A merry-go-round of song :: :: University of Virginia Library

Blossom she gave to an almond-tree,
And warbles she gave to a brook;
But Fancy she dropped in a poet's heart
As he sang at his Children's Book.

BOBBY'S FIRST POEM

ITT rely is ridikkelus
how uncle charly tikkels us
at eester and at mikkelmus
Upon the nursry flor
and rubbs our chins and bites our ears
like firty fousand poler bares
and rors like lyons down the stares
and wont play enny mor

THE CLOCK AND THE CHRISTMAS PARTY

The Grandfather Clock, standing back in the gloom,
Heard the knives and the forks in a neighbouring room,
And the clatter of plates as the girls and the boys
Did their best to increase such a jubilant noise
As never till then had been heard in the hall
Where the Cavaliers hung in their frames on the wall!
Such a rumpus bewildered the mice; and the Clock
Went crack-crack in his case from the force of the shock!
“'Tis enough to make my pendulum hurry,
And both my weights run down in a flurry!
Why, bless my heart, whatever could start
Such a chattering flock?”
Quoth the Grandfather Clock.
(But he didn't run down.)

Just after his casing of walnut went crack
Both the sides of the door were moved suddenly back.
What the Grandad beheld caused a very sharp rick
In his side, and he nearly omitted to tick!
For ho-ho! the bright dozens of boys and of girls
With the papery caps on the top of their curls!
With jellies and tartlets and fruit and mince-pies
And custards and candles and fairy-lit eyes!

“'Tis enough to make my pendulum hurry,
And both my weights run down in a flurry!
Upon my word, I never have heard
Such a merry-mad flock!”
Quoth the Grandfather Clock.
(But he didn't run down.)

Then the children got up from the table and rushed
For their hands to be cleaned and their curls to be brushed;
And when they were tidy they stood in the gloom
Near the big folding-doors of the Grandfather's room.
Then a very tall gentleman pressed with his thumb
On a little white button, for radiance to come
From ceiling and mantel and cornice and wall
To light the magnificent room—for a ball!
“'Tis enough to make my pendulum hurry,
And both my weights run down in a flurry,
To see go round to the fiddle's sound
Such a nimble-sweet flock!”
Quoth the Grandfather Clock.
(But he didn't run down.)

When the Spirit of Christmas determined to call
Lovely legions of playmates to join in the ball,
Then the Hollybush Fairylings pricked at the legs
Of the Rogers and Lucys and Normans and Megs;
And the Mistletoe Fairylings fluttered about
On the chance of defeating some little girl's pout
And persuading her apple-cheeked partner to dare
What the season allowed him to snatch from the Fair!

“'Tis enough to make my pendulum hurry,
And both my weights run down in a flurry!
I little knew I should ever view
Such a lovable flock!”
Quoth the Grandfather Clock.
(But he didn't run down.)

So excited he grew that he once tried to spring
From his place and to join in a Highlander's fling,
For he fell deep in love with a quaint little girl's
Blue campanula eyes and marsh marigold curls!
But, as fortune would have it, the delicate dear,
Being much out of breath, to the Grandad came near,
And, in thanks for his coolness, kept pressing her face
And her bright scarlet lips on his walnutty case!
“'Tis enough to make my pendulum hurry,
And both my weights run down in a flurry,
To have a kiss from the charming miss
Who's the flower of the flock!”
Quoth the Grandfather Clock.
(And he then ran down.)

THE MISCHIEVOUS FAIRY

As I went into my study,
Where the fire was low but ruddy,
I believed a lady must have left some violets in my room.
I began to seek the beauties
Ere I set about my duties,
When I came upon a Fairy-boy sniff-sniffing in the gloom.

He was stationed in a corner,
Like, and yet unlike, Jack Horner,
Just a whimpering little fellow from his fairyland aloof;
And I shouldn't more have wondered
If a crocodile had blundered
Down the chimney, or an elephant had fallen through the roof.

In my bosom pit-a-patter
Went my heart (so strange the matter!)
And I quite believe a hair or two rose stiffly on my head;
For it's really rather trying
When you come upon a crying
Little Fairy at a time when Fairy-boys should be in bed.

Very soon he told me faintly,
In a voice that sounded quaintly,
How he flew in at a window and enjoyed a lovely jink
Till his parents, who had sought him
In a hundred places, caught him
As he broke my stick of sealing-wax and flung it in the ink.

So they put him in a corner,
Like, and yet unlike, Jack Horner,
And they told him not to budge an inch till I had found him there;
For they said I ought to strip him
Of his coloured clothes and whip him
Till he promised not to trespass on my table anywhere.

But he looked at me so sweetly
As he cleaned his breast completely
Of the mischief he had done me in his afternoon of play,
That I kissed his mouth, and told him
(For I couldn't bear to scold him)
How I hoped he'd call to see me for a frolic every day!

DISCONTENT

“With nothing to make him sob or sigh,
He goes as he likes along the sky
In his silver shoes and his silver tie,
And with heaps of joy;
He never must learn in a book how far
From the Isle of Wight the Shetlands are!
Just wouldn't I love to be a star!”
Said the silly boy.

“With nothing to make him spin and fly,
He's gone to the sea and a big sand-pie
In his canvas shoes and his scarlet tie
In a railway car;
No wonder the busy porters smiled
At the ships and spades on the barrow piled!
Just wouldn't I love to be a child!”
Said the silly star.

THE TROUBLES OF FATHER CHRISTMAS

“For clambering down the chimneys and for clambering up again,”
Said Father Christmas on the roof, “I'm getting old, it's plain.
It suits me in a hundred ways to live upon the earth
And spend a large amount of time in planning children's mirth,
But how a builder can expect a gentleman to shoot
Down tunnels so perplexing, what with narrowness and soot,
And yet arrive without a smudge on face or nose or hand,
Is more than a magician's cat could rightly understand.
Imagine how I lose my breath, when down a yard or two,
By tugging at my oranges and crackers in a flue!
But Florences and Laurences,
And Margarets and Olivettes,
And Charlies and Horatios,
And Jims and Jacks and Jills and Joes,
Expect me, I suppose.
Here goes!

“While children blossom in their beds, while sleep is stroking them,
I bump along the slanty roof with Japhet, Ham, and Shem;

With thirty baby elephants, with goslings and with dogs,
With various kinds of paroquets and antelopes and frogs.
No wonder that I sometimes feel, when out in snow or rain,
As though my legs were dropping off and joining on again!
No wonder that I often think my health will not allow
My body to repeat next year the work it's doing now;
For roofs are slippery and cold, and chimney-pots are tight,
And gentlemen as old as I should keep indoors at night.
But Florences and Laurences,
And Lavenders and Olivers,
And Leonards and Horatios,
And Jims and Jacks and Jills and Joes,
Expect me, I suppose.
Here goes!

“Now here's an awkward chimney! No other Christmas friend
Of human babes would ever dream of getting past that bend,
And even I, with all my skill, can't possibly be quick
In taking down this narrow flue a rocking-horse to Dick.
Although it's heart-delighting when I reach a quiet room,
Sweet-lavendered by children lying cosy in the gloom,

And fumble for the stockings hanging long and limp and black
And hungry for the feast of toys I carry in my pack,
I cannot keep from thinking, as I scramble in the flue,
How seldom I am nicely thanked by Christopher and Sue.
But Florences and Laurences,
And Clementines and Ellalines,
And Rogers and Horatios,
And Jims and Jacks and Jills and Joes,
Expect me, I suppose.
Here goes!”

THE SNOWDROP

“Stay a little longer,”
Said a Fairy to a Snowdrop;
“Stay a little longer in your earth-brown nursery!”
But she said, “I must be going,
Be it raining, hailing, snowing;
I must stir me and be going,
For the Master calleth me.”

“Stay a little longer,”
Said the Children to the Snowdrop;
“Stay a little longer by the old laburnum-tree!”
But she said, “I must be homing
With my sisters in the gloaming;
I must stir me and be homing,
For the Master calleth me.”

BOBBY'S TEMPER

Becoming tired of history, geography, and words,
The colours and the habits and the favourite food of birds,
Quite suddenly he shouted out, “It's horrid to be good!
I'm going to be badder than you wouldn't think I could!”

He flung the inkwell at the cat, the paint-box at the dog,
The poker seized, and tomahawked Estella's crimson frog;
He yelled, “Beware the Indian Brave!” and butted with his head
The nurse, who shook him like a rat and bundled him to bed.

She took his clothes away from him, and there for hours he lay
And thought of plans for scalping her to-morrow or next day;
For still the wicked temper kept on bubbling in his heart
And wouldn't let the Fairy of Repentance make a start!

When Mother came from London, by the train at half-past six,
She heard, with overflowing eyes, of Bobby's dreadful tricks;

But when he saw her face, he cried, as near the bed she stood,
“Oh, Mammy, I'll be gooder than you wouldn't think I could!”

THE TRAVELLER

I love a little darling
Who is smaller than a starling,
But she wants to fly a thousand miles away.
On a metal line she's sitting,
With a heart pit-pat-pit-pitting
As the English evening turns from gold to grey.

She's finished all her packing,
And there's really nothing lacking
For the journey to be taken in the old and wondrous way.
She's at fever-heat for going,
By a law beyond our knowing,
As the English evening turns from gold to grey.

I think each reader guesses
Why she has no change of dresses,
Though she means to make so very long a stay:
In her coat and skirt of feather
She's prepared for foreign weather
As the English evening turns from gold to grey.

Not in body can I follow
Through the air the gentle swallow,
Yet my love shall speed beside her on the way.
Now the sky is snowing, snowing
With ten thousand flakes. She's going!
And the English evening's gold is lost in grey.

THE BAD GIRL

Once a little girl (how sad!)
Determined to be very bad.

At breakfast-time she knocked a jug
To pieces with her birthday mug.

She snatched the honeycomb, and spread
At least an inch on baby's head.

She got a needle, and she pressed
Quite hard against the parrot's chest,

Who, what with agony and rage,
Upset at last his silvered cage,

And, screaming all a wicked bird's
Supply of dreadful forest-words,

Fell with a bump—a dismal wreck!—
Upon the hearth, and broke his neck.

She went to lessons, sour and glum;
She bit her music-teacher's thumb.

And when the barber came to trim
Her grey-gold hair, she flew at him

And raised a lump upon his leg
As large as Madam Turkey's egg.

She tore a button from his coat
And tried to fling it down his throat.

Thus matters went from bad to worse,
Till all were crying—Mab and Nurse,

And Diccory, and Silver Sam,
The twins, and Hilary, and Pam.

When Mother heard the piteous tale
She went at first extremely pale,

And then extremely red, before
She pointed sternly at the door,

And followed, silent as the gloom,
The wicked child to Father's room.

When Father heard he did not speak,
But looked at her with eyes so bleak

That in her face and back and knees
She felt her blood begin to freeze.

He kept on staring. Little floes
Of ice were pressing on her toes.

And still he stared! The child was lost,
Or so she felt, in Father's frost.

He stood beside the study door
And pointed to the stairs. The floor

An iceberg seemed! In vain to pluck
Her feet away she tried. She stuck.

The curly ends of hearthrug felt
Like icicles that would not melt.

Then Mother snatched her from the ice
And took her bedward in a trice.

But in her sleep she suffered most,
Because she saw the parrot's ghost!

She saw it stand in horrid wise
And roll a vengeance from its eyes,

Till suddenly, alert and plain,
It hopped along the counterpane.

It passed her ankles, reached her knees;
Again the child began to freeze.

It stood in triumph on her chest
And smacked its horny beak with zest.

It dug its talons in her chin,
Flung back its head, a breath drew in,

And then, as steadily as goes
The blacksmith's hammer, pecked her nose.

The more she screamed, the more the ghost
With firmness held his tender post,

While tiny chips of nose were spread
At random on the tumbled bed.

When all the nose was gone, the bird
Proclaimed his most victorious word,

Uncorked a fancied bottle, hissed,
And darkly melted into mist.

