Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Little Alix: A story of the children's...
 Hodge the cat
 The world-wide consolation
 How the leaves came down
 Fern seed
 On the wires
 Baby's Sunday
 Queen Margaret's needles
 Sun and wind
 A lost leader
 A child's thought
 The legend of the sweet peas
 The marble queen
 The new nursery
 Birdie and I
 What is the wind like?
 How the snow-man felt
 A wonderful thought
 The answer to the puzzle
 Charlotte Bronté
 The mission of the rose
 The little queen
 In sickness
 The little Christmas tree
 The North Wind
 Little Ursel's mothering Sunda...
 The lesson of the birds
 The world is a looking-glass
 Mrs. June's prospectus
 The old stone basin
 Little by little
 Strawberry day
 Going to school
 "The Lord's sweet lesson"
 A child's Thanksgiving
 The birds' harvest home
 Christmas day
 In the orphan-house
 What the flowers say
 Back Matter
 Back Cover

Title: Rhymes and ballads for girls and boys
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00081937/00001
 Material Information
Title: Rhymes and ballads for girls and boys
Physical Description: 143 p. : ill. ; 26 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Coolidge, Susan, 1835-1905
Richards, Harriet Roosevelt ( Illustrator )
Garrett, Edmund Henry, 1853-1929 ( Illustrator )
Roberts Brothers (Boston, Mass.) ( Publisher )
University Press (Cambridge, Mass.) ( Printer )
John Wilson and Son ( Printer )
Publisher: Roberts Brothers
Place of Publication: Boston
Manufacturer: University Press ; John Wilson and Son
Publication Date: 1892
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile poetry   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile poetry   ( lcsh )
Knights and knighthood -- Juvenile poetry   ( lcsh )
Brothers and sisters -- Juvenile poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1892   ( lcsh )
Ballads -- 1892   ( rbgenr )
Hand-colored illustrations -- 1892   ( local )
Bldn -- 1892
Genre: Children's poetry
Ballads   ( rbgenr )
Hand-colored illustrations   ( local )
poetry   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Statement of Responsibility: by Susan Coolidge ; with illustrations by Harriet Roosevelt Richards, E.H. Garrett and others.
General Note: Baldwin Library copy illustrations are hand-colored: probably by young owner.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00081937
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002223311
notis - ALG3560
oclc - 05763331
lccn - 11030757

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Page i
    Half Title
        Page ii
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Title Page
        Page v
        Page vi
    Table of Contents
        Page vii
        Page viii
    Little Alix: A story of the children's crusade
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
    Hodge the cat
        Page 15
        Page 16
    The world-wide consolation
        Page 17
        Page 18
    How the leaves came down
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
    Fern seed
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
    On the wires
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
    Baby's Sunday
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
    Queen Margaret's needles
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
    Sun and wind
        Page 42
    A lost leader
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
    A child's thought
        Page 46
        Page 47
    The legend of the sweet peas
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
    The marble queen
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
    The new nursery
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
    Birdie and I
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
    What is the wind like?
        Page 64
        Page 65
    How the snow-man felt
        Page 66
        Page 67
    A wonderful thought
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
    The answer to the puzzle
        Page 74
        Page 75
    Charlotte Bronté
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
    The mission of the rose
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
    The little queen
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
    In sickness
        Page 85
        Page 86
    The little Christmas tree
        Page 87
        Page 88
    The North Wind
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
    Little Ursel's mothering Sunday
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
    The lesson of the birds
        Page 99
    The world is a looking-glass
        Page 100
        Page 101
    Mrs. June's prospectus
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
    The old stone basin
        Page 112
        Page 113
    Little by little
        Page 114
        Page 115
    Strawberry day
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
    Going to school
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
    "The Lord's sweet lesson"
        Page 130
        Page 131
    A child's Thanksgiving
        Page 132
        Page 133
    The birds' harvest home
        Page 134
        Page 135
    Christmas day
        Page 136 (MULTIPLE)
    In the orphan-house
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
    What the flowers say
        Page 143
    Back Matter
        Page 144
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text





hl -- L--
.I ^ ^'

'- 7








Mitb I1strations by


Copyright, 1892,

LSO Aiber Sit, press:


