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´╗┐Title: Dream Blocks
Author: Higgins, Aileen Cleveland
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Dream Blocks" ***

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available by Internet Archive/American Libraries

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      Internet Archive/American Libraries. See





Pictures by Jessie Willcox Smith

Duffield & Company
New York


    Dream Blocks           1
    Stupid You             2
    Anagrams               3
    Doorsteps              4
    The Big Clock          6
    The New Dress          7
    A Questioning          9
    A Test                 9
    A Quandary            10
    Spring Music          11
    A Compromise          13
    A Rainy Day           14
    An Appeal to Science  15
    The Runaway           17
    Playmates             19
    The Echo              21
    The Sick Rose         22
    Afternoon             23
    The Wild              24
    Bud Music             25
    Frills                26
    Gone Somewhere        27
    The Chosen Dream      29
    Home                  30
    Dawn                  31
    The City Tree         32
    A Prayer              34
    Cap and Bells         35
    Summer's Passing      38
    When You Wait         39
    Punishment            40
    First Pity            40
    Night                 41
    Hover-Time            42
    Treasure Craft        43
    The Moon Path         45
    The Ring Charm        45


                      Facing Page
    Title Page            ii
    Dream Blocks           1
    Stupid You             2
    Doorsteps              4
    The Big Clock          6
    A Quandary            10
    A Rainy Day           14
    The Runaway           18
    The Sick Rose         22
    Frills                26
    Home                  30
    A Prayer              34
    Summer's Passing      38
    Punishment            40
    Treasure Craft        44


Copyright 1908 by
Duffield & Company

Engravings by the Beck Engraving Co.

Presswork by S. H. Burbank & Co.




[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.]



    WITH dream-blocks I can build
      A castle to the sky.
    No one can shake it down,
      Though he may try and try,
    Except myself, and then,
      I make another one,
    And shape it as I please.
    This castle-building fun
      Nobody takes away,
    And what I like the best--
      The dream-blocks change each day.


    THERE is a shining thread
    To-day in my rose-bed--
    A magic net the fairies have outspread
    To catch the dewy sweet--and yet you said
    It was a cobweb there instead!

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.]


    TO-DAY when I played anagrams,
      I spelled a long word out--
    A word named _sorrow_--then I tried
      To change it all about
    To make it spell another word.
      My mother said, "There is a way
    To make the sorrow-word spell peace."
      I've tried and tried, almost all day;
    I've turned the letters round and round,
      This way and that, to find out how,
    And yet I can not find the way,
      And supper time is coming now.


    I TAKE my broom and sweep my step,
      To make it smooth and brown;
    Then I sit down and wait with Jep
      Until the sun goes down.

    I think some day that I may see
      A little brownie elf
    Peep out of there, and speak to me,
      When I am by myself.

    I like my roses at the side,
      Much better than the flower-row
    Along your path where people ride.
      I leave my roses just to grow.

    I like the place that's broken, too,
      With splintered edges all around,
    And grasses growing right up through,
      That smell so fresh like dew and ground.

    Your steps are nice, but then my own
      Seem nicer somehow, just for me;
    Pine steps are more like home than stone,
      For once they lived and were a tree.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]


    OUR Big Clock goes so slow,
      When I am waiting on the stairs,
    With nice, clean clothes on, dressed to go
      Out with Aunt Beth to see the bears
    And funny possums at the Zoo!
      But oh, at night how fast
    Our Big Clock goes! It's very rude
      To company, and when time's past
    When I must always go to bed,
      The hands just fly in wicked glee.
    It strikes out long ahead
      And makes them all look round at me.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]



    I HAVE a very pretty dress,
      It's made of pink and white,
    And there are ribbons on it, too,
      Which make it bright.

    And yet I think I like it less
      Than this dear other one--
    The worn-out, patched-up blue
      I wear when I have fun.

    It clings to me as if it loved
      To have me wear it every day.
    The pink stands out so straight and stiff
      It's in my way.

    How can I get to know it well,
      When it's so _Sunday_-clean?
    Perhaps when it is old and stained
      With dust and grass, it will not seem
    So strange and dignified as now.
      But then I think
    I never _could_ make mud pies right
      If I had on my pink.


    I WONDER, when I die,
    If some one there will see,
      And hold me close,
    And take good care of me,
    As when I came on earth to be
      A little child?


    SOME day when I've had lots to eat,
      Then I should like to be
    A ragged beggar child,
      A little while, to see
    If you--and _you_--are kind.


    WHEN they are tall and all grown up,
      I wonder where the children go?
    I wonder how one finds the place--
      My mother says she doesn't know.