Oh, little girls who would not use
This violent rebel's pair of shoes,

Who would not throw a sunny day
(So precious for the heart!) away,

Who would not feel your bodies grow
As cold as beggars in the snow,

Who want dream-comers in the night
To be, as lilies, fair and bright,

Have done with naughty hearts! Pretend
That days are open flowers, and spend,

As though a family of bees,
Your time in gathering honey. Please!

THE REVIEW

Upon the crimson carpet of a long and lofty hall
Stood Father Christmas, in a gown of purple edged with gold.
His forehead it was wrinkled, and the hand of Time had sprinkled
On his hair the white of winter; but his face was far from old.
The bluest eyes in all the world were gleaming as he laughed
And spoke a rapid sentence to the helpers standing near.
I wish the magic company had all been photographed
And framed and hung upon a nail for every little dear!
“Now, Jacky Frost and Lily Snow,”
Said Father Christmas, speaking low,
“Remember every tub and spout
And all the gutters round about,
And run your ways on hearing—Go!

“You both shall see before you start the multitude of toys
By Fairies manufactured while I took a year of sleep.”
He signalled to a sentry who was watching at the entry,
And the giant portal opened on a staircase broad and steep.

Brigades of metal infantry tramp-tramped along the floor,
To crush the foes of England or to lie in glorious graves,
With whistling and with humming, with bandsmen proudly drumming,
With brass declaring splendidly that Britons won't be slaves!
“In payment for this dazzling show,”
Said Father Christmas, speaking low,
“Remember every window-pane
And every twig along the lane,
And run your ways on hearing—Go!”

He crooked his fingers suddenly, when all the brilliant host
Departed in a second with the cannon and the shells;
And following tinny forces came ten thousand rocking-horses
With a melody of stirrups and a jinglement of bells.
They galloped by at headlong speed, and dolls of lovely shapes
Came dancing in—a multitude delightful to behold,
With hats of perfect beauty, and with bodices and capes
Of peacock-blue, woodpecker-green, and yellow-hammer gold.
“Now, Jacky Frost and Lily Snow,”
Said Father Christmas, speaking low,
“Remember every log and stump
And weathercock and village pump,
And run your ways on hearing—Go!”

Then other toys appeared in turn upon the crimson plain,
Till Jacky Frost and Lily Snow grew giddy at the sight
Of metal stags and leopards, china lambs and wooden shepherds
For the stockings waiting weary for old Santa Claus at night.
Then Father Christmas made as if he juggled in the air,
And suddenly a little bed, with children in it, came,
That Frost and Snow might watch for once (you should have seen them stare!)
How Santa fills the stockings when he plays the Chimney Game.
“Now, Jacky Frost and Lily Snow,”
Said Father Christmas, speaking low,
“Remember every stack and rut
And hollybush and woodman's hut,
And run your ways. Get ready!—Go!”

CHRISTOPHER CURLS

I should like to know why Christopher Curls,
Who's a sweet little boy with a face like a girl's,
Won't listen to me, though I keep on appealing,
But lies on his back making friends with the ceiling!
I should love to know.

I should like to know why Christopher Curls,
Who is dearer to me than a sackful of pearls,
Won't listen to drums, or to puppydogs squealing,
But chuckles and bubbles for friends on the ceiling!
I should love to know.

Little Christopher Curls, am I right to suppose
That a fairy-born playmate good-humouredly throws
Back-somersaults there, and delights in revealing
Extravagant pranks on the floor of the ceiling?
I should love to know.

Little Christopher Curls, how I wonder, my dear,
If I acted like this when my age was a year;
If I never regarded my Uncle's appealing,
But bubbled and crowed to some friends on the ceiling!
I should love to know.

SAINT FRANCIS

Because a tiny boy has pressed
Too close, a blackbird on her nest
Is full of trouble in her breast,
And tremulously glances.
She thinks how well she could have fared
Without his speeches. If she dared
To peck this little golden-haired
Inquisitive Saint Francis!

She does not know his parents speak
From day to day and week to week
In love of breast and wing and beak,
And all a blackbird's chances.
A wrong not easily repaired
Were done, dear mother, if you dared
To peck this little golden-haired
Inquisitive Saint Francis!

Because of pretty stories heard,
He only wants to have a word
Of joy with you, suspicious bird,
About those sweet romances!
Be very thankful that you spared
The heart had broken had you dared
To peck this small and golden-haired
And amateur Saint Francis!

A GOOD REASON

Do you know why the Moon
Takes the trouble to rise,
Rubbing silvery soap
In her beautiful eyes?

Why she brushes her hair
In the neatest of ways,
Till the fairy-like stars
Clap their hands in her praise?

Why she comes spick and span
From her bedroom of blue,
And with never a bow
Of bright ribbon askew?

As she walks down the sky
In her petticoat fair
I believe that she keeps
Wide-awake in the air

For the joy of a glance
At the cradles and beds
That are precious with dark
And with light-coloured heads.

Now you see why the Moon
Takes the trouble to rise,
Rubbing silvery soap
In her beautiful eyes.

THE LITTLE ONE

The Beggar and his Little One were walking down the road.
Said the Beggar very softly, “Ah, how young to bear a load!
For the dreary days are coming when a sword is in the wind,
And the haystack or the heather-clump must serve as our abode.”
(But God smiled gently to Himself.)

The Beggar and his Little One were passing through the corn.
Said the Beggar very softly, “What a pity she was born!
For the pinch has come upon us, and her little mouth is sad,
And for her there's hungry midday, hungry evening, hungry morn.”
(But the Wheat smiled gently to itself.)

The Beggar and his Little One were creeping through the town.
They gazed in at a window where the loaves were thick and brown.
“Poor darling!” said the Beggar, as he looked with tearful eyes
At the tiny slip of girlhood in the tiny ragged gown.
(But the Loaves laughed gently to themselves.)

He scarce had moved ten yards away from where the food was spread,
When the baker pushed into his hands a crusty dome of bread:
“'Tis fresh from out the oven, Friend, to warm the child and you.”
So the Beggar and his Little One went satisfied to bed.
(And God smiled softly to Himself.)

MAID MARY

Carried snugly in my arms,
You have seen the rose's charms
In the scented flower-farms
Loved by bee and Fairy;
Watched the honey-hunter fly
Down a lily's throat, and hie
Home with gold-dust on her thigh,
Have you not, Maid Mary?

Once I showed, when all the rest
Played a long way off, a nest
Deep between two branches pressed,
Downy, leafy, hairy;
Told you how the mother begs
Peace while cuddling wings and legs
Tightly packed away in eggs,
Did I not, Maid Mary?

Here I teach your grey-blue eyes
How to learn the grass and skies,
Flowers and birds and butterflies,
Plummy trees and peary.
Watch the lilies in a row
Lift up lessons sweet to know,
That your heart and mind may grow
Lily-like, Maid Mary.

THE LOST AUNT

I never met three horrider boys
Than Can't, Won't, Sha'n't!
They broke the baby's doll and toys,
And always tried to make a noise
Whenever they were asked to be
Less noisy by their Aunt.

I never met three horrider girls
Than Shrug, Squeal, Pout!
They poured some gum on baby's curls,
They ran away with Auntie's pearls,
And always bit their governess
When Mother had gone out.

At last no invitations came
For Can't, Won't, Sha'n't.
Wise mothers kept their parties snug
By leaving Squeal and Pout and Shrug
To quarrel with their brothers three
And terrify their Aunt.

This Aunt was sweet as sugar-cane,
And tried each day
To teach the children rough and wild
To do as she did when a child.
In vain! She had to pack her bag
And go with tears and sobs away.

QUEEN HONEYSUCKLE

Don't bring the Honeysuckle home!
She doesn't want to come.
Knee-deep in water in a jar,
She cannot see her favourite star
When Night reveals how many eyes
Are counting comets in the skies.
She cannot hear the nightingale
Tell yet once more the glowing tale
He packed so tightly in his brain
When starting for an English lane,
Because he hoped to win a meek
Young spinster with his fluent beak.

Don't bring the Honeysuckle home!
She doesn't want to come.
She longs to stay and hear the words
Of lessons taught by elder birds
To fluffy classes, not too big,
That sit and learn upon a twig.
She wants to gather what the wren
Advises if his nervous hen
Is worried by the distant noise
Of slowly-nearing girls and boys,
Who chase each other round and round,
And bounce like balls upon the ground.

Don't bring the Honeysuckle home!
She doesn't want to come.
Would you, if you were born to grow
With leafy hedgeside neighbours? No!

She's hot and weary when she stands,
A faded prisoner, in your hands,
And keeps on wishing you would cease
To think the nursery mantelpiece
A proper place for one who's been
A scented and delicious Queen,
Accepting in a thousand vales
The compliments of nightingales.

THE PRISONER

“Oh, dear!” I said, for I had heard a nasty little slap,
“Another mouse has caught himself in Auntie Ada's trap—
Another silly mousikin has left his mother's knees
And fallen victim to the charms of toasted Cheddar cheese!”

I reached behind the big arm-chair, exploring with a stick,
And thought I heard a piping voice exclaim, “Be quick! Be quick!”
At last I gave the prison such a smart and sudden rap
That out it came. A Fairy's foot was tortured in the trap!

My dearest children, you can guess that then, without a pause,
I knelt to free the tiny foot, and stroked the wings of gauze,
And took the Fairy to the fire to nurse upon my knee,
And listened while she told her tale heartbrokenly to me.

She'd run away from Fairyland because she longed to know
A township where the noisy crowds of human beings grow,

And drive the giant omnibus, and disappear in holes,
And rush about inside the earth like families of moles.

No taller than a toddling child, and only half as bold,
The lost and lovely Fairyling was very sweet to hold
Beside the winter flaming of the fire that seemed to stare
So rudely at her tangled cloud of chestnut-coloured hair.

In sudden loops of frolic, in gay and rapid rings,
She flew about for me to watch the glitter of her wings;
And when at last she folded them, she danced upon the floor
Such dances as a mortal man had never seen before!

“Ah, never go away!” I said. “Keep house, dear child, with me.
I want to stroke you often while you sit upon my knee.”
She promised with a clinging kiss she'd never more depart,
Contented to be prisoned in the mouse-trap of my heart.

THE NEW FRIEND

He's lying lazy on his back, and staring in my eyes
With a sort of stony steadfastness, and breathing little sighs.

He's wondering why such monsters come so frequently, to bend
Above his kingdom in a cot. He hopes I am a friend.

I make a kind of chicken-noise—a clucking as of fowls
Contented in a rickyard; but Baby Bunting scowls.

I coo, as though I were a dove delighted in an oak
By eggs his wife has laid for him; and Baby sees the joke.

At last he twists his mouth about in several awkward styles,
Displaying knots and corners; and then suddenly he smiles!

And next he makes a woodland sound, to show his Uncle Hugh
That even at a tender age a little bird can coo!

No more he fears the giant who is bending o'er the bed,
With such a mass of yellow hair upon his monster head!

But takes him to his little heart, confidingly aware
That nothing mischievous is meant by all that curly hair!

Thus Baby wins a loving slave, who frequently will come
And beat upon the nursery door as if it were a drum;

And, either as a camel or a buffalo, will spend
An hour before the tub receives his Baby Bunting friend.

VERSES FOR PRUE

Father Christmas rubbed his eyes;
Found it was April; stared at the clock;
Filled his room with the sound of sighs,
Because of the Grandad's slow tick-tock.
He yearned to be off with his sack of toys
To a famous country of golden curls,
With goodness knows what for the dear little boys,
And better than that for the dear little girls.
Every time he woke in the summer
The heart of the kind old man turned glummer,
Longing for Ada, Roderick, Nancy,
Christopher, Nell, and (only fancy!)
You, Prue.

Father Christmas cracked his toes;
Found it was August; stared at the clock;
Said in his beard, “How starched he goes
By day and by night with his grim tick-tock!”
He yearned to be up on the roof once more,
Where the hailstones pepper his brave old head;
But yearning was vain, so pretending to snore
(To frighten the clock), he continued in bed.
Every time he woke in the summer
The heart of the dear old man turned glummer,
Longing for Jessie, Katharine, Bridget,
Hilary, John, and (golden fidget!)
You, Prue.

