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Here 's some more sings in my pottet, Here 's my lead, and here 's my string ; And once I had an iron ring, But through a hole it lost one day, And this is what I always say — A hole 's the worst sing in a pottet, Be sure and mend it when you've dot it. Now this I suppose Was first written in prose, By some one, who knows The effects of cold snows.

So Auntie twisted the silky red In a little knot at the back of her head ; No lady in all the country wide, Could look more sweet or dignified. What a baby-matron the darling is! What a soft, soft cheek to pat and kiss! What a sparkling eye to play at care! What a sober look the dimples wear! Yet the only thing the least bit old, Is that little twist of sunny gold, And the baby with her water-fall, Is only a baby — after all.

Twenty little coats of green, Twenty vests all white and clean. Master Bull-frog, brave and stern, Called his classes in their turn, Taught them how to nobly strive, Also how to leap and dive. Taught them how to dodge a blow, From the sticks that bad boys throw; Twenty froggies grew up fast, Bull-frogs they became at last.

Polished in a high degree, As each froggie ought to be, Now they sit on other logs, Teaching other little frogs. One little, two little, three little fingers, Four little, five little, six little fingers, Seven little, eight little, nine little fingers, Ten little fingers burnt.

THREE little forms in the twilight gray Scanning the shadows across the way ; Two pair of black eyes, and one of blue, — Brimful of love, and of mischief, too, — Watching for Pa! Watching for Pa! Sitting by the window, Watching for Pa! May, with her placid and thoughtful brow, Gleaming with kindness and love just now; Willie, the youngest, so roguish and gay, Stealing sly kisses from sister May, — Watching for Pa!

Nellie, with ringlets of sunny hue, Cosily nestled between the two ; Pressing her cheek to the window pane, Wishing the absent one home again, — Watching for Pa! Now there are shouts from the window seat, There is a patter of childish feet ; Gayly they rush thro' the lighted hall, "Coming at last" is the joyful call, — Welcoming Pa!

Welcoming Pa! Standing on the doorstep, Welcoming Pa! The baby. Who has a precious little nose, And chubby limbs, and pinkish toes? Who kicks and tumbles, laughs and crows? Who in the night screams in distress? Who in the morning screams no less? Who never has a word to say, But always has his own sweet way? May heaven prolong his earthly stay — The baby. Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky, as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I passed by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?


I saw something better than anyone knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get this pretty ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into hooks and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?

From the same box as the cherub's wings. How did they all come just to be you? God thought of me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here. George MacDonald. The owl looked up to the moon above, And sang to his light guitar, " Oh, pussy, oh, pussy, oh, pussy, my love, What a beautiful pussy you are, you are, What a beautiful pussy you are.

Pussy said to the owl, " You beautiful fowl, How charmingly sweet yqu sing, Come let us be married, too long have we tarried, But what shall we do for a ring? They dined upon mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon ; And, hand in hand on the golden sand, They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, They danced by the light of the moon. Edward Lear. Two shining eyes, full of innocent glee, Brighter than diamonds ever could be.

Three pretty dimples, for fun to slip in, Two in the cheeks, and one in the chin. Four little fingers on each baby hand, Fit for a princess of sweet Fairy-land. Five on each hand, if we reckon Tom Thumb Standing beside them, so stiff and so glum! Six pearly teeth just within her red lips, Over which merriment ripples and trips. Seven bright ringlets, as yellow as gold, Seeming the sunshine to gather and hold. Eight tiny waves running over her hair, Sunshine and shadow, they love to be there.

Nine precious words that Totty can say, But she will learn new ones every day. Ten little chubby, comical toes ; And that is as far as this lesson goes. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps in St. I won't touch them; never fear — I won't let my breath come near — If I did you 'd leave your nest, Naughty Robin Redbreast. Mathers in Our Little Ones.

In the barn a little mousie Ran to and fro ; For she heard the kitty coming, Long time ago. Two eyes had little kitty, Black as a sloe ; And they spied the little mousie, Long time ago. Four paws had little kitty, Paws soft as dough ; And they caught the little mousie, Long time ago. Nine teeth had little kitty All in a row ; And they bit the little mousie, Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie, Little mouse cried, " Oh! Kitty White so shyly comes, To catch the mousie Grey ; But mousie hears her softly step, And quickly runs away. TWO little birds started out to sing When foggy was the weather, They cleared their throats, and whetted their bills, And coughed and wheezed together.

They wheezed and coughed as hard as they could, In this dreadful foggy weather, Till they spoiled their notes, and split their throats, And turned up their toes together. Ten pink fingers has she, Ten pink toes, One pink nose, And two eyes that can hardly see, And they blink and blink, and they wink and wink, So you can't tell whether they are blue or pink.

The queerest bundle you ever did see, Is little Pinkety-winkety-wee. TTHREE little bugs in a basket, And hardly room for two, And one was yellow, and one was black, And one like me, or you — The space was small, no doubt, for all, But what should three bugs do? Three little bugs in a basket, And hardly crumbs for two, And all were selfish in their hearts, The same as I or you, So the strong ones said, " We '11 eat the crumbs, And that's what we will do.

