geminiGeminiA green-thatched cottage was May’s sweet homeWith velvet moss for a floor,And a clambering vine in the gay sunshine,And a Maypole set by the door.And May herself, with a dimple and curl,Dressed in a flouncy gown,Was filling baskets—the prettiest girlIn all of Zodiac Town!And May herselfAnd May herself, with a dimple and curlThe Journeying Man swept off his green hat when he caught sight of May.“I knew you’d be here,” he said. “May I tell my two young companions how the joyful animals welcomed you when you came?”May smiled at Amos and Ann. “How did you know?” she asked J. M.“I saw it all,” was the answer. “I was passing through the wood one day—”The Journeying Man was interrupted here by a clock striking ten, and so he was obliged to dash into rhyme:—“One day the cheery wood-folk heardA robin tell another birdA piece of news, a joyful wordRepeated often over.‘Oho,’ said they, ‘we’ll plan a wayTo welcome back our pretty May.We’ll have a celebration dayTo show her how we love her.’“Professor Bear should speak, they planned,With Dr. Fox upon the stand;The bird quintette from MaplevilleWould sing its loveliest;And Mr. Owl, the baritone,Should give selections of his own;And all the rabbit girls and boysShould wear their very best.“The day was fair with balmy air,And banners waving everywhere;The woolliest lamb, all curled and frilled,Was sent to meet the guest;And even little rats and things,And creatures that had only wings,Were given tiny parts to play,And waited with the rest.“Then, tripping light and skipping lightAnd laughing clear, a happy sight,And flinging flowers left and right,Came merry, merry May.‘Oh, welcome, welcome home!’ they cried;The banners dipped on every side.She curtsied low, ‘Just think,’ she said,‘I have a month to stay!’”May looked as pleased as Amos and Ann when the rhyme was finished.“It’s every word true,” she said. “And here’ssome more news that the little bird told—if you’d like to hear it:—“Miss Butterfly sent word one day to all the garden peopleThat she would give a social tea beneath the hollyhock.A robin read the message from a slender pine-tree steeple—A note that begged them sweetly to be there by six o’clock.They came a-wing, they came a-foot, they came from flower and thicket;Miss Hummingbird was present in a coat and bonnet gay,And portly Mr. Bumblebee and cheerful Mr. Cricket,And tiny Mrs. Ladybug in polka-dot array.There were seats for four-and-twenty, and the guest of honor thereWas a gray Granddaddy-long-legs in a little mushroom chair.“The table was a toadstool with a spider-woven cover;The fare was served in rose-leaf plates and bluebell cups a-ring—Sweet honey from the latest bloom, and last night’s dew left over,And a crumb of mortal cake for which an ant went pilfering.A mockingbird within the hedge sang loudly for their revel;A lily swayed above them, slow, to keep the moths away;So they laughed and buzzed and chattered till the shadows lengthened level,And Miss Katydid said sadly that she must no longer stay.Then all arose and shook their wings, and curtsied, every one,‘Good-night, good-bye, Miss Butterfly, we never had such fun.’”Little Ann looked wistful when she heard all the butterfly tale.“I do wish I might go to a party like that,” she said.Amos reflected. “I don’t know but what I’d be afraid of stepping on the guests,” he remarked.“That’s true,” Ann agreed. “Just think how it would seem to have Miss Butterfly say to you, ‘Oh, you’ve crushed Mrs. Ant,’ or ‘Excuse me, but you seem to be sitting on Colonel Grasshopper, Sir.’”“Tell you whatIwish,” Amos went on. “I wish—Oh, there goes a clock—I wish—I wish—“I wish, when summer’s drawing near about the end of May,With bees and birds and other things, that teacher’d teach this way:“‘Bound Pine Wood north and south and east, and all the way around;Tell where the sassafras bushes grow, and where wild flags are found;“‘How far from Huckleberry Hill to Sandy-Bottom Creek?How many cherries at a time can a boy hold in his cheek?“‘Suppose three fish were in a pond, three fishers close at hand,Each fisher with a hook and line—how many would they land?“‘What is the shortest cut to where the buttercups are yellow?How many fortnights does it take to turn May apples mellow?“‘Two pickers in a berry patch—when they had picked all day,How many quarts, inside and out, would those two take away?“‘If twenty boys turned loose and ran from here in front of school,How many seconds would they take to reach the swimming-pool?’“And then I wish the teacher’d say, ‘Well, if you can’t remember,Go find the answers,right away, and tell me in September!’”JUNEVIJUNEcancerCancerThe June house wasn’t a house at all,But a level and leafy place,Where a gypsy scamp had pitched his camp—A gypsy merry of face.He welcomed J. M. and Amos and Ann,And gave them some savory stew,Piping hot from a big black pot—And all of them ate it, too!The June houseThe June house wasn’t a house at allIt was so cool and delightful at the June house that at first the travelers didn’t have much to say—they simply sat and rested and looked around. But presently Ann began to feel lively again.“No clocks here, anyway!” she exclaimed.The gypsy rolled his black eyes. He had a clock, he said, but it ran too fast. “In fact it ran down,” he added.“Where is it?” asked little Ann.“How can I tell?” returned the gypsy chap. “It ran down, you know—down into the woods. And since it runs so fast, I didn’t even try to overtake it.”“But a clock has no feet,” cried Amos.“It has hands, though,” retorted the gypsy. “Will you deny that?”Then he pointed his funny brown finger at Ann. “You can make a rhyme without a clock striking, you know,” he said. “Make one, this minute, Miss.”Ann was alarmed. “What shall I make it about?” she said in a flustered voice.“Anything,” the gypsy answered. “Hats will do.”“Hats?” echoed Ann. “However in the world can I make a poem about hats?”But all at once she did begin to make one; it ran along as smoothly as A B C.“If hats were made of flowers,I think my party bonnetWould be a satin tulipWith a touch of green upon it.