They all climbed up on a high board-fence—Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes—Nine little Goblins that had no sense,And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat—And I asked them what they were staring at.And the first one said, as he scratched his headWith a queer little arm that reached out of his earAnd rasped its claws in his hair so red—"This is what this little arm is fer!"And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,"How on earth doyouscratch your head?"And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge—Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;And when he choked, with a final twingeOf his stifling laughter, he thumped his backWith a fist that grew on the end of his tailTill the breath came back to his lips so pale.[Unavailable image: The Nine Little Goblins]And the third little Goblin leered round at me—And there were no lids on his eyes at all—And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,"What is the style of your socks this fall?"And he clapped his heels—and I sighed to seeThat he had hands where his feet should be.Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,Bowed his head, and I saw him slipHis eyebrows off, as I looked at him,And paste them over his upper lip;And then he moaned in remorseful pain—"Would—Ah, would I'd me brows again!"And then the whole of the Goblin bandRocked on the fence-top to and fro,And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,Singing the songs that they used to know—Singing the songs that their grandsires sungIn the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.And ever they kept their green-glass eyesFixed on me with a stony stare—Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,And I felt the heart in my breast snap toAs you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.And they sang "You're asleep! There is no board-fence,And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!—'Tis only a vision the mind inventsAfter a supper of cold mince-pies,—And you're doomed to dream this way," they said,—"And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!"[Unavailable image: The Nine Little Goblins—Tailpiece]
[Unavailable image: Time of Clearer Twitterings—Title]I.Time of crisp and tawny leaves,And of tarnished harvest sheaves,And of dusty grasses—weeds—Thistles, with their tufted seedsVoyaging the Autumn breezeLike as fairy argosies:Time of quicker flash of wings,And of clearer twitteringsIn the grove, or deeper shadeOf the tangled everglade,—Where the spotted water-snakeCoils him in the sunniest brake;And the bittern, as in fright,Darts, in sudden, slanting flight,Southward, while the startled craneFilms his eyes in dreams again.IIDown along the dwindled creekWe go loitering. We speakOnly with old questioningsOf the dear remembered thingsOf the days of long ago,When the stream seemed thus and soIn our boyish eyes:—The bankGreener then, through rank on rankOf the mottled sycamores,Touching tops across the shores:Here, the hazel thicket stood—There, the almost pathless woodWhere the shellbark hickory treeRained its wealth on you and me.Autumn! as you loved us then,Take us to your heart again!IIISeason halest of the year!How the zestful atmosphereNettles blood and brain, and smitesInto life the old delightsWe have tasted in our youth,And our graver years, forsooth!How again the boyish heartLeaps to see the chipmunk startFrom the brush and sleek the sunVery beauty, as he runs!How again a subtle hintOf crushed pennyroyal or mint,Sends us on our knees, as whenWe were truant boys of ten—Brown marauders of the wood,Merrier than Robin Hood![Unavailable image: Where the shellbark hickory tree]IVAh! will any minstrel say,In his sweetest roundelay,What is sweeter, after all,Than black haws, in early Fall—Fruit so sweet the frost first sat,Dainty-toothed, and nibbled at!And will any poet singOf a lusher, richer thingThan a ripe May-apple, rolledLike a pulpy lump of goldUnder thumb and finger-tips,And poured molten through the lips?Go, ye bards of classic themes,Pipe your songs by classic streams!I would twang the redbird's wingsIn the thicket while he sings!
Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed,As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's timeFilled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own,And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known!And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind,Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue,And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you.Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore,Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore![Unavailable image: The Circus-Day Parade]How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed,And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side!How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame,With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.[Unavailable image: How the cages jolted past]How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast,And the mystery within it only hinted of at lastFrom the little grated square in the rear, and nosing thereThe snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town,With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down,And his chief attention paid to the little mule that playedA tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed.As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's timeFilled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime![Unavailable image: And, last of all, the clown]
[Unavailable image: The Lugubrious Whing-Whang—Title]The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's bestIs Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,—'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest,An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed,An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest.—Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!I don't know what in the world it means—Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!—An' nen when Itellhim I don't, he leansLike he was a-grindin' on some machinesAn' says: Ef Idon't, w'y, I don't knowbeans!Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!—Out on the margin of Moonshine Land,Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand,Writing his name with his tail in the sand,And swiping it out with his oogerish hand;Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!Or whatisthe sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?—Crouching low by the winding creeksAnd holding his breath for weeks and weeks!Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor ringsAnd bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;And she sits and as sadly and softly singsAs the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,—Tickle me, Dear,Tickle me here,Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
[Unavailable image: Waitin' Fer The Cat to Die—Title]Lawzy! don't I rickollectThat-'air old swing in the lane!Right and proper, I expect,Old timescan'tcome back again;But I want to state, ef theyCouldcome back, and I could sayWhatmypick 'ud be, i jing!I'd say, Gimme the old swing'Nunder the old locus'-treesOn the old place, ef you please!—Danglin' there with half-shet eye,Waitin' fer the cat to die!I'd say, Gimme the old gangOf barefooted, hungry, lean,Ornry boys you want to hangWhen you're growed up twic't as mean!The old gyarden-patch, the oldTruants, and the stuff we stol'd!The old stompin'-groun', where weWore the grass off, wild and freeAs the swoop of the old swing,Where we ust to climb and cling,And twist roun', and fight, and lie—Waitin' fer the cat to die!'Pears like I 'most allus couldSwing the highest of the crowd—Jes sail up there tel I stoodDownside-up, and screech out loud,—Ketch my breath, and jes drap backFer to let the old swing slack,Yit my tow-head dippin' stillIn the green boughs, and the chillUp my backbone taperin' down,With my shadder on the ground'Slow and slower trailin' by—Waitin' fer the cat to die![Unavailable image: Barefooted, hungry, lean, ornry boys]Now my daughter's little Jane'sGot a kind o' baby-swingOn the porch, so's when it rainsShe kin play there—little thing!And I'd limped out t'other dayWith my old cheer this-a-way,Swingin'herand rockin' too,Thinkin' howIust to doAtherage, when suddently,"Hey, Gran'pap!" she says to me,"Why you rock so slow?" ... Says I,"Waitin' fer the cat to die!"[Unavailable image: Why you rock so slow?]
[Unavailable image: Naughty Claude]When Little Claude was naughty wunstAt dinner-time, an' saidHe won't say "Thank you" to his Ma,She maked him go to bedAn' stay two hours an' not git up,—So when the clock struck Two,Nen Claude says,—"Thank you, Mr. Clock,I'm much obleeged to you!"
[Unavailable image: The South Wind and The Sun—Title]O the South Wind and the SunHow each loved the other one—Full of fancy—full of folly—Full of jollity and fun!How they romped and ran about,Like two boys when school is out,With glowing face, and lisping lip,Low laugh, and lifted shout!And the South Wind—he was dressedWith a ribbon round his breastThat floated, flapped and flutteredIn a riotous unrest;And a drapery of mist,From the shoulder and the wristFlowing backward with the motionOf the waving hand he kissed.And the Sun had on a crownWrought of gilded thistledown,And a scarf of velvet vapor,And a raveled-rainbow gown;And his tinsel-tangled hair,Tossed and lost upon the air,With glossier and flossierThan any anywhere.And the South Wind's eyes were twoLittle dancing drops of dew,As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips,And blew and blew and blew!And the Sun's—like diamond-stone,Brighter yet than ever known,As he knit his brows and held his breath,And shone and shone and