    The little boy that's I, must go
      To this strange meeting-place some day,
    When I outgrow my starchy kilts,
      And nursery things are put away.

    Must I go there quite by myself?
      How shall I find the proper door,
    That hides so close and shuts away
      The little children gone before?

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]



    I HEARD a violin one day--
      It sounded like the Spring;
    Like woolly lambs at play,
      Like baby birds that sing
    In snatches, when they're learning how.
      I know the one who played
    Could see pink blossoms on a bough,
      Where children came beneath its shade
    To make white clover in a crown.
      Then while they laughed there in the grass,
    Soft petals fluttered down;
      They hushed and saw some angels pass,
    With friendly eyes that smile--
      The kind that I have often seen
    When mother sings awhile,
      Just as I go to sleep and dream.

    I held my breath and then there rose
      The last sweet note so high.
    I felt as when the sunshine goes--
      I could not help but cry.


    WHEN I have done a Something Wrong,
      I feel ashamed to kneel and pray.
    But then the dark-time lasts so long,
      And God seems--oh, so far away!--
    That when the lights are out awhile,
      I clamber out of bed once more
    And pour my pennies in a pile.
    ... I listen at the door,
      And then I get upon my knees,
    And whisper just for God to hear,
      To ask him, oh, just once more, _please_,
    Will he forgive and come back near,
      If I will make a promise _quick_
    To give my pennies to the sick?


    WHEN I woke up and saw the rain
    In blurs upon the window-pane,
    I said I hated such a day,
    Because I couldn't run and play,
    Out in the sunshine and the grass.
    It's queer how such a day can pass
    So soon, before you know it 'most,
    And while I eat my milk and toast,
    Before I go to bed, I think
    I've never had a day so _pink_.
    Without the sun to make the shine,
    This whole day long has been just mine
    And Mother's, in the fireplace glow.--
    Because it rained, it made it so.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]


    I WISH the clever men who made
      The whirly things with patents on,
    The telephone and phonograph,
      The watch that tells how far you've gone,
    Would just invent some bottled sleep
      That we could take at night,
      And then again when it grows light.
    It might keep little boys awake
      When there is company.
      All I should have to do, would be
    To pour a glass of sleep to take.

    The things I leave undone,
      Because I haven't time enough,
    The things I've only half begun--
      My castle-house, my doll-queen's ruff--
    I'd get quite finished in a day.
      I'd have some time left over, too.
    I'd have the chance to do new things.
      And first of all, I'd learn to play
    The games the flowers frolic through,
    Each afternoon, and I'd find who
      Has charge of yesterday.

    I think that made-to-order dreams
    Of rainbow-folk and orange-creams
    Would be much nicer than the kind
    Which on dark nights I always find.


    THERE'S something that is calling me--
      Far off from Here--
    It calls for me to come and see,
      Away from Near.

    Sometimes it tinkles like a bell.
      Then echo songs above the blue,
    And sometimes silver whistles tell
      About a shining dream come true.
    This call sings low of wonder-worlds.
      It tells in runs and soft-blown trills
    Of hidden places near that line
      Where distance smooths the little hills.

    The call is begging me to come.
      It makes me dance and sing
    Along the meadow road,
      Far past the street's dust-ring.

    There's something waiting just for me,
      And I must go--_must go_,
    Away from houses here, to see,
      Where lights begin to glow.



    TO-DAY I met a rabbit in the path
      Who stopped and looked at me,
      While I was laughing at a frog
    Hop sidewise from a bee.

    The little rabbit's eyes laughed too.
      He would have like to stay;
    And if my clothes had been like his,
      He might have come to play.

    I wish I had a rabbit dress,
      A furry one, from head to toe,
    Then I could go away with him
      From streets in line, all set just so.

    I think my clothes are stupid things
      To rob me of my friends,
    But then, the kind of playmate clothes
      I want, nobody lends!


    I LAUGHED in woods down where a brook
      Ran off with little leaps,
    An answer came from some fern-nook,
    And then another made me look
      Off in the dark tree-deeps.

    I ran to all the nooks to see
      If I could find the one
    Who heard me first, and answered me--
    Each place was still as it could be,
      As far as I could run.

    Nurse said, "There's no one to be caught.
      It's just the echo's glee."
    But then I know that it was _not_!
    The little wood-elves all forgot,
      And laughed out loud with me.


    THIS rose I picked, began to die,
      And so, I've brought it back again
    To where it used to live. I'll try
      To make it as it was--and then,
    I'll whisper to it how I care.
      Why _can't_ it grow now any more,
    A rose with other roses there,
      Upon the rosebush by the door?