“I’d wear for fun and frolicA crinkled daffodil,With a crown quite comfortableAnd a flaring yellow frill.“I’d choose for church a beauty:The sweetest flower that growsWould be my Sunday bonnet—A soft, pink, ruffled rose.“A daisy crisp and snowyWould be the choice for school;A fresh hat every morning,With scallops starched and cool.“For picnics and for ramblesA polished buttercup.If hats were made of flowers,How people would dress up!”Just as Ann said the last word of her poem, an inquisitive thousand-leg worm scuttled along the ground about a yard away, and she almost turned a summersault.“He wouldn’t think of hurting you,” said the gypsy chap. “Speaking of hats, little Ann—did you ever hear the tale of the centipede lady and her shoes?”Then he told it.“Little Miss CentipedeWent out to shop,And at Shoofly & Company’sMade her first stop.Mr. Shoofly came forward,All beaming and gay:‘And what can I do for you,Madam, to-day?’He bowed and he beckoned;He showed her a seat;But the poor clerks turned paleWhen she put out her feet.‘How many?’ they faltered.‘As many as these,’She replied very sweetly,‘And hurry up, please.’“So they hurried and scurried,The ten Shoofly clerks,All hustling togetherAnd working like Turks.They cleared all the counters;They emptied the shelves;They made, in their haste,Perfect slaves of themselves.They laced and they buttoned,They pushed and they squeezed,Miss Centipede watching,Quite placid and pleased;They used a short ladderTo fit her top feet,And never drew breathTill the job was complete.“And here’s what they sold her—Now count if you choose:A pair of cloth gaiters,A pair of tan shoes,A pair of black pumps,And a pair of tan ties,Two pairs of galoshesAnd boots, ladies’ size;Five pairs of silk slippersFor thin evening wear—Rose, green, red, and buff,And a rich purple pair;And soft bedroom slippersOf crimson and gray;And a pair of bootees,By red tassels made gay;“And five sets of sandals,Two basket-ball shoes,And two pairs for lounging—Pale pinks and pale blues;And six pairs for walking,And six pairs for snow,And six pairs to hunt in—Though what, I don’t know;And two pairs of goatskin,And two pairs of duck,And four pairs of kid—And on all of them stuckThe daintiest rubbers.Indeed, she looked sweet,Miss Centipede did,As she tripped down the street!”By this time they had finished their stew. The Journeying Man rose and picked up his staff. “That was good soup,” he said.The gypsy looked gratified. “Maybe,” heanswered, “it had some of Contrary Mary’s truck in it, and maybe it didn’t. I’m not saying as to that.”Amos and Ann were filled with curiosity. They wanted to know what “Contrary Mary’s truck” might be.“You tell them,” the gypsy said to the Journeying Man. And J. M. did.“You ask why Mary was called contrary?Well, this is why, my dear:She planted the most outlandish thingsIn her garden every year;She was always sowing the queerest seed,And when advised to stop,Her answer was merely, ‘No, indeed—Just wait till you see the crop!’“And here are some of the crops, my child(Although not nearly all):Bananarcissus and cucumberries,And violettuce small;Potatomatoes, melonions rare,And rhubarberries round,With porcupineapples prickly-roughOn a little bush close to the ground.“She gathered the stuff in mid-JulyAnd sent it away to sell—And now you’ll see how she earned her name,And how she earned it well.Were the crops hauled off in a farmer’s cart?No, not by any means,But in little June-buggies and automobeetlesAnd dragonflying-machines!”JULYVIIJULYleoLeoThe July house was an old, old house,With an old, old man inside,Who told them stories of other days,Stories of pluck and pride.His beard was long and his hair was white,But his keen eyes were not dim,As he told them things that old, old menHad long ago told him.The July houseThe July house was an old, old house,With an old, old man insideAt first Amos and Ann stood a little in awe of the old man in the July house; but he looked so jolly and friendly, and J. M. seemed to know him so well, that they were soon set at ease.Little Ann made bold to ask him a question. “Do you remember the American Revolution?” she said.“My sakes alive, Ann!” cried Amos, a good deal embarrassed.But the old man did not seem at all offended. “Well,” he answered slowly, “I can tell you this much about it:“The little boys of ’76—They did their chores and swam and fished,And hunted hares and whittled sticks,While all the time they wished and wishedTo hear a sudden summons come,Each waiting day, each listening night:‘We need the boys for flag and drum,So send them to the fight!’“The little girls of ’76—They rocked their dollies to and fro,And taught the kittens pretty tricks,And heard their mothers talking low;Then climbed into the hayloft high,They peered through every glimmering crack,And longed to raise a joyful cry:‘The men are marching back!’”Amos was inclined to think that maybe Ann’s question hadn’t been such a foolish one, after all.“Perhaps,” he ventured, “you knew my great-great-great-grandfather. Can you tell me anything about him, sir?”“I can tell you this,” the old man said:—“Your great-great-great-grandfatherWas a little chap like you,When suddenly one summerBugles of battle blew,And bells rang in the towers,And flags at windows flew.“He heard the tramp of horsesAnd the fall of marching feet;He saw a dust on the hill road,Regiments in the street,While men were thick in the highwayAnd drums in the market beat.“He watched how the townsfolk hurriedEagerly to and fro;He heard the voice of his mother,Quiet and brave and low;And he saw his father shoulderA queer old gun and go.“Your great-great-great-grandfather,Sturdy and strong like you,Glad of the blowing bugles,Proud of the flags that flew,Was glad and proud as you, lad—Son of a soldier, too!”“Why, Iamthe son of a soldier!” Amos cried, delighted. “Though I don’t know how you found it out, to be sure.”