forget that God is kind!
So easily cease to hope and to trust!
But it rained at morning: oh, welcome fallOf the drops from heaven, that had such need!Those drops that have fallen alike on all,Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed,Since the plant of life was so tiny and smallWhen the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed.
But it rained at morning: oh, welcome fall
Of the drops from heaven, that had such need!
Those drops that have fallen alike on all,
Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed,
Since the plant of life was so tiny and small
When the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed.
Did we wonder, to see it come at last—This coveted blessing?—wee Alice did not,As quick to the window all dimpled she passed,Springing up in glee from her little cot,And bearing a love so holy and vastIn such limited space—dear baby tot!
Did we wonder, to see it come at last—
This coveted blessing?—wee Alice did not,
As quick to the window all dimpled she passed,
Springing up in glee from her little cot,
And bearing a love so holy and vast
In such limited space—dear baby tot!
“Look, mamma! look, papa!—oh yes, it yanes!“I tought dere ood be some ’ittle showers!“Detoration Day—Dod take such pains!“Don’t ’u see Dod’s waterin’ de soldiers’ f’owers?”Oh, lips of the children!—there’s something remainsYet, of Eden’s prime, in this world of ours.
“Look, mamma! look, papa!—oh yes, it yanes!
“I tought dere ood be some ’ittle showers!
“Detoration Day—Dod take such pains!
“Don’t ’u see Dod’s waterin’ de soldiers’ f’owers?”
Oh, lips of the children!—there’s something remains
Yet, of Eden’s prime, in this world of ours.
John Hay Furness.
John Hay Furness.
Here we are! don’t leave us out,Just because we’re little boys!Though we’re not so bold and stout,In the world we’ll make a noise.You are many a year ahead,But we’ll step by step advance;All the world’s beforeyouspread—Give us little boys a chance!Never slight us in our play;You were once as small as we;We’ll be big, like you, some day,Then perhapsourpower you’ll see.We will meet you, when we’re grownWith a brave and fearless glance;Don’t think all this world’syourown—Give us little boys a chance!Little hands will soon be strongFor the work that they must do;Little lips will sing their songWhen these early days are through.So, you big folks, if we’re small,On our toes you needn’t dance;There is room enough for all—Give us little boys a chance!
Here we are! don’t leave us out,Just because we’re little boys!Though we’re not so bold and stout,In the world we’ll make a noise.You are many a year ahead,But we’ll step by step advance;All the world’s beforeyouspread—Give us little boys a chance!Never slight us in our play;You were once as small as we;We’ll be big, like you, some day,Then perhapsourpower you’ll see.We will meet you, when we’re grownWith a brave and fearless glance;Don’t think all this world’syourown—Give us little boys a chance!Little hands will soon be strongFor the work that they must do;Little lips will sing their songWhen these early days are through.So, you big folks, if we’re small,On our toes you needn’t dance;There is room enough for all—Give us little boys a chance!
Here we are! don’t leave us out,Just because we’re little boys!Though we’re not so bold and stout,In the world we’ll make a noise.You are many a year ahead,But we’ll step by step advance;All the world’s beforeyouspread—Give us little boys a chance!
Here we are! don’t leave us out,
Just because we’re little boys!
Though we’re not so bold and stout,
In the world we’ll make a noise.
You are many a year ahead,
But we’ll step by step advance;
All the world’s beforeyouspread—
Give us little boys a chance!
Never slight us in our play;You were once as small as we;We’ll be big, like you, some day,Then perhapsourpower you’ll see.We will meet you, when we’re grownWith a brave and fearless glance;Don’t think all this world’syourown—Give us little boys a chance!
Never slight us in our play;
You were once as small as we;
We’ll be big, like you, some day,
Then perhapsourpower you’ll see.
We will meet you, when we’re grown
With a brave and fearless glance;
Don’t think all this world’syourown—
Give us little boys a chance!