Father Christmas sat upright;
Found it December; glared at the clock;
Roared a hundred candles alight,
And searched in a rage for a red wool sock.
Too deep had he dreamed! It was time for his round
Of the chimneys ranked in a thousand miles.
By naming a word of astonishing sound
He shattered the roof, and was out on the tiles!
Dead and gone was the vexing summer
That wearied his heart and turned it glummer.
Hey! for the pillow-spread curls of Mary,
Christopher, Nell, and (silk-soft fairy!)
You, Prue!

THE LESSON

Bring your lovely heads to me,
Children, and your lovely eyes!
Bend above this board to see
What I have of true surprise.

Every day I try to teach
Something to your growing wit,
That by learning you may reach
Wonder's heart, and beat with it.

Here I show a child of wheat,
Packed with root and skyward sprout,
Waiting in his small retreat
Signals to be up and out!

Stores to feed him as he grows
Round his points of life are spread,
Placed for him by One who knows
How to make His creatures' bread.

Though his cradle holds him yet,
Not asleep the baby lies;
All his darkling hopes are set
Firmly on the coloured skies.

Now I split our simple toy,
Showing by what marvellous plan
Wheat's delicious baby-boy
Changes slowly to a man!

Millions of his brethren bold
Far afield in sun and dew
Make, by changing green to gold,
Crumb and crust to give to you.

Bend above the board to see
What I have of rare surprise.
Lend your lovely heads to me,
Children, and your lovely eyes!

ARTFUL EVANGELINE

When Nursie says, “Evangeline,
'Tis time for Bedfordshire,
My dear!”
The little girl begins to crawl
Beneath the sofa near the wall,
And utters such a piercing squeal,
When Nursie tugs her by the heel,
That Uncle Robert rushes out
To see if brigands are about!

When Cousin says, “Evangeline,
'Tis time for Bedfordshire,
My dear!”
The little girl begins to sniff
Inside her pocket-handkerchief;
Or tumbles with a heavy bump
Upon the hearthrug in a lump,
Till Cousin looks extremely vexed,
And Uncle Bob exclaims, “What next!”

When Mother says, “Evangeline,
'Tis time for Bedfordshire,
My dear!”
The child is almost sure to gain,
By being sweet as sugar-cane,
A little longer time to sit
And watch her Auntie's fingers flit
Like birds among the ivory keys
To wake the laughing melodies.

When FATHER says, “Evangeline,
'Tis time for Bedfordshire,
My dear!”
Evangelina never thinks
Of being such a little minx
As when the others all declare
The hour has come for bath and prayer,
But gives to each of us a kiss
And goes to bed—a model miss!

THE APOLOGY

I never shall forget
The day when Daddy frowned,
And flung his book and walking-stick
And cap upon the ground!

He said he had not thought
A child of his could bear
To bully in their nurseries
The children of the air.

He said he almost wished
I'd neither arms nor legs,
Since I could use them wickedly
To steal a thrush's eggs.

And when I sobbed, he said,
“Don't rub those naughty eyes,
But go at once to Mrs Thrush
And then apologise.”

He took me through a gap
Where he could hardly crush,
And made me curtsy twice, and say,
“I beg your pardon, Thrush!”

And then beside the hedge
He taught me how to think
Of birds in blue, of birds in green,
Of birds in white and pink,

Till I could see 'twas wrong
To steal the thrush's eggs,
And promised (with a kiss) to have
Good eyes, good arms, good legs.

Suppose an eagle came
And took from Daddy's nest
The face he loves, the hair he loves,
The heart he loves the best!

HOW TO DRESS

If you want to be well-dressed,
You must have a little vest
Of good-temper next your skin.
If you haven't, you will pout,
Scratch and grumble, stamp and shout,
Throw your toys and books about,
Till the lovely light goes out,
In her sorrowful surprise,
From your pretty mother's eyes.

Thus beginning with a vest
Of good-temper on your chest,
You will have a splendid start;
And your other things will seem
Made of sky and rainbow beam,
Softer than a Fairy's dream
When she nods beside a stream.
Come and be a happy boy
In the coloured clothes of joy!

But the garment you must wear
Every day, and never tear,
Is an overall of love!
This is made of fabric grown
Where the fields are angel-sown,
And is stitched in ways unknown
To the world we call our own.
Put it on, and make me glad
Thus to see you, dearest lad!

TIMOTHY TOYLESS

With marks of tears upon his cheeks,
Timothy Toyless lay
An hour or two before the dawn
Of holy Christmas Day.
His hair was rough, his bed was rough,
And rough his little shirt.
The only watchers in the room
Were Poverty and Dirt.

While these were sitting hand in hand,
There suddenly appeared
An old and rosy gentleman
With half a yard of beard!
His hair was white, his face was broad,
His mantle it was red.
“Is Timothy Toyless sleeping here,
Miss Poverty?” he said.

She nodded to the Visitor,
Who put his bundle down
And took a scarlet humming-top
From underneath his gown.
He laid it on the bed, and passed
In silence through the door;
And Timothy Toyless thereupon
Was Toyless Tim no more!

TO A LITTLE GIRL

Perhaps, dear Child, you did not know
That Fairies smell as sweet as flowers:
The many tribes have many scents,
And many differing ornaments,
And various heart-delighting bowers.

Now just as birds in sycamores
By sound give sweetness to the trees,
The Fairies by their odours make
The petalled cups a perfume take
To spill upon the passing breeze.

If you could pierce with magic eyes
The secrets of the lavender,
You'd find a thousand Fairylings
A-perching there, with folded wings,
And pouring sweetness into her.

Perhaps some tribe of Fairy-folk,
If you are bright and diligent,
Will run away from flowers, and start
As birds to twitter in your heart,
And share with you their scent!

THE CANARY AND THE MOUSE

A very bright-eyed little mouse,
When running in my Auntie's house,
Perceived a cage, and overheard
The pipings of a golden bird:

“Day in, day out, I have my fill
Of seed and sugar for my bill;
However hot the blazing sky,
My water-bowl is never dry.

“My mistress sees that I am fed,
And loves to stroke my velvet head;
She tells that slinking wretch in fur
Canary bones are not for her!

“I'm safe and happy when I cling
Upon the wires, or stand to sing,
For everyone who likes to hear,
A song that shakes the chandelier.

“No breezes put me in a fret,
No raindrops make my feathers wet;
Week in, week out, I have my fill
Of seed and sugar for my bill.”

On hearing this, the silky mouse
Began to look about the house
In hope of finding for her share
A cage supplied with pleasant fare.

And in a corner near the fire
She found a house of wood and wire,
With not the smallest sign to say
That trespassers must go away!

The friendly door was open wide,
A meal of cheese was spread inside;
Not waiting to reflect, the dunce
Decided to walk in at once.

On happy toes she crept along,
Encouraged by the goldbird's song;
But when she bit the cheese's rind
She heard a slapping noise behind!

An inch beyond her grey-silk tail
The door had shut! The mouse went pale;
For now there was a sign to say
That trespassers were bound to stay!

The mouse's heart went pit-a-pat
As there in wretchedness she sat
And listened to the song-bird's clear
Announcement shake the chandelier:

“However hot the blazing sky,
My water-dish is never dry;
Year in, year out, I have my fill
Of seed and sugar for my bill.”

Perhaps the little grey-silk mouse
Again is running in the house,
For Auntie Ada let her go
Because her heart was thumping so!

She didn't linger there to say
“Good-bye” or “Thanks” or “Lovely day”!
But rushed along the cupboard's back
And tumbled headlong down a crack!

“Year in, year out, I have my fill
Of seed and sugar for my bill,”
Canary cried. “But east or west,”
Quoth Auntie, “liberty is best!”

THE PRINCESS

I'm a little Princess, and I live in a home
Without window or chimney or staircase or dome.

Though my flesh is as white as a basin of milk,
Yet I cover it all with a thin piece of silk.

Though the smarter Princesses may rustle and mock,
I despise change of fashion, and wear the same frock,

Believing the colour and cut are the best
That were chosen for me when my body was dressed,

And delighted in meadow, contented by stream,
With my costume the colour of dairymaid's cream.

I have brothers and sisters and cousins in scores,
Yet I never consent to receive them indoors,

For I'm anxious and busy in working to rhyme
Exactly with Nature, and cannot spare time

To gossip and giggle and loll in a chair
With a riband and tortoiseshell comb in my hair;

Or to grieve the piano by thumping a scale,
Till the white notes look black and the black notes look pale;

For my duty-in-chief is to grow in my dress
Of remarkable silk to a perfect Princess,

And so to behave that the King of our race
Shall consider my work with a smile on His face.

I'm a little Princess, and I live in a home
Without window or chimney or staircase or dome.

When the stars cool the forest, I always keep snug
In a bed without eiderdown, blanket, or rug;

And I cuddle in solitude, warm and aloof
From the crack of the thunder, the rain on the roof.

When the Dawn shakes my shoulder, I never complain,
Or lie lazy in bed till I slumber again,

For I'm glad to be busy at working to rhyme
Exactly with Nature, and must not lose time.

Little Children, perhaps you are longing to guess
What's the name of the girl in the everyday dress,

With a body as white as a basin of milk,
Though she covers it all with a thin piece of silk.

I am Hazel the Woodnut! I live in a home
Without window or chimney or staircase or dome.

I am Hazel the Woodnut, determined to rhyme
Exactly with Nature, and never waste time;

For my duty-in-chief is to grow in my dress
Of remarkable silk to a perfect Princess,

And so to behave that the King of our race
Shall examine my work with a smile on His face.

THREE HOPES

I always hope the bird will fly
So high, so high,
That not a single leaden dot
In all the swarm of nasty shot
Will bring her tumbling from the sky
To die.
Don't you?
If not, please do.

I always hope the fox's track,
By hill, by stack,
Unstayed will be when yokels shout
To turn the runner roundabout
And help to plunge upon his back
The pack.
Don't you?
If not, please do.

I always hope the fish will try
So snug to lie
That not the cleverest sort of hook
Will pierce him in the silver brook
And drag him to the heavy sky
To die.
Don't you?
If not, please do.

THE REWARD

I flung a splendid cherry-log upon the fire, and broke
A lump of coal, to see the flames of blue and green and pink;
I put two crimson cushions in my chair of Irish oak
And settled down to rest awhile from paper, pen, and ink.
'Twas pleasant, when the log began to crackle in the blaze,
And sometimes suddenly to spit, as though it were a cat,
To let my memory run about in far-off happy days
And dress me in an overall and ribboned sailor hat.

I plainly saw my Mother, in the lilac-coloured dress
She spoiled the day we scrambled in the patch of raspberry canes.
I seemed to hear her calling me; I seemed to feel her press
Her handkerchief upon my mouth, to wipe away the stains . . .
What noise was that behind my chair? Whose breathing could it be?
What ghost had come to trespass and to make the sound I heard?
No wonder that the raspberry canes I threaded in my glee
Had vanished in a wink of time!—for this is what occurred:

A touch upon my shoulder made me feel as though a pack
Of goblins, ripe for mischief, had assembled near my chair,
Intent on ramming icicles by dozens down my back
And twisting all the curliness and comfort from my hair.
Each throbbing of my heart was like a blacksmith's hammer-stroke,
And well I knew that both my cheeks were looking snowdrop-pale;
But ere my tongue could find its use, an unseen Stranger spoke:
Old Santa Claus would much enjoy a chat with Norman Gale.

At once a tide of happy blood came rushing to my face,
So sudden was the loss of fear, so sudden the surprise.
I jumped from out my easy-chair, and put him in my place,
And laughed a joyous welcome to the laughter in his eyes.
“Excuse me if I bothered you,” the Master kindly said,
“And made you think a ghost had passed in silence through the wall.
This year I've risen earlier than usual from my bed,
Before the time for chimney-pots; and so I thought I'd call.”

“I'm very greatly honoured.” “Please don't mention it!” he cried;
“I know you love me thoroughly, and never fail to sing

Of beds with counterpanes on top and human lambs inside,
And rows of stockings hungry for the packages I bring.
Because you make these songs for me, and make them with delight,
I'm eager to reward you in whatever way you pick;
So search among your wishes for the dearest wish to-night,
And let me have the pleasure of repaying you. Be quick!”