“Now, Amos,” the Journeying Man put in, “it’s only fair that you should give us your poem about a band.”Amos turned red. “My poem about a band!” he echoed. “I don’t know any poem about a band.”“One—two—three,” chimed an old grandfather clock on the stairs; and all at once the little boy, much to his astonishment, began to recite. This is what he recited:—“A band is such a brave, bright thing,With tassels tossed, and burnished brass,And music quick and fluttering—I love to see one pass.“Sometimes it sounds for turning wheels,—A circus coming into town,—And then the tune gets in my heelsAnd shakes them up and down.“Sometimes it sounds for marching men,With cry of bugles in the street,And fair flags blowing free—and thenI cannot hold my feet.“I follow, follow on and on;I let it lead me where it will;And when the last clear notes are gone,Somehow I hear them still.”The old man was plainly pleased with the verses; he told Amos that little boys had always felt that way about bands, and probably always would.“Wait a moment,” he said, as the Journeying Man made the move to go. “Did the June fellow tell them the story of Contrary Mary?”“Yes, he did,” the children answered in duet. “And oh, wasn’t she curious, sure enough?”“Well, she had a right to be queer,” the old man said meditatively. “She inherited queerness. Fact of the matter is, her family name was Queeribus. Let me tell you abouthergreat-great-great-grandfather!“Old Quin Queeribus—He loved his garden so,He wouldn’t have a rake around,A shovel or a hoe.“For each potato’s eyes he boughtFine spectacles of gold,And mufflers for the corn, to keepIts ears from getting cold.“On every head of lettuce green—What do you think of that?—And every head of cabbage, too,He tied a garden hat.“Old Quin Queeribus—He loved his garden so,He couldn’t eat his growing things,He only let them grow!”AUGUSTVIIIAUGUSTvirgoVirgoOh, such a funny August house—It really was like a zoo,For animals roamed in all the rooms(Even a kangaroo);Such sociable, smiling, friendly beasts!As soon as the travelers came,They hurried out with extended paws,Announcing, each, his name.a funny August houseOh, such a funny August house—It really was like a zoo“Why, how in the world did they learn to talk?” the young visitors cried. “Did they go to school, J. M.?”By that time the various animals, having performed their duties as hosts, had scampered off to play again, and so they were out of hearing.“Did they go to school?” the children repeated.The Journeying Man shook his head and made answer:—“The birds and beasts don’t go to school;I guess ’t would make them mad to;They wouldn’t pass an hour in class.But just suppose they had to!How funny it would be to seeThe desks all full of scholars,With fins and claws and hoofs and paws,Skin coats and brown fur collars!“How strange ’t would seem to happen byAnd hear the teacher saying,‘The kitty-cat geographyMust be kept in from playing;And once again I tell you plainThat I shall give a rappingTo the very next first-reader owlThat I discover napping.’“The crabs would write in copy-books,Such crawly, scrawly letters;The bees would have a spelling-beeAnd buzz among their betters;And monkeys chatter French and squeakIn Greek the live-long day,To scare the class of infant lambs,Who only know B-A.“They’d send giraffes up to the boardTo figure slowly, each,Problems in higher branchesThat they could never reach.And here and there and everywhere,No matter who played fool,They’d straightway clap a paper capUpon the youngest mule.“A looker-on might feel, perhaps,A little consternation,To see the bear philosophyArise for recitation;And pupils all, and teacher, too,Would pale a bit, perchance,When the elephants came up to doTheir calisthenics dance!”“But,” Amos persisted, “if they don’t go to school, then how on earth did they learn how to talk?”“I taught them, to be sure,” said a hoarse voice overhead.The children looked up, startled, and were astonished to see that the voice came, apparently, from a long-tailed green parrot, with a hooked beak and round, solemn eyes.“They come from all parts of the world,” the parrot resumed, “for me to teach them. Of course, you needn’t call it a school if you don’t want to.”He whistled shrilly, and the birds and beasts came scampering back and stood round in a respectful circle. The children tried to talk to them, but they looked bashful and would not say a word.“Perhaps they’d like to hear some rhymes,” J. M. suggested. “Go ahead, Amos and Ann.”“Mystars!” said Ann, and Amos added: “How in the world can I start off quite suddenly—”Just then a cuckoo rushed out from a clock somewhere and cuckooed eleven times, and the twelfth time Amos said:—“Quite suddenly, a speckled troutDown in the swift, clear riverBegan to bustle all about,His fishy chin a-quiver.“He raised so big a foam and fussThe fishes all assembled.Why, at a hippopotamusHe’d scarcely so have trembled!“‘What ails you?’ asked a brother trout.‘What’s wrong?’ inquired a minnow.‘Alas! We’re all invited out,’He shivered, ‘to a dinner!’“They cried, ‘Why, that’s a jolly plan!Who asked us out to dine?’‘Oh!’ sobbed the trout, ‘a fisherman,He just dropped me a line!’”When the poem was finished, the parrot cried, “Hear! Hear!” and clapped his wings excitedly, and a little raccoon laughed so loud that he had to be sent away in disgrace.“Now, Ann,” said J. M., “give us a poem about your cat.”“Not a wild cat, I hope,” put in the parrot hastily. “That kind of a cat has such bad manners—far, far worse than the raccoon’s—that it is not allowed round here at all. If it’s a polite kind of a cat, go on, Miss; not otherwise.”Little Ann was very red in the face. “But I can’t go on,” she said. She intended to say also, “There’s nothing to go on with,” but just as she said “There’s,” a little nickel clock called five very clearly, and she remarked, instead:—“There’s the snow-white cat, the pearl-gray cat,The brindle and the brown,The cat with stripes around himself,The cat striped up and down,The plaid cat and the buff cat,The tan, the tortoise-shell,The bluish sort, the reddish sort—More tints than I can tell.But the finest of the whole fine lot(There’s no disputing that)Is the jet-black chap with one white spot—And that’s our kind of cat.