O say, have you seen at the Willows so green—So charming and rurally true—A Singular bird; with a manner absurd,Which they call the Australian Emeu?Have you?Ever seen this Australian Emeu?It trots all around with its head on the ground,Or erects it quite out of your view;And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy,"O, what a sweet pretty Emeu!Oh! doJust look at that lovely Emeu!"One day to this spot, when the weather was hot,Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue;And beside her there came a youth of high name—Augustus Florell Montague:The twoBoth loved that wild foreign Emeu.With two loaves of bread then they fed it, insteadOf the flesh of the white cockatoo,Which once was its food in that wild neighbourhoodWhere ranges the sweet kangarooThat, too,Is game for the famous Emeu!Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whetLike the world famous bark of Peru;There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard,And nothing its taste will eschew,That youCan give that long-legged Emeu!The time slipped away in this innocent play,When up jumped the bold Montague:"Where's that specimen pin that I gaily did winIn raffle, and gave unto you,Fortescue?"No word spoke the guilty Emeu!"Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same,Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!""Nay, dearest," she cried as she clung to his side,"I'm innocent as that Emeu!""Adieu!"He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!"Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet,As wildly he fled from her view;He thought 'twas her sin—for he knew not the pinHad been gobbled up by the Emeu;All through"I'm innocent as that Emeu!"
Bret Harte.
A lively young turtle lived down by the banksOf a dark rolling stream called the Jingo;And one summer day, as he went out to play,Fell in love with a charming flamingo—An enormously genteel flamingo!An expansively crimson flamingo!A beautiful, bouncing flamingo!Spake the turtle, in tones like a delicate wheeze:"To the water I've oft seen you in go,And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell,You perfectly modelled flamingo!You tremendously A-1 flamingo!You in-ex-press-i-ble flamingo!"To be sure, I'm a turtle, and you are a belle,And my language is not your fine lingo;But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame,You miraculous, wondrous flamingo!You blazingly beauteous flamingo!You turtle-absorbing flamingo!You inflammably gorgeous flamingo!"Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before,And that was quite un-nec-es-sa-ry,And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye,The position of things for to vary,—This aquatical, musing flamingo!This dreamy, uncertain flamingo!This embarrasing, harassing flamingo!Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed:"Why your passion towardmedo you hurtle?I'm an ornithological wonder of grace,And you're an illogical turtle,—A waddling, impossible turtle!A low-minded, grass-eating turtle!A highly improbable turtle!"Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the groundAnd never more looked at the lasses;And falling asleep, while indulging his grief,Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz,—The peripatetic Agassiz!The turtle-dissecting Agassiz!The illustrious, industrious Agassiz!Go with me to Cambridge some cool, pleasant day,And the skeleton lover I'll show you;He's in a hard case, but he'll look in your face,Pretending (the rogue!) he don't know you!Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle!The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle!Thegreenbut a verymockturtle!
James Thomas Fields.
What makes you comeherefer, Mister,So much toourhouse?—Say?Come to see our big sister!—An' Charley he says 'at you kissed herAn' he ketched you, thuther day!—Didn' you, Charley?—But we p'omised BelleAnd crossed our heart to never to tell—'Causeshegived us some o' them-erChawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!Charley he's my little b'uther—An' we has a-mostest fun,Don't we, Charley?—Our Muther,Whenever we whips one-anuther,Tries to whipus—an' werun—Don't we, Charley?—An' nen, bime-by,Nen she gives us cake—an' pie—Don't she, Charley?—when we come inAn' p'omise never to do it agin!He'snamed Charley.—I'mWillie—An' I'm got the purtiest name!But Uncle Bobhecalls me "Billy"—Don't he, Charley?—'Nour fillyWe named "Billy," the sameIst like me! An' our Ma said'At "Bob put foolishnuss into our head!"—Didn' she, Charley?—An'shedon't knowMuch aboutboys!—'Cause Bob said so!Baby's a funniest feller!Naint no hair on his head—Isthey, Charley? It's mellerWite up there! An' ef Belle erUs ask wuzwethat way, Ma said,—"Yes; an' yerPa'shead wuz soft as that,An' it's that way yet!"—An' Pa grabs his hatAn' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa—'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn'Ketch nothin 'at all but ist'bows!'"An'Pasays 'at "you're soft as puddun!"—AnUncle Bobsays "you're a good-un—'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"—Didn' he, Charley? And when Belle'll playIn the poller on th' pianer, some day,Bob makes up funny songs about you,Till she gits mad—like he wants her to!Our sisterFanny, she's'levenYears old. 'At's mucher 'anI—Ain't it, Charley?... I'm seven!—But our sister Fanny's inHeaven!Nere's where you go ef you die!—Don't you, Charley? Nen you haswings—Ist like Fanny!—an'purtiest things!—Don't you, Charley? An' nen you canfly—Ist fly—an'ever'thing!... WishtI'ddie!