Little hands will soon be strongFor the work that they must do;Little lips will sing their songWhen these early days are through.So, you big folks, if we’re small,On our toes you needn’t dance;There is room enough for all—Give us little boys a chance!
Little hands will soon be strong
For the work that they must do;
Little lips will sing their song
When these early days are through.
So, you big folks, if we’re small,
On our toes you needn’t dance;
There is room enough for all—
Give us little boys a chance!
While sitting at our breakfast rather lateOne winter’s morn a little after eight,We heard a noise;But from the shuffling of feet and legs,Of drinking coffee and of eating eggs,We girls and boysThought little of it, but looked at one another;Fred looked at Polly—Polly at her brother.Just then we heard a feeble cry, so wee,Where could it come from—and what could it be?“It’s puss,” cried one, “she must be in the ‘aery.’”And so we went with footsteps soft and wary.But, no; Puss in the aery was not found,And once again we heard the plaintive sound,“M-e-o-w, M-e-w,”What could we do?We looked again and Clara searched the house;Was pussy in the coal-hole, with a mouse?“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”Much louder now.“She’s in the cupboard,” so, we search the shelves,But find no pussy. Have some fairy elvesBeen imitating puss? But once againPoor pussy gives a cry as if in pain;The drawers are searched; in every little nookWhere puss could hide we take a hasty look.“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”Still louder now,We all look frightened, so while one declaresThat pussy’s hidden underneath the stairs;And while we stood upon the kitchen rug,Wondering where pussy was so nice and snug,The oven door was opened just a bitTo warm some toast,when out jumped little Kit!And as she shook her furry brindled form,She seemed to say, “My bed was rather warm.”
While sitting at our breakfast rather lateOne winter’s morn a little after eight,We heard a noise;But from the shuffling of feet and legs,Of drinking coffee and of eating eggs,We girls and boysThought little of it, but looked at one another;Fred looked at Polly—Polly at her brother.Just then we heard a feeble cry, so wee,Where could it come from—and what could it be?“It’s puss,” cried one, “she must be in the ‘aery.’”And so we went with footsteps soft and wary.But, no; Puss in the aery was not found,And once again we heard the plaintive sound,“M-e-o-w, M-e-w,”What could we do?We looked again and Clara searched the house;Was pussy in the coal-hole, with a mouse?“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”Much louder now.“She’s in the cupboard,” so, we search the shelves,But find no pussy. Have some fairy elvesBeen imitating puss? But once againPoor pussy gives a cry as if in pain;The drawers are searched; in every little nookWhere puss could hide we take a hasty look.“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”Still louder now,We all look frightened, so while one declaresThat pussy’s hidden underneath the stairs;And while we stood upon the kitchen rug,Wondering where pussy was so nice and snug,The oven door was opened just a bitTo warm some toast,when out jumped little Kit!And as she shook her furry brindled form,She seemed to say, “My bed was rather warm.”
While sitting at our breakfast rather lateOne winter’s morn a little after eight,We heard a noise;But from the shuffling of feet and legs,Of drinking coffee and of eating eggs,We girls and boysThought little of it, but looked at one another;Fred looked at Polly—Polly at her brother.Just then we heard a feeble cry, so wee,Where could it come from—and what could it be?“It’s puss,” cried one, “she must be in the ‘aery.’”And so we went with footsteps soft and wary.But, no; Puss in the aery was not found,And once again we heard the plaintive sound,“M-e-o-w, M-e-w,”What could we do?
While sitting at our breakfast rather late
One winter’s morn a little after eight,
We heard a noise;
But from the shuffling of feet and legs,
Of drinking coffee and of eating eggs,
We girls and boys
Thought little of it, but looked at one another;
Fred looked at Polly—Polly at her brother.
Just then we heard a feeble cry, so wee,
Where could it come from—and what could it be?
“It’s puss,” cried one, “she must be in the ‘aery.’”
And so we went with footsteps soft and wary.
