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Title: Lullaby-Land - Songs of Childhood
Author: Field, Eugene
Language: English
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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.

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                            BY EUGENE FIELD

                      A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES.
                          BY R. L. STEVENSON.

 “Mr. Robinson’s drawings have an imaginative quality as rare as it is
 pleasurable to discover, a quality that children themselves are very
   quick to recognize, and that when set before them in appropriate,
    graphic form, is one of the most important of all aids to their
             intellectual development.”--_Boston Beacon._



                          Songs of Childhood.
                             EUGENE FIELD.

                         _Selected by_ KENNETH
                             GRAHAME, _and
                        illustrated by_ CHARLES


                               NEW YORK
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

                              JOHN LANE]





[Illustration: LULLABY-LAND.]



_There is a sort of a garden--or rather an estate, of park and fallow
and waste--nay, perhaps we may call it a kingdom, albeit a noman’s-land
and an everyman’s land--which lies so close to the frontier of our
work-a-day world that a step will take us therein. Indeed, some will
have it that we are there all the time, that it is the real fourth
dimension, and that at any moment--if we did but know the trick--we
might find ourselves trotting along its pleasant alleys, without once
quitting our arm-chair. Nonsense-Land is one of the names painted up on
the board at the frontier-station; and there the custom-house officers
are very strict. You may take as much tobacco as you please, any
quantity of spirits, and fripperies of every sort, new and old; but all
common-sense, all logic, all serious argument, must strictly be
declared, and is promptly confiscated. Once safely across the border, it
is with no surprise at all that you greet the Lead Soldier strutting
somewhat stiffly to meet you, the Dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels
following affably at his heel; on the banks of the streams little
Johnny-head-in-air is perpetually being hauled out of the water; while
the plaintive voice of the Gryphon is borne inland from the margin of
the sea._

_Most people, at one time or another, have travelled in this delectable
country, if only in young and irresponsible days. Certain unfortunates,
unequipped by nature for a voyage in such latitudes, have never visited
it at all, and assuredly never will. A happy few never quit it entirely
at any time. Domiciled in that pleasant atmosphere, they peep into the
world of facts but fitfully, at moments; and decline to sacrifice their
high privilege of citizenship at any summons to a low conformity._

_Of this fortunate band was Eugene Field. He knew the country
thoroughly, its highways and its byways alike. Its language was the one
he was fondest of talking; and he always refused to emigrate and to
settle down anywhere else. As soon as he set himself to narrate the
goings-on there, those of us who had been tourists in bygone days, but
had lost our return-tickets, pricked up our ears, and listened, and
remembered, and knew. The Dinkey-Bird, we recollected at once, had been
singing, the day we left, in the amfalula-tree; and there, of course, he
must have been singing ever since, only we had forgotten the way to
listen. Eugene Field gently reminded us, and the Dinkey-Bird was vocal
once more, to be silent never again. Shut-Eye Train had been starting
every night with the utmost punctuality; it was we who had long ago
lost our way to the booking-office (I really do not know the American
for booking-office). Now we can hurry up the platform whenever we
please, and hear the doors slam and the whistle toot as we sink back on
those first-class cushions! And the Chocolate Cat,--why, of course the
cats were all chocolate then! And how pleasantly brittle their tails
were, and how swiftly, though culled and sucked each day, they sprouted

_It is an engaging theory, that we are all of us just as well informed
as the great philosophers, poets, wits, who are getting all the glory;
only unfortunately our memories are not equally good--we forget, we
forget so terribly! Those belauded gentlemen, termed by our fathers
“makers”--creators, to wit--they are only_ reminders _after all:
flappers, Gulliver would have called them. The parched peas in their
gaily-painted bladders rattle with reminiscences as they flap us on the
ears; and at once we recall what we are rightly abashed beyond measure
to have for one instant forgotten. At any rate, it is only when the
writer comes along who strikes a new clear note, who does a thing both
true and fresh, that we say to ourselves, not only “How I wish I had
done that myself!”--but also “And I_ would _have done it, too--if only I
had remembered it in time!” Perhaps this is one of the tests of

_Of course I am touching upon but one side of Eugene Field the writer.
An American of Americans, much of his verse was devoted to the
celebration of what we may call the minor joys which go to make social
happiness in the life he lived with so frank and rounded a completion--a
celebration which appealed to his countrymen no less keenly, that the
joys were of a sort which, perhaps from some false sense of what makes
fitness in subject, had hitherto lacked their poet--on that side at
least. This, of course, was the fault of the poets. And though I spoke
just now of minor joys, there are really no such things as minor
joys--or minor thrushes and blackbirds. Fortunately this other aspect
does not need to be considered here. I say fortunately, because it is
not given to a writer to know more than one Land--to know it intimately,
that is to say, so as to dare to write about it. This is the Law and
the Prophets. Even that most native utterance, which sings of “the clink
of the ice in the pitcher that the boy brings up the hall,” appeals to
us but faintly, at second-hand. That pitcher does not clink in England._

_In this spheral existence all straight lines, sufficiently prolonged,
prove to be circles: and a line of thought is no exception. We are back
at the point we started from--the consideration of Eugene Field as a
citizen; of a sort of a cloud-country, to start with; and later, of a
land more elemental. In either capacity we find the same note, of the
joy of life. We find the same honest resolve, to accept the rules and to
play out the game accordingly; the same conviction, that the game is in
itself a good one, well worth the playing. And so, with no misgiving, he
takes his America with just the same heartiness as his Nonsense-land._

_The little boy who should by rights have been lost in the forest, by
the white pebbles he had warily dropped found his way back safely to
sunlight and to home; and to keep in touch with earth is at least to
ensure progression in temperate and sweet-breathed atmosphere, as well
as in a certain zone, and that no narrow one, of appreciation; the
appreciation of our fellows, the world over; those who, whatever their
hemisphere, daily find themselves pricked by a common sun, with the same
stimulus for every cuticle, towards pleasures surprisingly similar._




[Illustration: CONTENTS.