James Whitcomb Riley.
There was a little girl,And she had a little curlRight in the middle of her forehead.When she was goodShe was very, very good,And when she was bad she was horrid.One day she went upstairs,When her parents, unawares,In the kitchen were occupied with mealsAnd she stood upon her headIn her little trundle-bed,And then began hooraying with her heels.Her mother heard the noise,And she thought it was the boysA-playing at a combat in the attic;But when she climbed the stair,And found Jemima there,She took and she did spank her most emphatic.
Unknown.
There was a cruel darkey boy,Who sat upon the shore,A catching little fishes byThe dozen and the score.And as they squirmed and wriggled there,He shouted loud with glee,"You surely cannot want to live,You're little-er dan me."Just then with a malicious leer,And a capacious smile,Before him from the water deepThere rose a crocodile.He eyed the little darkey boy,Then heaved a blubbering sigh,And said, "You cannot want to live,You're little-er than I."The fishes squirm and wriggle still,Beside that sandy shore,The cruel little darkey boy,Was never heard of more.
Unknown.
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe,—Sailed on a river of misty lightInto a sea of dew."Where are you going, and what do you wish?"The old moon asked the three."We have come to fish for the herring-fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we,"Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.The old moon laughed and sung a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe;And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew;The little stars were the herring-fishThat lived in the beautiful sea."Now cast your nets wherever you wish,But never afeard are we!"So cried the stars to the fishermen three,Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.All night long their nets they threwFor the fish in the twinkling foam,Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home;'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemedAs if it could not be;And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea;But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one's trundle-bed;So shut your eyes while Mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock on the misty seaWhere the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
Eugene Field.
In an ocean, 'way out yonder(As all sapient people know),Is the land of Wonder-Wander,Whither children love to go;It's their playing, romping, swinging,That give great joy to meWhile the Dinkey-Bird goes singingIn the Amfalula-tree!There the gum-drops grow like cherries,And taffy's thick as peas,—Caramels you pick like berriesWhen, and where, and how you pleaseBig red sugar-plums are clingingTo the cliffs beside that seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-tree.So when children shout and scamperAnd make merry all the day,When there's naught to put a damperTo the ardor of their play;When I hear their laughter ringing,Then I'm sure as sure can beThat the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-tree.For the Dinkey-Bird's bravurasAnd staccatos are so sweet—His roulades, appogiaturas,And robustos so complete,That the youth of every nation—Be they near or far away—Have especial delectationIn that gladsome roundelay.Their eyes grow bright and brighter,Their lungs begin to crow,Their hearts get light and lighter,And their cheeks are all aglow;For an echo cometh bringingThe news to all and meThat the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-tree.I'm sure you'd like to go thereTo see your feathered friend—And so many goodies grow thereYou would like to comprehend!Speed, little dreams, your wingingTo that land across the seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-Tree!
Eugene Field.
A little peach in the orchard grew,A little peach of emerald hue:Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew,It grew.One day, walking the orchard through,That little peach dawned on the viewOf Johnny Jones and his sister Sue—Those two.Up at the peach a club they threw:Down from the limb on which it grew,Fell the little peach of emerald hue—Too true!John took a bite, and Sue took a chew,And then the trouble began to brew,—Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue,—Paregoric too.Under the turf where the daisies grew,They planted John and his sister Sue;And their little souls to the angels flew—Boo-hoo!But what of the peach of emerald hue,Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?Ah, well! its mission on earth is through—Adieu!
Eugene Field.
With chocolate-cream that you buy in the cakeLarge mouthfuls and hurry are quite a mistake.Wise persons prolong it as long as they canBut putting in practice this excellent plan.The cream from the chocolate lining they digWith a Runaway match or a clean little twig.Many hundreds,—nay, thousands—of scoopings they makeBefore they've exhausted a twopenny cake.With ices 'tis equally wrongful to haste;You ought to go slowly and dwell on each taste.Large mouthfuls are painful, as well as unwise,For they lead to an ache at the back of the eyes.And the delicate sip is e'en better, one finds,If the ice is a mixture of different kinds.
Unknown.