But, no; Puss in the aery was not found,
And once again we heard the plaintive sound,
“M-e-o-w, M-e-w,”
What could we do?
We looked again and Clara searched the house;Was pussy in the coal-hole, with a mouse?“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”Much louder now.“She’s in the cupboard,” so, we search the shelves,But find no pussy. Have some fairy elvesBeen imitating puss? But once againPoor pussy gives a cry as if in pain;The drawers are searched; in every little nookWhere puss could hide we take a hasty look.
We looked again and Clara searched the house;
Was pussy in the coal-hole, with a mouse?
“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”
Much louder now.
“She’s in the cupboard,” so, we search the shelves,
But find no pussy. Have some fairy elves
Been imitating puss? But once again
Poor pussy gives a cry as if in pain;
The drawers are searched; in every little nook
Where puss could hide we take a hasty look.
“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”Still louder now,We all look frightened, so while one declaresThat pussy’s hidden underneath the stairs;And while we stood upon the kitchen rug,Wondering where pussy was so nice and snug,The oven door was opened just a bitTo warm some toast,when out jumped little Kit!And as she shook her furry brindled form,She seemed to say, “My bed was rather warm.”
“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”
Still louder now,
We all look frightened, so while one declares
That pussy’s hidden underneath the stairs;
And while we stood upon the kitchen rug,
Wondering where pussy was so nice and snug,
The oven door was opened just a bit
To warm some toast,when out jumped little Kit!
And as she shook her furry brindled form,
She seemed to say, “My bed was rather warm.”
Guess what he had in his pocket.Marbles and tops and sundry toysSuch as always belong to boys,A bitter apple, a leathern ball?—Not at all.What did he have in his pocket?A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw,A brassy watch-key, broken in two.A fish-hook in a tangle of string?—No such thing.What did he have in his pocket?Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made,Buttons, a knife with a broken blade,A nail or two and a rubber gun?—Neither one.Whatdidhe have in his pocket?Before he knew it slyly creptUnder the treasures carefully kept,And away they all of them quickly stole—’Twas a hole!Sidney Dayre.
Guess what he had in his pocket.Marbles and tops and sundry toysSuch as always belong to boys,A bitter apple, a leathern ball?—Not at all.What did he have in his pocket?A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw,A brassy watch-key, broken in two.A fish-hook in a tangle of string?—No such thing.What did he have in his pocket?Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made,Buttons, a knife with a broken blade,A nail or two and a rubber gun?—Neither one.Whatdidhe have in his pocket?Before he knew it slyly creptUnder the treasures carefully kept,And away they all of them quickly stole—’Twas a hole!Sidney Dayre.
Guess what he had in his pocket.Marbles and tops and sundry toysSuch as always belong to boys,A bitter apple, a leathern ball?—Not at all.
Guess what he had in his pocket.
Marbles and tops and sundry toys
Such as always belong to boys,
A bitter apple, a leathern ball?—
Not at all.
What did he have in his pocket?A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw,A brassy watch-key, broken in two.A fish-hook in a tangle of string?—No such thing.
What did he have in his pocket?
A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw,
A brassy watch-key, broken in two.
A fish-hook in a tangle of string?—
No such thing.
What did he have in his pocket?Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made,Buttons, a knife with a broken blade,A nail or two and a rubber gun?—Neither one.
What did he have in his pocket?
Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made,
Buttons, a knife with a broken blade,
A nail or two and a rubber gun?—
Neither one.
Whatdidhe have in his pocket?Before he knew it slyly creptUnder the treasures carefully kept,And away they all of them quickly stole—’Twas a hole!
Whatdidhe have in his pocket?
Before he knew it slyly crept
Under the treasures carefully kept,
And away they all of them quickly stole—
’Twas a hole!
Sidney Dayre.
Sidney Dayre.