_From_ “Love-Songs of Childhood.”]

_The Rock-a-By Lady_                                           _Page_ 21

_Garden and Cradle_                                                   29

_The Night Wind_                                                      35

_The Dinkey-Bird_                                                     44

_So, so, Rock-a-by so!_                                               47

_The Duel_                                                            53

_Good-Children Street_                                                59

_The Bottle Tree_                                                     65

_Lady Button-Eyes_                                                    71

_The Ride to Bumpville_                                               79

_Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks_                                       85

_The Shut-Eye Train_                                                  91

_Little-Oh-Dear_                                                      99

_The Fly-Away Horse_                                                 105

“_Fiddle-Dee-Dee_”                                                   113

[Illustration: _From_ “With Trumpet and Drum.”]

_The Sugar-Plum Tree_                                         _Page_ 123

_Krinken_                                                            131

_Pittypat and Tippytoe_                                              137

_Little Blue Pigeon_                                                 145

_Teeny-Weeny_                                                        151

_Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not_                                    159

_Wynken, Blynken, and Nod_                                           165

_Little Mistress Sans-Merci_                                         173

_Hi-Spy_                                                             179

_Little Boy Blue_                                                    183

_Heigho, my Dearie_                                                  189

_Fairy and Child_                                                    195

_Child and Mother_                                                   201

_Ganderfeather’s Gift_                                               207

[Illustration: _From_ “The Second Book of Verse.”]

_Telling the Bees_                                            _Page_ 217

[Illustration: _From_ “The Lonesome little Shoe.”]

_in “The Holy Cross and Other Tales.”_

_Contentment_                                                 _Page_ 225





[Illustration: The Rock-a-by Lady.]


[Illustration: THE ROCK-A-BY LADY]

    The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street
        Comes stealing; comes creeping;
    The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
    And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet--
    She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
        When she findeth you sleeping!



    There is one little dream of a beautiful drum--
        “Rub-a-dub!” it goeth;
    There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,


    And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
    Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
        And a trumpet that bloweth!

    And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams
        With laughter and singing;
    And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
    And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,


    And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,
        The fairies go winging!

    Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?
        They’ll come to you sleeping;
    So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
    For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,
    With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
        Comes stealing; comes creeping.



[Illustration: Garden and Cradle.]


[Illustration: GARDEN AND CRADLE.]

    When our babe he goeth walking in his garden,
      Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;
        The posies they are good to him,
        And bow them as they should to him,
      As fareth he upon his kingly way;
        And birdlings of the wood to him
      Make music, gentle music, all the day,
    When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.

    When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,
      Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;
        The little stars are kind to him,
        The moon she hath a mind to him
      And layeth on his head a golden crown;
        And singeth then the wind to him
      A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,
    When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.



[Illustration: The Night Wind.]


[Illustration: THE NIGHT WIND]

    Have you ever heard the wind go “Yooooo”?
      ’Tis a pitiful sound to hear!
    It seems to chill you through and through
      With a strange and speechless fear.
    ’Tis the voice of the night that broods outside
      When folks should be asleep,
    And many and many’s the time I’ve cried
    To the darkness brooding far and wide
      Over the land and the deep:
    “Whom do you want, O lonely night,
      That you wail the long hours through?”
    And the night would say in its ghostly way:

    My mother told me long ago
      (When I was a little tad)
    That when the night went wailing so,
      Somebody had been bad;
    And then, when I was snug in bed,
      Whither I had been sent,
    With the blankets pulled up round my head.
    I’d think of what my mother’d said,
      And wonder what boy she meant!
    And “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask
      Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
    And the voice would say in its meaningful way:


    That this was true I must allow--
      You’ll not believe it, though!
    Yes, though I’m quite a model now,
      I was not always so.
    And if you doubt what things I say,
      Suppose you make the test;
    Suppose, when you’ve been bad some day
    And up to bed are sent away
      From mother and the rest--
    Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?”
      And then you’ll hear what’s true;
    For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:


[Illustration: =The Dinkey Bird.=]


[Illustration: THE DINKEY BIRD.]

    In an ocean, ’way out yonder
      (As all sapient people know),
    Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
      Whither children love to go;
    It’s their playing, romping, swinging,
      That give great joy to me
    While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
      In the amfalula tree!


    There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
      And taffy’s thick as peas--
    Caramels you pick like berries
      When, and where, and how you please;
    Big red sugar-plums are clinging
      To the cliffs beside that sea
    Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

    So when children shout and scamper
      And make merry all the day,
    When there’s naught to put a damper
      To the ardor of their play;
    When I hear their laughter ringing,
      Then I’m sure as sure can be
    That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

    For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras
      And staccatos are so sweet--
    His roulades, appoggiaturas,
      And robustos so complete,
    That the youth of every nation--
      Be they near or far away--
    Have especial delectation
      In that gladsome roundelay.

    Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
      Their lungs begin to crow,
    Their hearts get light and lighter,
      And their cheeks are all aglow;
    For an echo cometh bringing
      The news to all and me,
    That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

    I’m sure you like to go there
      To see your feathered friend--
    And so many goodies grow there
      You would like to comprehend!
    _Speed, little dreams, your winging_
      _To that land across the sea_
    _Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing_
      _In the amfalula tree!_


[Illustration: =So, so, Rock-a-by so!=]


[Illustration: SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY, SO!]

    So, so, rock-a-by so!
      Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;
    And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,
      And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek
    And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies
    In the beautiful garden way up in the skies
      Which you seek.
    Now mind these three kisses wherever you go--
    So, so, rock-a-by so!

    There’s one little fumfay who lives there, I know,
    For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;
    I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,
      I send him this kiss on your rosy-red cheek.
    And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise
    When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies
      Which you seek.
    Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe--
    So, so, rock-a-by so!

    And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,
    Don’t forget mother who loveth you so!
    And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,
      And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,


    And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies
    Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies
      Which you seek--
    The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow--
    So, so, rock-a-by so!


[Illustration: The Duel.]


[Illustration:THE DUEL.]

    The gingham dog and the calico cat
    Side by side on the table sat;
    ’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
    Nor one nor t’other had slept a wink!
        The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
        Appeared to know as sure as fate
    There was going to be a terrible spat.
        (_I wasn’t there; I simply state_
        _What was told me by the Chinese plate!_)

    The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”
    And the calico cat replied “mee-ow!”
    The air was littered, an hour or so,
    With bits of gingham and calico,
        While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place
        Up with its hands before its face,
    For it always dreaded a family row!
        (_Now mind: I’m only telling you_
        _What the old Dutch clock declares is true!_)

    The Chinese plate looked very blue,
    And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do?”
    But the gingham dog and the calico cat
    Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
        Employing every tooth and claw
        In the awfullest way you ever saw--
    And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
        (_Don’t fancy I exaggerate!_
        _I got my news from the Chinese plate!_)


    Next morning, where the two had sat,
    They found no trace of dog or cat;
    And some folks think unto this day
    That burglars stole that pair away!
        But the truth about the cat and pup
        Is this: they ate each other up!
    Now what do you really think of that!
        (_The old Dutch clock it told me so,_
        _And that is how I came to know._)


[Illustration: Good Children Street.]




    There’s a dear little home in Good-Children street--
      My heart turneth fondly to-day
    Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
      Make sweetest of music at play;
    Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
    And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.

    For dear little children go romping about
      With dollies and tin tops and drums,
    And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
      Till bedtime too speedily comes!


    Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
    With little folk living in Good-Children street.

    See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
      And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
    The captain rides gaily and proudly ahead
      On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
    Oh, legions of soldiers you’re certain to meet--
    Nice make-believe soldiers--in Good-Children street.

    And yonder Odette wheels her dolly about--
      Poor dolly! I’m sure she is ill,
    For one of her blue china eyes has dropped out
      And her voice is asthmatic’ly shrill.
    Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet,
    Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street.

    ’Tis so the dear children go romping about
      With dollies and banners and drums,
    And I venture to say they are sadly put out
      When an end to their jubilee comes:
    Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
    With little folk living in Good-Children street!


[Illustration: The Bottle Tree.]


[Illustration: THE BOTTLE TREE.]

    A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land--
      Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
    A snug little berth in that ship I demand
      That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away
      Where the Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day
    And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand;
    You take of that fruit as much as you list,
    For colic’s a nuisance that doesn’t exist!


    for a bottle,
    I say!”]

    So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast,
      And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
    For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast--
      Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!


    “ ... of bottle
    tree babies

    The Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day!
      Heigh-ho for Winkyway land!
    And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I’ve heard people say)
      Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand--
      And that is a trick I would fain understand!
    Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day!
      And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night--
      A bottle of milk that is creamy and white!
    So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast,
      And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
    For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast--
      Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!


[Illustration: Lady Button-Eyes.]


[Illustration: LADY BUTTON-EYES]

    When the busy day is done,
    And my weary little one
    Rocketh gently to and fro;
    When the night winds softly blow,
    And the crickets in the glen
    Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
    When upon the haunted green
    Fairies dance around their queen--
    Then from yonder misty skies
    Cometh Lady Button-Eyes

    Through the murk and mist and gloam
    To our quiet, cozy home,
    Where to singing, sweet and low,
    Rocks a cradle to and fro;
    Where the clock’s dull monotone
    Telleth of the day that’s done;
    Where the moonbeams hover o’er
    Playthings sleeping on the floor--
    Where my weary wee one lies
    Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

    Cometh like a fleeting ghost
    From some distant eerie coast;
    Never footfall can you hear
    As that spirit fareth near--


    Never whisper, never word
    From that shadow-queen is heard.
    In ethereal raiment dight,
    From the realm of fay and sprite
    In the depth of yonder skies
    Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

    Layeth she her hands upon
    My dear weary little one,
    And those white hands overspread
    Like a veil the curly head,
    Seem to fondle and caress
    Every little silken tress;
    Then she smooths the eyelids down
    Over those two eyes of brown--
    In such soothing, tender wise
    Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.