Sleep, my own darling,By, baby, by;Mother is with thee,By, baby, by.There, baby. (Oh, how the wild winds wail!)Hush, baby. (Turning to sleet and hail;Ah, how the pine-tree moans and mutters!—I wonder if Ellen will think of the shutters?)Sleep, my own darling,By, baby, by;Mother is with thee,By, baby, by.Rest thee. (She couldn't have left the blowerDown in the parlor? There's so much to show her!)By-by, my sweetest. (Now the rain's pouring!Is it wind or the dining-room fire that's roaring?)Sleep, my own darling,By, baby, by;Mother is with thee,By, baby, by.How lovely his forehead!—my own blessed pet!He's nearly asleep. (Now I mustn't forgetThat pork in the brine, and the stair-rods to-morrow.)Heaven shield him forever from trouble and sorrow!Sleep, my own darling,By, baby, by;Mother is with thee,By, baby, by.Those dear little ringlets, so silky and bright!(I do hope the muffins will be nice and light.)How lovely he is! (Yes, she said she could fry.)Oh, what would I do if my baby should die!Sleep, my own darling,By, baby, by;Mother is with thee,By, baby, by.That sweet little hand, and the soft, dimpled cheek!Sleep, darling. (I'll have his clothes shortened this week.How tightly he's holding my dress; I'm afraidHe'll wake when I move. There! his bed isn't made!)Sleep, my own darling,By, baby, by;In thy soft cradlePeacefully lie.(He's settled at last. But I can't leave him so,Though I ought to be going this instant, I know.There's everything standing and waiting down-stairs.Ah me, but a mother is cumbered with cares!)
Mary Mapes Dodge.
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
Onc't there was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs—
An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!
An' the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,—
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
James Whitcomb Riley.
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave a luster of mid-day to objects below,When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,With a little old driver, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;"Now,Dasher! now,Dancer! now,PrancerandVixen!On,Comet! on,Cupid! on,DunderandBlitzen!To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too.And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head, and was turning around,Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.His eyes—how they twinkled!—his dimples how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;He had a broad face and a round little belly,That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Clement Clarke Moore.
Oh! listen, little children, to a proper little song
Of a naughty little urchin who was always doing wrong:
He disobey'd his mammy, and he disobey'd his dad,
And he disobey'd his uncle, which was very near as bad.
He wouldn't learn to cipher, and he wouldn't learn to write,
But hewouldtear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite;
And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way,
That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.
At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive
To cure him of a theory that two and two made five
And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked whims
By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns.
Instead of all such pretty books, (whichmustimprove the mind,)
He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind;
Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly,
And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when nobody was by.
From such a course of reading you can easily divine
The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine.
His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse,
Till it scandalised his governess and horrified his nurse.
He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear,
And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near:
He talked of Reigate Junction and of trains both up and down,
And referr'd to men who call'd themselves Jones, Robinson, and Brown.
But when this naughty boy grew up he found the proverb true,
That Fate one day makes people pay for all the wrong they do.
He was cheated out of money by a man whose name was Brown,
And got crippled in a railway smash while coming up to town.
So, little boys and little girls, take warning while you can,
And profit by the history of this unhappy man.
Read Dr. Watts and Pinnock, dears; and when you learn to spell,
Shun Railway Guides, Directories, and Almanacks as well!
Henry S. Leigh.
The chill November day was done,The working world home faring;The wind came roaring through the streetsAnd set the gas-lights flaring;And hopelessly and aimlesslyThe scared old leaves were flying;When, mingled with the sighing wind,I heard a small voice crying.And shivering on the corner stoodA child of four, or over;No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,And wind blown curls to cover.Her dimpled face was stained with tears;Her round blue eyes ran over;She cherished in her wee, cold hand,A bunch of faded clover.And one hand round her treasure whileShe slipped in mine the other:Half scared, half confidential, said,"Oh! please, I want my mother!""Tell me your street and number, pet:Don't cry, I'll take you to it."Sobbing she answered, "I forget:The organ made me do it."He came and played at Milly's steps,The monkey took the money;And so I followed down the street,The monkey was so funny.I've walked about a hundred hours,From one street to another:The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers,Oh! please, I want my mother.""But what's your mother's name? and whatThe street? Now think a minute.""My mother's name is mamma dear—The street—I can't begin it.""But what is strange about the house,Or new—not like the others?""I guess you mean my trundle-bed,Mine and my little brother's."Oh dear! I ought to be at homeTo help him say his prayers,—He's such a baby he forgets;And we are both such players;—And there's a bar to keep us bothFrom pitching on each other,For Harry rolls when he's asleep:Oh dear! I want my mother."The sky grew stormy; people passedAll muffled, homeward faring:"You'll have to spend the night with me,"I said at last, despairing,I tied a kerchief round her neck—"What ribbon's this, my blossom?""Why don't you know!" she smiling, said,And drew it from her bosom.A card with number, street, and name;My eyes astonished met it;"For," said the little one, "you seeI might sometimes forget it:And so I wear a little thingThat tells you all about it;For mother says she's very sureI should get lost without it."