A waggish cobbler once in Rome,Put forth this proclamation,That he was willing to discloseFor due consideration,A secret which the cobbling worldCould ill afford to lose;The way to make in one short dayA hundred pairs of shoes.From every quarter soon there cameA crowd of eager fellows;Tanners, cobblers, bootmen, shoemen,Jolly leather sellers,All redolent of beef and smoke,And cobbler’s wax and hides;Each fellow paid his thirty penceAnd called it cheap besides.Silence! The cobbler entersAnd casts around his eyes,Then curls his lips—the rogue!—then frownsAnd looks most wondrous wise;“My friends,” he says, “’tis simple quite,The plan that I propose;And every man of you, I think,Might learn it if he chose.A good sharp knife is all you needIn carrying out my plan;So easy is it none can failLet him be child or man,To make a hundred pairs of shoes,Just go back to your shops,And take a hundred pairs of bootsAnd cut off all their tops!”
A waggish cobbler once in Rome,Put forth this proclamation,That he was willing to discloseFor due consideration,A secret which the cobbling worldCould ill afford to lose;The way to make in one short dayA hundred pairs of shoes.From every quarter soon there cameA crowd of eager fellows;Tanners, cobblers, bootmen, shoemen,Jolly leather sellers,All redolent of beef and smoke,And cobbler’s wax and hides;Each fellow paid his thirty penceAnd called it cheap besides.Silence! The cobbler entersAnd casts around his eyes,Then curls his lips—the rogue!—then frownsAnd looks most wondrous wise;“My friends,” he says, “’tis simple quite,The plan that I propose;And every man of you, I think,Might learn it if he chose.A good sharp knife is all you needIn carrying out my plan;So easy is it none can failLet him be child or man,To make a hundred pairs of shoes,Just go back to your shops,And take a hundred pairs of bootsAnd cut off all their tops!”
A waggish cobbler once in Rome,Put forth this proclamation,That he was willing to discloseFor due consideration,A secret which the cobbling worldCould ill afford to lose;The way to make in one short dayA hundred pairs of shoes.From every quarter soon there cameA crowd of eager fellows;Tanners, cobblers, bootmen, shoemen,Jolly leather sellers,All redolent of beef and smoke,And cobbler’s wax and hides;Each fellow paid his thirty penceAnd called it cheap besides.Silence! The cobbler entersAnd casts around his eyes,Then curls his lips—the rogue!—then frownsAnd looks most wondrous wise;“My friends,” he says, “’tis simple quite,The plan that I propose;And every man of you, I think,Might learn it if he chose.A good sharp knife is all you needIn carrying out my plan;So easy is it none can failLet him be child or man,To make a hundred pairs of shoes,Just go back to your shops,And take a hundred pairs of bootsAnd cut off all their tops!”
A waggish cobbler once in Rome,
Put forth this proclamation,
That he was willing to disclose
For due consideration,
A secret which the cobbling world
Could ill afford to lose;
The way to make in one short day
A hundred pairs of shoes.
From every quarter soon there came
A crowd of eager fellows;
Tanners, cobblers, bootmen, shoemen,
Jolly leather sellers,
All redolent of beef and smoke,
And cobbler’s wax and hides;
Each fellow paid his thirty pence
And called it cheap besides.
Silence! The cobbler enters
And casts around his eyes,
Then curls his lips—the rogue!—then frowns
And looks most wondrous wise;
“My friends,” he says, “’tis simple quite,
The plan that I propose;
And every man of you, I think,
Might learn it if he chose.
A good sharp knife is all you need
In carrying out my plan;
So easy is it none can fail
Let him be child or man,
To make a hundred pairs of shoes,
Just go back to your shops,
And take a hundred pairs of boots
And cut off all their tops!”