    Dearest, feel upon your brow
    That caressing magic now;
    For the crickets in the glen
    Chirp and chirp and chirp again,
    While upon the haunted green
    Fairies dance around their queen,
    And the moonbeams hover o’er
    Playthings sleeping on the floor--
    Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies
    Cometh Lady Button-Eyes!



[Illustration: The Ride to Bumpville.]


[Illustration: THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE.]

    Play that my knee was a calico mare
      Saddled and bridled for Bumpville;
    Leap to the back of this steed if you dare,
      And gallop away to Bumpville!
    I hope you’ll be sure to sit fast in your seat,
    For this calico mare is prodigiously fleet,
    And many adventures you’re likely to meet
      As you journey along to Bumpville.


    This calico mare both gallops and trots
      While whisking you off to Bumpville;
    She paces, she shies, and she stumbles, in spots,
      In the tortuous road to Bumpville;
    And sometimes this strangely mercurial steed
    Will suddenly stop and refuse to proceed,
    Which, all will admit, is vexatious indeed,
      When one is _en route_ to Bumpville!

    She’s scared of the cars when the engine goes “Toot!”
    Down by the crossing at Bumpville;
    You’d better look out for that treacherous brute
      Bearing you off to Bumpville!
    With a snort she rears up on her hindermost heels,
    And executes jigs and Virginia reels--
    Words fail to explain how embarrassed one feels
      Dancing so wildly to Bumpville!

    It’s bumpytybump and it’s jiggityjog,
      Journeying on to Bumpville;
    It’s over the hilltop and down through the bog
      You ride on your way to Bumpville;
    It’s rattletybang over boulder and stump,
    There are rivers to ford, there are fences to jump,
    And the corduroy road it goes bumpytybump,
      Mile after mile to Bumpville!

    Perhaps you’ll observe it’s no easy thing
      Making the journey to Bumpville,
    So I think, on the whole, it were prudent to bring
      An end to this ride to Bumpville;
    For, though she has uttered no protest or plaint,
    The calico mare must be blowing and faint--
    What’s more to the point, I’m blowed if I ain’t!
      So play we have got to Bumpville!


[Illustration: Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks]



    Shuffle-shoon and Amber-Locks
    Sit together, building blocks;
      Shuffle-Shoon is old and grey,
        Amber-Locks a little child,
      But together at their play
        Age and Youth are reconciled,
    And with sympathetic glee
    Build their castles fair to see.

    “When I grow to be a man”
    (So the wee one’s prattle ran),
      “I shall build a castle so--
        With a gateway broad and grand;
      Here a pretty vine shall grow,
        There a soldier guard shall stand;
    And the tower shall be so high,
    Folks will wonder, by-and-by!”


    Shuffle-Shoon quoth: “Yes, I know;
    Thus I builded long ago!
      Here a gate and there a wall,
        Here a window, there a door;
      Here a steeple wondrous tall
        Riseth ever more and more!
    But the years have levelled low
    What I builded long ago!”


    So they gossip at their play,
    Heedless of the fleeting day;
      One speaks of the Long Ago
        Where his dead hopes buried lie;
      One with chubby cheeks aglow
        Prattleth of the By-and-By;
    Side by side, they build their blocks--
    Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks.


[Illustration: The Shut-Eye Train.]


[Illustration: THE SHUT-EYE TRAIN.]

    Come, my little one, with me!
    There are wondrous sights to see
      As the evening shadows fall;
      In your pretty cap and gown,
              Don’t detain
              The Shut-Eye train--
      “Ting-a-ling!” the bell it goeth,
      “Toot-toot!” the whistle bloweth,
    And we hear the warning call:
    “_All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_”

    Over hill and over plain
    Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train!
      Through the blue where bloom the stars
      And the Mother Moon looks down
              We’ll away
              To land of Fay--
      Oh, the sights that we shall see there!
      Come, my little one, with me there--
    ’Tis a goodly train of cars--
    _All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_

    Swifter than a wild bird’s flight,
    Through the realms of fleecy light
      We shall speed and speed away!
      Let the Night in envy frown--
              What care we
              How wroth she be!
      To the Balow-land above us,
      To the Balow-folk who love us,
    Let us hasten while we may--
    _All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_



    Shut-Eye Town is passing fair--
    Golden dreams await us there;
      We shall dream those dreams, my dear,
      Till the Mother Moon goes down--
              See unfold
              Delights untold!
      And in those mysterious places
      We shall see beloved faces
    And beloved voices hear
    _In the grace of Shut-Eye Town_.

    Heavy are your eyes, my sweet,
    Weary are your little feet--
      Nestle closer up to me
      In your pretty cap and gown;
              Don’t detain
              The Shut-Eye train!
      “Ting-a-ling!” the bell it goeth,
      “Toot-toot!” the whistle bloweth;
    Oh, the sights that we shall see!
    _All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!_



[Illustration: Little Oh-Dear.]


[Illustration: LITTLE-OH-DEAR]

    See, what a wonderful garden is here,
    Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!
    Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown--
    Search ye the country and hunt ye the town
    And never ye’ll meet with a garden so queer
    As this one I’ve made for my Little-Oh-Dear!

    Marigolds white and buttercups blue,
    Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew,
    The cactus that trails over trellis and wall,
    Roses and pansies and violets--all
    Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer
    When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear!