So he that was left in the basket, Without a crumb to chew, Or a thread to wrap himself withal, When the winds across him blew, Pulled one of the rugs from off the bugs, And so the quarrel grew. And so there were none in the basket — Ah, pity 't is, 't is true! But he that was frozen and starved, at last A strength from his weakness drew, And pulled the rugs from both the bugs, And killed and ate them too.

Now when bugs live in a basket, Though more than it can hold, It seems to me they had better agree, The white, the black, and the gold, And share what comes of beds and crumbs, And leave no bug in the cold. Eleven little meows they gave, eleven little purrs, Eleven little sneezes, too, though wrapped up in their furs. They kept their word, and one day shook eleven bunches down, To this same girl of 'leven years, who caught them in her gown.

Well, it was for dear baby's sake. Fenwick, giving His brown mustache a twist : " I shall command you, madam, To do whate'er I list! They seem so very smiling, — So graceful, kind, and bright! And gaze upon each other Quite speechless with delight. Never one cross word saying, They stand up side by side, Patterns of good behavior, To every groom and bride. Sweethearts, it is far better, — This truth they plainly teach, — The solid gold of silence, Than the small change of speech!

Lucy Larcom in St. And all soap and water I do despise ; I think it was made to smart people's eyes. Little girls, all take warning, and watch every morning, That you never behave so badly. Julia A. Out of a fleecy cloud she stepped, Where all the rest of her family kept As close together as bees can swarm, In readiness for a big snowstorm. But little Miss Snowflake could n't wait, And she wanted to come in greater state ; For she thought that her beauty would ne'er be known, If she came in a crowd, so she came alone.

All alone from the great blue sky, Where cloudy vessels went scudding by, With sails all set, on their way to meet The larger ships of the snowy fleet. She was very tired, but could n't stop On tall church spire, or chimney top; All the way from her bright abode Down to the dust of a country road! There she rested all out of breath, And there she speedily met her death, And nobody could exactly tell The spot where little Miss Snowflake fell. Josephine Pollard.

DLACING the little hats all in a row ; Ready for church on the morrow, you know ; Washing wee faces, and little black fists, Getting them ready and fit to be kissed ; Putting them into clean garments and white ; That is what mothers are doing to-night. Changing a button to make it look right — That is what mothers are doing to-night. Calling the little ones all round her chair, Hearing them lisp forth their evening prayer, Telling them stories of Jesus of old, Who loves to gather the lambs to his fold ; Watching, they listen with childish delight — That is what mothers are doing to-night.

Kneeling down gently beside the white bed, Lowly and meekly she bows down her head, Praying as only a mother can pray, "God guide and keep them from going astray. TWO little baby boys I own; A The elder scarcely walks alone; His sunny hair, and large brown eyes, His earnest look of sweet surprise, His funny ways, and joyous shout, I could not tell all about, If I should try a year. He creeps so fast to catch his toys, And then he sets up such a noise ; His horse and dog, and book and bell, He throws them all about, pell mell.

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He watches with a rueful face The baby, who usurps his place. My darling boy, your little nose Had to be broken, I suppose. In hammock low among the trees, Rocked back and forth by passing breeze, The baby swings, and coos to see The gentle rustle of the tree. The lights and shades, the leaves that fall, The sunshine breeding over all — 'T is Indian Summer here. Way overhead, in the blue sky, Downy clouds float softly by ; A lullaby fair nature sings, And through the air its music rings ; My little one falls fast asleep, As sun and shadow o'er him creep, His mother watching near.

Two baby boys! O, sweetest story ever told! What tongue would dare begin it, If it were riven of its gold, And Jesus' name not in. Said little Cock Robin, " Now quickly we '11 work, 1 11 bring some fine twigs, And these pieces of cork. These pieces of cord We '11 weave around tight, And fasten them firmly Before it is night. Three bonny blue eggs There soon do we see, In this nest lined with down, On a branch, in the tree. The sun rose and set, The days longer grew, Peep! As love ruled the parents, So love ruled the three Little soft downy nestlings, In this noble larch tree.

I wish I could my basket find, And little kitty too. Oh, mamma, mamma, come and look, See what a little heap, My kitty 's in the basket here, All cuddled down to sleep. Eliza Follen. There is no use in saying she is n't, with a crack like that in her head. It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day ; And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you had n't a word to say.

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue! As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you? You might make her look all mended — but what do I care for looks? Why, glue 's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books! Oh, but it's the awful- est crack! It just makes me sick to think of the sound, when her poor head went whack Against that horrible brass thing, that holds up the little shelf.

Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself! I think you must be crazy — you '11 get her another head! What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead! And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new spring hat! And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night, to tie on that horrid cat! When my mamma gave me that ribbon — I was playing out in the yard — She said to me most expressly, " Here 's a ribbon for Hilde- garde," And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it ; But I said to myself, " Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it?