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]



    JUST since the night, the wind has won
      The last pink bud to open bloom.
    The long path whitens in the sun;
      All grown folks hunt a darkened room.
    Cool sweet of morning time is gone
      From all the leaves and grass.
    Here in this place the shade falls on,
      I wait for butterflies to pass.


    I LOVE the gold-brown flutter-bird
      You caught for me;
    But from its song is gone a note I heard
      When it was free.

    And when I bring the lace-ferns home
      I can not bring
    The wood-charm too--the spell of that wee gnome
      Which makes birds sing.

    The trees you painted with your brush
      Are like the real,
    But that still harking of the soft leaf-hush
      You could not steal.

    It is the spirit of the wold--the same
      That's part of me,--
    The gipsy wild of me without a name,
      Unhoused and free.


    I KNOW when little buds come out,
      And spread their colors all about,
    They make soft music--Yet it's true
      Most people never hear. Do you?

    There is the faintest, tinkly sound.
      Birds fly to listen all around,
    Then all the leaves stand just as still,
      And sunshine dances on the hill.


    THE dainty frills upon my frocks
      Make me all twinkly smiles inside.
    I want to take my sweets around,--
      A something in me says "Divide."

    I run to give my mother dear
      My nicest, clean-face kiss.
    I feed the sparrows on the steps,
      And think what others miss.

    I put some water on my fern;
      To every one I want to say
    Nice _velvet_ things. It is so queer
      That we can dress our moods away!

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]



    ONE day a little boy,
    With a poor broken toy,
    And ragged clothes, went by.
    He looked as if he'd like to cry,
    To see my soldiers fine,
    In scarlet coats, so straight in line.

    Would he have liked to play with me,
    Here beneath my shady tree?
    I wonder, but I did not call him back again.
    I thought he'd come next day the same,
    And I would ask him in to play,
    And when he had to go away
    Give him my nicest toys--
    The drum that makes the loudest noise,
    My whistle, and perhaps my sword,
    Or even my soldier hat with braids and cord.

    But though I watch here by the gate
    Until it grows quite dark and late,
    I never hear his footsteps there,
    The little boy is gone somewhere.


    IF I could choose a dream to-night,
      I'd choose a splendid dream
    About big soldiers in a fight,--
      So real that it would seem
    A truly one not in a book,
      With flags and banners waving high
    And horses with a prancing look
      And powder smoke that filled the sky,
    And lots of swords to flash.
      Perhaps this dream would frighten me,
    More than a noisy game,
      If too much blood should splash,
    And any soldiers die.
      And yet I think I'd choose it just the same
    And then wake up and cry.


    YOU think my home is up the street
      In that big house with lots of steps,
    All worn in places by our feet--
      With tracks that look like mine and Jep's.

    You think it's where I always eat,
      Where I can find my spoon and bowl,
    My napkin folded clean and neat,
      And milk, and sometimes jelly-roll.

    You think it's where I always sleep,
      Where I get in my puffy bed,
    And fall right in a comfy heap,
      Some nights before my prayers are said.

    But that's not home--just roof and walls,
      A place that anybody buys,
    With shiny floors and stairs and halls.--
      _My_ home is in my mother's eyes.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]


    THERE are no sounds of feet
    Or wagons in the street,
    So still, so beautiful,
    With air so fresh and cool.
    I love the dawn to come--
    But oh, I know that some
    Are not so glad as I,--
    For they must wake to cry.


    A SOLEMN, dressed-up City Tree,
    As stiff and straight as it can be,
    All cut and trimmed and kept just so,
    Is trying very hard to grow
    Correctly, with its top so queer,
    In front of my big window here.

    It is not like my Country Tree,
    Good friend of every bird and bee,
    Who keep it merry company
    And always sing and talk to me.
    My Country Tree laughs all day long.
    Its fresh leaves whisper in a song
    Their secrets just for me to hear.
    Its branches lean so very near
    The ground, that grasses stretch and try
    To meet the boughs not swung too high.
    There is the place, the very best
    In all the world, to play and rest.

    The City Tree stands all alone
    Above the clean-swept pavement stone.
    No little children ever stay
    Beneath its trimmed-off shade to play--
    They aren't brave enough to dare,
    Because it is so proper there.
    There are no lady-birds about;
    No crickets frolic in and out.
    The City Tree is very proud,
    It hasn't even looked or bowed.
    We're not at all acquainted yet--
    It's just as if we'd never met.

    The days seem long--I wonder when
    I'll see my country tree again?


    DEAR God, may I _not_ dream
    The Dragon-dream to-night,--
    And please do not forget
    To make it light
    On time again
    For me. Amen.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.]