T A m.n Am A Q -C A -S'n nr > r7 C mn .TT ( m 1



~v~c~r vr ru~ v

~luusli~~ u vr~uunuu

THE MISSION OF THE ROSE .... ...... ......... 79
THE LITTLE QUEEN .... ........ .......... 82
IN SICKNESS . ... . . . . 85
THE NORTH WIND . .. .. . . . 89
MRS. JUNE'S PROSPECTUS . . . . . 102
MARCH ........... ..................... 105
SAILING . . . . . . .. 108
"THANKSGIVING). .. . . . . . .. 110
THE OLD STONE BASIN ........... .. .. ...... 112
LITTLE BY LITTLE . . . . . .. 114
STRAWBERRY DAY ........................ .116
SHADOW-LAND ................. .........123
GOING TO SCHOOL . . . .. . . .. 124
WHIP-POOR-W ILL . . . . . . 127
"THE LORD'S SWEET LESSON" . . . . ... 130
(CHRISTMAS DAY) . . . . . 136
IN THE DARK ... . . . . . 136
DADDY-LONG-LEGS . . . . . 141
WHAT THE FLOWERS SAY . . . .. .. 143

j %3ru-

Swiftly her busy needles sped;
Her busy tongue ran swifter still,
Telling the news of who were wed,
And who were churched, and who were ill.

'T WAS in the dark and distant time
I When the brave knights of Christendom
By thousands rose in every clime,
And vowed their vows, and left their home.

With cross on shield and mail on breast.
Their gear, their gold they sacrificed;
And left their ease and state to wrest
From heathen hands the Tomb of Christ.

In fair Anjou the sun was low, -
That sweet June sun which wakes the vine,
And makes each budding vineyard glow
With gold, prophetic of its wine.

Dame Manon at her doorway stood,
To taste the air grown cool and mild,
And by her in a ribboned hood
Was sweet Alix, her only child.

Blue as the sky were Alix' eyes;
Bright as the yellow wheat her hair;
Demure the little maid, and wise
And full of fancies debonair.

Close by another cottage rose;
Its mistress, Barba, lame and fat,
Sat on the porch and knitted hose
And talked across of this and that.

Pierrot, her f
Across the
What was th
Which call

fair-haired boy of nine,
moor had strayed, to see
e strange bird on the vine
ed and chirped so curiously.


t l-.-% C/K




Dame Manon lent a heedful ear; And little lads with arms entwined,

Astonished, and "Whom have we here ? About a chariot, where reclined
What is this throng of folk ?" she said. A figure like a boyish king.

And o'er the countless heads there flew
Banners, embroidered with the Cross
And still they sang as on they drew,
Marching beneath the banner's toss:

"God wills it this the children's song -
"The Sea shall part, the waves divide;
The Lord is wonderful and strong;
Our feet shall tread the farther side.

"God wills it! We shall pass the Sea;
In vain the heathen storm and rage,
For Christ's own Holy Land shall be
Our portion and our heritage!"

Feeble the voices were, and shrill,
But all their souls were in the strain,
As, tired of limb but strong of will,
The children marched across the plain.
For, filling all the road in swarms, ."Poor babes," the pitying Manon said,

"And crowding all the distance, came Their need would melt a heart of stone.'"
A multitude of childish forms, She moved to search for milk, for bread,
Dusty and travel-worn and lame. She turned her own Alix was gone!

Thousands of children i -little maids
Whose tangled locks for many a day
No mother hand had smoothed in braids,
Or curled in loving mother way;

i mothe wayY L ;

r For Pierrot, borne on rapid feet,
Had joined \the children, who with glee
And beckon and entreaty sweet.
Called, "Come for Christ has need of thee!"

"My boy, my boy! poor Barba cried.
Scarcely her scream had smitten the air,
When Alix darted past her side,'
The sunlight on her blowing hair.

"Pierrot, come back!" she shrieked; in vain.
No little Pierrot met her view;
And borne and swallowed by the train
Of children Alix goes on too.

Hopeless her struggles and her tears,
The shouting children drown her voice,
Their own loud singing stops their ears:
"God wills we go; rejoice! rejoice!"

So urged along league after league,
Poor Alix marches through the night;
And when at last from sheer fatigue
They halt, her home has vanished quite.

Unknown and foreign all things seem.
No clew there is to guide her back;
And day by day as if in dream
She stumbles o'er the dusty track.

Return is harder than advance,
So spent her strength, so hard her need,
As through the war-worn land of France
She follows where the others lead.

Strange cities lay along the march;
Strange villas towered above her head,
Fragment of column and of arch
Builded by nations long since dead.

Strange folk flocked out to see the show,
The childish army and their king;
But times were hard, and men were slow
Money or bread or meat to bring.

I :*,

~B~S ~'"9WI

Hungry and footsore and dismayed, "Divide, 0 Sea, thy waves of glass;
Our little maiden toiled along. Open, and be a pathway wide,
"0 Mother Mary, help !" she prayed; O'er which the Lord's elect shall pass,
She had no voice to swell the song. And Christ's dear name be glorified!"