Oh, my baby, my little baby! I wish my head had been hit! But since the darling is dead, she '11 want to be buried, of course ; We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse, And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see — This dear little box — and we '11 bury her then under the maple tree. And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird ; And he '11 put what I tell him on it — yes, every single word! I shall say : — " Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll who is dead ; She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head.

You must n't look so pleasant, As if you feel real glad! Her hair waved down her shoulders Like silk, all made of gold. I kissed her, then I shook her, Oh, dear! When my mamma 's in trouble I never laugh — not I. I shook her well, and told her Her conduct drove me wild. When — only think! When I had dressed the darling, I must have dropped it there. Oh, the flutter and the fuss! To begin with Cain and Abel, And to finish up with us. Think of all the men and women Who are now, and who have been — Every nation since creation, That this world of ours has seen.

Some have never laughed or spoken, Never used their rosy feet ; Some have even flown to heaven Ere they knew that earth was sweet ; And, indeed, I wonder whether, If we reckon every birth, And bring such a flock together, There is room for them on earth. Who will wash their smiling faces? Who their saucy ears will box? Who will dress them and caress them? Who will darn their little socks? Where are arms enough to hold them? Hands to pat each shining head? Who will praise them? Who will scold them? Who will pack them off to bed? Little happy Christian children, Little savage children, too, In all stages, of all ages That our planet ever knew — Little princes and princesses, Little beggers wan and faint : Some in very handsome dresses, Naked some, bedaubed with paint.

Only think of the confusion Such a motley crowd would make, And the clatter of their chatter, And the things that they would break! Oh, the babble of the Babel! The Welcome. Apron clean, curls smooth, eyes blue, How these charms will dwindle! For I rather think, don't you? Baby is "a swindle. Spoon in mouth ; I think, don't you?

Baby is a sinner. One blue shoe beneath the mat, Tells of the maurauder. Apron folded on a chair, Plaid dress torn and wrinkled ; Two pink feet kicked pretty bare, Little fat knees crinkled ; In his crib, and conquered, too, By sleep, blest evangel ; Now, I surely think, don't you? Baby is an angel!

Bertha Scranton Pool. When his grandpa's visit ended, Willie sought for some advice.

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Can I string 'em, just like grandpa, On a wire — and when I cough, Just like grandpa did, you 'member, Can I take my two eyes off? Is it naughty? Say, O mamma! I 've had such fun to-day, I hardly can say my prayers. I don't feel just like praying; I want to be out-doors playing, And run, all undressed, down stairs.

Do you mean I can do it by 'Yes'? Would 'Thank you, dear God,' be right? He gave me my mammy,. And papa, and Sammy — mamma! His mother's nod, and sanction sweet, Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran. I wish I could keep right on. I thank you, too, for every day — Only I 'm most too glad to pray. Dear God, I think I am done. When I get big I know I can. Kissing and cooing her fond "Good-night" And treasured his every word. For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard.

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? Where shall my finger fall and rest When I come down to the baby's nest? Where shall my finger's touch remain When I awaken your babe again? For the charms 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.

Holland in Hours at Home. VOU wonderful little Sunday child! Half of your fortune scarce you know, Although you have blinked and winked and smiled Full seven and twenty days below. Health and wisdom, and beauty and mirth! And as if that were not enough for a dower , Because of the holy day of your birth, Abroad you may walk in the gloaming's hour.

When we poor bodies, with backward look, Shiver and quiver and shake, with fear Of fiend and fairy, and kelpie and spook, Never a thought need you take, my dear — For "Sunday's child" may go where it please, Sunday's child shall be free from harm! Right down through the mountain-side it sees The mines unopened where jewels swarm!

Sunday lass! The veins of gold through the rocks you '11 see ; And when o'er the shining sands you pass, You can tell where the hidden springs may be. And never a fiend, or an airy sprite May thwart or hinder you all your days ; Whenever it chances in mirk midnight, The lids of your marvellous eyes you raise. You may see, while your heart is pure and true, The angels, that visit this lower sphere, Drop down the firmament, two and two, Their errands of mercy to work down here. This is the dower of a Sunday child ; What do you think of it, little brown head, Winking and blinking your eyes so mild, Down in the depth of your snowy bed?

Alice Williams in St. Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well. Pink was the shell within, Silver without ; Sounds of the great sea Wander'd about.

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Sleep little ladies! Wake not soon! Echo on echo Dies to the moon. Two bright stars Peep'd into the shell. Who can tell? Alfred Tennyson in St. I know that its arms are the queerest ; Its head very funny and flat ; Its eyes anything but the clearest ; Yet old friends are best, for all that. Your hair falls in ringlets so flaxen, Your eyes are delightfully blue, Your cheeks they are rosy and waxen, You 're charming, I '11 give you your due. Yet shall I give up Betsy Baker, Who has n't a shoe nor a hat, Because you 've a splendid dress-maker?