    And up at the top of that lavender-tree
    A silver-bird singeth as only can she;
    For, ever and only, she singeth the song
    “I love you--I love you!” the happy day long;--
    Then the echo--the echo that smiteth me here!
    “I love you, I love you,” my Little-Oh-Dear!

    The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly--
    But what careth my little precious, or I?


    From her pathway of flowers that in spring-time upstart
    She walketh the tenderer way in my heart;
    And, oh, it is always the summer-time _here_
    With that song of “I love you,” my Little-Oh-Dear!


[Illustration: The Fly-Away Horse.]


[Illustration: THE FLY-AWAY HORSE.]

    Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse--
      Perhaps you have seen him before;
    Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept
      Through the moonlight that floats on the floor.

    For it’s only at night, when the stars twinkle bright,
      That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh
    And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane,
      Is up on his heels and away!
            The Moon in the sky,
            As he gallopeth by,
        Cries: “Oh! what a marvellous sight!”
            And the Stars in dismay
            Hide their faces away
        In the lap of old Grandmother Night.

    It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse
      Speedeth ever and ever away--
    Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains,
      Over streamlets that sing at their play;
    And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he,
      While the ships they go sailing below,
    And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast
      Adjudge him some portent of woe.
            “What ho there!” they cry,
            As he flourishes by



    With a whisk of his beautiful tail;
        And the fish in the sea
        Are as scared as can be,
    From the nautilus up to the whale!


    And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those far-away lands
      You little folk dream of at night--
    Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow,
      And corn-fields with popcorn are white;
    And the beasts in the wood are ever so good
      To children who visit them there--
    What glory astride of a lion to ride,
      Or to wrestle around with a bear!
            The monkeys, they say:
            “Come on, let us play,”
        And they frisk in the cocoa-nut trees:
            While the parrots, that cling
            To the peanut-vines, sing
        Or converse with comparative ease!


    Off! scamper to bed--you shall ride him to-night!
      For, as soon as you’ve fallen asleep,
    With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away
      Over forest and hillside and deep!
    But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear
      In those beautiful lands over there,
    Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his far-away course
      With the wee one consigned to his care.
            Then grandma will cry
            In amazement: “Oh, my!”
        And she’ll think it could never be so;
            And only we two
            Shall know it is true--
        You and I, little precious! shall know!





[Illustration: FIDDLE-DEE-DEE]

    There once was a bird that lived up in a tree,
    And all he could whistle was “Fiddle-dee-dee”--
    A very provoking, unmusical song
    For one to be whistling the summer day long!
    Yet always contented and busy was he
    With that vocal recurrence of “Fiddle-dee-dee.”


    our St Didy!
    the deed
    must be done’]

    Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four,
    That weird iteration repented him sore;
    “I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun,
    For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done
    That shall presently rid all creation and me
    Of that ominous bird and his ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”

    Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son
    His awfully truculent little red gun;
    The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin,
    The “bang” it came out where the bullet went in--
    The right kind of weapon I think you’ll agree
    For slaying all fowl that go “Fiddle-dee-dee”!

    The brave little soldier quoth never a word,
    But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird;
    And, while that vain creature provokingly sang,
    The gun it went off with a terrible bang!
    Then loud laughed the youth--“By my Bottle,” cried he,
    “I’ve put a quietus on ‘Fiddle-dee-dee’!”


    “bang” it came out
    where the
    bullet went in-’]


    my Bottle”
    cried he,’]

    Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: “My son,
    Right well have you wrought with your little red gun!
    Hereafter no evil at all need I fear,
    With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!”
    She kissed the dear boy.
                                [The bird in the tree
    Continued to whistle his “Fiddle-dee-dee”!]




[Illustration: The Sugar Plum Tree.]


[Illustration: THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE.]

    Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
    ’Tis a marvel of great renown!

[Illustration: When you’ve got to the tree,]

    It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea
      In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
    The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
      (As those who have tasted it say)
    That good little children have only to eat
      Of that fruit to be happy next day.


    When you’ve got to the tree, you would have a hard time
      To capture the fruit which I sing;
    The tree is so tall that no person could climb
      To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!
    But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,
      And a gingerbread dog prowls below--
    And this is the way you contrive to get at
      Those sugar-plums tempting you so:

    You say but the word to that gingerbread dog
      And he barks with such terrible zest
    That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,
      As her swelling proportions attest.
    And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around
      From this leafy limb unto that,
    And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground--
      Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

    There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes,
      With stripings of scarlet or gold,
    And you carry away of the treasure that rains
      As much as your apron can hold!


    So come, little child, cuddle closer to me
      In your dainty white nightcap and gown,
    And I’ll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree
      In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.


[Illustration: Krinken.]


[Illustration: KRINKEN.]

    Krinken was a little child,--
    It was summer when he smiled,
    Oft the hoary sea and grim
    Stretched its white arms out to him;
    Calling, “Sun-child, come to me;
    Let me warm my heart with thee!”
    But the child heard not the sea.

    Krinken on the beach one day
    Saw a maiden Nis at play;
    Fair, and very fair, was she,
    Just a little child was he.
    “Krinken,” said the maiden Nis,
    “Let me have a little kiss,--
    Just a kiss, and go with me
    To the summer-lands that be
    Down within the silver sea.”

    Krinken was a little child,
    By the maiden Nis beguiled;
    Down into the calling sea
    With the maiden Nis went he.