shone!And this pair of merry faysWandered through the summer days;Arm-in-arm they went togetherOver heights of morning haze—Over slanting slopes of lawnThey went on and on and on,Where the daisies looked like star-tracksTrailing up and down the dawn.And where'er they found the topOf a wheat-stalk droop and lop,They chucked it underneath the chinAnd praised the lavish crop,Till it lifted with the prideOf the heads it grew beside,And then the South Wind and the SunWent onward satisfied.Over meadow-lands they tripped,Where the dandelions dippedIn crimson foam of clover bloomAnd dripped and dripped and dripped!And they clinched the bumble-stings,Gauming honey on their wings,And bundling them in lily-bells,With maudlin murmurings.And the humming-bird, that hungLike a jewel up amongThe tilted honeysuckle horns,They mesmerized and swungIn the palpitating air,Drowsed with odors strange and rare,And, with whispered laughter, slipped away,And left him hanging there.And they braided blades of grassWhere the truant had to pass;And they wriggled through the rushesAnd the reeds of the morass,Where they danced, in rapture sweet,O'er the leaves that laid a streetOf undulant mosaic forThe touches of their feet.By the brook with mossy brink,Where the cattle came to drink,They trilled and piped and whistledWith the thrush and bobolink,Till the kine, in listless pause,Switched their tails in mute applause,With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes,And bubble-dripping jaws.And where the melons grew,Streaked with yellow, green and blue,These jolly sprites went wanderingThrough spangled paths of dew;And the melons, here and there,They made love to, everywhere,Turning their pink souls to crimsonWith caresses fond and fair.[Unavailable image: This pair of merry fays]Over orchard walls they went,Where the fruited boughs were bentTill they brushed the sward beneath themWhere the shine and shadow blent;And the great green pear they shookTill the sallow hue forsookIts features, and the gleam of goldLaughed out in every look.And they stroked the downy cheekOf the peach, and smoothed it sleek,And flushed it into splendor;And, with many an elfish freak,Gave the russet's rust a wipe—Prankt the rambo with a stripe,And the winesap blushed its reddestAs they spanked the pippins ripe.Through the woven ambuscadeThat the twining vines had made,They found the grapes, in clusters,Drinking up the shine and shade—Plumpt, like tiny skins of wine,With a vintage so divineThat the tongue of Fancy tingledWith the tang of muscadine.And the golden-banded bees,Droning o'er the flowery leas,They bridled, reined, and rode awayAcross the fragrant breeze,Till in hollow oak and elmThey had groomed and stabled themIn waxen stalls that oozed with dewsOf rose and lily-stem.Where the dusty highway leads,High above the wayside weeds,They sowed the air with butterfliesLike blooming flower-seeds,Till the dull grasshopper sprungHalf a man's-height up, and hungTranced in the heat, with whirring wings,And sung and sung and sung!And they loitered, hand in hand,Where the snipe along the sandOf the river ran to meet themAs the ripple meets the land,Till the dragonfly, in lightGauzy armor, burnished bright,Came tilting down the watersIn a wild, bewildered flight.And they heard the kildee's call,And afar, the waterfall,But the rustle of a falling leafThey heard above it all;And the trailing willow creptDeeper in the tide that sweptThe leafy shallop to the shore,And wept and wept and wept!And the fairy vessel veeredFrom its moorings—tacked and steeredFor the center of the current—Sailed away and disappeared:And the burthen that it boreFrom the long-enchanted shore—"Alas! the South Wind and the Sun!"I murmur evermore.For the South Wind and the Sun,Each so loves the other one,For all his jolly folly,And frivolity and fun,That our love for them they weighAs their fickle fancies may,And when at last we love them most,They laugh and sail away.
[Unavailable image: The Jolly Miller—Title][Restored Romaunt.]It was a Jolly Miller lived on the River Dee;He looked upon his piller, and there he found a flea:"O Mr. Flea! you have bit' me,And you shall shorely die!"So he scrunched his bones against the stones—And there he let him lie!Twas then the Jolly Miller he laughed and told his wife,Andshelaughed fit to kill her, and dropped her carvin'-knife!—"O Mr. Flea!" "Ho-ho!" "Tee-hee!"Theybothlaughed fit to kill,Until the sound did almost drowndThe rumble of the mill!"Laugh on, my Jolly Miller! and Missus Miller, too!—But there's a weeping-willer will soon wave over you!"The voice was all so awful small—So very small and slim!—He durst' infer that it was her,Ner her infer 'twas him![Unavailable image: That cat o' yourn I'd kill her]That night the Jolly Miller, says he, "It's Wifey dear,That cat o' yourn, I'd kill her!—her actions is so queer,—She rubbin' 'ginst the grindstone-legs,And yowlin' at the sky—And I 'low the moon haint greenerThan the yaller of her eye!"And as the Jolly Miller went chuckle-un to bed,WasSomepinjerked his piller from underneath his head!"O Wife," says he, on-easi-lee,"Fetch here that lantern there!"ButSomepinmoans in thunder tones,"You tetch it ef you dare!"'Twas then the Jolly Miller he trimbled and he quailed—And his wife choked until her breath come back, 'n' shewailed!And "O!"cried she, "it isthe Flea,All white and pale and wann—He's got you in his clutches, andHe's bigger than a man!""Ho! ho! my Jolly Miller," (fer 'twas the Flea, fer shore!)"I reckon you'll not rack my bones ner scrunch 'em any more!"And thenthe Ghosthe grabbed him clos't,With many a ghastly smile,And from the doorstep stooped and hoppedAbout four hundred mile!
Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann;An' she can cook best things to eat!She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,An' pours in somepin' 'at's good and sweet,An' nen she salts it all on topWith cinnamon; an' nen she'll stopAn' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow,In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slopAn' git all spilled; nen bakes it, soIt's custard pie, first thing you know!An' nen she'll say:"Clear out o' my way!They's time fer work, an' time fer play!—Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run!Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad,An' says folks got to walk the chalkWhenshe'saround, er wisht they had,I play out on our porch an' talkTo th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn;An' he says "Whew!"an' nen leans onHis old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyesAn' sniffs all around an' says,—"I swawn!Ef my old nose don't tell me lies,It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!"An' nenhe'llsay,—"'Clear out' o' my way!They's time fer work an' time fer play!Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run!Ershecain't git no cookin' done!'"[Unavailable image: Wuz parchin' corn fer the raggedy man]Wunst our hired girl, one time when sheGot the supper, an' we all et,An' it was night, an' Ma an' meAn' Pa went wher' the "Social" met,—An' nen when we come home, an' seeA light in the kitchen-door, an' weHeerd a maccordeum, Pa says "Lan'—O'Gracious! who canherbeau be?"An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth AnnWuz parchin' corn fer the Raggedy Man!Bettersay"Clear out o' the way!They's time fer work, an' time fer play!Take the hint, an' run, Child; run!Er we cain't git nocourtin' done!'"
[Unavailable image: The Boys' Candidate]Las' time 'at Uncle Sidney come,He bringed a watermelon home—An' half the boys in town,Come taggin' after him.—An' heSays, when we et it,—"Gracious me!'S the boy-house fell down?"
[Unavailable image: The Pet Coon—Title]Noey Bixler ketched him, and fetched him in to meWhen he's ist a little teenty-weenty baby-coon'Bout as big as little pups, an' tied him to a tree;An' Pa gived Noey fifty cents, when he come home at noon.Nen he buyed a chain fer him, an' little collar, too,An' sawed a hole in a' old tub an' turnt it upside-down;An' little feller'd stay in there and won't come out fer you—'Tendin' like he's kindo' skeered o' boys 'at lives in town.Nowhe aint afeard a bit! he's ist so fat an' tame,We on'y chain him up at night, to save the little chicks.Holler "Greedy! Greedy!" to him, an' he knows his name,An' here he'll come a-waddle-un, up fer any tricks!He'll climb up my leg, he will, an' waller in my lap,An' poke his little black paws 'way in my pockets whereThey's beechnuts, er chinkypins, er any little scrapOf anything, 'at's good to eat—an'hedon't care!An' he's as spunky as you please, an' don't like dogs at all.—Billy Miller's black-an'-tan tackled him one day,An' "Greedy" he ist kindo' doubled all up like a ball,An' Billy's dog he gived a yelp er two an' runned away!An' nen when Billy fighted me, an' hit me with a bone,An' Ma she purt'nigh ketched him as he dodged an' skooted thro'The fence, she says, "You better let my little boy alone,Er 'Greedy,' next he whips yer dog, shall whip you, too!"[Unavailable image: An' nen when Billy fighted me]
[Unavailable image: The Old Hay-Mow—Title]The Old Hay-mow's the place to playFer boys, when it's a rainy day!I good-'eal ruther be up thereThan down in town, er anywhere!When I play in our stable-loft,The good old hay's so dry an' soft,An' feels so fine, an' smells so sweet,I 'most ferget to go an' eat.[Unavailable image: In our hay-mow where I keep store]An' one time wunst IdidfergetTo go 'tel dinner was all et,—An' they had short-cake—an'—Bud heHogged up the piece Ma saved fer me!Nen I won't let him play no moreIn our hay-mow where I keep storeAn' got hen-eggs to sell,—an' shooThe cackle-un old hen out, too!An' nen, when Aunty she was hereA-visitun from Rensselaer,An' bringed my little cousin,—heCan come up there an' play with me.But, after while—when Bud he bets'At I can't turn no summersetts,—I let him come up, ef he canAc' ha'f-way like a gentleman!