You came Christmas morn in my stocking; I ought to be proud, I suppose, And not to be pleased would be shocking : Do, Betsy dear, turn out your toes. Oh, you are my every-day dolly! And this one in silk dress and hat I '11 put on the shelf ; call it folly, Yet old friends are best, for all that. Whither from this pretty house, this city house of ours? Mischievous showers, and faint little smells Of far-away flowers in far-away dells, Are coming in April, my baby.

Sly little blossoms that clamber along, Close to the ground, till they grow big and strong, Are coming in May, little baby. Roses and bees, and a big, yellow moon, Coming together in beautiful June, In lovely midsummer, my baby. Pretty red cherries, and bright little flies, Twinkling and turning the fields into skies, Will come in July, little baby. Feathery clouds, and long afternoons, Scarce a leaf stirring, and birdie's soft croons, Are coming in August, my baby.

Glimpses of blue through the poppies and wheat, And one little birthday, with swift-flying feet, Will come in September, my baby. Laura Ledyard. But Pitty Pat says she don't like it at all, And, pulling the fur out, makes Kitty Cat squall ; But still she persists in undressing her pet, And failing to do it, quite angry will get. While Kitty Cat cries at what Pitty Pat does To her one little coatee of silky soft fuz, Then Pitty Pat 's sorry, and asks why she cries At being fixed tidy for shutting her eyes.

Quiet a minute, in mischief, no doubt, Pulling the needles and thimbles about.

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Sewing her apron, demure as you please ; Anyone got such a dear little tease? Printing her hands in the soft, tempting flour, Tumbles and bumps twenty times in an hour; Tangling the yarn, and unravelling the lace, Doing it all with the prettiest grace. Mother is scolding her very bad girl, Says she sets the whole house in a whirl! Looks at her pouting there down by her knees, Clasps to her heart again, dear little tease.

Little Corporal. The splendidest cob fences We 're making ever was! I wis' you'd help us find 'em, Gran'ma al'as does. My horse's name is Betsy ; She jumped and broke her head; I put her in the stable, And fed her on milk and bread. I's going to the corn-fields, To ride on Charlie's plow ; I spect he 'd like to have me ; I wants to go right now. Oh, won't I gee-up awful, And whoa like Charlie whoas ; I wis' you would n't bozzer, Gran'ma never does.

Put plenty sugar on it ; I tell you what I knows, It 's right to put on sugar, Gran'ma al'as does. And this is the story, as told by the robin To Blue-eyes, who answered him only by sobbing, For who, as he listens to robin's sad fate, Could refrain from lamenting with him his dear mate. You 've built this nice nest in the old eaves' spout. I wish, oh, I wish I had built in the tree! My poor little birds were all washed out and drowned, And I found my dear mate lying dead on the ground.

TTOW do the robins build their nest? First a wisp of amber hay In a pretty round they lay, Then some shreds of downy floss, Feathers, too, and bits of moss, Woven with a sweet, sweet song, This way, that way, and across ; That 's what Robin told me. Where do the robins hide their nests? Robin Redbreast told me. Up among the leaves so deep, Where the sunbeams rarely creep ; Long before the winds are cold, Long before the leaves are gold, Bright-eyed stars will peep, and see Baby robins, one, two, three ; That 's what Robin told me.

The crazy little midget ran and told the news to Bridget, Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig to Anabel's de- light, And said with accents hearty, "'Twill be the swatest party, If you 're there yourself, my darlint, and I wish it were to-night. They gave minute directions, with copious interjections, As, " Sit up straight," and " Don't do this or that, 'twould be absurd. There was laughing, there was shouting, there was crying, there was pouting, And old and young together made a carnival of glee.

The noise kept growing louder, and the naughty boys would crowd her, " I think you 're very rude indeed," the little maiden said, And then without a warning, her whole instruction scorn- ing, She screamed, " I want my supper, and I want to go to bed. Will he fill my stocking with picture books, Pretty as pretty can be? Will he bring me a doll with "truly hair," And cheeks a lovely red? Will he bring me — Oh, if he only would — A dear little trundle bed? Oh dear, how glad I 'd be! And a little tea-pot, and tea-kettle, That I can play make tea!

Do you think he can quite afford so much, For a little girl like me? If he only could, and would give them all, What a happy girl I 'd be! Eagerly reaching for all that comes near, Now poking your eyes out, and pulling your hair, Soothing and patting with velvet-like touch, Then digging your cheek with a mischievous clutch ; Gently waving good-by with infantile grace, Then dragging your bonnet down over your face. Beating pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, slow and sedate, Then tearing your book at a furious rate ; Gravely holding them out, like a king, to be kissed, Then thumping the window with tightly-closed fist ; Now lying asleep, all dimpled and warm, On the white cradled pillow, secure from all harm.

O, dear baby hands! Keep spotless as now, through the world's evil ways, And bless with fond care our last weariful days. Richard Grant White. I went to the kitchen, and what did I see, But the old gray cat with her kittens three! I heard her whispering soft ; said she, " My kittens, with tails so cunningly curled, Are the prettiest things that can be in the world. The bird on the tree, And the old ewe, she, May love their babies exceedingly; But I love my kittens there, Under the rocking-chair.