    But the sea calls out no more,
    It is winter on the shore,--
    Winter where that little child
    Made sweet summer when he smiled;
    Though ’tis summer on the sea
    Where with maiden Nis went he,--
    Summer, summer evermore,--
    It is winter on the shore,
    Winter, winter evermore.

    Of the summer on the deep
    Come sweet visions in my sleep;
    _His_ fair face lifts from the sea,
    _His_ dear voice calls out to me,--
    These my dreams of summer be.

    Krinken was a little child,
    By the maiden Nis beguiled;
    Oft the hoary sea and grim
    Reached its longing arms to him,
    Crying, “Sun-child, come to me;
    Let me warm my heart with thee!”
    But the sea calls out no more;
    It is winter on the shore,--
    Winter, cold and dark and wild;
    Krinken was a little child,--
    It was summer when he smiled;
    Down he went into the sea,
    And the winter bides with me.
    Just a little child was he.


[Illustration: Pittypat and Tippytoe.]



    All day long they come and go--
      Pittypat and Tippytoe;
    Footprints up and down the hall,
      Playthings scattered on the floor,


    buttered bread
    will do,’]


    thick with
    sugar too.’]

      Finger-marks along the wall,
        Tell-tale smudges on the door--
    By these presents you shall know
    Pittypat and Tippytoe.

    How they riot at their play!
    And a dozen times a day
      In they troop, demanding bread--
        Only buttered bread will do,
      And the butter must be spread
        Inches thick with sugar too!
    And I never can say “No,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!”

    Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
    Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
      For (I much regret to say)
        Tippytoe and Pittypat
      Sometimes interrupt their play
        With an internecine spat;
    Fie, for shame! to quarrel so--
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!

    Oh the thousand worrying things
    Every day recurrent brings!
      Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
        Search for playthings gone amiss,
      Many a wee complaint to hush,
        Many a little bump to kiss;
    Life seems one vain, fleeting show
    To Pittypat and Tippytoe!

    And when day is at an end,
    There are little duds to mend:
      Little frocks are strangely torn,
        Little shoes great holes reveal,
      Little hose, but one day worn,
        Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
    Who but _you_ could work such woe,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!

    On the floor and down the hall,
    Rudely smutched upon the wall,
      There are proofs in every kind
        Of the havoc they have wrought,
      And upon my heart you’d find
        Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
    Oh, how glad I am ’tis so,
    Pittypat and Tippytoe!



    Little Blue


[Illustration: LITTLE BLUE PIGEON.]

    Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings--
      Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
    Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging--
      Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

    Away out yonder I see a star--
      Silvery star with a tinkling song;
    To the soft dew falling I hear it calling--
      Calling and tinkling the night along.

    In through the window a moonbeam comes--
      Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
    All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping--
      Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”

    Up from the sea there floats the sob
      Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
    As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning--
      Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.

    But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings--
      Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
    Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging--
      Swinging the nest where my darling lies.



[Illustration: Teeny-Weeny.]


[Illustration: TEENY-WEENY.]

    Every evening, after tea,
    Teeny-Weeny comes to me.
    And, astride my willing knee,
      Plies his lash and rides away;
    Though that palfrey, all too spare,
    Finds his burden hard to bear,
    Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care;
      He commands, and I obey!

    First it’s trot, and gallop then;
    Now it’s back to trot again;
    Teeny-Weeny likes it when
      He is riding fierce and fast.
    Then his dark eyes brighter grow
    And his cheeks are all aglow:
    “More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!”
      Till the horse breaks down at last.

    Oh, the strange and lovely sights
    Teeny-Weeny sees of nights,
    As he makes those famous flights
      On that wondrous horse of his!
    Oftentimes before he knows,
    Wearylike his eyelids close,
    And, still smiling, off he goes
      Where the land of By-low is.


    There he sees the folk of fay
    Hard at ring-a-rosie play,
    And he hears those fairies say:
      “Come, let’s chase him to and fro!”
    But, with a defiant shout,
    Teeny puts that host to rout;
    Of this tale I make no doubt,
      Every night he tells it so.

    So I feel a tender pride
    In my boy who dares to ride
    That fierce horse of his astride,
      Off into those misty lands;
    And as on my breast he lies,
    Dreaming in that wondrous wise,
    I caress his folded eyes,
      Pat his little dimpled hands.


    On a time he went away,
    Just a little while to stay,
    And I’m not ashamed to say
      I was very lonely then;
    Life without him was so sad,
    You can fancy I was glad
    And made merry when I had
      Teeny-Weeny back again!

    So of evenings, after tea,
    When he toddles up to me
    And goes tugging at my knee,
      You should hear his palfrey neigh!
    You should see him prance and shy,
    When, with an exulting cry,
    Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high,
      Plies his lash and rides away!




    Buttercup, Poppy,




    Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not--
    These three bloomed in a garden spot;
    And once, all merry with song and play,
    A little one heard three voices say:
      “Shine and shadow, summer and spring,
        O thou child with the tangled hair
      And laughing eyes! we three shall bring
        Each an offering passing fair.”
    The little one did not understand,
    But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.

    Buttercup gamboled all day long,
    Sharing the little one’s mirth and song;
    Then, stealing along on misty gleams,
    Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams.
      Playing and dreaming--and that was all
        Till once a sleeper would not awake;
      Kissing the little face under the pall,
        We thought of the words the third flower spake;
    And we found betimes in a hallowed spot
    The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.

