God bless the little stockings all over the land to-night
Hung in the choicest corners, in the glory of crimson light.
The tiny scarlet stockings, with a hole in the heel and toe,
Worn by the wonderful journeys that the darlings have to go.
And Heaven pity the children, wherever their homes may be,
Who wake at the first gray dawning, an empty stocking to see.
—Anon.
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
“Let me fly,” says little birdie,
“Mother, let me fly away.”
“Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.”
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
“Let me rise and fly away.”
“Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.”
—Alfred Tennyson.
Suppose, my little lady,
Your doll should break her head;
Could you make it whole by crying
Till your eyes and nose are red?
And wouldn’t it be pleasanter
To treat it as a joke,
And say you’re glad ’twas Dolly’s,
And not your head, that broke?
Suppose you’re dressed for walking,
And the rain comes pouring down;
Will it clear off any sooner
Because you scold and frown?
And wouldn’t it be nicer
For you to smile than pout,
And so make sunshine in the house
When there is none without?
Suppose your task, my little man,
Is very hard to get;
Will it make it any easier
For you to sit and fret?
And wouldn’t it be wiser,
Than waiting like a dunce,
To go to work in earnest,
And learn the thing at once?
—Phœbe Cory.
What does the daisy see
In the breezy meadows tossing?
It sees the wide blue fields o’er head
And the little cloud flocks crossing.
What does the daisy see
Round the sunny meadows glancing?
It sees the butterflies’ chase
And the filmy gnats at their dancing.
What does the daisy see
Down in the grassy thickets?
The grasshoppers green and brown,
And the shining, coal-black crickets.
It sees the bobolink’s nest,
That no one else can discover,
And the brooding mother-bird
With the floating grass above her.
—Anon.
Have you ever heard the wind go “Yoooooo”?
’Tis a pitiful sound to hear;
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.
’Tis the voice of the wind that broods outside
When folks should be asleep,
And many and many’s the time I’ve cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide
Over the land and the deep:
“Whom do you want, O lonely night,
That you wail the long hours through?”
And the night would say in its ghostly way:
“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”
My mother told me long ago
When I was a little lad
That when the night went wailing so,
Somebody had been bad;
And then when I was snug in bed,
Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I’d think of what my mother said,
And wonder what boy she meant.
And, “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask
Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”
That this was true, I must allow—
You’ll not believe it though,
Yes, though I’m quite a model now,
I was not always so.
And if you doubt what things I say,
Suppose you make the test;
Suppose that when you’ve been bad some day,
And up to bed you’re sent away
From mother and the rest—
Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?”
And then you’ll hear what’s true;
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”
—Eugene Field.
Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise:
Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes:
Sweet little violets hid from the cold,
Put on your mantles of purple and gold.
Daffodils, daffodils, say, do you hear?
Summer is coming and springtime is here.
—Anon.
Suppose the little cowslip
Should hang its golden cup,
And say, “I’m such a tiny flower,
I’d better not grow up;”
How many a weary traveler
Would miss its fragrant smell,
And many a little child would grieve
To lose it from the dell.
Suppose the little breezes,
Upon a summer’s day,
Should think themselves too small
To cool the traveler on his way;
Who would not miss the smallest
And softest ones that blow,
And think they made a great mistake,
If they were talking so?
Suppose the little dewdrop
Upon the grass should say,
“What can a little dewdrop do?
I’d better roll away.”
The blade on which it rested,
Before the day was done,
Without a drop to moisten it,
Would wither in the sun.
How many deeds of kindness
A little child can do,
Although it has but little strength,
And little wisdom, too!
It wants a loving spirit,
Much more than strength, to prove
How many things a child may do
For others by its love.
—Anon.
“Come, little leaves,” said the wind one day;
“Come over the meadows with me, and play,
Put on your dresses of red and gold,
Summer is gone and the days grow cold.”
Soon the leaves heard the wind’s loud call,
Down they fell fluttering, one and all.
Over the brown fields they danced and flew,
Singing the soft little songs they knew.
Dancing and flying, the little leaves went;
Winter had called them, and they were content.
Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds,
The snow laid a white blanket over their heads.
—Anon.
“If I were a sunbeam,
I know what I’d do:
I would seek white lilies
Rainy woodlands through:
I would steal among them,
Softest light I’d shed,
Until every lily
Raised its drooping head.
“If I were a sunbeam,
I know where I’d go:
Into lowliest hovels,
Dark with want and woe:
Till sad hearts looked upward,
I would shine and shine;
Then they’d think of heaven,
Their sweet home and mine.”
Art thou not a sunbeam,
Child whose life is glad
With an inner radiance
Sunshine never had?
Oh, as God has blessed thee,
Scatter rays divine!
For there is no sunbeam
But must die, or shine.
—Lucy Larcom.
A bumble bee, yellow as gold
Sat perched on a red-clover top,
When a grasshopper, wiry and old,
Came along with a skip and a hop.
“Good morrow” cried he, “Mr. Bumble Bee,
You seem to have come to stop.”
“We people that work,” said the bee with a jerk,
“Find a benefit sometimes in stopping,
Only insects like you, who have nothing to do
Can keep perpetually hopping.”
The grasshopper paused on his way
And thoughtfully hunched up his knees:
“Why trouble this sunshiny day,”
Quoth he, “with reflections like these?