“The tiny cat is cunning,The long, lean cat is fleet,The nimble one is made for fun,The fluff-ball one is sweet,The Persian pussy’s splendid,The Maltese kitty, too,But the special kind I have in mindIs best of all the crew.He’s not too quick and frisky,Nor is he slow and fat;He’s soft and warm and fits my arm,And he’s our kind of cat!”Ann’s recitation was well received. The parrot said he was very familiar with the kitty kind of cat—in fact, had instructed a good many of them.Amos remarked that, with so many beasts coming to learn, the place would soon be filled to overflowing.“Oh, no,” said the parrot. “The same train that brings in a crowd takes a crowd away.”“Train?” Amos repeated, his eyes round with curiosity.“To be sure—train,” the parrot answered. “You don’t mean to tell me you never heard of the Wild Beast Limited?”Then he preened his feathers with pride and chanted the song of the Wild Beast Limited.“The Wild Beast Limited pulls outWith bustle and with fuss.It’s hard to seat the porcupineAnd hippopotamus.“The ants demand a special coachIf one ant-eater goes;The dormouse wants a sleeping car;The chickens shun the crows;“The camel will not stir a pegUntil his fill he’s drunk;The elephant is loud and crossUntil he checks his trunk;“The tortoise always comes too late;The hare a day ahead.I’d hate to be the engineerOf the Wild Beast Limited.”SEPTEMBERIXSEPTEMBERlibraLibraVery familiar September seemed:A flag-pole stood in the yard,And the little path that led from the roadWas trampled bare and hard.A bell hung high in the little tower,And when the door swung wideThey saw a young woman with pen in hand,Writing away inside.September houseVery familiar September seemedThe young woman rose and came smilingly to the door. A clock somewhere inside struck nine, with quick, sharp strokes.It sounded so familiar, somehow, that the children cried in alarm, “Oh, it’s time for school!”“Not quite, for you scholars,” the teacher said. “But folks and things in there”—she nodded toward the schoolroom—“are ready and waiting.”Amos and Ann peered past her through the door, but they could see nothing except desks and seats.“I suppose Columbus has sailed, by this time,” remarked the Journeying Man.“Oh, yes,” the young woman replied. “Furthermore, the Mississippi is flowing into the Gulf of Mexico as hard as it can, and rice is growing in Japan.”The children understood, now, and they were both laughing. “Are the prepositions and adverbs in their places?” they asked.“Multiplication tables set, I suppose?” said J. M.“Certainly,” the teacher answered. “And the tables of weights and measures, too. And many things are here in addition.”“How,” asked little Ann, “do the children in Zodiac Town know when it’s time for school to open?”“Just the way the children in any other town know,” the teacher replied.“When bees and birds and butterfliesHave grown a little lazy;When flowers are rare, with here and thereA late rose or a daisy;When streams are slow, and water’s lowDown in the swimming-pool,And grass burns brown along the lane,And goldenrod is bright again—There’s something tells you just as plain,‘Time for school!’“When apples in the orchard lotAnd pears come thumping, falling;When sweet and clear, far off and near,The bobwhite’s voice is calling;When crickets trill out on the hill,And dusk comes quick and cool;When all at once, in midst of play,You can’t remember what’s the wayTo multiply—you stop and say,‘Time for school!’”A clock boomed ten with a familiar sound, and Ann and Amos jumped.“I almost thought we were an hour late for school,” Ann said.“September’s a rather funny month,” Amos remarked. “It ends so many things and it begins so many things.”“I like to come home at the end of summer,” little Ann said. Then, without waiting at all for a clock to strike she swung into a poem:—“When we travel back in summer to the old house by the sea,Where long ago my mother lived, a little girl like me,I have the strangest notion that she still is waiting there,A small child in a pinafore with ribbon on her hair.I hear her in the garden when I go to pick a rose;She follows me along the path on dancing tipsy-toes;I hear her in the hayloft when the hay is slippery-sweet—A rustle and a scurry and a sound of scampering feet;Yet though I sit as still as still, she never comes to me,The funny little laughing girl my mother used to be.“Sometimes I nearly catch her as she dodges here and there,Her white dress flutters round a tree and flashes up a stair;Sometimes I almost put my hand upon her apron strings—Then, just before my fingers close, she’s gone again like wings.A sudden laugh, a scrap of song, a footfall on the lawn,And yet, no matter how I run, forever up and gone!A fairy or a firefly could hardly flit so fast.When we come home in summer, I have given up at last.I lay my cheek on mother’s. If there’s only one for me,I’d rather have her, anyway, than the girl she used to be!”“That’s pretty good,” said Amos critically. “I like—”Before he could go on, a little crystal clock struck four. So Amos had to fall a-rhyming again. He stood on his head and illustrated the last two lines of the rhyme.“I like to have vacation,I like to camp and roam;But mostly, in a curious way,I like the coming home.“Our old house looks so solid,So settled and arranged;The front gate creaks the same old creak,The chimneys haven’t changed.“Those weeks of sea and mountainHad many valued points;But oh, this loosening of my bones,This limbering of my joints!“Our old dog comes to meet meWith something of a smile—I wheel right over on my headAnd wave my legs a while.”OCTOBERXOCTOBER
geminiGemini
A green-thatched cottage was May’s sweet homeWith velvet moss for a floor,And a clambering vine in the gay sunshine,And a Maypole set by the door.And May herself, with a dimple and curl,Dressed in a flouncy gown,Was filling baskets—the prettiest girlIn all of Zodiac Town!