Because I scarcely knew at first what pleasant thing to ask
He wagged his half-a-yard of beard amusingly, and smiled.
“If kind enough,” I said, “to let me watch the lovely task,
Please fill the Christmas stocking of my Mother when a child.”
Before my busy silver clock had ticked a second dead,
The fire went out, the lamp went out, and such a blackness fell
As seemed to have the heavy weight of copper or of lead,
And made me think of darkness at the bottom of a well.

When blackness turned to moonbeams, I discovered at my side
A bonny child asleep among her locks of primrose gold:
I knew her in a moment, by the happiness and pride
That spoke to me of Mother, when no more than six years old!

Before I'd kissed the little palm laid open on the sheet,
I clearly heard along the slates a bumping sort of noise;
And next, to my astonishment, there fell upon his feet,
Among the ashes, Santa Claus, with oranges and toys!

He packed her stocking tightly with the treasures he had brought,
And placed a doll upon a chair beside a walnut box,
Before he reached in front of me his blessing hand, and sought
To smooth as tenderly as I the wealth of golden locks.
“If other children in the past had failed me, she alone,”
He whispered softly in my ear, “was worth the deepest snow.
I loved her as I should have loved a lambkin of my own,
And always used to kiss her—thus!—some sixty years ago.”

No sooner had he kissed her than a darkness blotted out
The bed, the floor, the walnut box, the doll upon the chair.
I lost the beauty of the lips that slumbered in a pout,
I lost the primrose colour of the heavy mass of hair. . . .

What noise was that behind me? Who tugged me by the sleeve?
Who bade me rouse myself at once and join a game of Snap?
One nephew and two nieces! Yet I hardly can believe
That such a heavenly reward was nothing but a nap!

THE FRENCH BOY

Little Pierre from far away
In the sunny south of France
Came to learn and love and play
All the year with Bell and Lance,
While his parents crossed the seas,
Sailing quickly to Japan.
English friends were glad to please
Friends in France as dear as these,
So they took the little man
Home with them. A charming plan,
Pretty Pierre!

Eyes he had of larkspur blue,
Hair the shade of cowslip gold,
Nimble little feet that flew
Quick as wings not very old.
When he stood to say his grace
Slowly in a foreign tongue,
Surely angels in the place
Watched that almost angel face,
Smiled when Peter's treble flung
Me this question, “Iz eet wr-rung,
Mistaire Gaal?”

When his parents sailed away
Oversea from far Japan,
In our work and in our play
Lost we then the little man.

But we keep him in our breast,
Held by love's enduring link,
Where for always he shall rest,
Go he east or go he west!
Memory hears him, gay and pink,
Call the question, “Vat you tink,
Mistaire Gaal?”

A PERFECT FIT

The baby starlings very soon
Will wonder at the sky,
And watch the silver-seeming moon
In loveliness go by.
Next week their little eyes will stare
As if beneath a spell;
But just at present they must wear
An overcoat of shell.

Forget-me-nots have such a blue
As all the jackets bear
While keeping out the rain and dew
And sharpness of the air.
All snug inside, as ships in port,
The birdlings never dream
How cunningly the tailor wrought
The coats without a seam.

If you had found a tailor-man
To fit you just as well
As fit by some ingenious plan
The overcoats of shell,
Instead of racing down the stairs
And dancing twenty jigs
You would have played in Uncle's pears
At see-saw on the twigs!

THANK YOU, LITTLE BOY

For the loan of golden head,
For the simple joy,
For the frolic on the bed,
Thank you, Little Boy!

Though my hair in silver flows,
Though my joints are stiff,
I can play at buffaloes,
Trample, bellow, sniff.

Hurried, worried all the day,
Longing for the night,
How my breast at once was gay
When you flashed in sight!

When you could have played with Dick,
Humphrey, Jack, and Sue,
It was sweet of you to pick
Me to play with you.

Trust me most of all to share
Frolic here with you,
Thinking me the fondest bear,
Dearest kangaroo!

For the breath of Long Ago,
For the cup of joy,
For the change to buffalo,
Thank you, Little Boy!

THE INSURGENT

Once dear, twice dear,
Thrice dear, fall asleep!
Was ever such a babie boy
For gleaming like a spark,
And showing me a rosebud
By a fairy of a pout
In between the dusk and dark?
Let playfulness go out,
And sleepiness come in,
Dearikin.

Once dear, twice dear,
Thrice dear, fall asleep!
Was ever such a babie boy
For kicking like a foal,
And underneath the pillows
Fiercely burrowing about
Like a busybody mole?
Let playfulness go out,
And sleepiness come in,
Dearikin!

Once dear, twice dear,
Thrice dear, fall asleep!
Was ever such a babie boy
For keeping wide awake,

And worrying his mother
Into feverings and doubt
For his more than golden sake?
Let playfulness go out,
And sleepiness come in,
Dearikin!

A TALE OF THE TREES

Long ago, when Dame Nature had settled the bees
And the blossoms in union, she turned to the trees
For a change.

She discovered them met in a place like a park,
To complain very much at the absence of bark
From their trunks.

If the truth must be told, when the trees first began,
They were started in life on a sensible plan,
For their good;

With a coating to keep them unhurt and serene
In their work of uplifting an ocean of green
To the blue.

But the sun was so thumpingly hot, that in pride
They unbuttoned their bark, and conveyed it aside
To a heap,

Where it shrivelled and mouldered, till Autumn again
Bid the trees to remember the thunder and rain
In the wilds.

They decided to heed this grandmotherly charge;
But the clothes had got small and their waists had got large
In the sun!

As they drew themselves in, and attempted to fit
The bark to their bosoms, by bit and by bit
It grew less;

Till at last it all tumbled to pieces, and lay
For the frolicsome ants to explore in their play
Or their work.

Then the agonised trees in their fury began
To consider the question, Who started the plan
Of undress?

So the oak blamed the beech, and the beech from his place
Leaned across till he slapped the big oak in the face
With a branch!

Next the pigeons took sides in the hullabaloo,
And persistently cried, It was yoo! It was yoo-oo!
It was yoo-oo-ooo!

And the magpies assembled in hundreds, to see
What was best to be done to enrage every tree
Rather more!

But if Nature was watching, she wisely declined
All at once to convey a new coating of rind
To the trees;

For she feared, if she took them at once from their pain,
That in August the spendthrifts might vex her again
As before.

So in May, when her million and million of bees
Were in love with the honey, she turned to the trees
For a change.

She discovered them met in a place like a park,
To prepare and to sign a petition for bark
On their trunks.

So she wrought, in a workshop no mortal can reach,
Such a slaty-grey jerkin to give to the beech
For his own!

With a leathery tunic of durable grey
She delighted the poplar and sent him away
In repair.

To the muscular oak she presented with joy
A remarkable cassock of tough corduroy
Of the best.

For the sake of the cherry such genius was spent
That her blouse was a mingling of colour and scent,
As you see.

Now the elm and the ash and the quince and the pear
And the bullace and medlar and hornbeam were there
For a gift,

With the willow and apple and holly and lime,
And the rest of the trees. (You will learn them in time,
I daresay!)

There she toiled till she almost felt ready to drop!
But she loved them so much that she hated to stop
In her task.

Thus she dressed them in tunics and cassocks and coats,
And dismissed them to wave over barley and oats
In the fields.

When she thought she had done, she discovered a birch
That was standing behind her, as tall as a church,
Or a tower.

“But, my darling!” cried Nature, “the pieces of stuff
That remain in my workroom are hardly enough
For your skirt!

“'Tis a shame! But, my love, I'm too weary to match
What your sisters have got. Would you mind a big patch
Here and there?”

“Not a bit!” said the Birch. “What I dread is the cold
In my bones when the hurricane roars on the wold
All the night,

“And so long as I'm snug, not a fig shall I mind
If you patch me in front of my frock, or behind,
Rest assured.”

“Such a sensible girl,” quoth the Goddess, “shall wear
In the patches a stuff so entrancingly fair
For the eyes,

“That her lovers shall evermore look from the rest
Of her gown to the exquisite stain on the breast
Of the robe.

“I will patch it with cloth that I fashioned, dear girl,
Out of silver and moonbeams and mother-of-pearl
One July.

“Turn you round! Shut your eyes for a minute! Beware
Of the ache to behold what I do to you! There!—
It is done!

“Get you gone, Silver Birch, to the whispering-place
Of the woodfolk, and show them the magical grace
Of your gown.

“Fare you well! Till the earth is a-weary of trees,
On your bosom or waist, on your shoulders or knees,
You shall bear,

“As a sign that I love you, a moonbeamy shred
Of the stuff I employed when my heart and my head
Were so tired!

“When the heart in my bosom is aching for rest,
I shall think of your frock, and the day you were dressed,
Silver Birch!”

This was ages gone by! All the trees are prepared
To forget how their ancestors dismally fared
Long ago;

Every oak is a model of how to behave,
Every beech is a gentleman, sober, and grave,
And polite;

But the pigeons so ponder the tale in their breast
That they cannot attend as they ought to a nest
For the young.

They appear to have nothing whatever to do
But remark to the trees, It was yoo! It was yoo-oo!
It was yoo-oo-ooo!

THE SEA'S MESSAGE

“Behold the friend of children!”
Said the Sea unto the Sand.
“Let them love me where my waters
Make a marriage with the land.
In my shallows many a treasure
Gleams to win their pretty leisure,
As I kiss their feet in pleasure,”
Said the Sea unto the Sand.

“Here's a rainbow on a pebble,”
Said the Sea unto the Sand;
“For the babies on my beaches
Round the world it has been planned.
I have fish to pass them fleetly,
I have sponge to wash them neatly,
And a tune to hum them sweetly,”
Said the Sea unto the Sand.

“When their little hearts are weary,”
Said the Sea unto the Sand,
“Of the lanes and lawns of counties
Far beyond my golden strand,
Let them bring their pining faces
To my kisses and embraces,
Dig their forts and run their races,”
Said the Sea unto the Sand.

GOLDEN FURZE

When with a pinafore I went
Bareheaded in the shine or showers,
I thought the furze had gold at root,
Because the furze had golden flowers.

Then with my wooden spade I dug
Bareheaded in the shine and showers,
In hope to find the hidden gold
That fed the furze's golden flowers.

Eager I passed the secret place
Where elves had made their tiny bowers.
Why not? 'Twas plain the furze's root
From gold had drawn the golden flowers.

Resolute childhood! Simple child
By fancy touched in gleaming hours,
And happy by the very plan
That never uses gold in flowers!

Lovely at last the knowledge came,
As came my heart's expanding powers,
That had the furze been fixed in gold
She could not bear her golden flowers.

DINAH

Our Dinah is a Persian cat
Too beautiful for words!
She wears about her neck a bell
To warn the garden-birds.

Her eyes are blue as thrushes' eggs,
Her coat is brown as cloves,
And when she's wakeful, in my lap
She kneads her little loaves.

If you could see how diligent
Her paws are when they knead,
You'd think she had at least a score
Of kittycats to feed.

And often, lying in my lap,
So velvety and still,
With steadiness she grinds and grinds
A little coffee-mill.

To hear the lovely miller grind,
To watch her knead, is sweet;
It makes me want to pick her up
To kiss her face and feet.

I love her sleeping in the sun,
A hot and silky bale;
I love her when she tries to pounce
Upon her shadow's tail.

I'd rather have her for my pet
Than guinea-pigs or birds;
For Dinah is a Persian cat
Too beautiful for words!

THE APPRENTICE

It was very early Christmas, but I couldn't sleep a wink,
Though the clock upon the stairs was striking three,
For my brain was making Mary twenty tales about a fairy,
To be told when she was cuddling on my knee.
Having finished the eleventh, I lay musing in my bed,
Till a crash among the fire-irons made me start;
But before I'd time to wonder at the shock of indoors thunder
Came a voice that somehow satisfied my heart.

“Since my bones are growing weary, and the winds are more than keen,
I have need of you to help me for a time.
You have gathered word-sweet posies for my breathing Christmas Roses,
And have set my Christmas chimney-pots to rhyme.
If I search the whole world over I shall never find a friend
With a larger love for children in his breast;
So prepare without a grumble to take headers, and to tumble
In a thousand nursery fenders on your chest.”