I love my kittens with all my might, I love them at morning, noon, and night. Now I '11 take up my kitties, the kitties I love, And we'll lie down together beneath the warm stove. I heard her say, " The sun never did shine On anything like to these chickens of mine. You may hunt the full moon and the stars, if you please, But you never will find ten such chickens as these. My dear, downy darlings, my sweet little things, Come, nestle now cozily under my wings.

And there let them sleep, in their feathers so warm, While my little chick lies here on my arm. We watched it thrive and grow, — Ah me! In sudden, strange surprise We met each other's eyes, Asking, "Who stole our pretty babe away? But in its wonted place There was another face, — A little girl's, with yellow curly hair About her shoulders tossed, And the sweet babe we lost Seemed sometimes looking from her eyes so fair. She dances, romps, and sings, And does a hundred things Which my lost baby never tried to do ; She longs to read in books, And with bright, eager looks Is always asking questions strange and new.

And I can scarcely tell, I love the rogue so well, Whether I would retrace the four years' track, And lose the merry sprite, Who makes my home so bright, To have again my little baby back. Ah, blue eyes! A gray old man with wings, Who steals all precious things ; He lives forever, and his name is Time. She ne'er saw Christmas yet ; But I 've told her all about it, And she opened her big blue eyes, And I 'm sure she understands it, She looked so funny and wise.

It does n't take much to hold Such little pink toes as baby's, Away from the frost and cold. But then for the baby's Christmas It will never do at all ; Why, Santa would n't be looking For anything half so small! And you'll hang it by mine, dear mother, Right here in the corner, so, And write a letter to Santa, And fasten it on to the toe. Write " This is the baby's stocking That hangs in the corner here ; You never have seen her, Santa, For she only came this year ; But she's just the blessedest baby — And now, before you go, Just cram her stocking with goodies, From the top clean down to the toe.

The baby that cannot talk; The baby that cannot walk ; The baby that just begins to creep ; The baby that 's cuddled, and rocked to sleep ; Oh, this is the baby I love! This is the baby I love! The baby that 's never cross ; The baby that papa can toss ; The baby that crows when held aloft ; The baby that's rosy, and round, and soft! Oh, this is the baby I love! The baby that lies on my knee, And dimples and smiles on me, While I strip it, and bathe it, and kiss it, Oh! Till with bathing and kissing 't is all aglow ; Yes, this is the baby I love!

The baby all freshly dressed ; That waking is never at rest ; That plucks at my collar, and pulls my hair, Till I look like a witch, but I do not care; Oh, this is the baby I love! The baby that understands, And dances with feet and hands, And a sweet little whinnying, eager cry For the nice warm breakfast that waits it close by ; Oh, this is the baby I love!

The baby that tries to talk ; The baby that longs to walk ; And Oh! My baby! With eyes so bright, And fur so white, And teeth a shining; row? It makes me think of my birthday cake, All covered with sugar ; A bite I'll take, Just one, and nobody '11 know! Then under the blankets he tucked his head ; "For I know," so he said, " If anyone thought I had bitten the moon, I 'd be whipped very soon! It has changed so soon! When did it get so small, oh, when? Wise men brought their telescopes too, Old folks their spectacles, — no one knew What to say, or what to do. Now the clerk of the weather lived all alone, In a house that was neither wood nor stone; It had clouds for curtains, and rainbows bright, Instead of candles, to make it light, And the pantry shelves were full of jars Where he kept the snow, the rain, and the stars, While under the shelves were packed away Some strong new winds for a stormy day.

The little old man rushed out to see What on earth could the matter be! For the people came, with shout and roar, Thumping and pounding at his door, Calling loudly, " Come out and tell What ails our moon? You know very well. The little old man said " Dear, oh, dear! I can make your weather stormy or clear, Get up your breezes high or low, Give you plenty of rain and snow, Make it hot as you had it last year; But as for this moon, — Why, friends, I fear You have asked me more than I know. Now all this time poor Dickey was lying- Safe tucked up in his little bed ; And though the toothache kept him crying, Never a single word he said ; Never told what a monstrous bite He 'd taken out of the moon that night.

So no one ever guessed, or knew, Excepting Dickey, and me, and you Who gave the folks such a terrible fright. Corbett in St. Ten small chicks, and one old biddy! Scratch as I do! One chick, missing, peeps to say, " Chirp, chirp, chirp! I shall be drowned! Biddy, I just chanced to look, And saw your bantling in the brook! Hen, you 're in a hobble! Why don't some one stir about, And help your little chicken out? What is there that I can do?

Say you 're sorry, that 's enough. I have brought your chicken back! Thank you! Over in the meadow, Where the stream runs blue, Lived an old mother-fish And her little fishes two. Over in the meadow, In a hole in a tree, Lived a mother blue-bird And her little birdies three. Over in the meadow, In the reeds on the shore, Lived a mother musk-rat And her little ratties four. Over in the meadow, In a snug bee-hive, Lived a mother honey-bee And her little honeys five.