At last the walls of fair Marseilles, Alas the waters ebbed and flowed,
Rising against an ocean blue, No miracle was wrought to save.
Dappled with waves and soft mist veils Behind them lay the long, long road'
And flying birds, rose on their view. Bordered by many a youthful grave.

"At last!" the weary children cried, Before them stood the city gate
And rushed with joy to touch the strand, Against them barred, for food was scant,
While rising with a look of pride, And burghers could not bear the weight
Their leader waved his boyish hand. Of such a sudden mass of want.

SAnd some lay down to sleep and died,
Their sepulchre the yellow sands;
l @ ,^ And some were fain to wander wide (
S And beg for alms at stranger hands.

And some toward home went straying back,
B But never found the homeward way,
Lost in the forests dense and black,
To hunger and the wolf a prey.

Our Alix had a kinder fate;
Her soft blue eyes and piteous grace
Made even hard hearts compassionate
And won for her a servant's place.

And there for ten long toilsome years
She dwelt, a stranger by the sea,t g T, at te ce of m y d ,-
Watering her pillow hard with tears,bd ad h t ws
When others slept and left her free Se r d a p s.

So strangely lost that sweet June eve,
But "Mother f was her inward moan S
Whenever there was time to grieve.

At last, grown womanly and tall, For like a star o'er trackless sea
Her longing could not be gainsaid, RoShe kisse the dear face her childhood knew,
And with the slow consent of all And as the Magi went, so she,
She started forth, the brave, sweet maid. Following her star, went forward too,

Hard was the journey; oft her strong Till, at the close of many days,
Young limbs grew tired, her feet were sore; When strength had ebbed and heart was low,
She lost the way and wandered wrong She recognized at parting ways
And felt that she could bear no more. A roadside shrine she used to know.

In danger from the river flooded, She flung her down upon the grass;
In danger from the wolves and bears, She kissed the shrine with gesture fond.
From starving in the trackless woods, Was there but one more mile to pass,
From thieves and robbers, on she fares. Were home and mother just beyond ?


^*''l--^^^St^------^J^^^Z--"*-'**-*'*'**'^ll^^j~a-- ---::----d-^=:^g^
Dame Manon stood her door beside, A form is hurrying toward the gate
For ten long years in sun or rain This is no child with sunny hair,
Each night has seen the door set wide, Yet, "Mother! mother sure as Fate
If haply Alix come again. She hears the words and trembles there.

The level beams stream in her eyes, "Mother, my mother -in her arms
SThose tear-worn eyes, so old and dim, The weary form is folded fast;
And show the silver hairs that rise Vanished are sorrows and alarms,
Above the head-band's ruffled rim. Dame Manon holds her child at last.

"Oh, little daughter mine, come back!" She drinks her face with thirsty eyes;
So speedily cries the mother heart, She marks the lines that time has laid;
Gazing down the dusty track Through growth and change and dusty guise,
By which she saw her child depart. She knows again her little maid.
-4-. -- ____ f



BURLY and big his books among,
Good Samuel Johnson sat,
With frowning brows and wig askew,
His snuff-strewn waistcoat far from new;
So stern and menacing his air
That neither "Black Sam" nor the maid
To knock or interrupt him dare, -
Yet close beside him, unafraid,
Sat Hodge the cat.

"This participle," the Doctor wrote,
"The modern scholar cavils at,
But"-even as he penned the word
A soft protesting note was heard.
The Doctor fumbled with his pen;
The dawning thought took wings and flew;
The sound repeated came again, -
It was a faint reminding "Mew!"
From Hodge the cat.

"Poor Pussy!" said the learned man,
Giving the glossy fur a pat,
"It is your dinner-time, I know,
And well, perhaps I ought to go;
For if Sam every day were sent
Off from his work your fish to buy,
Why,-men are men,-he might resent,
And starve or kick you on the sly, -
Eh, Hodge my cat?"


The Dictionary was laid down;
The Doctor tied his vast cravat,
And down the buzzing street he strode,
Taking an often-trodden road,
And halted at a well-known stall;
"Fish-monger," spoke the Doctor gruff,
Give me six oysters, that is all;
Hodge knows when he has had enough,-
Hodge is my cat."

Then home; Puss dined; and while in sleep
He chased a visionary rat,
His master sat him down again,
Re-wrote his page, re-nibbed his pen;
Each i was dotted, each t was crossed.
He labored on for all to read,
Nor deemed that time was waste or lost
Spent in supplying the small need
Of Hodge the cat.

That dear old Doctor, fierce of mien,
Untidy, arbitrary, fat,
What gentle thoughts his name enfold!
So generous of his scanty gold,
So quick to love, so hot to scorn,
Kind to all sufferers under heaven, -
A tenderer despot ne'er was born;
His big heart held a corner even
For Hodge the cat.