I’m a poor little kitty,And alas! when born, so pretty,That the morning I was found,Instead of being drowned,I was saved to be the toyOf a dreadful baby-boy,Who pinches and who pokes me,Holds me by my throat and chokes me,And when I could vainly tryFrom his cruel clutch to fly,Grabs my tail, and pulls so hardThat some day, upon my word!I am sure ’twill broken be,And then everybody’ll seeSuch a looking Kitty!That baby has no pity!Thinks I’m “only a kitty”—I won’t stand it, nor would you!’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w!Listen! Some day I shall scratch,And he’ll find he’s met his match;That within my little pawsThere are ever so many claws!And it won’t be very long,If this sort of thing goes on,Till there’ll be a kitten rowSuch as has not been till now;Then, my lad, there will be found,Left upon that battle-ground,Such a looking Baby!Clara D. Bates.
I’m a poor little kitty,And alas! when born, so pretty,That the morning I was found,Instead of being drowned,I was saved to be the toyOf a dreadful baby-boy,Who pinches and who pokes me,Holds me by my throat and chokes me,And when I could vainly tryFrom his cruel clutch to fly,Grabs my tail, and pulls so hardThat some day, upon my word!I am sure ’twill broken be,And then everybody’ll seeSuch a looking Kitty!That baby has no pity!Thinks I’m “only a kitty”—I won’t stand it, nor would you!’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w!Listen! Some day I shall scratch,And he’ll find he’s met his match;That within my little pawsThere are ever so many claws!And it won’t be very long,If this sort of thing goes on,Till there’ll be a kitten rowSuch as has not been till now;Then, my lad, there will be found,Left upon that battle-ground,Such a looking Baby!Clara D. Bates.
I’m a poor little kitty,And alas! when born, so pretty,That the morning I was found,Instead of being drowned,I was saved to be the toyOf a dreadful baby-boy,Who pinches and who pokes me,Holds me by my throat and chokes me,And when I could vainly tryFrom his cruel clutch to fly,Grabs my tail, and pulls so hardThat some day, upon my word!I am sure ’twill broken be,And then everybody’ll seeSuch a looking Kitty!
I’m a poor little kitty,
And alas! when born, so pretty,
That the morning I was found,
Instead of being drowned,
I was saved to be the toy
Of a dreadful baby-boy,
Who pinches and who pokes me,
Holds me by my throat and chokes me,
And when I could vainly try
From his cruel clutch to fly,
Grabs my tail, and pulls so hard
That some day, upon my word!
I am sure ’twill broken be,
And then everybody’ll see
Such a looking Kitty!
That baby has no pity!Thinks I’m “only a kitty”—I won’t stand it, nor would you!’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w!Listen! Some day I shall scratch,And he’ll find he’s met his match;That within my little pawsThere are ever so many claws!And it won’t be very long,If this sort of thing goes on,Till there’ll be a kitten rowSuch as has not been till now;Then, my lad, there will be found,Left upon that battle-ground,Such a looking Baby!
That baby has no pity!
Thinks I’m “only a kitty”—
I won’t stand it, nor would you!
’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w!
Listen! Some day I shall scratch,
And he’ll find he’s met his match;
That within my little paws
There are ever so many claws!
And it won’t be very long,
If this sort of thing goes on,
Till there’ll be a kitten row
Such as has not been till now;
Then, my lad, there will be found,
Left upon that battle-ground,
Such a looking Baby!
Clara D. Bates.
Clara D. Bates.
A small boy who can adopt the air and demeanor of the “afflicted parent” will make this soliloquy very amusing.