And May herselfAnd May herself, with a dimple and curl
The Journeying Man swept off his green hat when he caught sight of May.
“I knew you’d be here,” he said. “May I tell my two young companions how the joyful animals welcomed you when you came?”
May smiled at Amos and Ann. “How did you know?” she asked J. M.
“I saw it all,” was the answer. “I was passing through the wood one day—”
The Journeying Man was interrupted here by a clock striking ten, and so he was obliged to dash into rhyme:—
“One day the cheery wood-folk heardA robin tell another birdA piece of news, a joyful wordRepeated often over.‘Oho,’ said they, ‘we’ll plan a wayTo welcome back our pretty May.We’ll have a celebration dayTo show her how we love her.’
“Professor Bear should speak, they planned,With Dr. Fox upon the stand;The bird quintette from MaplevilleWould sing its loveliest;And Mr. Owl, the baritone,Should give selections of his own;And all the rabbit girls and boysShould wear their very best.
“The day was fair with balmy air,And banners waving everywhere;The woolliest lamb, all curled and frilled,Was sent to meet the guest;And even little rats and things,And creatures that had only wings,Were given tiny parts to play,And waited with the rest.
“Then, tripping light and skipping lightAnd laughing clear, a happy sight,And flinging flowers left and right,Came merry, merry May.‘Oh, welcome, welcome home!’ they cried;The banners dipped on every side.She curtsied low, ‘Just think,’ she said,‘I have a month to stay!’”
May looked as pleased as Amos and Ann when the rhyme was finished.
“It’s every word true,” she said. “And here’ssome more news that the little bird told—if you’d like to hear it:—
“Miss Butterfly sent word one day to all the garden peopleThat she would give a social tea beneath the hollyhock.A robin read the message from a slender pine-tree steeple—A note that begged them sweetly to be there by six o’clock.They came a-wing, they came a-foot, they came from flower and thicket;Miss Hummingbird was present in a coat and bonnet gay,And portly Mr. Bumblebee and cheerful Mr. Cricket,And tiny Mrs. Ladybug in polka-dot array.There were seats for four-and-twenty, and the guest of honor thereWas a gray Granddaddy-long-legs in a little mushroom chair.
“The table was a toadstool with a spider-woven cover;The fare was served in rose-leaf plates and bluebell cups a-ring—Sweet honey from the latest bloom, and last night’s dew left over,And a crumb of mortal cake for which an ant went pilfering.A mockingbird within the hedge sang loudly for their revel;A lily swayed above them, slow, to keep the moths away;So they laughed and buzzed and chattered till the shadows lengthened level,And Miss Katydid said sadly that she must no longer stay.Then all arose and shook their wings, and curtsied, every one,‘Good-night, good-bye, Miss Butterfly, we never had such fun.’”
Little Ann looked wistful when she heard all the butterfly tale.
“I do wish I might go to a party like that,” she said.
Amos reflected. “I don’t know but what I’d be afraid of stepping on the guests,” he remarked.
“That’s true,” Ann agreed. “Just think how it would seem to have Miss Butterfly say to you, ‘Oh, you’ve crushed Mrs. Ant,’ or ‘Excuse me, but you seem to be sitting on Colonel Grasshopper, Sir.’”
“Tell you whatIwish,” Amos went on. “I wish—Oh, there goes a clock—I wish—I wish—
“I wish, when summer’s drawing near about the end of May,With bees and birds and other things, that teacher’d teach this way:
“‘Bound Pine Wood north and south and east, and all the way around;Tell where the sassafras bushes grow, and where wild flags are found;
“‘How far from Huckleberry Hill to Sandy-Bottom Creek?How many cherries at a time can a boy hold in his cheek?
“‘Suppose three fish were in a pond, three fishers close at hand,Each fisher with a hook and line—how many would they land?
“‘What is the shortest cut to where the buttercups are yellow?How many fortnights does it take to turn May apples mellow?
“‘Two pickers in a berry patch—when they had picked all day,How many quarts, inside and out, would those two take away?
“‘If twenty boys turned loose and ran from here in front of school,How many seconds would they take to reach the swimming-pool?’
“And then I wish the teacher’d say, ‘Well, if you can’t remember,Go find the answers,right away, and tell me in September!’”
cancerCancer
The June house wasn’t a house at all,But a level and leafy place,Where a gypsy scamp had pitched his camp—A gypsy merry of face.He welcomed J. M. and Amos and Ann,And gave them some savory stew,Piping hot from a big black pot—And all of them ate it, too!
The June houseThe June house wasn’t a house at all
It was so cool and delightful at the June house that at first the travelers didn’t have much to say—they simply sat and rested and looked around. But presently Ann began to feel lively again.
“No clocks here, anyway!” she exclaimed.
The gypsy rolled his black eyes. He had a clock, he said, but it ran too fast. “In fact it ran down,” he added.
“Where is it?” asked little Ann.
“How can I tell?” returned the gypsy chap. “It ran down, you know—down into the woods. And since it runs so fast, I didn’t even try to overtake it.”
“But a clock has no feet,” cried Amos.
“It has hands, though,” retorted the gypsy. “Will you deny that?”
Then he pointed his funny brown finger at Ann. “You can make a rhyme without a clock striking, you know,” he said. “Make one, this minute, Miss.”
Ann was alarmed. “What shall I make it about?” she said in a flustered voice.
“Anything,” the gypsy answered. “Hats will do.”
“Hats?” echoed Ann. “However in the world can I make a poem about hats?”