F ROM north to south, from east to west,
S All over Christendom,
One consolation sure and blest
Is by each baby heart confessed,
Though baby lips are dumb.

'T is neither twang of harp or lute,
Nor beat of noisy drum,
Nor squeak of fife, nor thrill of flute,
Nor silver rattle played to suit,
Nor ivory keys to thrum,

Nor barking dog, nor wailing cat,
Nor cake of softest crumb;
New shoes, new toys, blue-ribboned hat, -
These all fail Baby and fall flat;
But never Baby's thumb!

When slumber shuns his wilful eyes,
And nurse is cross and grum,
And things go wrong, and mother sighs,--
For a brief moment Baby cries,
Then hies him to his thumb.

ri f


Once in his red mouth safely set,
Embraced by each small gum,
Though storms may rage and rulers fret,
Baby has consolation yet, -
That dear and faithful thumb!

Oh me! how would poor mothers fare,
And how would they succumb,
Had not kind Nature everywhere,
All the world over, taken care
To give each babe a thumb!



I 'LL tell you how the leaves came down.
The great Tree to his children said:
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,-
Yes, very sleepy, little Red;
It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah," begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer stay!
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief;
'T is such a very pleasant day
We do not want to go away."

So just for one more merry day
To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among, -

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget,
And let us stay here till the spring
If we but beg and tease and fret;"
But the great Tree did no such thing.
He smiled to hear their whispering.


"Come, children all, to bed!" he cried,
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them, on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe from harm

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled,
"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;
And from below each sleepy child
Replied, "Good-night," and murmured,
"It is so nice to go to bed."




M Y little maid stood neathh a cherry-tree
Whose blossoming boughs made a waving screen;
"What pretty white clouds these are!" said she;
"Such pretty white clouds- and the sky is green.

" Yes, green, not blue, what a funny sky!
And the clouds are as white as flakes of snow."
The June wind laughed as it drifted by
And waved the cherry-boughs to and fro,


Till a shower of petals as white as pearls
Lay on the green grass below the tree,
And struck the cheek and the silken curls
Of my little maid, who danced with glee.

"It is snowing," she cried, "and the snow smells sweet.
Oh, do it some more,-I will show you how."
And raised on the tips of her fairy feet,
She grasped and caught at the flowering bough.

She shook the bough and she screamed with delight
As thickly the petals fluttered by,
Till the ground was heaped with the drifted white
And scarcely a snowflake was left in the "sky."

Then my little maid looked up and down,
And said in a whisper full of fun
To the branches all budded with pinky-brown,
"Now I sha' n't get wet, for the snow is done!"



T HE fairies watch the ferns by day,
By night they watch and guard them well;
For else would wandering mortals stray
And spy the seed, and bear away,
And so become invisible.

For whoso finds the charmed seed
Gathers and slips it in his shoe.
He is a lucky wight indeed;
For, wrapped about with fairy weed,
He walks unseen as fairies do.

And so the fays keep watch and ward;
But now and then, in kindlier fit,
They had some favorite post their guard,
Open his eyes to see, reward
His search and let him gather it.

Sometimes a little boy or girl
It is whom thus the fairies please.
Just think how funny, in a twirl
To vanish, frock, books, every curl;
And what a glorious chance to tease!


For while the others are at play,
The child with fern-seed in his shoe
Could just creep quietly that way,
Stand close at hand, hear what they say,
And give a sudden shout of "Boo!"

How all the rest would jump and cry,
And gaze about with frightened eyes,
And wonder what it was, or why,
While all the time he, standing by,
Would giggle low at their surprise!

But then, again, 't would not be fun
If Jack or Jim, or Jim's small brother,
Whom no one liked, should chance to come
Unseen and hear them every one
Saying in whispers to each other:

"Are you not glad he's gone away?
He's such a naughty, teasing Jim,
And interferes and spoils our play;
Perhaps he won't come back to-day, -
I'm sure that none of us want him!"

Ah, then I think the small fern-seed
Would heavy grow and seem to swell
To tons of lead; and Jim would speed
Off to the woods like one in need,
And cry and scold the fairies well;


While they would titter and make fun;
For fays are an unfeeling folk,
And little reck of any one
If only they can sport and run
And dance and have their little joke.

So I don't think it wise at all,
My babies dear, to search the wood,
Or shake the fern-stalks green and tall
In hopes the fairy seed may fall:
It cannot do us any good.

It is not nice to peep or spy,
And listen to what others say;
And sweet, kind children may defy
Such fairy juggles; put them by
And fearless and securely play.