    Buttercup shareth the joy of day,
    Glinting with gold the hours of play;
    Bringeth the poppy sweet repose,
    When the hands would fold and the eyes would close;
      And after it all--the play and the sleep
        Of a little life--what cometh then?
      To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep
        A new flower bringeth God’s peace again.
    Each one serveth its tender lot--
    Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.




    Wynken, Blynken,
    and Nod.]


[Illustration: WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, _AND_ NOD.]

    Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
      Sailed off in a wooden shoe--
    Sailed on a river of crystal light,
      Into a sea of dew.

    “Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
      The old moon asked the three.
    “We have come to fish for the herring fish
      That live in this beautiful sea;
      Nets of silver and gold have we!”
                    Said Wynken,
                    And Nod.

    The old moon laughed and sang a song,
      As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
    And the wind that sped them all night long
      Ruffled the waves of dew.
    The little stars were the herring fish
    That lived in that beautiful sea--
    “Now cast your nets wherever you wish--
      Never afeard are we”;
      So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
                    And Nod.


    All night long their nets they threw
      To the stars in the twinkling foam--
    Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
      Bringing the fishermen home;
    ’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed
      As if it could not be,
    And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
    Of sailing that beautiful sea--
    But I shall name you the fishermen three:
                    And Nod.

    Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
      And Nod is a little head,
    And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
      Is a wee one’s trundle-bed.
    So shut your eyes while mother sings
      Of wonderful sights that be,
    And you shall see the beautiful things


    As you rock in the misty sea,
    Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
                  And Nod.


[Illustration: Little Mistress Sans-Merci.]



    Little Mistress Sans-Merci
    Fareth world-wide, fancy free:
      Trotteth cooing to and fro,
        And her cooing is command--
      Never ruled there yet, I trow,
        Mightier despot in the land.
    And my heart it lieth where
    Mistress Sans-Merci doth fare.


    Little Mistress Sans-Merci--
    She hath made a slave of me!
      “Go,” she biddeth, and I go--
        “Come,” and I am fain to come--
      Never mercy doth she show,
        Be she wroth or frolicsome,
    Yet am I content to be
    Slave to Mistress Sans-Merci!

    Little Mistress Sans-Merci
    Hath become so dear to me
      That I count as passing sweet
        All the pain her moods impart,
      And I bless the little feet
        That go trampling on my heart:
    Ah, how lonely life would be
    But for little Sans-Merci!

    Little Mistress Sans-Merci,
    Cuddle close this night to me,
      And the heart, which all day long
        Ruthless thou hast trod upon,
      Shall outpour a soothing song
        For its best belovèd one--
    All its tenderness for thee,
    Little Mistress Sans-Merci!


[Illustration: Hi-Spy.]


[Illustration: HI-SPY.]

    Strange that the city thoroughfare,
      Noisy and bustling all the day,
    Should with the night renounce its care
      And lend itself to children’s play!

    Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys,
      And have been so since Abel’s birth,
    And shall be so till dolls and toys
      Are with the children swept from earth.

    The selfsame sport that crowns the day
      Of many a Syrian shepherd’s son,
    Beguiles the little lads at play
      By night in stately Babylon.

    I hear their voices in the street,
      Yet ’tis so different now from then!
    Come, brother! from your winding-sheet,
      And let us two be boys again!


[Illustration: Little Boy Blue.]


[Illustration: LITTLE BOY BLUE.]

    The little toy dog is covered with dust,
      But sturdy and stanch he stands;
    And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
      And the musket moulds in his hands.
    Time was when the little toy dog was new,
      And the soldier was passing fair;
    And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
      Kissed them and put them there.

    “Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
      “And don’t you make any noise!”
    So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
      He dreamt of the pretty toys;
    And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
      Awakened our Little Boy Blue--
    Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
      But the little toy friends are true!

    Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
      Each in the same old place--
    Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
      The smile of a little face;


    And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
      In the dust of that little chair,
    What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
      Since he kissed them and put them there.


[Illustration: Heigho, My Dearie]




    A moonbeam floateth from the skies,
      Whispering: “Heigho, my dearie;
    I would spin a web before your eyes--
    A beautiful web of silver light
    Wherein is many a wondrous sight
    Of a radiant garden leagues away,
    Where the softly tinkling lilies sway
    And the snow-white lambkins are at play--
      Heigho, my dearie!”

    A brownie stealeth from the vine,
      Singing: “Heigho, my dearie;
    And will you hear this song of mine--
    A song of the land of murk and mist
    Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?
    Then let the moonbeam’s web of light
    Be spun before thee silvery white,
    And I shall sing the livelong night--
      Heigho, my dearie!”

    The night wind speedeth from the sea,
      Murmuring: “Heigho, my dearie;
    I bring a mariner’s prayer for thee;
    So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
    And the brownie sing thee lullabies--
    But I shall rock thee to and fro,
    Kissing the brow _he_ loveth so.
    And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow--
      Heigho, my dearie!”



[Illustration: Fairy and Child.]




    Oh, listen, little Dear-My-Soul,
      To the fairy voices calling,
    For the moon is high in the misty sky
      And the honey dew is falling;
    To the midnight feast in the clover bloom
      The bluebells are a-ringing,
    And it’s “Come away to the land of fay”
      That the katydid is singing.