But all at once she did begin to make one; it ran along as smoothly as A B C.
“If hats were made of flowers,I think my party bonnetWould be a satin tulipWith a touch of green upon it.
“I’d wear for fun and frolicA crinkled daffodil,With a crown quite comfortableAnd a flaring yellow frill.
“I’d choose for church a beauty:The sweetest flower that growsWould be my Sunday bonnet—A soft, pink, ruffled rose.
“A daisy crisp and snowyWould be the choice for school;A fresh hat every morning,With scallops starched and cool.
“For picnics and for ramblesA polished buttercup.If hats were made of flowers,How people would dress up!”
Just as Ann said the last word of her poem, an inquisitive thousand-leg worm scuttled along the ground about a yard away, and she almost turned a summersault.
“He wouldn’t think of hurting you,” said the gypsy chap. “Speaking of hats, little Ann—did you ever hear the tale of the centipede lady and her shoes?”
Then he told it.
“Little Miss CentipedeWent out to shop,And at Shoofly & Company’sMade her first stop.Mr. Shoofly came forward,All beaming and gay:‘And what can I do for you,Madam, to-day?’He bowed and he beckoned;He showed her a seat;But the poor clerks turned paleWhen she put out her feet.‘How many?’ they faltered.‘As many as these,’She replied very sweetly,‘And hurry up, please.’
“So they hurried and scurried,The ten Shoofly clerks,All hustling togetherAnd working like Turks.They cleared all the counters;They emptied the shelves;They made, in their haste,Perfect slaves of themselves.They laced and they buttoned,They pushed and they squeezed,Miss Centipede watching,Quite placid and pleased;They used a short ladderTo fit her top feet,And never drew breathTill the job was complete.
“And here’s what they sold her—Now count if you choose:A pair of cloth gaiters,A pair of tan shoes,A pair of black pumps,And a pair of tan ties,Two pairs of galoshesAnd boots, ladies’ size;Five pairs of silk slippersFor thin evening wear—Rose, green, red, and buff,And a rich purple pair;And soft bedroom slippersOf crimson and gray;And a pair of bootees,By red tassels made gay;
“And five sets of sandals,Two basket-ball shoes,And two pairs for lounging—Pale pinks and pale blues;And six pairs for walking,And six pairs for snow,And six pairs to hunt in—Though what, I don’t know;And two pairs of goatskin,And two pairs of duck,And four pairs of kid—And on all of them stuckThe daintiest rubbers.Indeed, she looked sweet,Miss Centipede did,As she tripped down the street!”
By this time they had finished their stew. The Journeying Man rose and picked up his staff. “That was good soup,” he said.
The gypsy looked gratified. “Maybe,” heanswered, “it had some of Contrary Mary’s truck in it, and maybe it didn’t. I’m not saying as to that.”
Amos and Ann were filled with curiosity. They wanted to know what “Contrary Mary’s truck” might be.
“You tell them,” the gypsy said to the Journeying Man. And J. M. did.
“You ask why Mary was called contrary?Well, this is why, my dear:She planted the most outlandish thingsIn her garden every year;She was always sowing the queerest seed,And when advised to stop,Her answer was merely, ‘No, indeed—Just wait till you see the crop!’
“And here are some of the crops, my child(Although not nearly all):Bananarcissus and cucumberries,And violettuce small;Potatomatoes, melonions rare,And rhubarberries round,With porcupineapples prickly-roughOn a little bush close to the ground.
“She gathered the stuff in mid-JulyAnd sent it away to sell—And now you’ll see how she earned her name,And how she earned it well.Were the crops hauled off in a farmer’s cart?No, not by any means,But in little June-buggies and automobeetlesAnd dragonflying-machines!”
leoLeo
The July house was an old, old house,With an old, old man inside,Who told them stories of other days,Stories of pluck and pride.His beard was long and his hair was white,But his keen eyes were not dim,As he told them things that old, old menHad long ago told him.
The July house
The July house was an old, old house,With an old, old man inside
At first Amos and Ann stood a little in awe of the old man in the July house; but he looked so jolly and friendly, and J. M. seemed to know him so well, that they were soon set at ease.
Little Ann made bold to ask him a question. “Do you remember the American Revolution?” she said.
“My sakes alive, Ann!” cried Amos, a good deal embarrassed.
But the old man did not seem at all offended. “Well,” he answered slowly, “I can tell you this much about it:
“The little boys of ’76—They did their chores and swam and fished,And hunted hares and whittled sticks,While all the time they wished and wishedTo hear a sudden summons come,Each waiting day, each listening night:‘We need the boys for flag and drum,So send them to the fight!’
“The little girls of ’76—They rocked their dollies to and fro,And taught the kittens pretty tricks,And heard their mothers talking low;Then climbed into the hayloft high,They peered through every glimmering crack,And longed to raise a joyful cry:‘The men are marching back!’”
Amos was inclined to think that maybe Ann’s question hadn’t been such a foolish one, after all.
“Perhaps,” he ventured, “you knew my great-great-great-grandfather. Can you tell me anything about him, sir?”
“I can tell you this,” the old man said:—
“Your great-great-great-grandfatherWas a little chap like you,When suddenly one summerBugles of battle blew,And bells rang in the towers,And flags at windows flew.
“He heard the tramp of horsesAnd the fall of marching feet;He saw a dust on the hill road,Regiments in the street,While men were thick in the highwayAnd drums in the market beat.
“He watched how the townsfolk hurriedEagerly to and fro;He heard the voice of his mother,Quiet and brave and low;And he saw his father shoulderA queer old gun and go.
“Your great-great-great-grandfather,Sturdy and strong like you,Glad of the blowing bugles,Proud of the flags that flew,Was glad and proud as you, lad—Son of a soldier, too!”