Over in the meadow, Where the grass is so even, Lived a gay mother cricket And her little crickets seven. Over in the meadow, By the old mossy gate, Lived a brown mother lizard And her little lizards eight. Over in the meadow, Where the clear pools shine, Lived a green mother frog And her little froggies nine. Over in the meadow, In a sly little den, Lived a gray mother spider And her little spiders ten. Over in the meadow, In the soft summer even, Lived a mother fire-fly And her little flies eleven.

Over in the meadow, Where the men dig and delve, Lived a wise mother ant And her little anties twelve. Olive A. Rock-a-by, birdies, along with the breeze, All the leaves over you humming like bees. High away, low away, come again, go! Go again, come again, rock-a-by-low! Wonder how papa bird braided that nest, Binding the twigs about close to his breast ; Wonder how many there are in your bed, Bonny swung cradle, hung far overhead.

Never mind, birdies, how highly it swings, Mother bird covers you close with her wings. Rock-a-by, birdies, there 's no one to tire ; Mother rides with you, her wings are like fire ; All the bright feathers are round you so warm, Rain cannot reach you and wind cannot harm. George S.

Are they any bigger or better? And, as her mother was scratching the ground, She muttered, lower and lower, " I know I can go there and not be drowned, And so I think I'll show her. For we all have our proper sphere below, And this is a truth worth knowing : You will come to grief if you try to go Where you were never made for going. Phebe Cary. Oh, what has she done, the cruel one, To scatter the smiles of joy? What did she say? No little forms, like buds to grow, And make the admiring heart surrender; No little hands, on breast and brow, To keep the thrilling love-cords tender.

The sterner souls would grow more stern, Unfeeling nature more inhuman, And man to stoic coldness turned, And woman would be less than woman. Life's song, indeed, would lose its charm, Were there no babies to begin it ; A doleful place this world would be, Were there no little people in it. And when he captured, unaware, A moth, or home-bound bee, He hastened down his fine-spun stair — "Aha! Many, many, a gauzy wing, In vain tried to get free ; This spider was a wicked thing — , "Aha! And when his silken web was spun, Up in the apple tree ; I '11 tell you what he did for fun — "Aha!

So down he pounced on one fine thread, Poor little Tot to see, And almost touched her curly head — "Aha! Go 'way, you frighten me ; We can't go by, for there you swing" — "Aha! And when he found this fun was past, He scampered up the tree, And saw a dismal fly caught fast — "Aha! Holly Berries. Though he knew if he took one, it would n't be right.

Said he : "I don't see why my father should say, ' Don't touch the old apple tree, Willie, to-day ; ' I should n't have thought, now, they 're hanging so low, When I asked for just one, he should answer me, ' No. There are hundreds, and hundreds, and he would n't miss So paltry a little red apple as this. And he sung : " Little Willie, beware!

Your father has gone, but your Maker is there ; How sad you would feel if you heard the Lord say, 'This dear little boy stole an apple to-day. In his own little chamber he knelt down to pray, That the Lord would forgive him, and please not to say, " Little Willie almost stole an apple to-day. I 've lost my kite! A purple cloud was sailing by, With silver fringes o'er the sky ; And then I thought it looked so nigh, I 'd let my kite go up, and light Upon its edge, so soft and bright ; To see how noble, high, and proud she'd look, When riding on a cloud. As towards her shining mark she drew, I clapped my hands, the line slipped through My silly fingers, and she flew, Away, away, in airy play, Right over where the water lay ; She veered, and fluttered, swung, — Then gave a plunge — and vanished with the wave.

My hair is stiff with the lathery soap, That behind my ears is dripping; And my smarting eyes I 'm afraid to ope, And my lip the suds is sipping. They're down my throat, and up my nose, And to choke me you seem to be trying; That I'll shut my mouth you needn't suppose, For how can I keep from crying? And you rub as hard as ever you can, And your hands are hard, to my sorrow ; No woman shall wash me when I 'm a man, And I wish I were one to-morrow.

Once there was a little black, With no clothes upon his back, By his cruel mother's hand, Put alive into the sand. Wandering from a shady wood, Came a missionary good, Who, as he was passing by, Heard a little feeble cry. Then he stooped, and scratched the sand. First he saw a little hand, Then a little mouth and nose, And such cunning little toes. Then he scratched the sand about ; And he pulled the baby out ; And he took it to his wife, Who preserved its little life. Then to England it was sent, With the kind and good intent, That, when taught, it might go back To instruct the little black.

If the missionary good Had not wandered from the wood, Had not listened when it cried, Little baby would have died. And, if such had been the case, Then the news of gospel grace Those poor children might not reach, Whom this little girl will teach. Little girls, and little boys, God the meanest things employs To perform the greatest deeds, And accomplish what he needs. Then let every child to-day, Turning to his neighbor say, "Who can tell but you and I Can do something, if we try?

A FOOLISH little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it ; And, that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday, just to. But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled, proved to be a work of time ; So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough, the folks were singing. So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door, And she shook her ruffles out behind, and smoothed them down before.