Eliza Sproat Turner.
I haf von funny leedle poy,Vot comes schust to mine knee;Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,As efer you dit see.He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dingsIn all barts off der house:But vot off dot? He vas mine son,Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.He get der measles und der mumbsAnd eferyding dot's oudt;He sbills mine glass off lager bier,Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese—Dot vas der roughest chouse;I'd dake dot vrom no oder poyBut leedle Yawcob Strauss.He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,Und cuts mine cane in dwo,To make der schticks to beat it mit—Mine cracious, dot vas drue!I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,He kicks oup sooch a touse:But nefer mind; der poys vas fewLike dot young Yawcob Strauss.He asks me questions sooch as dese:Who baints mine nose so red?Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudtVrom der hair ubon mine hed?Und vere dere plaze goes vrom her lampVene'er der glim I douse.How gan I all dose dings eggsblainTo dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?I somedimes dink I schall go vildMit sooch a grazy poy,Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,Und beaceful dimes enshoy;But ven he vas aschleep in pedSo guiet as a mouse,I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding,But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."
Charles Follen Adams.
Thou happy, happy elf!(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—Thou tiny image of myself!(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)Thou merry, laughing sprite!With spirits feather-light,Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin—(Good Heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)Thou little tricksy Puck!With antic toys so funnily bestuck,Light as the singing bird that wings the air—(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)Thou darling of thy sire!(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)Thou imp of mirth and joy!In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!There goes my ink!)Thou cherub—but of earth;Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,In harmless sport and mirth,(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)Thou human humming-bee, extracting honeyFrom every blossom in the world that blows,Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny,(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)Thy father's pride and hope!(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint—(Wheredidhe learn that squint?)Thou young domestic dove!(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!(Are those torn clothes his best?)Little epitome of man!(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life(He's got a knife!)Thou enviable being!No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,Play on, play on,My elfin John!Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,With many a lamb-like frisk,(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)Thou pretty opening rose!(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)Balmy and breathing music like the South,(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—(I wish that window had an iron bar!)Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—(I'll tell you what, my love,I cannot write unless he's sent above!)
Thomas Hood.
Why is it the children don't love meAs they do Mamma?That they put her ever above me—"Little Mamma?"I'm sure I do all that I can do,What more can a rather big man do,Who can't be Mamma—Little Mamma?Any game that the tyrants suggest,"Logomachy,"—which I detest,—Doll-babies, hop-scotch, or baseball,I'm always on hand at the call.When Noah and the others embark,I'm the elephant saved in the ark.I creep, and I climb, and I crawl—By turns am the animals all.For the show on the stairI'm always the bear,Chimpanzee, camel, or kangaroo.It is never, "Mamma,—LittleMamma,—Won'tyou?"My umbrella's the pony, if any—None ride on Mamma's parasol:I'm supposed to have always the pennyFor bonbons, and beggars, and all.My room is the one where they clatter—Am I reading, or writing, what matter!My knee is the one for a trot,My foot is the stirrup for Dot.If his fractions get into a snarlWho straightens the tangles for Karl?Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine,And tries to bound flimsy old Spain?Why,It isI,Papa,—Not Little Mamma!That the youngsters are ingrates don't say.I think they love me—in a way—As one does the old clock on the stair,—Any curious, cumbrous affairThat one's used to having about,And would feel rather lonely without.I think that they love me, I say,In a sort of a tolerant way;But it's plain that PapaIsn't Little Mamma.Thus when twilight comes stealing anear,When things in the firelight look queer;And shadows the playroom enwrap,They never climb into my lapAnd toy withmyhead, smooth and bare,As they do with Mamma's shining hair;Nor feel round my throat and my chinFor dimples to put fingers in;Nor lock my neck in a loving vise,And say they're "mousies"—that's mice—And will nibble my ears,Will nibble and biteWith their little mice-teeth, so sharp and so white,If I do not kiss them this very minute—Don't-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it—Dear little Papa!That's what they say and do to Mamma.If, mildly hinting, I quietly say thatKissing's a game that more can play at,They turn up at once those innocent eyes,And I suddenly learn to my great surpriseThat my face has "prickles"—My moustache tickles.If, storming their camp, I seize a pert shaver,And take as a right what was asked as a favor,It is, "Oh, Papa,How horrid you are—You taste exactly like a cigar!"But though the rebels protest and pout,And make a pretence of driving me out,I hold, after all, the main redoubt,—Not by force of arms nor the force of will,But the power of love, which is mightier still.And very deep in their hearts, I know,Under the saucy and petulant "Oh,"The doubtful "Yes," or the naughty "No,"They love Papa.And down in the heart that no one sees,Where I hold my feasts and my jubilees,I know that I would not abate one jotOf the love that is held by my little DotOr my great big boy for their little Mamma,Though out in the cold it crowded Papa.I would not abate it the tiniest whit,And I am not jealous the least little bit;For I'll tell you a secret: Come, my dears,And I'll whisper it—right-into-your-ears—I, too, love Mamma,Little Mamma!