“Why, Iamthe son of a soldier!” Amos cried, delighted. “Though I don’t know how you found it out, to be sure.”
“Now, Amos,” the Journeying Man put in, “it’s only fair that you should give us your poem about a band.”
Amos turned red. “My poem about a band!” he echoed. “I don’t know any poem about a band.”
“One—two—three,” chimed an old grandfather clock on the stairs; and all at once the little boy, much to his astonishment, began to recite. This is what he recited:—
“A band is such a brave, bright thing,With tassels tossed, and burnished brass,And music quick and fluttering—I love to see one pass.
“Sometimes it sounds for turning wheels,—A circus coming into town,—And then the tune gets in my heelsAnd shakes them up and down.
“Sometimes it sounds for marching men,With cry of bugles in the street,And fair flags blowing free—and thenI cannot hold my feet.
“I follow, follow on and on;I let it lead me where it will;And when the last clear notes are gone,Somehow I hear them still.”
The old man was plainly pleased with the verses; he told Amos that little boys had always felt that way about bands, and probably always would.
“Wait a moment,” he said, as the Journeying Man made the move to go. “Did the June fellow tell them the story of Contrary Mary?”
“Yes, he did,” the children answered in duet. “And oh, wasn’t she curious, sure enough?”
“Well, she had a right to be queer,” the old man said meditatively. “She inherited queerness. Fact of the matter is, her family name was Queeribus. Let me tell you abouthergreat-great-great-grandfather!
“Old Quin Queeribus—He loved his garden so,He wouldn’t have a rake around,A shovel or a hoe.
“For each potato’s eyes he boughtFine spectacles of gold,And mufflers for the corn, to keepIts ears from getting cold.
“On every head of lettuce green—What do you think of that?—And every head of cabbage, too,He tied a garden hat.
“Old Quin Queeribus—He loved his garden so,He couldn’t eat his growing things,He only let them grow!”
virgoVirgo
Oh, such a funny August house—It really was like a zoo,For animals roamed in all the rooms(Even a kangaroo);Such sociable, smiling, friendly beasts!As soon as the travelers came,They hurried out with extended paws,Announcing, each, his name.
a funny August house
Oh, such a funny August house—It really was like a zoo
“Why, how in the world did they learn to talk?” the young visitors cried. “Did they go to school, J. M.?”
By that time the various animals, having performed their duties as hosts, had scampered off to play again, and so they were out of hearing.
“Did they go to school?” the children repeated.
The Journeying Man shook his head and made answer:—
“The birds and beasts don’t go to school;I guess ’t would make them mad to;They wouldn’t pass an hour in class.But just suppose they had to!How funny it would be to seeThe desks all full of scholars,With fins and claws and hoofs and paws,Skin coats and brown fur collars!
“How strange ’t would seem to happen byAnd hear the teacher saying,‘The kitty-cat geographyMust be kept in from playing;And once again I tell you plainThat I shall give a rappingTo the very next first-reader owlThat I discover napping.’
“The crabs would write in copy-books,Such crawly, scrawly letters;The bees would have a spelling-beeAnd buzz among their betters;And monkeys chatter French and squeakIn Greek the live-long day,To scare the class of infant lambs,Who only know B-A.
“They’d send giraffes up to the boardTo figure slowly, each,Problems in higher branchesThat they could never reach.And here and there and everywhere,No matter who played fool,They’d straightway clap a paper capUpon the youngest mule.
“A looker-on might feel, perhaps,A little consternation,To see the bear philosophyArise for recitation;And pupils all, and teacher, too,Would pale a bit, perchance,When the elephants came up to doTheir calisthenics dance!”
“But,” Amos persisted, “if they don’t go to school, then how on earth did they learn how to talk?”
“I taught them, to be sure,” said a hoarse voice overhead.
The children looked up, startled, and were astonished to see that the voice came, apparently, from a long-tailed green parrot, with a hooked beak and round, solemn eyes.
“They come from all parts of the world,” the parrot resumed, “for me to teach them. Of course, you needn’t call it a school if you don’t want to.”
He whistled shrilly, and the birds and beasts came scampering back and stood round in a respectful circle. The children tried to talk to them, but they looked bashful and would not say a word.
“Perhaps they’d like to hear some rhymes,” J. M. suggested. “Go ahead, Amos and Ann.”
“Mystars!” said Ann, and Amos added: “How in the world can I start off quite suddenly—”
Just then a cuckoo rushed out from a clock somewhere and cuckooed eleven times, and the twelfth time Amos said:—
“Quite suddenly, a speckled troutDown in the swift, clear riverBegan to bustle all about,His fishy chin a-quiver.
“He raised so big a foam and fussThe fishes all assembled.Why, at a hippopotamusHe’d scarcely so have trembled!
“‘What ails you?’ asked a brother trout.‘What’s wrong?’ inquired a minnow.‘Alas! We’re all invited out,’He shivered, ‘to a dinner!’
“They cried, ‘Why, that’s a jolly plan!Who asked us out to dine?’‘Oh!’ sobbed the trout, ‘a fisherman,He just dropped me a line!’”
When the poem was finished, the parrot cried, “Hear! Hear!” and clapped his wings excitedly, and a little raccoon laughed so loud that he had to be sent away in disgrace.
“Now, Ann,” said J. M., “give us a poem about your cat.”
“Not a wild cat, I hope,” put in the parrot hastily. “That kind of a cat has such bad manners—far, far worse than the raccoon’s—that it is not allowed round here at all. If it’s a polite kind of a cat, go on, Miss; not otherwise.”