Then a cloak was flung around me. In a moment I had passed
Through the ceiling, and was perched upon the tiles,
With my face toward the county where the heart-delighting bounty
Of my playmate's lovely hair is known for miles.
But a touch upon my shoulder turned me quickly to the north,
And I listened to the Master while he spoke
Such a charm as set me flying over fields and hedges lying
Far beneath the moon-lit crimson of his cloak.

As I flew behind the Master, with the toys upon my back,
He was singing, in the roundest sort of bass,
All about the happy fevers of the boy and girl believers
In his frosted beard and winter-cherry face.
Tiny bells began to tinkle on the harness of the goats
When he roared the chorus part with all his might,
And the very stars above him seemed to smile upon and love him
As he swept—a crimson comet—through the night.

By a certain damaged weathercock, I saw that we were bound
For a vicarage whose chimney-pots I knew;
And without a thought of peril I went plunging down to Beryl
And to Christopher and Hilary and Sue.

Ah, the more than loving look upon the face of Santa Claus
When he crept toward a couple sweetly paired!
By the way his blue eyes glistened when he turned his head and listened
To their breathing, I could tell how much he cared.

But the velvet of the eyelids and the roundness of the chin
We at last beheld in Mary's wooden bed!
From the valley of the pillow streamed a silvery-golden billow
Of the glory on that famous little head.
She was roses bunched with snowdrops as she lay with half a pout,
Half a frown, upon the beauty of her face.
There was never Christmas morning had so lovely an adorning
Since the Manger shone with Everlasting Grace.

Then I packed an empty stocking with as much as it could hold,
And arranged a garden city on a chair,
While the Master murmured slowly something tremulous and holy
To the innocent believer in his care.
I was smiling at the gilded cock upon the church's vane,
When the room and Mary rolled away in smoke,
And I felt my body dashing through the tiles again and crashing
With such force upon my bedstead that I woke!

For a minute I was nearly dead, or else afraid to stir,
So I lay and thought of broken legs and arms,
And decided it was risky to accompany a frisky
Sort of wizard to the mansions and the farms.
When I told the story later to the children by the fire
There were questionings and cries at every pause.
I was tugged about and screamed at, I was kissed and stroked and beamed at,
As Apprentice to the famous Santa Claus!

LULLABY

Fall asleep, Lambkin! Mother is going
Out in the snowing and out in the blowing
To dance with Daddy the New Year in.
Many a message will fly to you, Lambkin,
Dozens of times she will cry to you, Lambkin,
Deep in her heart, and will hie to you, Lambkin,
When dancing is done and the New Year in.
Fall—fast—asleep—
Dear!

Fall asleep, Lambkin! Mother is going
Out in the snowing and out in the blowing
To dance with Daddy the New Year in.
Fairyfolk belfries will ring to you, Lambkin,
Birds of enchantment will sing to you, Lambkin,
Home-again Mother will wing to you, Lambkin,
When dancing is done and the New Year in.
Fall—fast—asleep . . .
There!

HOME

Although his parents always tried
To make him happy in the nest,
A little thrush, dissatisfied,
His naughty temper still expressed.
At last, so wicked he became,
The tender-hearted mother-bird
Was forced with gentleness to blame
The dreadful things she overheard.
“Whatever's that I hear you mumble?
Why, darling, darling, do not grumble!
The nest you live in may be humble,
But it is also—home!

“Because they know there's love for all,
With food by day and warmth by night,
The wrens are wondering why you squall,
Instead of keeping good and bright.
They have a dozen babes, and fear
The bad example you have set;
So cease this misbehaviour, dear,
And in forgiving I'll forget.
I cannot bear to hear you mumble.
Why, darling, darling, do not grumble!
The nest you live in may be humble,
But it is also—home!”

This shows that sometimes precious pearls
Of wisdom from a bill can drop
To help all grumbling boys and girls
To learn their naughtiness, and stop.

When Mother works and Father toils
To keep them snug from day to day,
Think how it grieves their hearts, and spoils
Their time of rest, to have to say,
“What's that? What's that we hear you mumble?
Why, Peter, Lizzie, do not grumble!
The house we live in may be humble,
But it is also—home!”

A DIRECTION

Little Girl and Little Boy,
If you would reach to the Plain of Joy,
Where love is commoner far than bread,
Where tears and temper both are dead,
Where lessons sing themselves in words
As tuneable as songs of birds,
Where hands and laps are full of roses,
Where summery season never closes,
Tramp, tramp, and tramp on still
Along the road to Rainbow Hill;
Tramp, tramp, and tramp again,
Girl and Boy, with a will, will, will,
Up to the top of the Rainbow Hill,
Then down the slope that leads to the Plain
By Starland Stile and Heavenly Lane.

ADA'S SPELLING

A letter reached me yesterday
That made my heart exceeding gay;
“I am,” the writer begged to say,
“Affeckshunilly Yores.”

I seemed to glimpse the curls of gold
Upon the paper, fold by fold,
While Ada was, with scratches bold,
“Affeckshunilly Yores.”

And now I wish I dared to write
To Auntie Prim this very night
And end the letter, with delight,
“Affeckshunilly Yores.”

I thank you, Ada, for your skill
In giving me so sweet a thrill,
And trust you think of me as still
“Affeckshunilly Yores.”

PERFECT PUPILS

Your alphabet, Priscilla,
Extends from A to Z.
The snowdrop isn't nearly
So bothered in her head!
But yet she bends her bonnet
Above a desk of earth,
And always looks too busy
For such a thing as mirth.

I'm very fond, Priscilla,
Of flowers that never blink
At what the sun keeps writing
So fast with golden ink;
But more I love to notice
The blooms that seem too shy
To read with upturned faces
The grammar of the sky.

Each tiny snowdrop scholar
Beside our wooden fence
Deserves to win a medal
To-day for diligence.
Constantia isn't saucy,
And Mercy isn't bold,
And Patience isn't crying
Because her feet are cold!

But each of them is looking
As if she hasn't yet
Had time enough to master
Her little alphabet.
She therefore bends her bonnet
Above a desk of earth,
And looks a world too busy
For such a thing as mirth!

THE PLAYFELLOW GIANT

The Playfellow Giant, who lives but to play
With the children he loves so, at peeping of day
Was eager to think of the numberless heads
Of dear little bodies in dear little beds,
And delighted to know that the chubby and slim,
With the fair and the dark, and the tousled and trim,
Every delicate Mary, each riotous Tim,
Was expected at eight to have breakfast with him.
So he got a loaf of Wakefulness, as big as any hill,
And he cut it into slices, did this Giant of Goodwill,
As he thought of radiant children playing scampers in his sight.
Yes, you honey-hearted dear; yes, you robin, yes,
He cut the magic loaf in two, he cut with all his might,
And on every round of Wakefulness he spread a lump of Light!

The Playfellow Giant, who lives but to play
With the children he loves so, at ending of day,
While laughing to think of the capital fun
Of the darlings it pleased him to bake in the sun,
Was told by the Tubfellow Dame that a war
Of the sponge must begin with the dirt and the tar,
As she knew by a voice that had travelled afar
From the silvery lips of the Soapbubble Star.

So he got a loaf of Sleepiness, as big as any hill,
And he cut it into slices, did this Giant of Goodwill,
As he thought of joy to-morrow in the meadow and the park.
Yes, you honey-hearted dear; yes, you robin, yes,
He was counting on to-morrow, and was singing like a lark
As on every slice of Sleepiness he spread a lump of Dark!

THE HAPPY SWAN

I often think the snowy swan
Has very few expenses:
He never seems to pay a fine,
Whatever his offences.

Along the merry stream he floats,
A blest and happy sailor
Who never needs to have his chest
Examined by a tailor.

His coat, mysteriously supplied,
Is such he never folds it;
No seams upon the garment show,
And not a button holds it.

Instead of brush and comb, his beak
Among his plumage passes;
And all the places where he swims
Have lovely looking-glasses.

The children run to offer him
Both bread and cake together,
And try their best to make him plump
In days of browning weather.

If life upon the surface gets
By chance a little harder,
He simply stands upon his head
And searches in his larder.

'Tis needless for the swan to keep
A penny in his pocket!
Why, if he has a chick, the lake
For love is glad to rock it!

From Christmas time till Christmas time
Again with snow commences,
'Tis very plain the happy swan
Has next to no expenses!

NOBODY KNOWS

Nobody knows
Why the daisybud chose
To smell like a daisy,
And not like a rose.

Nobody knows
Why the daffodil grows
Such gold for her tresses,
Such green for her toes.

Nobody knows
Why the columbine shows
A dove that is going,
But never quite goes.

THE APOLOGY OF FATHER CHRISTMAS

“No doubt,” said Father Christmas, “there is virtue in this plan
Of sleeping hard throughout the year. I feel a different man!
Twelve months ago, when I had pleased uncounted girls and boys
By diving down their chimneys with a lot of various toys,
I felt as if an enemy had beaten me with thongs
And stabbed my arms and legs and chest and shoulder-blades with prongs.
My fingers jerked with weariness, my brain was far from light,
The soot had filled my wrinkles, and I looked a dreadful sight!
I thought, as home I staggered to my fairies and my fire,
I'd publish in the papers my intention to retire!
But that was when I could not take
A single step without an ache!
Yet now I want to see the billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”

“I hardly think,” he murmured, as he filled the heavy sack
He meant to take from roof to roof upon his ancient back,

“I hardly think I look my age, although my beard is such
As clergymen would dearly like, if they could grow as much!
My sinews feel as merry as of old they used to be
When first the rocking-horse began to trust his spots to me,
And every bone is ready, from the largest to the least,
To help me on the house-tops through this busy Christmas Feast.
My sleep has doctored me so well, I hardly fear the curves
Of those old-fashioned chimney flues! and they are bad for nerves!
I faltered when I could not take
A single step without an ache,
But now I want to see the billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”

If you had seen with what an air old Father Christmas flung
The sack across his shoulder-blades, you must have thought him young.
He stood as firm as mountains, while he said his magic o'er,
And then with bird-like easiness rose gently from the floor
And floated through the window, with his beard and toys and smiles,
To land a moment later on a patch of frosty tiles.
When there, the moon assisting him, he rummaged in his pack
For what must go by chimney-post to Betty, Nell, and Jack;

He whispered to a rocking-horse, he led him to the flue,
And then, before the moon could wink, they disappeared from view.
Once more he stood beside a bed
With cosy sheets and blankets spread,
And smiled to see the flooding billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.

“To think,” said Father Christmas, on returning to the tiles,
“I grumbled at a paltry pain! I'd go ten thousand miles
For just a peep at Nellie's mouth, the rose-red lips apart,
Delighted by a lambkin dream skip-skipping in her heart.
So long as children love me well, so long will I accept
The Labour of the Chimney, be it crooked or unswept!
So long as children hold me dear, so long will I prevail,
Though Johnny Frost half kills me with his catapult of hail,
And gather, as my recompense for twinges on the leads,
A million human rosebuds, dreaming Christmas in their beds.
What matter though I cannot take
A single step without an ache?
I stroke in love the flooding billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”

“SORTER KINDER”

My mother always teases Dick
Because he twitters like the birds,
As if he hadn't time to pick,
As Daddy does, the proper words.

They tumble from his mouth, and go
With all their speed to Baby's ears,
Though mother wants him not to know
What's wrong or rough, because she fears

The bad example Dickie sets
Will stop in Baby's curly head;
For there is nothing Tim forgets
Of what were better left unsaid!

I heard him yesterday declare
To Mrs Dacre's little boy—
The one with silver in his hair—
He had a “sorter kinder” toy.

When Daddy heard, he threw his pen
Upon the floor, and cried for help!
As Fido does if heavy men
Sit down on her and make her yelp.

He tugged the bell. And when the maid
Along the red-tiled passage ran,
He shouted, till she grew afraid,
For Auntie Ada's biggest fan!

But when I cried, he shook with glee,
And fell against the parrot's cage.
I might have known that Dad's would be
A merry “sorter kinder” rage!