A Baby! Yes—a baby—a real, definite, unquestionable baby!What of it?do you ask. Well, that’s queer. Don’t know what a baby is? I’m sorry for you. My advice is—go and get one.Heigho! I’m weighted down with my responsibility. Solferino in color—no hair on its head—kicks—yowls—mews—whines-sneezes—squints—makes up mouths—it’s a singular circumstance—thatbaby is, and—but never mind.Cross? I guess that’s a beginning of the truth, so far asit’sconcerned, but, why did it happen along just at the moment when muslin, linen and white flannel were the highest they had been since Adam built a hen-house for Mrs. Eve’s chickens? when the doctors charge two dollars a squint, four dollars a grunt, and, on account of the scarcity in the country, take what is left in a man’s pocket, no discount for cash, and send bill for balance, Jan. 1st? Queer, isn’t it? (A pause.)A queer little thing is that baby; a speck of a nose like a wart, head as bald as a squash, and no place to hitch a waterfall; a mouth just situated to come the gum-game and chew milk. Oh! you should hear her sing. I have stuffed my fur cap down its throat, given it the smoothing-iron to play with; but that little red lump that looks as if it couldn’t hold blood enough to keep a musketo from fainting, persists to swallow its fists, and the other day they dropped down its throat, to the crook in its elbows.Thatstopped its music, and I was happy for one and a half minutes.It is a pleasant thing to have a baby in the house—one of your achy kind. Think of the pleasures of a father in his night costume, trembling in the midnight hour, with his warm feet upon a square yard of oilcloth, dropping paregoric in a teaspoon, by moonlight, the nurse thumping at the door, and the wife of your bosom crying “hurray,” and the baby yelling till the fresco drops fromthe ceiling. It’s a nice time to think of dress coats, pants, ties, and white kids.Its mother says the darling is troubled with—oh, don’t mention it. I have got to get up in the cold and shiver while the milk warms—it uses the bottle. I tried to stop its growth the other night; it was no go. I rocked so hard that I missed stays, and sent it slap clear across the room, upsetting the flower-stand. It didn’t make any noise then! Oh, no! I was a happy man. Oh, yes. (A pause.) That baby’s mother says only wait until it gets bleached (it’s been vaccinated) and old enough to crawl about and feed on pins. Yes, I’m going to wait. Won’t it be delightful?John, run for the doctor; it’s fallen into the slop pail; it’s choking with a peach-skin; or it has fallen down stairs; or has swallowed the tack-hammer; or shows signs of the mumps, croup, whooping cough, small pox, cholera infantum, or some other curious thing to let the doctor take the money laid by for my winter’s donation to the poor.Shampooing, curling my hair, wearing nice clothes, going to parties? Oh, no more of that! No—more—of—that. A baby—oh! I’m an old fellow now. Adieu, vain world!
A Baby! Yes—a baby—a real, definite, unquestionable baby!What of it?do you ask. Well, that’s queer. Don’t know what a baby is? I’m sorry for you. My advice is—go and get one.
Heigho! I’m weighted down with my responsibility. Solferino in color—no hair on its head—kicks—yowls—mews—whines-sneezes—squints—makes up mouths—it’s a singular circumstance—thatbaby is, and—but never mind.
Cross? I guess that’s a beginning of the truth, so far asit’sconcerned, but, why did it happen along just at the moment when muslin, linen and white flannel were the highest they had been since Adam built a hen-house for Mrs. Eve’s chickens? when the doctors charge two dollars a squint, four dollars a grunt, and, on account of the scarcity in the country, take what is left in a man’s pocket, no discount for cash, and send bill for balance, Jan. 1st? Queer, isn’t it? (A pause.)
A queer little thing is that baby; a speck of a nose like a wart, head as bald as a squash, and no place to hitch a waterfall; a mouth just situated to come the gum-game and chew milk. Oh! you should hear her sing. I have stuffed my fur cap down its throat, given it the smoothing-iron to play with; but that little red lump that looks as if it couldn’t hold blood enough to keep a musketo from fainting, persists to swallow its fists, and the other day they dropped down its throat, to the crook in its elbows.Thatstopped its music, and I was happy for one and a half minutes.
It is a pleasant thing to have a baby in the house—one of your achy kind. Think of the pleasures of a father in his night costume, trembling in the midnight hour, with his warm feet upon a square yard of oilcloth, dropping paregoric in a teaspoon, by moonlight, the nurse thumping at the door, and the wife of your bosom crying “hurray,” and the baby yelling till the fresco drops fromthe ceiling. It’s a nice time to think of dress coats, pants, ties, and white kids.