""""""""""""-"" -

I STOOD upon a lonely hill;
The sun was setting red and bright;
The air was hushed, the air was chill;
And off to left, and off to right,
Like bare trees hung with spidery thread,
Long lines of telegraph were spread.

The outposts of a mighty host,
They crept and stole across the plain;
Noiseless and stealthily, each tall post
Beckoning its fellow in the train
To wary movement, swift advance,
And cautious, keen reconnaissance.
A -


I did not mark the linked spies,
Each following each in endless round;
My gaze sought out the crimsoning skies;
When suddenly a faint, far sound
Fell from above, and smote my ear,
Like fairy voices, glad and clear.

I looked and saw the glancing wire,
The little voices came from it;
And up and down, and higher and higher,
They seemed to dance and speed and flit,
As birds might do in summer boughs,
Rejoicing in their fair, green house.

Happy, so happy were the tones,
As happy hearts were speaking there,
And holding like the blessed ones
Communion in the upper.air;
Sharing the joy I might not see,
I sat and listened smilingly.

Then silence fell; and then a sigh,
Heavy, as 'Nirdented with all pain;
And next a wail of agony:
Rang overhead'; and then again
Silence. And then a chuckling laugh,
Borne all along the telegraph.


Startled at that wild sound, I fled;
But turned me in my swift escape,
And in the dusk above my head
One and another tiny shape
I saw,-a row of sleeping things,
With heads safe tucked beneath their wings.

Yes, there they perched in downy rest,
All peacefully and hushed and still;
While fast beneath each feathered breast
Pulsed the quick throb of human ill,-
The laugh of joy, the wail of woe, -
And not a bird awoke to know.

I left them slumbering fearlessly;
Science with birds has naught akin,
Nor stretches nets from tree to tree
Which evil news may harbor in,-
Wires to speed sorrow in its way.
Are we more fortunate than they?



" LL the bells are ringing
51 In the steeples tall;
Jim and I can go to church,
Baby is too small."

"What can Baby do at home?
Is it wrong to play
With her rattle and her drum,
As on every day?

"May she have her dolly,
Cradle, and all that?
And the Noah's Ark, mamma,
And the squeaky cat?

"But I thought the 'mandment
Said, No play must be.
Does n't that mean little girls,--
Only boys, like me?"

"Listen, little questioner!
Do you hear the birds
Singing hymns in all the trees,
Without any words?


"Do you see the lammies,
How they frisk and run ?
And the dear Lord of us all
Made them, every one.

"Made our little lamb, too,
With her golden fleece;
And her music, like the bird's,
Full of merry peace.

"Made the small white feet to run,
Made the hands to play,
And the little busy brain,
Learning day by day.

"And her happy laughter,
Full of joy and love,
Rises like a song to Him,
Where he sits above.

"All the days are His days
While there is no sin;
But when she grows older
Sunday will begin."

(I ,, .


W HEN August shineth
On forests and on rills,
A gay little chorus
Rises from the hills,
Like chants of wandering breezes
Or melodies of dew;
'T is sung by the lips of
The little Boys in Blue.

Round, merry fellows,
Equipped to a man
In purple-blue uniforms,
All spick and span;


Side by side in companies,
As if for review,
Their tiny regiments are drawn,-
The little Boys in Blue.

What do they chat about
All the hot day,
When none of us can climb the slope
To hear what they say?
Does one mention "Short cake"?
And one chat of "Pie"?
And one whisper "Pudding,"
And wink a jolly eye?

Does one hint at "Flap-jacks,"
And another cry "Don't"?
And one declare he can't "Can,"
And, what is more, he won't?
And do a myriad small recruits,
Taking each his cue,
Shout, "Fetch the bowls and fetch the cream,
And we're your Boys in Blue?"

I don't aver that 't is so:
No wisest man can say
What happens on the hill-tops
When mortals go away.

-- -u~'~~~~-~ ~~~-I-CI$L--


Nature has dowered her wild things
With strange gifts not a few;
And it may be they prophesy,
The little Boys in Blue.

Later comes the enemy,
Terrible with pails;
Not a soldier hides himself,
Or runs away or quails.
Mowed down by the hundred score,
Flanked and riddled through,
Still they bravely stand their ground,
The little Boys in Blue.

How the mountain region
Would thrill with dismay
If this brave, sturdy garrison
Should be marched away.
City folks may laugh at us;
But what could we do,
Without the aid and comfort of
Our little Boys in Blue?



IN the long bright summer, dear to bud and bee,
When the woods are standing in liveries green and gay,
Merry little voices sound from every tree,
And they whisper secrets all the day.