I follow the trade for which I was made
We all can’t be wise bumble-bees;
There’s a time to be sad and a time to be glad,
A time for both working and stopping,
For men to make money, for you to make honey,
And for me to keep constantly hopping.”
—Caroline Leslie.
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled:
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played on the heath one day,
And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
And I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played on the heath one day;
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away;
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old time’s sake, she is still to me
The prettiest doll in the world.
—Charles Kingsley.
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
—Robert Louis Stevenson.
We go on our walk together—
Baby and dog and I—
Three little merry companions,
’Neath any sort of sky:
Blue as our baby’s eyes are,
Gray like our old dog’s tail;
Be it windy or cloudy or stormy,
Our courage will never fail.
Baby’s a little lady;
Dog is a gentleman brave;
If he had two legs as you have,
He’d kneel to her like a slave;
As it is, he loves and protects her,
As dog and gentleman can.
I’d rather be a kind doggie,
I think, than a cruel man.
—Dinah Mulock-Craik.
I saw you toss the kites on high,
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you, that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
—Robert Louis Stevenson.
Hearts like doors can open with ease
To very, very little keys;
And ne’er forget that they are these:
“I thank you, sir,” and “If you please.”
—Sel.
Grandma told me all about it,
Told me so I couldn’t doubt it,
How she danced, my grandma danced; long ago—
How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
How she slowly leaned and rose—long ago.
Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,
Dimpled cheeks, too, oh, how funny!
Really quite a pretty girl—long ago.
Bless her! why, she wears a cap,
Grandma does and takes a nap
Every single day: and yet
Grandma danced the minuet—long ago.
“Modern ways are quite alarming,”
Grandma says, “but boys were charming”
(Girls and boys she means of course) “long ago.”
Brave but modest, grandly shy;
She would like to have us try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet—long ago.
—Mary Mapes Dodge.
Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going?” “What do you wish?”
The old Moon asked the three.
“We come to fish for the herring fish
That live in the beautiful sea,
Nets of silver and gold have we,”
Said Wynken, Blynken and Nod.
The old Moon laughed and sang a song
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea,—
“Now cast your nets whenever you wish,
Never afeard are we!”
So cried the stars to the fishermen three—
Wynken, Blynken and Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam.
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe
Bringing the fishermen home.
’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea.
But I can 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 skies
Is a wee one’s trundle bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock on the misty sea,—
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—
Wynken, Blynken and Nod.
—Eugene Field.
The spider wears a plain brown dress,
And she is a steady spinner;
To see her, quiet as a mouse,
Going about her silver house,
You would never, never, never guess
The way she gets her dinner.
She looks as if no thought of ill
In all her life had stirred her;
But while she moves with careful tread,
And while she spins her silken thread,
She is planning, planning, planning still
The way to do some murder.
My child, who reads this simple lay,
With eyes down-dropt and tender,
Remember the old proverb says
That pretty is which pretty does,
And that worth does not go nor stay
For poverty nor splendor.
’Tis not the house, and not the dress,
That makes the saint or sinner.
To see the spider sit and spin,
Shut with her walls of silver in,
You would never, never, never guess
The way she gets her dinner.
—Alice Cary.
Over the cradle the mother hung,
Softly crooning a slumber song:
And these were the simple words she sung
All the evening long.
“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee
Where shall the baby’s dimple be?
Where shall the angel’s finger rest
When he comes down to the baby’s nest?
Where shall the angel’s touch remain
When he awakens my babe again?”
Still as she bent and sang so low,
A murmur into her music broke:
And she paused to hear, for she could but know
The baby’s angel spoke.
“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,
Where shall the baby’s dimple be?
Where shall my finger fall and rest
When I come down to the baby’s nest?
Where shall my finger touch remain
When I awaken your babe again?”
Silent the mother sat and dwelt
Long in the sweet delay of choice,
And then by her baby’s side she knelt,
And sang with a pleasant voice:
“Not on the limb, O angel dear!
For the charm with its youth will disappear;
Not on the cheek shall the dimple be,
For the harboring smile will fade and flee;
But touch thou the chin with an impress deep,
And my baby the angel’s seal shall keep.”
—J. G. Holland.
Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together,
Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.
A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy,
Was resting near this buttercup who wished she was a daisy.
For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies’ fashion.
And buttercups must always be the same old tiresome color;
While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.
“Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying.”
“You silly thing!” the Robin said, “I think you must be crazy;
I’d rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.
“You’re nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.
Be the best buttercup you can, and think no flower above you.
Though swallows leave me out of sight, we’d better keep our places:
Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.
Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing.”
—Sarah Orne Jewett.
There are many flags in many lands,
There are flags of every hue,
But there is no flag in any land
Like our own Red, White and Blue.
I know where the prettiest colors are,
I’m sure, if I only knew
How to get them here, I could make a flag
Of glorious Red, White and Blue.
I would cut a piece from the evening sky
Where the stars were shining through,
And use it just as it was on high
For my stars and field of Blue.
Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud
And some red from a rainbow bright,
And I’d put them together, side by side
For my stripes of Red and White.
Then “Hurrah for the Flag!” our country’s flag,
Its stripes and white stars too;
There is no flag in any land
Like our own “Red, White and Blue.”
—Anon.
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