Its mother says the darling is troubled with—oh, don’t mention it. I have got to get up in the cold and shiver while the milk warms—it uses the bottle. I tried to stop its growth the other night; it was no go. I rocked so hard that I missed stays, and sent it slap clear across the room, upsetting the flower-stand. It didn’t make any noise then! Oh, no! I was a happy man. Oh, yes. (A pause.) That baby’s mother says only wait until it gets bleached (it’s been vaccinated) and old enough to crawl about and feed on pins. Yes, I’m going to wait. Won’t it be delightful?
John, run for the doctor; it’s fallen into the slop pail; it’s choking with a peach-skin; or it has fallen down stairs; or has swallowed the tack-hammer; or shows signs of the mumps, croup, whooping cough, small pox, cholera infantum, or some other curious thing to let the doctor take the money laid by for my winter’s donation to the poor.
Shampooing, curling my hair, wearing nice clothes, going to parties? Oh, no more of that! No—more—of—that. A baby—oh! I’m an old fellow now. Adieu, vain world!
“An egg a chicken! Don’t tell me!For didn’t I break an egg to see?There was nothing inside but a yellow ball,With a bit of mucillage round it all—Neither beak nor bill,Nor toe nor quill,Not even a featherTo hold it together;Not a sign of life could any one see.An egg a chicken? You can’t fool me!“An egg a chicken! Didn’t I pickUp the very shell that had held the chick—So they said?—and didn’t I work half a dayTo pack him in where he couldn’t stay?Let me try as I please,With squeeze upon squeeze,There is scarce space to meetHis head and his feet.No room for any of the rest of him—soThat egg never held that chicken I know.”Mamma heard the logic of her little man,Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can!Took an egg from the nest—it was smooth and round:“Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?”Faint and low, tap, tap;Soft and slow, rap, rap;Sharp and quick,Like a prisoner’s pick.“Hear it peep, inside there!” cried Tom, with a shout;“How did it get in, and how can it get out?”Tom was eager to help—he could break the shell.Mamma smiled and said, “All’s well that ends well.Be patient awhile yet my boy.” Click, click,And out popped the bill of a dear little chick.No room had it lacked.Though snug it was packed,There it was, all complete,From its head to its feet.The softest of down and the brightest of eyes,And so big—why, the shell wasn’t half its size.Tom gave a long whistle, “Mamma, now I seeThat an egg is a chicken—though the how beats me,An egg isn’t a chicken, that I know and declare;Yet an egg isn’t a chicken—see the proof of it there.Nobody can tellHow it came in that shell;Once out all in vainWould I pack it again.I think ’tis a miracle, mamma mine,As much as that of the water and wine.”
“An egg a chicken! Don’t tell me!For didn’t I break an egg to see?There was nothing inside but a yellow ball,With a bit of mucillage round it all—Neither beak nor bill,Nor toe nor quill,Not even a featherTo hold it together;Not a sign of life could any one see.An egg a chicken? You can’t fool me!“An egg a chicken! Didn’t I pickUp the very shell that had held the chick—So they said?—and didn’t I work half a dayTo pack him in where he couldn’t stay?Let me try as I please,With squeeze upon squeeze,There is scarce space to meetHis head and his feet.No room for any of the rest of him—soThat egg never held that chicken I know.”Mamma heard the logic of her little man,Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can!Took an egg from the nest—it was smooth and round:“Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?”Faint and low, tap, tap;Soft and slow, rap, rap;Sharp and quick,Like a prisoner’s pick.“Hear it peep, inside there!” cried Tom, with a shout;“How did it get in, and how can it get out?”Tom was eager to help—he could break the shell.Mamma smiled and said, “All’s well that ends well.Be patient awhile yet my boy.” Click, click,And out popped the bill of a dear little chick.No room had it lacked.Though snug it was packed,There it was, all complete,From its head to its feet.The softest of down and the brightest of eyes,And so big—why, the shell wasn’t half its size.Tom gave a long whistle, “Mamma, now I seeThat an egg is a chicken—though the how beats me,An egg isn’t a chicken, that I know and declare;Yet an egg isn’t a chicken—see the proof of it there.Nobody can tellHow it came in that shell;Once out all in vainWould I pack it again.I think ’tis a miracle, mamma mine,As much as that of the water and wine.”