[Unavailable image: On The Sunny Side—Title]Hi and whoop-hooray, boys!Sing a song of cheer!Here's a holiday, boys,Lasting half a year!Round the world, and half isShadow we have tried;Now we're where the laugh is,—On the sunny side!Pigeons coo and mutter,Strutting high aloofWhere the sunbeans flutterThrough the stable roof.Hear the chickens cheep, boys,And the hen with prideClucking them to sleep, boys,On the sunny side![Unavailable image: As a romping boy]Hear the clacking guinea;Hear the cattle moo;Hear the horses whinny,Looking out at you!On the hitching-block, boys,Grandly satisfied,See the old peacock, boys,On the sunny side!Robins in the peach-tree;Bluebirds in the pear;Blossoms over each treeIn the orchard there!All the world's in joy, boys,Glad and glorifiedAs a romping boy, boys,On the sunny side!Where's a heart as mellow?Where's a soul as free?Where is any fellowWe would rather be?Just ourselves or none, boys,World around and wide,Laughing in the sun, boys,On the sunny side!
[Unavailable image: A Sudden Shower—Title]Barefooted boys scud up the streetOr skurry under sheltering sheds;And schoolgirl faces, pale and sweet,Gleam from the shawls about their heads.Doors bang; and mother-voices callFrom alien homes; and rusty gatesAre slammed; and high above it all,The thunder grim reverberates.And then, abrupt,—the rain! the rain!—The earth lies gasping; and the eyesBehind the streaming window-paneSmile at the trouble of the skies.[Unavailable image: Schoolgirl faces ... gleam from the shawls about theirheads]The highway smokes; sharp echoes ring;The cattle bawl and cowbells clank;And into town comes gallopingThe farmer's horse, with streaming flank.The swallow dips beneath the eaves,And flirts his plumes and folds his wings;And under the catawba leavesThe caterpillar curls and clings.The bumble-bee is pelted downThe wet stem of the hollyhock;And sullenly, in spattered brown,The cricket leaps the garden walk.Within, the baby claps his handsAnd crows with rapture strange and vague;Without, beneath the rosebush standsA dripping rooster on one leg.[Unavailable image: A Sudden Shower—Tailpiece]
[Unavailable image: Grandfather Squeers—Title]"My grandfather Squeers," said The Raggedy Man,As he solemnly lighted his pipe and began—"The most indestructible man, for his years,And the grandest on earth, was my grandfather Squeers!"He said, when he rounded his three-score-and-ten,'I've the hang of it now and can do it again!'"He had frozen his heels so repeatedly, heCould tell by them just what the weather would be;"And would laugh and declare, 'while theAlmanacwouldMost falsely prognosticate,henever could!'"Such a hale constitution had grandfather SqueersThat, 'though he'd used 'navy' for sixty odd years,"He still chewed a dime's-worth six days of the week,While the seventh he passed with a chew in each cheek:"Then my grandfather Squeers had a singular knackOf sitting around on the small of his back,"With his legs like a letter Y stretched o'er the grateWherein 'twas his custom to ex-pec-tor-ate."He was fond of tobacco inmanifoldways,And would sit on the door-step, of sunshiny days,"And smoke leaf-tobacco he'd raised strictly forThe pipe he'd used all through The Mexican War."And The Raggedy Man said, refilling the bowlOf his own pipe and leisurely picking a coalFrom the stove with his finger and thumb, "You can seeWhat a tee-nacious habit he's fastened on me!"And my grandfather Squeers took a special delightIn pruning his corns every Saturday night"With a horn-handled razor, whose edge he excusedBy saying 'twas one that his grandfather used;"And, though deeply