Little Ann was very red in the face. “But I can’t go on,” she said. She intended to say also, “There’s nothing to go on with,” but just as she said “There’s,” a little nickel clock called five very clearly, and she remarked, instead:—
“There’s the snow-white cat, the pearl-gray cat,The brindle and the brown,The cat with stripes around himself,The cat striped up and down,The plaid cat and the buff cat,The tan, the tortoise-shell,The bluish sort, the reddish sort—More tints than I can tell.But the finest of the whole fine lot(There’s no disputing that)Is the jet-black chap with one white spot—And that’s our kind of cat.
“The tiny cat is cunning,The long, lean cat is fleet,The nimble one is made for fun,The fluff-ball one is sweet,The Persian pussy’s splendid,The Maltese kitty, too,But the special kind I have in mindIs best of all the crew.He’s not too quick and frisky,Nor is he slow and fat;He’s soft and warm and fits my arm,And he’s our kind of cat!”
Ann’s recitation was well received. The parrot said he was very familiar with the kitty kind of cat—in fact, had instructed a good many of them.
Amos remarked that, with so many beasts coming to learn, the place would soon be filled to overflowing.
“Oh, no,” said the parrot. “The same train that brings in a crowd takes a crowd away.”
“Train?” Amos repeated, his eyes round with curiosity.
“To be sure—train,” the parrot answered. “You don’t mean to tell me you never heard of the Wild Beast Limited?”
Then he preened his feathers with pride and chanted the song of the Wild Beast Limited.
“The Wild Beast Limited pulls outWith bustle and with fuss.It’s hard to seat the porcupineAnd hippopotamus.
“The ants demand a special coachIf one ant-eater goes;The dormouse wants a sleeping car;The chickens shun the crows;
“The camel will not stir a pegUntil his fill he’s drunk;The elephant is loud and crossUntil he checks his trunk;
“The tortoise always comes too late;The hare a day ahead.I’d hate to be the engineerOf the Wild Beast Limited.”
libraLibra
Very familiar September seemed:A flag-pole stood in the yard,And the little path that led from the roadWas trampled bare and hard.A bell hung high in the little tower,And when the door swung wideThey saw a young woman with pen in hand,Writing away inside.
September houseVery familiar September seemed
The young woman rose and came smilingly to the door. A clock somewhere inside struck nine, with quick, sharp strokes.
It sounded so familiar, somehow, that the children cried in alarm, “Oh, it’s time for school!”
“Not quite, for you scholars,” the teacher said. “But folks and things in there”—she nodded toward the schoolroom—“are ready and waiting.”
Amos and Ann peered past her through the door, but they could see nothing except desks and seats.
“I suppose Columbus has sailed, by this time,” remarked the Journeying Man.
“Oh, yes,” the young woman replied. “Furthermore, the Mississippi is flowing into the Gulf of Mexico as hard as it can, and rice is growing in Japan.”
The children understood, now, and they were both laughing. “Are the prepositions and adverbs in their places?” they asked.
“Multiplication tables set, I suppose?” said J. M.
“Certainly,” the teacher answered. “And the tables of weights and measures, too. And many things are here in addition.”
“How,” asked little Ann, “do the children in Zodiac Town know when it’s time for school to open?”
“Just the way the children in any other town know,” the teacher replied.
“When bees and birds and butterfliesHave grown a little lazy;When flowers are rare, with here and thereA late rose or a daisy;When streams are slow, and water’s lowDown in the swimming-pool,And grass burns brown along the lane,And goldenrod is bright again—There’s something tells you just as plain,‘Time for school!’
“When apples in the orchard lotAnd pears come thumping, falling;When sweet and clear, far off and near,The bobwhite’s voice is calling;When crickets trill out on the hill,And dusk comes quick and cool;When all at once, in midst of play,You can’t remember what’s the wayTo multiply—you stop and say,‘Time for school!’”
A clock boomed ten with a familiar sound, and Ann and Amos jumped.
“I almost thought we were an hour late for school,” Ann said.
“September’s a rather funny month,” Amos remarked. “It ends so many things and it begins so many things.”
“I like to come home at the end of summer,” little Ann said. Then, without waiting at all for a clock to strike she swung into a poem:—
“When we travel back in summer to the old house by the sea,Where long ago my mother lived, a little girl like me,I have the strangest notion that she still is waiting there,A small child in a pinafore with ribbon on her hair.I hear her in the garden when I go to pick a rose;She follows me along the path on dancing tipsy-toes;I hear her in the hayloft when the hay is slippery-sweet—A rustle and a scurry and a sound of scampering feet;Yet though I sit as still as still, she never comes to me,The funny little laughing girl my mother used to be.
“Sometimes I nearly catch her as she dodges here and there,Her white dress flutters round a tree and flashes up a stair;Sometimes I almost put my hand upon her apron strings—Then, just before my fingers close, she’s gone again like wings.A sudden laugh, a scrap of song, a footfall on the lawn,And yet, no matter how I run, forever up and gone!A fairy or a firefly could hardly flit so fast.When we come home in summer, I have given up at last.I lay my cheek on mother’s. If there’s only one for me,I’d rather have her, anyway, than the girl she used to be!”
“That’s pretty good,” said Amos critically. “I like—”
Before he could go on, a little crystal clock struck four. So Amos had to fall a-rhyming again. He stood on his head and illustrated the last two lines of the rhyme.
“I like to have vacation,I like to camp and roam;But mostly, in a curious way,I like the coming home.
“Our old house looks so solid,So settled and arranged;The front gate creaks the same old creak,The chimneys haven’t changed.
“Those weeks of sea and mountainHad many valued points;But oh, this loosening of my bones,This limbering of my joints!
“Our old dog comes to meet meWith something of a smile—I wheel right over on my headAnd wave my legs a while.”