THE TRAP

On waking up to drink my cup
Of early morning tea, I found
A metal hare, a Johnny Bear,
A donkey in a wooden pound,
And other treasures laid in rows
By merry Meg beneath my nose
When I was sleeping
Never so
Fast.

I laughed aloud, and put the crowd
Of playthings on the coverlet;
And blessed the child by whom so mild
And innocent a trap was set,
With little bubblings of delight,
Before the sun was very bright,
When I was dreaming
Never so
Deep.

At last I heard a choky word,
Or giggle, underneath my bed,
Whereat for me, with shouts of glee,
Up sprang the sun of Margaret's head!
And when I took the mite to hold,
In bed, the pillow shone like gold
While we were cuddling
Never so
Hard.

CHRISSY IN THE CORNER

'Tis sad to think that Chrissy Reeve
Has made herself and Governess grieve.
I'm sure that none of you can guess
The reason for their keen distress.

To save your time, I mean to tell
The naughty deed of Christabel.
You will not blame me, I suppose,
If rhymes are used instead of prose?

The parrot's sugar had been set
Between the bars for him to get,
When Chrissy said to Dick, “I think
We'll dip that sugar in the ink.”

She put it back. The bird began
To say he didn't like the plan.
He said so once, with might and main,
And then he said so twice again.

When Governess discovered why
He lifted up his voice so high,
She pointed out to Chriss and Dick
The naughty nature of the trick.

But Chrissy said, “I cannot think
Why Polly shouldn't eat the ink,
When very often on my plate
There's tapioca, which I hate!”

“Be silent!” cried the Governess;
“How can the bird like such a mess?”
“Oh, very well” (here Chrissy turned
Her nose up), “then it's time she learned!”

Now, Children, you will all perceive
What's making Chriss and Governess grieve.
I wonder when the girl will say
She's good, and smile her tears away.

FAIRY NURSES

When Baby wants to go to sleep
The Fairies flock beside his bed;
Along the eiderdown they creep
Toward the treasure of his head.

With hands as soft as robin's wing
They stroke his hair the sleepy way,
And silverly in chorus sing
The song that breaks the heart of day.

His little ears are guarded well,
That human noises shall not break
The silence in the magic cell
So sweetly spread for slumber's sake.

If suddenly the Baby sighs,
Or clutches at his lily gown,
Two Fairies sit upon his eyes
To keep the lovely eyelids down.

But when at length the Babe is deep
In rest shall last till glint of morn,
The Fairies scamper home to reap
Their many fields of fairy corn.

THE UNLEARNT LESSON

“My dear, as you are getting strong,
'Tis time,” said Mrs Velvet Mouse,
“For you at last to come along
And spy the secrets of the house.
A little journey we will make
By passage, hole and larder-shelf,
That you may find what's best to take,
And henceforth learn to help yourself.

“When you were tiny I was glad
To search with eagerness for crumbs;
And not infrequently your Dad
Found bits of rind or sugarplums;
But now that babyhood must stop,
'Tis wise to cultivate your wits
To dodge the under-housemaid's mop,
And also Whiskerando Spitz.

“I've talked about this cat before,
So now, my love, I will explain
Why little cages on the floor
Delicious toasted cheese contain.
How many mice have had to pay
A bitter charge for silly pride,
Through lacking strength of mind to stay
And sniff the toasted cheese outside!

“My lamb, if you would grow to be
In course of time a married mouse,
And teach a nimble family
To be a credit to the house,
Remember, steadfastly avoid
The toasted cheese's fragrant breath!
To nibble is to be destroyed,
For bait like this is, frankly, death!

“Observe this lump of Cheddar, hooked
To tempt your uninstructed eyes!”
The mouseling shivered as he looked,
And squeaked a promise to be wise.
But, later in the year, one night
He rashly thought he'd disobey,
And carry mother home a bite
Of toasted cheese for Christmas Day!

The little goose (if I may call
A mouse a goose), to treat as naught
His gentle mother's care, and all
The gathered wisdom she had taught!
By chance his parent, hunting bread,
Was close enough to hear the snap
The cunning prison made, and said,
“That heedless boy is in the trap!”

Alas! how frequently we find
Our pleasure change to dismal shocks!
The child who bit that treacherous rind
Was Whiskerando's Christmas-box!
He never lived to frisk in glee,
Or settle down, a married mouse,
To teach a nimble family
To be a credit to the house!

100

CHANGEABLE WEATHER

How very changeable can be
The weather in the nursery!
The sun was warm enough, at three,
To suit a basking lizard;
And yet at four o'clock or so
The glass fell quickly, till with snow
Among the Dears began to blow
A disconcerting blizzard.

At three I left my work awhile
To take downstairs a beamy smile
And there discover just the style
Of merriment and caper;
At four, with scratches on his nose,
The corner kicking with his toes,
Dear Dick was pouting at a rose
Upon the nursery paper!

At five o'clock, affection's pain
So moved me that I went again,
In hope of sunshine after rain,
Among the darling sillies;
And there were Marjorie and Nell
And George, with kisses making well
The wounds on Dickie's nose that fell,
And all as sweet as lilies!

101

SERIOUS SYDDIE

Serious Syddie's little breast
Is such a queer and happy nest
Of fancies coming fast from joy
To be companions for the boy!

Serious Syddie really thinks
A Fairy lives among the pinks,
And watches near the fragrant place
In hope to see her blushing face.

Serious Syddie often nods
Asleep beside the goldenrods;
And once a butterfly mistook
His dimple for a honeyed nook.

Serious Syddie, when he goes
To Pillowland to curl his toes,
Calls shadowy playmates from his head
To warm him as he lies in bed.

Serious Syddie never can
Be lonely child or lonely man,
For finches sweet and harebells slim
Are dear as boys and girls to him.

102

THE BEST FRIEND

My Daddy is the truest friend
The birds have anywhere;
If swimming on the beamy lake
Or flying in the air.

He knows their beaks and wings and tails,
Their topknots and their legs,
And how they make with clever bills
The cups to hold the eggs.

And sometimes when he sees a nook
Of safety in the quick
He says that he should build a home
Just there, if he were Dick!

He gently peeps, and sure enough
He very often spies
A mother looking straight at him
With rather worried eyes.

Thus every summer Daddy knows
A thousand nests, or more,
Among the lanes, upon the hills,
And all along the shore.

He tells me where the chaffinch hides
Away from all his foes
The lovely cottage that he built
So quickly with his nose!

103

He never shoots; he never steals
The babies or the eggs,
And never uses sticky stuff
To worry little legs.

He even throws a kiss to birds
Assembled overhead
To gossip for a little while
Before they go to bed;

And when they start for Africa,
And other foreign lands,
My Daddy watches from a hill
The flitter-flutter bands.

He hates to lose them, but he knows
The Spring will come again
And toss a thousand thousand dears
To field and wood and lane.

My Daddy is the closest friend
The birds have anywhere;
If swimming on the beamy lake
Or twittering in the air.

104

THE WISE HOLLYHOCK

A hollyhock with a charming flock
Of yellowy knobs, about the colour
Of Timothy's hair, though a trifle duller,
Grew long in the leg and stood up tall
Over the top of the orchard wall
(As if it followed a golden flute
By a Fairy blown), in spite of the call
Of an apple-cheeked boy in a man-o'-war suit.
“Bloom as I want!” cried the apple-cheeked boy,
“For I love you as much as my favourite toy.
Bloom prettily down to my fingers and stop
This ridiculous blooming from bottom to top!
Are you listening?”

The hollyhock with the charming flock
Of yellowy knobs, about the tinting
Of Timothy's hair, though not so glinting,
At last was gentle enough to stay
A minute or two on its heavenward way,
No longer deaf and no longer mute,
But willing to say its sensible say
To the apple-cheeked boy in the man-o'-war suit.
“Never bloom down!” cried the flower, with a will,
“For the best road to travel is always uphill.
Add beauty to beauty, and mind you don't stop
Till you've flowered in my fashion—from bottom to top!
Are you listening?”

105

THE RACE

I wonder, Children, if you know
That once a Tortoise told a Hare
He'd race him for a thousand pounds,
In spite of all his leaps and bounds;
Yes, anyhow, and anywhere!

The Hare, delighted at the chance
Of getting rich, with many smiles,
And trusting in his famous speed,
Exclaimed at once, “Agreed! Agreed!
Let's run a race of twenty miles!”

They started, and the nimble Hare
Went swiftly over field and plain,
But soon remembered he could stop
To have some luncheon in the crop
Before 'twas time to run again.

Thus, when the Tortoise came in sight,
The laughing Hare ran off in glee
Till he was far enough away
To rest himself once more, and say
(For he was young) his A.B.C.

At last he heard the Tortoise come
With solemn steps across the moor,
So up he jumped, and dashed ahead
Toward the hill-top, where he said
His Tables, up to Four times Four.

106

'Twas here he had a rather hot
Discussion with some silly mice,
Who, being ignorant, of course,
Kept squeaking in the golden gorse
That twice times twice (hurrah!) were twice.

Again the Tortoise lumbered up
And made the merry Hare depart.
He galloped swiftly for a time,
But then sat down to say in rhyme
A piece of verse he knew by heart.

Then running on, he saw at last
The goal of their amusing race;
So, having somewhat of a stitch,
He rested near a ferny ditch
To bathe his overheated face.

'Twas long ago remarked how pride
Before a fall not seldom goes!
While musing on the thousand pounds
He thought he'd won by nimble bounds,
The stupid Hare began to doze.

Imagine how the Tortoise crept
On careful feet when he descried
His adversary, free of care,
Lie sleeping negligently there
As motionless as if he'd died!

The Hare awoke, arose, and cast
A pitying glance or two behind.
No touch of fear that he was wrong
To sleep beside the ferns so long
Disturbed his boastful little mind.

107

But when with elegance he reached
The poplar that was winning-post,
He gave a choking kind of scream,
And whimpered shrilly, “Do I dream?
Or do my eyes behold a ghost?”

“The thousand pounds,” the Tortoise said,
“If you, my friend, are not too tired,
I'd like to have before you tell”—
The Hare let fly a harrowing yell,
And, throwing somersaults, expired!

The moral, Children, is as plain
As any moral well can be.
Ask Mother what it is; ask Nurse;
Ask Cousin Kate; ask Uncle Perce;
But, let me beg you, don't ask me!

108

WEARY CHRISTABEL

My baby, it is time
To leave the flowering lime,
The thrush's feast of song
So lovely and so long;
For you are looking pale,
And I a-near the bed
Must be a nightingale
To sing above your head.
Fare-you-well
In Dreamy-Dell,
Christabel!

My baby, it is time
To hear the golden chime
Of fairy thrush's tune
In praise of fairy June;
For you are weary-white,
And willing to repose
Till dawning brings a light
Half lily and half rose.
Fare-you-well
In Dreamy-Dell,
Christabel!

109

THE SWEET-PEAS

To Frankie father gave
A packet of sweet-peas,
And let him have some ground
Beside the cherry-trees.
How often did we see
The busy boy afar
At his L and A and B
And O and U and R!

When all the peas were set,
And told to grow up strong,
The child began to fret
Because they took so long.
At last, as hope grew less,
Poor Frankie had to cry
In his D and I and S
And M and A and Y.

But when the sweet-peas came
With greeny-whitey tips,
They had a darling name
Upon their baby lips.
Then Frankie's eyes with glee
Kept twinkling like a star
At the M and O and T
And H and E and R.

110

A LITTLE GIRL'S HYMN

Dear Jesus, now that all my play
And simple work is put aside,
I give a proper end to day
By seeking Thee at eventide.

While round about this place of rest
The light of day is growing dim,
I want to reach Thy gentle breast
With holy verses from my hymn.

Forgive me if upon the dress
I wear for Thee is spot or stain,
And help me in Thy tenderness
To wear it lily-white again.

Let me remember, when I rise
From sleep to run my little race,
The watching of Thy careful eyes,
The look of love upon Thy face.

For, if I often stay to think
Of all that Thou hast done for me,
I shall not stumble on the brink
Of what my heart should do for Thee.

111

BAD BELVIDERE

In a nest beneath a plant
There was once a tiny ant
Who was fond of saying “Shan't!”
To his parents.