“An egg a chicken! Don’t tell me!For didn’t I break an egg to see?There was nothing inside but a yellow ball,With a bit of mucillage round it all—Neither beak nor bill,Nor toe nor quill,Not even a featherTo hold it together;Not a sign of life could any one see.An egg a chicken? You can’t fool me!
“An egg a chicken! Don’t tell me!
For didn’t I break an egg to see?
There was nothing inside but a yellow ball,
With a bit of mucillage round it all—
Neither beak nor bill,
Nor toe nor quill,
Not even a feather
To hold it together;
Not a sign of life could any one see.
An egg a chicken? You can’t fool me!
“An egg a chicken! Didn’t I pickUp the very shell that had held the chick—So they said?—and didn’t I work half a dayTo pack him in where he couldn’t stay?Let me try as I please,With squeeze upon squeeze,There is scarce space to meetHis head and his feet.No room for any of the rest of him—soThat egg never held that chicken I know.”
“An egg a chicken! Didn’t I pick
Up the very shell that had held the chick—
So they said?—and didn’t I work half a day
To pack him in where he couldn’t stay?
Let me try as I please,
With squeeze upon squeeze,
There is scarce space to meet
His head and his feet.
No room for any of the rest of him—so
That egg never held that chicken I know.”
Mamma heard the logic of her little man,Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can!Took an egg from the nest—it was smooth and round:“Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?”Faint and low, tap, tap;Soft and slow, rap, rap;Sharp and quick,Like a prisoner’s pick.“Hear it peep, inside there!” cried Tom, with a shout;“How did it get in, and how can it get out?”
Mamma heard the logic of her little man,
Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can!
Took an egg from the nest—it was smooth and round:
“Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?”
Faint and low, tap, tap;
Soft and slow, rap, rap;
Sharp and quick,
Like a prisoner’s pick.
“Hear it peep, inside there!” cried Tom, with a shout;
“How did it get in, and how can it get out?”
Tom was eager to help—he could break the shell.Mamma smiled and said, “All’s well that ends well.Be patient awhile yet my boy.” Click, click,And out popped the bill of a dear little chick.No room had it lacked.Though snug it was packed,There it was, all complete,From its head to its feet.The softest of down and the brightest of eyes,And so big—why, the shell wasn’t half its size.
Tom was eager to help—he could break the shell.
Mamma smiled and said, “All’s well that ends well.
Be patient awhile yet my boy.” Click, click,
And out popped the bill of a dear little chick.
No room had it lacked.
Though snug it was packed,
There it was, all complete,
From its head to its feet.
The softest of down and the brightest of eyes,
And so big—why, the shell wasn’t half its size.
Tom gave a long whistle, “Mamma, now I seeThat an egg is a chicken—though the how beats me,An egg isn’t a chicken, that I know and declare;Yet an egg isn’t a chicken—see the proof of it there.Nobody can tellHow it came in that shell;Once out all in vainWould I pack it again.I think ’tis a miracle, mamma mine,As much as that of the water and wine.”
Tom gave a long whistle, “Mamma, now I see
That an egg is a chicken—though the how beats me,
An egg isn’t a chicken, that I know and declare;
Yet an egg isn’t a chicken—see the proof of it there.
Nobody can tell
How it came in that shell;
Once out all in vain
Would I pack it again.
I think ’tis a miracle, mamma mine,
As much as that of the water and wine.”