etched in the haft of the sameWas the ever-euphonious Wostenholm's name,"'Twas my grandfather's custom to boast of the bladeAs 'A Seth Thomas razor—the best ever made!'"No Old Settlers' Meeting, or Pioneers' Fair,Was complete without grandfather Squeers in the chair"To lead off the programme by telling folks how'He used to shoot deer where the Court-House stands now'—[Unavailable image: And smoke leaf-tobacco]"How 'he felt, of a truth, to live over the past,When the country was wild and unbroken and vast,"'That the little log cabin was just plenty fineFor himself, his companion, and fambly of nine!—"'When they didn't have even a pump, or a tin,But drunk surface-water, year out and year in,"'From the old-fashioned gourd that was sweeter, by odds,Than the goblets of gold at the lips of the gods!'"Then The Raggedy Man paused to plaintively sayIt was clockin' along to'rds the close of the day—And he'doughtto get back to his work on the lawn,—Then dreamily blubbered his pipe and went on:"His teeth were imperfect—my grandfather ownedThat he couldn't eat oysters unless they were 'boned';"And his eyes were so weak, and so feeble of sight,He couldn't sleep with them unless, every night,"He put on his spectacles—all he possessed,—Three pairs—with his goggles on top of the rest."And my grandfather always, retiring at night,Blew down the lamp-chimney to put out the light;"Then he'd curl up on edge like a shaving, in bed,And puff and smoke pipes in his sleep, it is said:"And would snore oftentimes as the legends relate,Till his folks were wrought up to a terrible state,—"Then he'd snort, and rear up, and roll over; and there,In the subsequent hush they could hear him chew air."And so glaringly bald was the top of his headThat many's the time he has musingly said,"As his eyes journeyed o'er its reflex in the glass,—'I must set out a few signs ofKeep Off the Grass!'"So remarkably deaf was my grandfather SqueersThat he had to wear lightning-rods over his ears"To even hear thunder—and oftentimes thenHe was forced to request it to thunder again."[Unavailable image: Grandfather Squeers—Tailpiece]
[Unavailable image: The Pixy People—Title]It was just a veryMerry fairy dream!—All the woods were airyWith the gloom and gleam;Crickets in the cloverClattered clear and strong,And the bees droned overTheir old honey-song.In the mossy passes,Saucy grasshoppersLeapt about the grassesAnd the thistle-burs;And the whispered chuckleOf the katydidShook the honeysuckleBlossoms where he hid.Through the breezy mazesOf the lazy June,Drowsy with the hazesOf the dreamy noon,Little Pixy peopleWinged above the walk,Pouring from the steepleOf a mullein-stalk.One—a gallant fellow—Evidently King,—Wore a plume of yellowIn a jewelled ringOn a pansy bonnet,Gold and white and blue,With the dew still on it,And the fragrance, too.One—a dainty lady,—Evidently Queen,—Wore a gown of shadyMoonshine and green,With a lace of gleamingStarlight that sentAll the dewdrops dreamingEverywhere she went.[Unavailable image: Winged above the walk]One wore a waistcoatOf roseleaves, out and in,And one wore a faced-coatOf tiger-lily-skin;And one wore a neat coatOf palest galingale;And one a tiny street-coat,And one a swallow-tail.And Ho! sang the King of them,And Hey! sang the Queen;And round and round the ring of themWent dancing o'er the green;And Hey! sang the Queen of them,And Ho! sang the King—And all that I had seen of them—Wasn't anything!It was just a veryMerry fairy dream!—All the woods were airyWith the gloom and gleam;Crickets in the cloverClattered clear and strong,And the bees droned overTheir old honey-song!