When his Mother said, “I'm faint,
There is such a smell of paint—
Bring some water.” “No there ain't!”
Cried the rebel.

When his Dad said, “Belvidere,
Push that egg toward me, dear.”
Rudely he replied, “No fear!”
Little silly!

When his Governess said, “See,
Five and five are never three,”
He remarked, “Don't prate to me,
You old stupid!”

This was more than she could bear.
Brushing back her yellow hair,
First she fixed him with a stare,
Then she spanked him.

In the nest beneath the plant
How she whopped the tiny ant
Who was fond of saying “shan't!”
To his betters!

112

Even then he laughed, and twice
Shouted out that it was nice;
But he didn't say so thrice,
I imagine!

When at last, in sudden fear,
She desisted, ants drew near.
Not a trace of Belvidere
They discovered!

He was gone, as goes the dew
When the sky is hot and blue.
Lou and Sue and Prue and Hugh,
Heed the warning!

Gone from lessons, gone from play,
Gone for ever and a day!
She had slapped him right away
Into nothing!

113

THE LETTER

Last night Jack Frost began again
To scribble on my window-pane,
And left a message, which I read
On popping quickly out of bed.

He means to manage for my sake
To breathe so hard upon the lake,
That very soon a splendid sheet
Of ice will bear our happy feet.

Of course it is extremely nice
To have a letter made of ice
From one who uses silver towns
Instead of adjectives and nouns.

He also writes in ferns and flowers,
In vases, ships, and fairy bowers;
But if he wrote in cats and birds
I'd read them just as well as words.

For what he wants to say is, “Dick,
The ice is getting black and thick.
Don't let this lovely chance be lost,
Yours, till they melt me, Johnny Frost.”

114

THE ASTONISHING DANCE

“Dear me!” quoth Father Christmas, while he stretched his legs and arms,
And eyed a coloured calendar that hung upon the screen,
“I've woke a day too early for the villas and the farms,
For homes however splendid and for homes however mean.
Come hither, glass!” A mirror flew and balanced by his side,
To let him see his snowdrop beard and winter-cherry cheeks.
His eyes (as blue as succory) were twinkling while he cried,
“I don't believe I've aged a bit in two-and-fifty weeks!

“This comes of sleeping like a log and never dreaming dreams
Of anything but bedtime crops of little children's hair,
Or else of rosy playmates hip-hurrahing on the streams
That Frost has given overcoats of silver ice to wear.
It's fifty years, or thereabouts, since such a thing as this
Has happened in the palace where I rest when work is done.

115

Ho! Fairies, come and dress me! It would worry me to miss
This chance of giving all of you an evening feast of fun.”

I wish you children could have seen how fast the Fairies rushed
To wait on Father Christmas when he scrambled out of bed.
They washed him well with curded soap, they combed him and they brushed,
And laughed their jingling laughter at the comic things he said.
They took from out an oaken chest the crimson robe of state
And buckled on his willing feet a pair of scarlet shoes;
They brought a dozen sandwiches upon a golden plate
And special pies of mincemeat such as Fairies always use.

When Santa Claus had had his fill, with fingers and with thumbs
They searched the folds of crimson cloth and tidied up his beard,
And threw upon the carpet quite a lot of flaky crumbs
To feed a pair of robins that had suddenly appeared.
Then Father Christmas said to them, “It's long since there occurred
An accident so pleasant. Let them light the Dancing Hall!
And since for once I'm wide awake upon the twenty-third,
We'll rouse our ancient window-panes and rafters with a Ball!”

116

In all of magic history there never was a night
So frolicsome as fell the night when Santa Claus allowed
To every housemaid Fairy and to every kitchen sprite
A chance to leap and glide and twirl and curtsy in a crowd.
The 'cellos and the violins were tuning in a trice;
A sort of dancing fever burned in every nimble heel;
So Father Christmas raised his hands and clapped them loudly twice,
And capered there whole-heartedly a most surprising reel!

Now, Hilary and Margaret and Christopher and Nance,
I beg you never more to think that Santa Claus is old.
His beard is quite deceptive! His ability to dance
Is simply such as never, never, never can be told!
The Fairies of his family all pride themselves on toes
That race the madcap violins and never want to pause,
But even they are humbled when the frolic music goes
Exactly fast enough to suit the legs of Santa Claus!

When Father Christmas waved his hand and spoke in muttered tones,
And let his secret magic loose within the hall of oak,
The 'cellos gained enchanted limbs—yes, limbs with proper bones!—
And played themselves while dancing with the nimble Fairy-folk!

117

Yet even then the headlong fun was hardly at its best,
For how the violoncellos scraped a kind of happy roar
While twanging from the lowest string the welcome they addressed
To Santa's favourite Grandsire Clock skip-skipping through the door!

Since breathless dancers left the dance and stood awhile aloof,
Again the Master's genius worked for everybody there:
A flock of knives and forks and spoons descended from the roof
And dishes heaped with lovely fruit came flying through the air!
When Caleb brought with Joshua from Canaan such a load
Of grapes as made the children leap in wonder and delight,
The bunch was scarcely bigger than the glorious bunch bestowed
By Santa on the Fairylings who danced with him that night!

In truth it was a wondrous sight to see the crowd of plates,
Each standing ready in the air before a little guest;
And wonderful it was to hear the voices of the dates,
Each asking to be eaten first, as if it were the best!

118

No merrymaker present when this wonder-working chanced
(The month it was December, and the day the twenty-third)
Will ever tire of telling how the clock and 'cellos danced,
Or how the cakestand flew about as lightly as a bird!

119

DICK'S SHARE

The Mother watched her darlings toss
The bedclothes like a rick;
Beside her stood in restless mood
Delicate Cousin Dick.
She whispered to Jim, she whispered to Tim,
Till they both began to coo.
Dick pulled her frock of lavender-blue
As if he would tear it right in two,
And she turned with a will to scold him:
“Tell it me too,”
Said Dick; “boo-hoo!”
As she couldn't resist the child (could you?)
She bent to his ear and told him.

Again the Mother tried to smooth
The children's snowy rick;
Beside her stood in eager mood
Delicate Cousin Dick.
While purring to Jim and purring to Tim
She could hear the cherubs coo.
Dick pulled her gown of lavender-blue
As if he would tear it right in two,
And he made it crack, for she heard him!
“Purr for me too,”
Cried Dick; “boo-hoo!”
As she couldn't resist his face askew,
She bent to his neck and purred him!

120

Once more the merry Mother stooped
Above the linen rick;
Beside her stood in dismal mood
Delicate Cousin Dick.
To cuddle with Jim, to cuddle with Tim
Was mirth and joy and coo!
As if he would rip it straight in two,
Dick pulled her gown of lavender-blue,
And he cried till his cheeks were puddled!
“Cuddle me too,”
Howled Dick; “boo-hoo!”
As she couldn't resist his hullabaloo,
She lifted him up and cuddled!

121

THE BLUE-TIT

He is nothing but a blue-tit,
Just a bright and fluffy blue-tit,
And he comes to peck my suet half a hundred times a day.
If he makes me mope or grumble
'Tis because he will not tumble
In my pinafore, and stop with me to whistle or to play.

He is hanging noddle downward,
With his velvet noddle downward,
And is staring at a sparrow that has found a crumb of bread.
I can guess what he is jotting
In the tiny brain that's plotting
How to drive away the sparrow and to eat the crumb instead!

As I watch him in the ivy,
Soft as leaf upon the ivy,
I am sorry that his mother cannot him give sweets and toys.
If he wore a little pocket
I suppose he wouldn't stock it
Full of lozenges and brandyballs, like happy girls and boys.

122

He is nothing but a blue-tit,
Just a shy and silky blue-tit,
And I love to watch his antics half a hundred times a day.
If he makes me sigh or grumble
'Tis because he will not tumble
In my pinafore, and stop with me to whistle or to play!

123

RUDE HILARY

Of all the difficult children to teach,
No boy could equal Hilary Peach.
When his Governess (pretty Aurelia Dix)
Showed six times six to be thirty-six,
Hilary said, with a weary air,
“Well, it isn't my fault, so I don't much care.”

She thought that a very good change would be
From Tables and Sums to Geography,
And remarked, as she reached the Atlas down,
That York was Yorkshire's capital town.
Hilary said, with a weary air,
“Why, the silly old thing might be anywhere.”

A little later the Governess tried
The History book with the kings inside,
And explained how grumpily John agreed
To sign for his Barons at Runnymede.
Hilary said, with a weary air,
“Come, you mustn't blame me, for I wasn't there.”

The third of these stupid and rude replies
Brought tears to Aurelia's velvety eyes,
But she swept that boy like a carpet broom
Along the floor to his parents' room!
“Unmannerly cub!” his Father said;
“When it's Christmas Day you shall spend it in bed!”

124

UNCLE BARTY'S LULLABY

(Sung by him while playing the nursery piano)

Now the sun himself is rocking in his cradle of the west,
And my Chickabids are lying rosy, cosy in the nest,
With a doll and toy and picture-book beneath the pillows prest,
As the notes bob up and down for Uncle Barty.

As I see each cosy, rosy, human posy lying there,
In a gown as clean as milk, with moonlight kissing curly hair,
I am thankful to the God who put these Flowers in my care,
And am glad to be their precious Uncle Barty.

And it's twenty thousand times a week my happy heart is told
That the joy we make for one another never can grow cold;
For my blue-eyed, dew-eyed Chickabids will want me when I'm old,
And will always turn in love to Uncle Barty.

Now the time has come to sit by fairy bonfires on the hill,
Or to watch the hairy, fairy farmers carry corn to mill,
While the rosy, cosy, blue-eyed, dew-eyed Chickabids lie still
In the room and bed and breast of Uncle Barty.

125

In the morning they will shake themselves like daffodils in breeze,
And will rush to find upon the pane the frosty ferns and trees;
And at last will scamper down the stairs to climb their favourite knees,
For to kiss the welcome face of Uncle Barty.

Now I bid each cosy, rosy, human posy fall asleep,
For the mellow bells of Cradleshire their drowsy ding-dong keep;
And the Angel of the Bedside wants to bend him down to peep
At the creamy, dreamy babes of Uncle Barty.

Sleep, my creamy, dreamy, beamy babes in heart-delighting grace,
For the robins out of Slumberland are winging near apace,
And are ready on your eyelids fairy leaves and flowers to place,
When your lips have cooed farewell to Uncle Barty.

126

THE HOPEFUL HOLLY

“Do you notice near the fishpond,”
Said a Holly to an Oak,
“A delicious human fairy
Cuddled warmly by her cloak?
She is Dorothea Gooding,
And I want to have a spray
Of my holly in her pudding
On the Feast of Christmas Day.

“As I watch her nimble footsteps
I am glad to know I bear
An abundant crop of berries
Such as make me doubly fair.
She is Dorothea Gooding,
And I'm eager to delight
All the sharers of her pudding
When the pudding comes in sight.

“Since I often see her staring
With her eyes so blue and big,
I believe she knows already
Which will be the honoured twig.
She is Dorothea Gooding,
And I long to have a spray
Of my holly in her pudding,
Like a flag, on Christmas Day!”

127

CAPTAIN EAGERHEART

Of all the tarry sailormen
There's none like Captain Eagerheart;
For when the children rise from prayers
He sails a ship right up the stairs
And takes them on the deck in pairs,
To leave the Port of Eiderdown
And sail with him from town to town
Along the coast of Dreamshire.

Of all the cargoes ever shipped
There's none like Captain Eagerheart's.
Upon his snow-white deck are borne
Sweet eyes as grey as early morn
And curls the colour of the corn,
To stand away from Eiderdown
And sail from splendid town to town
Along the coast of Dreamshire.

Of all the trusty sailormen
There's none like Captain Eagerheart
For safely bringing home his ship,
With never a shaking of the lip,
However perilous the trip
From Fairy Town to Dragon Town,
From open sea to Eiderdown
Beyond the coast of Dreamshire.

128

THE BEST GAME

When the earth-born children rock
Slowly, slowly into rest,
Then the sky-born children flock
Out of Pearly School in quest
Of delight.

Since they live so far beyond,
We must try to be content
Not to see them round a pond,
Sailing there in merriment
Golden boats.