This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss ; For she thought the very hymn they sang, was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it. And she would not wait to listen to the sermon, or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and, in a band-box on it, Had hidden, safe from critic's eye, her foolish little bonnet.

Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind ; And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, Will never get a blessing, from sermon or from prayers. Miss Hammond. DRAY, how shall I, a little lad, in speaking make a figure? You 're only joking, I 'm afraid, do wait till I am bigger.

But since you wish to hear my part, and urge me to begin it, I '11 strive for praise with all my heart, though small the hope to win it. I '11 tell a tale, how farmer John a little roan colt bred, sir. Which every night and every morn, he watered, and he fed, sir ; Said neighbor Joe, to farmer John, " Are n't you a silly dolt, sir ; To spend such time and care, upon a useless little colt, sir? And now, my friends, please to excuse my lisping, and my stammers ; I for this once have done my best, so now I '11 make m;y manners. His spots! In a glass jar he grew apace, And o'er the mouth we drew some lace ; Then flies I caught, and pushed them through A little hole — alive — 't is true.

With hop and jump, he'd snap them up, With him 'twas always time to sup ; With pleasure then he 'd gaily wink, 'Twas very saucy, so I think. He never failed his bath to take, And boldly then his plunge did make ; His coat now shone, his color rose He polished up his little toes. Upon my hand, in room or hall, I 'd hold him up quite near the wall, Wherever I could see a fly ; He gave them not a chance to sigh. About my room he 'd daily hop, And in a corner he would stop ; He jumped through chairs without a fear ; When puzzled, he would scratch his ear.

If flies were dead, he scorned to eat, And trod them down beneath his feet. One day I played on him a trick, And kept one stirring, with a stick. Alas, I fear it was a sin. He eyed it close, then popped it in ; I fancied, as he tossed it down, He gave me just one little frown. The flies grew scarce. So fast he grew, I found I must try something new. I dug fat worms, — his eyes grew bright, And quick they vanished from my sight. At worsted monkeys he would jump, And on the floor fall with a thump ; This twice he tried, the third time he Would scratch his ear, and turn to me.

To Prospect Park I carried him ; On mossy bank, 'neath spreading limb, I left him, to his great surprise ; No doubt he still is catching flies. Ill Then don't despise the little toad, That oft near man makes his abode; He does the work for which he's made, Better than you do, I 'm afraid. V17HAT says the clock when it strikes one? It is, "Suffer little children to come unto me. And remember at six, at the waning of day, That your life is a vapor, that passeth away. What says the clock when it strikes seven? While the deep stroke of midnight the watchword shall bring, Lo, these are my jewels, these, these, saith the King.

Away they went, a good round pace, And joy came into the farmer's face. He'll guard the barn, and guard the cot, And keep the cattle out of the lot. The farmer all his produce sold, And got his pay in yellow gold ; Then started home, just after dark, — Home through the lonely forest. A robber sprang from behind a tree ; " Your money or else your life!

The moon was out, yet he did n't see The little dog under the wagon. US And dragged him down in mud and dirt. He tore his coat, and tore his shirt, And held him with a whisk and bound ; And he could n't rise from the miry ground ; While his legs and arms the farmer bound, And tumbled him into the wagon. Old Spot he saved the farmer's life, The farmer's money, the farmer's wife ; And now a hero, grand and gay, A silver collar he wears to-day ; And everywhere his master goes, Among his friends, among his foes, He follows upon his horny toes, — The little dog under the wagon. She hung, it is true, with her pretty head down, But her brain was cool as you please ; The fashion quite suited the cut of her gown, And she could look up in the trees.

She saw where a humming-bird lighted down ; At his throat a bright ruby gleamed ; On his head was a gold and emerald crown, And he sat on a bough and dreamed. The spider ran up on her silver thread, And looked in the little kings face ; " If I may but sit at your feet," she said, "I'll spin you some beautiful lace.

First the girl, With a smile : " This way, Through the woods, across the stile, By a brook where wild flowers grow, Where the birds sing sweet and low; Then you forget it is so far, And how tired you are; For the calm rests you, makes you still, If you take this way to the city on the hill. The blacksmith tore off his apron, And dined in happy mood, Wondering much at the savor Hid in his humble food, While all about him were visions Full of prophetic bliss; But he never thought of the magic In his little daughter's kiss.

While she with her kettle swinging, Merrily trudged away, Stopping at sight of a squirrel, Catching some wild bird's lay; And I thought how many a shadow Of life and fate we would miss, If always our frugal dinners Were seasoned with a kiss. Pittsburg Commercial. I hear the children calling, "Auntie, dear, please tell a story, — Not about 'Old Mother Morey ; ' "But about some fairy queen, Who in brilliant robes was seen, With a group of merry sprites, 'Neath the harvest moon o' nights.