[Unavailable image: A Life-Lesson—Title]There! little girl; don't cry!They have broken your doll, I know;And your tea-set blue,And your play-house, too,Are things of the long ago;But childish troubles will soon pass by.—There! little girl; don't cry!There! little girl; don't cry!They have broken your slate, I know;And the glad, wild waysOf your school-girl daysAre things of the long ago;But life and love will soon come by.—There! little girl; don't cry!There! little girl; don't cry!They have broken your heart, I know;And the rainbow gleamsOf your youthful dreamsAre things of the long ago;But Heaven holds all for which you sigh.—There! little girl; don't cry![Unavailable image: But Heaven hold all for which you sigh]
[Unavailable image: A Home-made Fairy-Tale—Title]Bud, come here to your Uncle a spell,And I'll tell you something you mustn't tell—For it's a secret and shore-nuff true,And maybe I oughtn't to tell it to you!—But out in the garden, under the shadeOf the apple-trees where we romped and playedTill the moon was up, and you thought I'd goneFast asleep.—That was all put on!For I was a-watchin' something queerGoin' on there in the grass, my dear!'Way down deep in it, there I seeA little dude-Fairy who winked at me,And snapped his fingers, and laughed as lowAnd fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to!I kept still—watchin' him closer—andI noticed a little guitar in his hand,Which he leant 'ginst a little dead bee—and laidHis cigarette down on a clean grass-blade;And then climbed up on the shell of a snail—Carefully dusting his swallowtail—And pulling up, by a waxed web-thread,This little guitar, you remember, I said!And there he trinkled and trilled a tune—"My Love, so Fair, Tans in the Moon!"Till presently, out of the clover-topHe seemed to be singing to, came k'pop!The purtiest, daintiest Fairy faceIn all this world, or any place!Then the little ser'nader waved his hand,As much as to say, "We'll excuseyou!" andI heard, as I squinted my eyelids to,A kiss like the drip of a drop of dew![Unavailable image: A Little Dude-Fairy]
THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F"W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went outIn the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out'Way in the grea'-big woods—he did.—An' heWuz goin' along—an' goin' along, you know,An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!"—Ist thataway—"Woo-ooh!"An' he wuzskeered,He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree—A grea'-big tree, he did,—a sicka-moretree.An' nen he heerd it ag'in: an' he looked round,An''t'uz a Bear!—a grea'-big shore-nuff Bear!—No: 't'uztwoBears, it wuz—two grea'-big Bears—Oneof 'em wuz—istone'sagrea'-bigBear.—But they istboffwent "Wooh!"—An' heretheycomeTo climb the tree an' git the Little BoyAn' eat him up!An' nen the Little BoyHe 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here comeThe grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up—Oh,no!—It 'uzn't theBigBear 'at clumb the tree—It 'uz theLittleBear. So herehecomeClimbin' the tree—an' climbin' the tree! Nen whenHe git witeclos'tto the Little Boy, w'y nenThe Little Boy he ist pulled up his gunAn'shotthe Bear, he did, an' killed him dead!An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down outThe tree—away clean to the ground, he did—Spling-splung!he falledplumdown, an' killed him, too!An' lit wite side o' where theBigBear's at.An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!—'Cause—'cause the Little Boy he shot his gunAn' killed theLittleBear.—'Cause theBigBearHe—he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.—An' so hereHecome to climb the big old tree an' gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up! An' whenThe Little Boy he saw thegrea'-big BearA-comin', he uz badder skeered, he wuz,Thananytime! An' so he think he'll climbUphigher—'way up higher in the treeThan the oldBearkin climb, you know.—But he—Hecan'tclimb higher 'an oldBearskin climb,—'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the treesThan any little Boys in all the Wo-r-r-ld!An' so here come the grea'-big-Bear, he did,—A-climbin' up—an' up the tree, to gitThe Little Boy an' eat him up! An' soThe Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher,An' higher up the tree—an' higher—an' higher—An' higher'n iss-herehouseis!