But at least we learn to see,
Looking from our earthly post,
What is largest in their glee;
What they surely love the most
In their games.

Every night, as if by rule,
When the Master moves away
From His desk in Pearly School,
All the children rush to play
In the street.

While they shake with thrilling noise
Lovely air, till air is song,
We can almost hear the boys
Flogging silver tops along
Streets of sky!

129

There a golden tipcat shone
For a minute, till it met
Heavy darkness! It is gone;
But the tops are spinning yet
Overhead!

Greybeard Wisdom from afar
Calling loudly, bids us think
Every top is but a star
Set gigantic on the brink
Of Surprise.

But it pleases us to dream!
Long we stand, when eve is cool,
Looking for the Babes to stream
Once again from Pearly School
In a rush.

Now the Master moves away
From his desk, and kids you fly,
Happy Children! In your play
Flog the stars along the sky
Hour by hour!

130

THE LAPSE OF MEMORY

He leaned against a Devon oak,
His empty sack across his shoulder.
“This game is getting past a joke!
I feel at least a century older.
But yet, if I have missed a child,
My heart will never know content—
Great Chimney! (here he looked quite wild)
There's little Danny Dent!
Without a doubt
My memory is wearing out.

“What bitter, bitter tears will flock
And fall if Danny's Day is joyless!
Yet here I stand at five o'clock,
Bone-weary, famishing, and toyless.
Come, Silverwig! Come, Fingerquick!
Though half asleep and fairly spent,
Perform anew the famous trick
For little Danny Dent.
It's plain to see
I'm not the man I used to be.”

The sack he flung upon the ground
Stood up, without a hand to guide it,
And wingless toys from all around
Flew fast as birds, and dropped inside it!

131

“Neat Fingerquick! Good Silverwig!”
Cried Santa Claus in merriment.
“Here's what will make your stocking big
And bulging, Danny Dent!
Without a doubt
My poor old head is wearing out.”

The furious storm could not subdue,
The slanted hailstones could not blind him;
However rapidly he flew,
His sack flew just as fast behind him.
Whiz! He was over Salisbury Plain.
Whiz! He was crossing middle Kent.
In Deal he stroked your counterpane
And kissed you, Danny Dent!
His heart, you see,
Is where it always used to be.

132

ALADDIN'S LAMP

Aladdin never thought to be
A gentleman of high degree,
To live in gorgeousness, and see
His house a house of pride.
He never, never thought to make
A Genie build along a lake
A lofty palace for his sake,
And gild the rooms inside.

He rubbed with handkerchief or cap
A lamp he found. A thunderclap
Upset the lantern in his lap;
A monstrous Genie came,
And gravely said that he was there
To do his bidding, foul or fair,
Since what he envied anywhere
He only had to name!—

A hundred sleek and milk-white mares,
A palace rich in ivory stairs,
And emerald apples, ruby pears
To fill a thousand bags;
An orchard made of silver trees,
A dish of diamonds, magic bees
Whose honey turned to gold—all these
He said were cheap as rags!

133

Or would he like to have a flock
Of purple antelopes? Or stock
A giant bird-cage with a roc
Instructed to be tame?
Or keep a private moon to go
Above his parklands, to and fro,
Whenever he would have it show
Its face of silver flame?

Aladdin's head was quickly turned
With dreams of splendour. He discerned
Success in front of him, and burned
To have a royal bride.
The Genie brought him golden stems
Adorned with rubies; pear-like gems,
And blazing stones for diadems
To suit the head of Pride.

The King allowed him to address
With loving words the young Princess,
And she allowed him to caress
Her locks of radiant hair.
They married. In a single night
The Genie built for their delight
A palace of a glorious height
And fabulously fair.

All went as if on velvet wheels:
No one was ever late for meals,
Or uttered angry words or squeals;
The beds were never damp.
And thus the story had remained,
Delicious, sunny, and unstained,
But (how his bothered heart was pained!)
Aladdin lost the lamp!

134

Good-bye to Genie, jewels, gold,
The battlements, the coursers bold,
The lisping rivulet that rolled
Beside the palace wall.
Good-bye to frolic, and the sweet
Bewildering of the mazy feet
That timed the lute's melodious beat—
A long farewell to all!

For when the mighty stag was dead,
And hunting finished, homeward sped
Aladdin to the banquet spread
By his enchanting wife.
Imagine (if you can) the start
Of agony that shook his heart!
For gone was every glowing part
Of what was once his life.

Aladdin, hearing from the King
Some horrid threats of torturing,
Half-heartedly caressed a ring
He wore upon his hand.
A Genie came! He, using charms,
Conveyed him over fields and farms
And oceans in his mighty arms
Toward a foreign land.

And there, beneath a bluebell sky,
He saw his turrets. With a cry
Of starving love he hurried nigh,
Determining to beard
The grim Enchanter who had found
The precious Lamp, and then had bound
The Slave to lift from off the ground
The palace he had reared.

135

Aladdin plotted to destroy
The dark disturber of his joy,
And use again in his employ
The Lamp's tremendous Slave.
The story ends as stories must
That tell of love's triumphant trust:
The grim Enchanter bit the dust,
And filled a worthless grave!

Aladdin rubbed the Lamp. Behold,
From shapelessness the Genie rolled
Enormous muscles, as of old,
And arched his sinewy back!
Like lightning through the air he went
Beneath his load of battlement,
Embraces, kisses and content,
Upon the homeward track!

136

THE FEAST OF FAWKES

It was the popping Feast of Fawkes,
When guys are carried round,
And squibs explode along the road,
And nimble crackers leap and bound
In madness on the ground.

It was the powdery Feast of Fawkes,
When children lose their heads,
And rockets try to singe the sky,
But fall in sticks upon the leads,
The pigsties or the sheds.

As I was thinking in my room,
I heard a little tap,
And knew at once a darling dunce
Was ready in his fisher-cap
And mother-woven wrap.

So Peterkin and Birdiesweet,
With hair of palest gold,
And Auntie Nell and Cousin Bell
Went down to dare November cold
And sticky garden-mould.

We had a giant Catherine Wheel,
As large as Peter's hoop,
And Demon's Tears (producing cheers!)
And something like a fiery scoop
Whiz-whizzing in a loop!

137

We aimed a rocket in the air
To scorch the Milky Way!
We danced around the bonfire's bound,
With many a hip-hip-hip-hurray,
Like savages at play.

Although I think the Moon was vexed
To see us at our prank,
We did not stop till with a flop
Our tiny neighbour, freckled Frank,
Fell headlong in a tank!

And very, very late at night
To Peter's room I sped;
For how he screamed because he dreamed
That Roman Candles in the bed
Were shooting at his head!

Though suddenly the Feast of Fawkes
Was clouded by distress,
Dear Cousin Bell and Auntie Nell
Behaved like angels! How I bless
Their clever tenderness!

138

THE OLD KING

Although the King had never met
The sight or foe he feared,
The tears ran down his tawny cheeks
And sparkled in his beard:
For in his worn and ancient heart
A bell of memory tolled
A thought of little Absalom
When only three years old.

Once more the King in fancy nursed
The Prince upon his knees,
To tell him of the eagle's flight,
The mountain's cloak of trees.
Once more he watched the velvet buds
Of childishness unfold
In Absalom the Beautiful
When only three years old.

Among the tents of Long Ago,
To please his dearest boy,
He traced a lion in the sand,
And laughed to see his joy.
Shepherd and Psalmist, on the tree
Of Time were fruits of gold
When Absalom the Beautiful
Was only three years old!

139

THE LAST CHIMNEY

“This is the last,” said Santa Claus,
And crouched behind the chimney-stack
To dodge the tomboy wind, because
It played so fiercely with his sack.
“This is the last of lots and lots
Absurdly inconvenient pots
On villas, mansions, farms, and cots,
And all as black as black!

“This is the last; and well I know,”
Said Santa, shuffling with his feet,
“Who lies a dozen yards below,
All velvet-soft and sugar-sweet.
Last year for my unworthy sake
Her little heart was pleased to ache.
She left a lump of fruity cake
For Santa Claus to eat.”

He waved his heels, and nimbly slid
Adown the tunnel to the bed
Where Lizzie's face was almost hid
By gold adrift from Lizzie's head.
Meanwhile upon the roof a fat
And puzzled, grey, half-Persian cat
Was wondering what the man was at,
Or whether he was dead!

140

When Santa hurriedly appeared
In Lizzie's room, he had to pause
To hug himself, and stroke his beard,
And smile his Christmas smile, because
Upon a table, neatly spread
With cloth and plates beside the bed,
He found a sprawly note, which said,
Two pies for Santa Claus.

“No stocking in the world,” quoth he,
“Shall hold so large a share of glee
As this you trust in love to me,
My sweet and thoughtful Liz.”
Then, when at last the stocking's size
Was big enough for Santa's eyes,
He took the pair of mincemeat pies
And vanished with a whiz!

141

THE INVISIBLE STOCKING

Awake! awake!
The sleepy head and lazy eyelids scorning.
Now what is in your stocking, Bess,
To make a feast of happiness
On Christmas Day in the morning?
“A dolly in a scarlet dress,
A lamb with bleating when I press,
A box of sweets, a little purse,
A dozen china dogs from nurse,
And oranges and nuts and figs,
And two such darling silver pigs—
All these are in my stocking, Dad,
On Christmas Day in the morning!”

Awake! awake!
The heavy head and lazy eyelids scorning.
Now what is in your stocking, Dick,
That looks as solid as a brick,
On Christmas Day in the morning?
“A scarlet humming-top, a stick
Of sugar-candy, long and thick,
A pair of skates, a bird to fly
For yards and yards along the sky,
A telescope, a knife from Jane,
A whistle on a silver chain—
All these are in my stocking, Dad,
On Christmas Day in the morning!”

142

But, Children, learn
How angels filled with bounteous adorning
My unseen stocking (never knit
By mortal craft when lamps were lit)
On Christmas Day in the morning!
A lady bright and exquisite
About my heart and chair to flit,
A heap of smiles, a bunch of bliss,
A son and daughterling to kiss,
The proper prayers to sing and say,
And lots of love to warm the day—
All these were in my stocking packed
On Christmas Day in the morning!

143

THE DEAREST AUNT

If you were asked to spend a week,
Dear Auntie Nell, in Fairyshire,
When you came home we'd scarcely speak
While sitting round the fire to hear,

But stay as silent as the birds
With heads beneath a roof of wings,
And listen to a stream of words
Explaining heaps of fairy things.

How pink our cheeks would get! How fine
To run like mad to School and tell
Of how you'd seen a class of nine
Young Fairies hardly fit to spell!

And watched a Brownie feed a pet
Almost too small to have a size!
And heard a Goblin's flute, and met
A six-in-hand of dragon-flies.

And seen the fairy fisher-girls
Above the water fly about,
Till suddenly they dipped their curls
And caught a teeny-weeny trout.

Dear Auntie Nell, you must not say
You're far too old. It isn't true.
If anyone deserves to stay
A week in Fairyshire, it's you!

144

THE LOSSES

(An Envoy to the Elders)

Where is the joy we lost,
That as a golden toy we tossed
Beyond the beck, along the moor,
While daffodils with yellow lips
Were dancing like a fleet of ships
A Merman's league of blue from shore?
'Twas then we tumbled with our sling
Goliath as he leaped the spring
In Philistine array!
Where is our flashing joy?
We grew to think it silly,
And so it crept away.
Ah!

Where is the world we lost,
That as a coloured ball we tossed
From hand to hand with joyous cries,
Till Mother put it on a shelf,
And gave instead her lovely self
To look for Fairies in our eyes
Before we drooped each curly head
And hero-haunted limb in bed,
And still as stillness lay?
Where is our coloured world?
We grew to think it silly,
And so it rolled away.
Ah!

146

Where is the sleep we lost,
That as a velvet veiling crossed
Our eyes before the lids fell down,
And dulled the sparkles of our brain
Till morning found us strong again
To dare the hump-backed giant's frown?
If we might change to thieves, we know
What jewel to steal from Long Ago
To help us most to-day!
Where is the sleep we lost?
We fell in love with riches,
And so it ran away.
Ah!