I then sprang quickly to her aid, And placed her on her feet. A LAS! Her hair was bright red, and her eyes were dull blue, And her cheeks were so freckled, They looked like the speckled Wild lilies, that down in the meadow-land grew. If her eyes had been black, if she'd only had curls, She had been, so she thought, the most happy of girls. Her cousins around her, they pouted and fretted, But they were all pretty, and they were all petted ; While poor little Kitty, though striving her best To do her child's duty, Not sharing their beauty, Was always neglected, and never caressed.

But one day, alone, 'mid the clover blooms sitting, She heard a strange sound, as of wings round her flitting; A light not of sunbeams, a fragrance more sweet Than the winds blowing over The red-blossomed clover, Made her thrill with delight, from her head to her feet ; And a voice low and rare, whispered low in the air, " See that beautiful, beautiful child sitting there! She almost looked pretty! Beloved by the angels, she needed no pity! O juvenile charmers, with shoulders of snow, Ruby lips, sunny tresses, Forms made for caresses, There 's one thing, my beauties, 't is well you should know : Though the world is in love with bright eyes and soft hair, It is only good children the angels call fair.

Marian Douglass in Our Young Folks. I must take a ride to day O'er the waves of blooming hay. Up the hill-side, in the glen, Live two little, elvish men. They rode on a long-tailed dragon-fly, And they soared low, and they soared high ; They snatched her up From a buttercup, And carried her off With squeal and scoff. They'll make her toil, they make her slave, Their hoards of blossom-dust to save ; They '11 harness her with beetles, too, To drag their acorn-cups of dew.

Get up, humble-bee! Or I'll tickle thy furry thigh With this beard of golden rye — Get up, humble-bee! Here I come! I've got her! The hateful, elvish men Shall never, never find her again. I stormed their den with my humble-bee ; With his big, sharp lance he fought for me. We tore their walls of rotting bark, We chased them into their dungeon dark ; With strong pine needles we barred them in, There they shall stay till they rue their sin. I found my darling with smutty wings, And spotted with cruel nettle-stings ; But I 've swung her through the waterfall's mist, And a cleaner darling never was kissed.

I '11 put her to bed in the grass down deep, And set the crickets to sing her to sleep. Annette Bishop in Riverside Magazine. They piled his dishes high and thick With a lot of unhealthy cake, While they gobbled the buttered toast and rolls, Which the parson's wife did make. They hung around Clytie's classic neck Their apple-parings for sport, And every one laughed when a clumsy lout Spilled his tea in the pianoforte. Next day the parson went down on his knees, With his wife — but not to pray ; Oh, no, 't was to scrape the grease and dirt From the carpet and stairs away.

Boys and girls, do you hear? Hurry up, Bill, let 's run! Come gently, my dear! I'm sorry! I only was climbing a wall. I'm just like a bear! A still, lonely house would be far worse than noise ; Rejoice and be glad in your brave girls and boys. And when he had finished his gay little song, He flew down in the street, and went hopping along, This way and that way, with both little feet, While his sharp little eyes looked for something to eat A little boy said to him : " Little bird, stop, And tell me the reason you go with a hop.

Why don't you walk, as boys do, and men, One foot at a time, like a dove or a hen? Bates in Wide Awake. My Charlie had two pearly ears, But you have only one.

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The rule is generally correct, and so simple as easily to be remembered. I say, I 've had the jolliest, biggest time Of all my life to-day. Edward E. Edwards in Boston Transcript. Why is he so happy? Why this merry song? Near him listens Jenny, In her nest so strong. Now she joins her Jacky, For a little while ; Fills her bill with tid-bits, Over by the stile. Happy little birdlings, In their tiny nest! Sure their mother '11 give them Food that suits them best. THE white turkey was dead! The white turkey was 1 dead! How the news through the barnyard went flying!

Of a mother bereft, four small turkeys were left, And their case for assistance was crying. E'en the peacock respectfully folded his tail, As a beautiful symbol of sorrow ; And his plainer wife said, " Now the old bird is dead, Who will tend her poor chicks on the morrow? For the bugs and the worms In the garden 'tis tiresome pickin' ; I have nothing to spare — for my own I must care,"- Said the hen with only one chicken.

They must learn, little elves, how to scratch for themselves, And not seek to depend upon others. I wis' 'ou'd turn An' have a 'ittle tonty play — " " No gentle hand was there to bring The cooling draught, or bathe his brow ; His courtiers and his pages gone — " "Turn, papa, turn; I want 'ou now — " Down goes the book with needless force; And, with expression far from mild, With sullen air and clouded brow, I seat myself beside the child.

Her little trusting eyes of blue With mute surprise gaze in my face, As if, in its expression stern, Reproof and censure she could trace. Anon her little bosom heaves, Her rosy lips begin to curl ; And, with a quivering chin, she sobs, "Papa don't 'uv his 'ittle dirl. King, palace, book — all are forgot ; My arms are round my darling thrown ; The thundercloud has burst, and, lo! Tears fall, and mingle with her own. Charles Follen Adams, in Gems for the Fireside. Colin Milton. Sissified for Science. Dressing Up Dolly: Feminizing and Dominating! My Best Guy Friend. Mistress Latvia. Gender Swapping the Babysitter.

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