Charles Henry Webb.
There was a child, as I have been told,Who when she was young didn't look very old.Another thing, too, some people have said,At the top of her body there grew out a head;And what perhaps might make some people stareHer little bald pate was all covered with hair.Another strange thing which made gossipers talk,Was that she often attempted to walk.And then, do you know, she occasioned much funBy moving so fast as sometimes to run.Nay, indeed, I have heard that some people sayShe often would smile and often would play.And what is a fact, though it seems very odd,She had monstrous dislike to the feel of a rod.This strange little child sometimes hungry would beAnd then she delighted her victuals to see.Even drink she would swallow, and though strange it appearsWhenever she listened it was with her ears.With her eyes she could see, and strange to relateHer peepers were placed in front of her pate.There, too, was her mouth and also her nose,And on her two feet were placed her ten toes.Her teeth, I've been told, were fixed in her gums,And beside having fingers she also had thumbs.A droll child she therefore most surely must be,For not being blind she was able to see.One circumstance more had slipped from my mindWhich is when not cross she always was kind.And, strangest of any that yet I have said,She every night went to sleep on her bed.And, what may occasion you no small surprise,When napping, she always shut close up her eyes.
M. Pelham.
"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy,"Pomegrantes pink," says Elaine;"A junket of cream and a cranberry tartFor me," says Jane."Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy,"Primroses pale," says Elaine;"A nosegay of pinks and mignonetteFor me," says Jane."Chariots of gold," says Timothy,"Silvery wings," says Elaine;"A bumpety ride in a waggon of hayFor me," says Jane.
Walter Ramal.
I never saw a Purple Cow,I never hope to see one;But I can tell you, anyhow,I'd rather see than be one.
Gelett Burgess.
There was a young lady of NigerWho smiled as she rode on a Tiger;They came back from the rideWith the lady inside,And the smile on the face of the Tiger.
Unknown.
To see the Kaiser's epitaphWould make a weeping willow laugh.
Oliver Herford.
Said Opie Read to E. P. Roe,"How do you like Gaboriau?""I like him very much indeed!"Said E. P. Roe to Opie Read.
Julian StreetandJames Montgomery Flagg.
Oh, dewy was the morning, upon the first of May,And Dewey was the admiral, down in Manila Bay;And dewy were the Regent's eyes, them royal orbs of blue,And do we feel discouraged? We do not think we do!
Eugene F. Ware.
I come from good old Boston,The home of the bean and the cod;Where the Cabots speak only to Lowells,And the Lowells speak only to God!
Dr. Samuel G. Bushnell.
Here's to the town of New Haven,The home of the truth and the light;Where God speaks to Jones in the very same tones,That he uses with Hadley and Dwight!
Dean Jones.
"The Herring he loves the merry moonlightAnd the Mackerel loves the wind,But the Oyster loves the dredging songFor he comes of a gentler kind."
Sir Walter Scott.
If the man who turnips cries,Cry not when his father dies,'Tis a proof that he had ratherHave a turnip than his father.
Samuel Johnson.
There wanst was two cats of Kilkenny,Each thought there was one cat too many,So they quarrell'd and fit,They scratch'd and they bit,Till, barrin' their nails,And the tips of their tails,Instead of two cats, there warnt any.
Unknown.
What is the matter with Grandpapa?What can the matter be?He's broken his leg in trying to spellTommy without a T.
D'Arcy W. Thompson.
Whene'er I take my walks abroad,How many rich I see;There's A. and B. and C. and D.All better off than me!
Richard Harris Barham.
The cat is in the parlour,The dog is in the lake;The cow is in the hammock,—What difference does it make?
"Bon jour, Madame Sans Souci;Combien coûtent ces soucis ci?""Six sous." "Six sous ces soucis ci!C'est trop cher, Madame Sans Souci!"
The man in the wilderness asked of meHow many strawberries grew in the sea.I answered him as I thought good,As many as red herrings grow in the wood.
If all the land were apple-pie,And all the sea were ink;And all the trees were bread and cheese,What should we do for drink?