If we knew the language, we should hear strange things;
Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, deep in private chat,
How are all your nestlings, dear? Do they use their wings?
What was that sad tale about a cat?"

"Where is your new cottage?" "Hush, I pray you, hush!
Please speak very softly, dear, and make no noise:
It is on the lowest bough of the lilac-bush,
And I am so dreadfully afraid of boys.

"Mr. Chirry chose the spot without consulting me;
Such a very public place, and insecure for it.
I can scarcely sleep at night for nervousness; but he
Says I am a silly thing, and does n't mind a bit."

"So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house?
And a nest is under way for little Mr. Wren?
Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear, quiet as a mouse;
These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them."


Close the downy dowagers nestle on the bough,
While the timorous voices soften low with dread;
And we, walking underneath, little reckon how
Mysteries are couching in the tree-tops overhead.

Ah, the pretty whisperers! It was very well
When the leaves were thick and green, awhile ago, -
Leaves are secret keepers; but since the last leaf fell
There is nothing hidden from the eyes below.

Bared are the brown tenements, and all the world may see
What Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, hid so close that day;
In the place of nestling wings, cold winds rustling be,
And thickly lie the icicles where once the warm brood lay.

Shall we tease the birdies when they come back in spring,-
Tease and tell them we have fathomed all their secrets small,
Every hidden hiding-place and dear and precious thing
Which they left behind the leaves, the no leaves in the Fall?

They would only laugh at us, and wink their saucy eyes,
And answer: "Last year's secrets are all past and told.
New years bring new happenings and fresh mysteries:
You are very welcome to the stale ones of the old!"


QUEEN MARGARET sits and looks on the sea
From her hall in the Northern tower,
At the cold blue tides and the drifting floes,
And the war-ships anchored in grim repose,
And she speaks in her pride of power:
"Sail east, sail west, or ever you lest,
Though fast your keels shall fly,
No man may find wherever he goes
A greater Queen than I,"
A greater Queen than I."



And her maidens who spin the fine flax-thread
At their ivory wheels anear,
Make answer as serving-maidens should
Who foster and watch for a royal mood,
And flatter a royal ear:
"Though the ship should sail till the stars grow pale,
And search the whole world o'er,
She could never find Queen so great and good
As our own at Elsinore!"

"Now what is this tumult on the stair,
This sound as of mailed feet?
Go see, my ladies!" and at the word
One goes and comes like a bright-winged bird:
Oh, Queen! here is one to greet,
And a message to bring from his master the King
Who ruleth the Swedish state;
A message to thee, and he craves to be heard,
That his errand he may relate."

They have decked the Queen with ouch and ring,
On her head they have set the crown,
The royal robes they are duly dight,
And diamonds like an aurora light
Flash in her tresses brown:
"Now bring him to me with an entrance free,
And welcome in words and deeds,
Who comes from my brother of fair renown,
The King of the valiant Swedes!"


In strides the messenger helmed and glaived
With armor of shining steel.
"Now wherefore art thou come to me
Clad in this darksome panoply,
With spur upon thy heel?
Such warlike guise affronts our eyes,
No less thy hostile mien;
Is it war or peace with thy King and thee?
Speak, man," says the fearless Queen.

"My master, Albrecht of Mecklenburg hight,
The King of the Swedish land,
Sends thee, thou Queen of the Northern throne,
This whetstone to sharpen thy needles on,-
I place it here in thy hand;
For sword and shield are for men to wield,
He bids me to speak and say,
And he redes thee to let such weapons alone,
Or they cost thee sore some day!"

Three times to speak the great Queen tries,
Three times her voice dies low,
For the angry choke and the fierce heart-beat;
Then she says, slow rising from her seat,
"Begone! but before you go,
Take this one last word for your craven lord,
Who sitteth as judge for men:
He shall sue as a woman before my feet,
Apd I will forgive him -then!"


The messenger laughs in scornful wise
As he clanks down the stair;
But scarce has the clanking died away
When an echo begins and lasts all day,
Filling the startled air;
For hammers swing and anvils ring,
'Mid drums and bugle cries,
And armor-clashes and chargers' neigh,
And the trumpet calls, "Arise!"

The Viking blood is fierce and hot,
The Viking blades bite sore,
The Raven standards flutter far;
Before the Swedes have dreamed of war
The Danes are at their door;
Stroke after stroke, 'mid blood and smoke,
They deal the cowering foe;
Their sweep is like a vengeful star,
Like avalanche their blow.

Queen Margaret in fair Elsinore
Sitteth all stately dressed,
Sceptered and robed and crowned sits she,
In the tower that looks upon the sea,-
She waiteth for a guest!
A captive King whom men shall bring,
His cup of shame to fill,
And lay at her footstool presently
To wait her royal will.