—An' here comeTh' old Bear—clos'ter to him all the time!—An' nen—first thing you know,—when th' old Big BearWuz wite clos't to him—nen the Little BoyIst jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's moufAn' shot an' killed him dead!—No; Ifergot,—He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all—'Causethey 'uz no load in the gun, you know—'Cause when he shot theLittleBear, w'y, nenNo load 'uz anymore neninthe gun!But th' Little Boy clumbedhigherup, he did—He clumbedlotshigher—an' on uphigher—an' higherAn'higher—tel he istcan'tclimb no higher,'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'wayUp in the teeny-weeny tip-top ofThe tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don'tBe keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nenHe look around—An' here come th' old Bear!An' so the Little Boy make up his mindHe's got to ist git out o' theresomeway!—'Cause here come the old Bear!—so clos't, his bref'sPurt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it isAg'inst his bare feet—ist like old "Ring's" brefWhen he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired.So when th' old Bear's so clos't—the Little BoyIst gives a grea'-big jump fer 'nothertree—No!—no he don't do that!—I tell you whatThe Little Boy does:—W'y, nen—w'y, he—Oh,yes—The Little Boyhe finds a hole up there'At's in the tree—an' climbs in there an'hides—An'nenth' old Bear can't find the Little BoyAt all!—But, purty soon th' old Bear findsThe Little Boy'sgun'at's up there—'cause thegunIt's tootallto tooked wiv him in the hole.So, when the old Bear fin' thegun, he knowsThe Little Boy's isthid'roundsomersthere,—An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around,An' sniff an' snuff around—so's he kin findOut where the Little Boy's hid at.—An' nen—nen—Oh,yes!—W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs'Way out on a big limb—a grea'-long limb,—An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the holeAn' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... NenThe old Bear fallsk-splunge!clean to the groundAn' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did!An' nen the Little Boy he git his gunAn' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree ag'in—No!—no, hedidn'tgit hisgun—'cause whenTheBearfalled, nen thegunfalled, too—An' brokedIt all to pieces, too!—An'nicestgun!—His Pa ist buyed it!—An' the Little BoyIst cried, he did; an' went on climbin' downThe tree—an' climbin' down—an' climbin' down!—An'-sir!when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,—w'y, nenThe old Bear he jumped up ag'in—an' heAin't dead at all—ist'tendin'thataway,So he kin git the Little Boy an' eatHim up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smartTo climb cleandownthe tree.—An' the old BearHe can't climbupthe tree no more—'cause whenHe fell, he broke one of his—he brokeallHis legs!—an' nen hecouldn'tclimb! But heIst won't go'way an' let the Little BoyCome down out of the tree. An' the old BearIst growls 'round there, he does—ist growls an' goes"Wooh!—woo-ooh!"all the time! An' Little BoyHe haf to stay up in the tree—all night—An' 'thout nosupperneether!—On'y theyWuzappleson the tree!—An' Little BoyEt apples—ist all night—an' cried—an' cried!Nen when 'tuz morning th' old Bear went"Wooh!"Ag'in, an' try to climb up in the treeAn' git the Little Boy.—But hecan'tClimb t'save hissoul, he can't!—An'oh!he'smad!—He ist tear up the ground! an' go"Woo-ooh!"An'—Oh, yes!—purty soon, when morning's comeAlllight—so's you kinsee, you know,—w'y, nenThe old Bear finds the Little Boy'sgun, you know,'At's on the ground.—(An' it ain't broke at all—I istsaidthat!) An' so the old Bear thinkHe'll take the gun an'shootthe Little Boy:—ButBears theydon't know much 'bout shootin' guns;So when he go to shoot the Little Boy,The old Bear got theotherend the gunAg'in' his shoulder, 'stid o'th' otherend—So when he try to shoot the Little Boy,It shotthe Bear, it did—an' killed him dead!An' nen the Little Boy clumb down the treeAn' chopped his old woolly head off:—Yes, an' killedTheotherBear ag'in, he did—an' killedAllboffthe bears, he did—an' tuk 'em homeAn'cooked'em, too, an'et'em!—An' that's all.[Unavailable image: ENVOY]