    THEY make me laugh and clap my hands
      When they run out in wide striped clothes
    Of white, with red and yellow bands,
      With pointed caps and pointed toes,--
      The "funny men" at circus shows.

    I wish I knew just how a clown
      Can make his mouth up in a smile,
    And wrinkle in a crinkly frown
      His forehead all the while,
      In that queer circus style.


    One day when I had cried and cried
      Because I lost the picture book
    Which I had made, and mother tried
      To comfort me, we went and took
      A walk, to see how clown men look.

    I soon forgot my book, and though
      I loved it just the same,
    I couldn't cry and miss it so,
      And think about each picture's name
      When all the clown men came.


    I think we ought to say our thanks,
      To each of them who makes and sells
    Such fun and jokes, such jigs and pranks,--
      How dull we'd be without the spells
      They make with cap and bells!


    MY mother says that Summer's gone away.
      It seems so queer I didn't see her go,
    Or know till now; she didn't say good-bye--
      And oh, I loved her so!

    Now that I know, I miss her all the time.
      To-day I found this piece torn from her gown.
    It fluttered softly down the path to me.
      Perhaps my nurse would call it thistledown,
    But grown folks often make such strange mistakes.
      Nobody knows such wonder-things as I.
    On fresh, dew mornings, when I used to play,
      Out where the friendly rose-hedge grows so high,
    The pinks and four-o'clocks would lean to me
      And tell me secrets of my Summer dear.
    It's lonesome now, and sad as it can be,
      Since Summer is no longer here.

    The Dark comes down so soon, and it is cold.
      I wait and watch the sunset track,
    But Mother says I'll be a year more old
      Before my Summer will come back.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.]


    DO you know that when you wait
      To tell the truth, and fear--
    Until it grows _almost_ too late--
      God leans to hear?


    SOME days my doll-child is so bad,
      I have to whip her very hard.
    I put her in the corner there,
      And take away her picture-card.

    She's put to bed without a kiss.
      She doesn't have her way one bit,
    But then, _I_ am the one it hurts,
      And so what is the use of it?

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.]


    I'VE found a bird that's hurt.
      It flutters so and cries,
    Then looks its pain at me
      With such bright frightened eyes.

    Its feathers are so soft!
      How quiet it is now!
    I want to make it well--
      I wish my hands knew how!


    I DO not like to say good-night,--
      I hate to shut my eyes,
    When fringe-beams of the stars and moon
      Make day-things play surprise.

    The night is such a wonder-world,
      I love it more than day.
    The Dark comes close and calls. That's why
      My prayers are hard to say.


    IT is the hover-time
      That comes between the light and dark.
    The little squirrels climb
      Into their nests in trees and hark
    To rustly leaves about.
      Far off, I hear new insect cries--
    From things which never dare call out
      In daytime: they're afraid of _Eyes_.

    Out from the purply wood
      The first bat circles on the fly.
    Far things draw on a hood
      And shadows hide the place where sky
    And earth make dim their line.
      The trees change shape, and soon the gray
    Blurs into black; and that's the hour
      When dark comes down to stay.


    UPON the brook, for treasure-craft,
      I sail some petals, red and white;
    They always go away from me--
      They float much faster in their flight,
    Than I can run along the bank.
      My precious wee bit things bear freight;

    Which very soon falls overboard,
      And sinks where miser-folk await
    To snatch my sparkling treasure-store.
      Perhaps the waters dash too high
    For such a little fleet of ships,
      And that may be the reason why
    My crafts do not return again.

    Still, I expect them any day.
      I've lost some things I love the best,--
    My flower-chains and ribbons gay--
      But, though I miss these pretty things,
    I love much more the sailing-fun,
      And launch new ships when morning sings,
    And rainbow mist floats in the sun.

[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.]


    IF I could walk along the path
      The moonlight makes upon the sea,
    I know that I should find the one
      Who sings the Silver Song to me.


    I HAVE a little charm
      A gypsy gave to me,
    To keep me safe from harm,
      So ugly things can't see
    When I am all alone.
      It keeps the 'Fraid all out
    When trees cry so, and moan,
      And throw their leaves about.

    It keeps away the Woops that creep
      About my bed when I'm asleep.
    And even by day my charm keeps anything
      From hurting me, and that is why
    I love my gypsy-ring
      More than the ones I buy.

    The gypsy put it on for me
      And said some words so strange
    I knew that they must be
      Some fairy charm to change
    The sad things into gay,
      And keep me safe and well.
    I wear it every day,
      For that's to keep the spell.

    Each morning when I wake,
      I kiss and turn my ring
    Three times for sake of luck
      These wishes bring.


[Illustration: Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.]

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