Laughter and clamor at the door, -
The prisoner draweth nigh!
With drooping crest and features pale
He enters 'mid a troop who hale
And jostle and push him by;
A foolscap wry, four meters high,
His discrowned forehead bears,
A woman's gown with silken trail
The fallen monarch wears!

Queen Margaret eyes her captive foe:
"Your dress becomes you much,
Right royal Sister! thus she speaks,
"But why this hair upon your cheeks?
We women use not such!
'T was an ill plan to play the man,
Such sports engender pain;
Rash and unfeminine these freaks,
Attempt them not again.

" Go, bear her hence and shave her smooth,
Her beard is quite too long!"
The troop obey with laugh and shout,
While Margaret holds the whetstone out
To the exulting throng;
"My needles' points have pierced his joints,
I made them sharp and keen!
Their prick has put his swords to rout,"
Said the triumphant Queen.


Those stirring times have tasted change;
The walls of Elsinore
Which frowned upon the straits that day,
And bade the boldest war-ship stay,
Stand voiceless on the shore;
RosildO's nave holds Margaret's grave,
She sleeps amid her kin,
While the slow centuries ebb away,
Bringing new monarchs in.

But in the country which she ruled
Abide her deeds and fame,
And strangers from a land afar,
Where other ways and races are,
Still hear the great Queen's name;
Still where men drink and the cannikins clink
They tell the merry tale,
How the sword and the needle went to war,
And the needle did prevail!



T HE sun goes forth to war,
And he rides on the noonday hot;
His quiver is full, and his sword is bare,
And he searches each secret spot
Where a dew-drop may hide himself away,
And he bends his bow and he seeks to slay.

But behind the terrible sun,
Like a bride on a pillion set,
Comes the sweet West Wind riding on,
And with fingers cool and wet
She touches the arrows as they fly,
And blunts their points ere they leave the.sky.

The cowering dew-drop knows
Her voice and is less afraid;
The clematis and the pink wild-rose,
They smile content in the shade.
If the kind West Wind were not there,
To smile at each other they would not dare.

Straight into the room she flies,
When the sun beats hard on the blind,
And she sings us comforting melodies
And bids us not to mind.
What should we do, where should we flee,
If the West Wind came not to you and to me?


-, &

A- 9 -

T HE woods were all rejoicing in the warm sweet airs of May,
Each tender leaflet on each bough was broadening day by day,
Each evergreen had flung aside its needles tinged with brown,
And ranked in freshest vestments trimmed with tassels up and down.

One fir-tree on the meadow's edge stood fairest of them all,
So stately rose its youthful form neathh its green coronal,
Like Saul among his brethren it towered above the throng,
And spread its layered branches as glad to be so strong.

The leader of the topmost bough, it pointed straight to heaven,
And all the rest made haste to move by the example given;
Just as the leader shows the way must the young branches grow, -
It is the lovely natural law that fir-trees should do so.


But the leader had a restless heart, and inly did debate;.
"I weary," said he to himself, of being always straight;
It is so commonplace beside the Lebanon-cedars say
That all the firs since Adam's time have grown the self-same way.

"Variety is excellent and shows a fertile wit,
A little slant would lend a grace and harm us not a whit;
I'11 venture the experiment, and all the world shall see
What can be done by cleverness to help a growing tree!"

So the leader curved his lofty neck and bent his crested head,
And all the young growths did the same, following as they were led.
The summer came, the summer went, the autumn boughs were bare,
And following winter, to the earth again came May the fair.

She touched each twig upon each tree and blessed it as she passed,
But when she saw the once proud fir she looked at it aghast;
For crooked grew the branches now that once had poise and trim,
And the lordly leader at the top, what had become of him ?

Oh, pale and yellow was his hue, and abject was his mien;
No longer form and comeliness he had, not even green!
The clever innovation which he thought to introduce
Had turned his growth to injury and foiled its aim and use.

Dame May she frowned as well as sighed, and pausing by the fir,
She plucked the crooked leader off and flung him far from her;
"Lie there !" she said, "'t is fitting fate; thou hast betrayed thy post;
Was it for this I chose thee out as captain of the host?


"A leader has a task to do, a noble charge he bears
To guide his followers upward straight to higher, purer airs;
If he goes wrong, they all go wrong who after him have pressed,
And doubly heavy on him lies the fault of all the rest! "

Then with her fingers dewy-sweet she chose one small straight twig,
And set it to be captain of all the travellers big;
"Keep true and upright, little one," she said, "and we shall see
What force a good example has to straighten up a tree."