    Oh, slumber, little Dear-My-Soul,
      And hand in hand we’ll wander--
    Hand in hand to the beautiful land
      Of Balow, away off yonder;
    Or we’ll sail along in a lily leaf
      Into the white moon’s halo--
    Over a stream of mist and dream
      Into the land of Balow.

    Or, you shall have two beautiful wings--
      Two gossamer wings and airy,
    And all the while shall the old moon smile
      And think you a little fairy;

[Illustration: “INTO THE WHITE MOON’S HALO”]

    And you shall dance in the velvet sky,
      And the silvery stars shall twinkle
    And dream sweet dreams as over their beams
      Your footfalls softly tinkle.


[Illustration: Child and Mother.]


[Illustration: CHILD AND MOTHER.]

    O mother-my-love, if you’ll give me your hand,
    And go where I ask you to wander,
    I will lead you away to a beautiful land--
      The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder.
    We’ll walk in a sweet-posie garden out there,
      Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,
    And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
      With the fragrance and music of dreaming.

    There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
      No questions or cares to perplex you;
    There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
      Nor patching of stockings to vex you.
    For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream,
      And sing you asleep when you’re weary,
    And no one shall know of our beautiful dream,
      But you and your own little dearie.

    And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head
      In the bosom that’s soothed me so often,
    And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead
      A song which our dreaming shall soften.
    So, Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand,
      And away through the starlight we’ll wander--
    Away through the mist to the beautiful land--
      The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder.



[Illustration: Ganderfeather’s Gift.]



    I was just a little thing
      When a fairy came and kissed me;
    Floating in upon the light
    Of a haunted summer night,
    Lo, the fairies came to sing
    Pretty slumber songs and bring
      Certain boons that else had missed me.
    From a dream I turned to see
    What those strangers brought for me,
      When that fairy up and kissed me--
      Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!

    Simmerdew was there, but she
      Did not like me altogether;
    Daisybright and Turtledove,
    Pilfercurds and Honeylove,
    Thistleblow and Amberglee
    On that gleaming, ghostly sea
      Floated from the misty heather,
    And around my trundle-bed
    Frisked, and looked, and whispering said--
      Solemnlike and all together:
      “_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!”

    Ganderfeather kissed me then--
      Ganderfeather, quaint and merry!


    No attenuate sprite was he,
   --But as buxom as could be;--
    Kissed me twice, and once again,
    And the others shouted when
      On my cheek uprose a berry
    Somewhat like a mole, mayhap,
    But the kiss-mark of that chap
      Ganderfeather, passing merry--
      Humorsome, but kindly, very!


    I was just a tiny thing
      When the prankish Ganderfeather
    Brought this curious gift to me
    With his fairy kisses three;
    Yet with honest pride I sing
    That same gift he chose to bring
      Out of yonder haunted heather.
    Other charms and friendships fly--
    Constant friends this mole and I,
      Who have been so long together.
      Thank you, little Ganderfeather!





[Illustration: Telling the Bees]


[Illustration: TELLING THE BEES.]

    Out of the house where the slumberer lay
    Grandfather came one summer day,
    And under the pleasant orchard trees
    He spake this wise to the murmuring bees:
      “The clover-bloom that kissed her feet
      And the posie-bed where she used to play,
      Have honey store, but none so sweet
      As ere our little one went away.
      O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low;
      For she is gone who loved you so.”

    A wonder fell on the listening bees
    Under those pleasant orchard trees,
    And in their toil that summer day
    Ever their murmuring seemed to say:
        “Child, O child, the grass is cool,
        And the posies are waking to hear the song
        Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool,
        Waiting for one that tarrieth long.”
      ’Twas so they called to the little one then,
      As if to call her back again.

    O gentle bees, I have come to say
    That grandfather fell asleep to-day,
    And we know by the smile on grandfather’s face
    He has found his dear one’s biding-place.
        So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low,
        As over the honey-fields you sweep--
        To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow
        Sing of grandfather fast asleep;
      And ever beneath these orchard trees
      Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees.





[Illustration: Contentment.]


[Illustration: CONTENTMENT.]

    Once on a time an old red hen
      Went strutting round with pompous clucks,
    For she had little babies ten,
      A part of which were tiny ducks.
    “’Tis very rare that hens,” said she,
      “Have baby ducks as well as chicks--
    But I possess, as you can see,
      Of chickens four and ducklings six!”

    A season later, this old hen
      Appeared, still cackling of her luck,
    For, though she boasted babies ten,
      Not one among them was a duck!
    “’Tis well,” she murmured, brooding o’er
      The little chicks of fleecy down,
    “My babies now will stay ashore,
      And, consequently, cannot drown!”


    The following spring the old red hen
      Clucked just as proudly as of yore.--
    But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,
      Instead of chickens as before!
    “’Tis better,” said the old red hen,
      As she surveyed her waddling brood;
    “A little water now and then
      Will surely do my darlings good!”

    But, oh! alas, how very sad!
      When gentle spring rolled round again,
    The eggs eventuated bad,
      And childless was the old red hen!
    Yet patiently she bore her woe,
      And still she wore a cheerful air,
    And said: “’Tis best these things are so
      For babies are a dreadful care!”

    I half suspect that many men,
      And many, many women, too,
    Could learn a lesson from the hen
      With foliage of vermilion hue.
    She ne’er presumed to take offence
      At any fate that might befall,
    But meekly bowed to Providence.--
      She was contented--that was all!

[Illustration: THE END.]



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