And when a twelvemonth more had sped, and dear May came again
With nesting birds and blossom scents, and young lambs in her train,
The pretty fir raised as of old its head erect and trim; -
But the leader which had led it wrong, what had become of him?



MAMMA, says Easter means "arisen,"
And just as flowers rise from the snows,
And just as suns rise on the night,
So the Lord Jesus Christ arose,
And made the dark earth fair and bright.

It is the new year of the soul,
And Christian folk, so mother said,
Should feel new life in heart and limb;
For Christ has risen from the dead,
And all the world should rise with him.

But I was sorry when I thought
How deep and cold the snowdrifts lay
On grass and field and garden-bed.
No buds or birds for Easter Day,
And all the pretty flowers are dead.

Then mother pointed out a spot,
A little warm and sunny place,
Where all the snow was melted quite;
And there one crocus raised its face,
Just like a beam of yellow light.


"It is an Easter-flower!" I cried.
"Will the Lord see? It is so small!"
"Yes," mother said; "the dear Lord's eyes
Nothing escapes. He notes it all.
The less, the larger, sacrifice.

"No tiniest creature is forgot.
The spent bird in the upper air
He sees, and heals its broken wing.
He listens to a baby's prayer,
Though loud and clear the angels sing.

"And when my darling tries her best,
Obedient and good to be,
Unselfish, loving, true, and mild,
The kind Lord does not fail to see,
But marks and helps his little child."

How nice, and yet how strange that is,
That the great God should really mind
Such little foolish things as I!
How kind it is, how very kind!
And oh, how hard I ought to try!

Perhaps to-morrow, if I seek
To be a loving child and good,
And please him perfectly, it may
Count, like the yellow crocus-bud,
As a wee flower for Easter Day.

T HE sun was going to bed
In his western hall,
Each golden cloud and red
^// Followed at call,
And he tucked a great gray coverlet over all.

A fleet of cloudlets tiny,
Mere babies they,
All pearly and pink and shiny,
Had roved in play
So far that none of them knew the homeward way.

The sun called from his place,
"Hurry, dears!"
But the clouds were running a race,
And stopped their ears;-
Till suddenly fell the darkness full of fears.


"Oh what shall we do? where hide?"
They all did moan;
"How the bigger clouds will chide.
When our fault we own.
Won't somebody come and. help? We are all alone!"

Just then a wind came speeding
And whirling by.
He laughed at the cloudlets' pleading,
And mocked their cry,
And caught them all and drove them down the sky.

Fast, fast they fled, the crying
And frightened things,
Like storm-tossed birds, which dying
Flap their wings;
And the fierce wind whipped behind with cruel stings.

Till over a garden still
He made a stay,
Flung off the cloudlets silly,
And sped away;
Purple and pink and azure, there they lay.

A flower-fay roused from sleeping
Ere the morn,
At the sound of tiny weeping
All forlorn.
And she thought, Some rose has pricked another rose with her thorn."


No, every drowsy rose
Hung balmed in dew;
The lily's slumbering snows
Were silent too;
And the violets cuddled close, each in his night-cap blue.

But there in a vine entangled
The fairy spied,
With bright wings torn and mangled,
Side by side,
Like bits of a broken rainbow, the poor clouds trying to hide.

Vain was her gentle tending,
Vain her care;
Tattered and bruised past mending
The pinions were;
Never again their brightness should brush the air.

Never again o'er ocean,
Floating glad,
Should they rise with an airy motion,
Glory clad;
Never again see heaven,--this was sad.

But gently the comforting fay
Whispered low,
As she kissed their tears away,
"Sorrow not so.
For I charm you and make you flowers: bloom and grow."


The cloudlets paled and shifted
A moment's space.
Then each one smiled and lifted
A blossoming face,
And an odor of joy stole out and filled the place.

With rosy and violet glances,
No longer shy,
They poised on the vine's green lances,
And seemed to fly
As they wafted to and fro on the breeze's sigh.

The sunset clouds looked sadly
From the West;
But the flower-clouds beamed back gladly,
And each caressed
Another, and whispered softly, "This is best!"



T HE yellow and red
Are dancing o'erhead
And the hollows are heaped with the leaves that are dead;
And a low monotone ,
From the wind sings alone
In the bare, silent nests whence the nestlings have flown.

With rustlings and stirs
Of gray, glancing furs,
The squirrels are nibbling the ripe chestnut burrs;
And they chatter and cheep
As they pile up the heap
Of the glossy brown harvest, so easy to reap.

Each day in the tree
One shy bird I see,
Belated and left by its winged company.
Oh! why did he stay,
When the rest flew away
To the land of the rose and the long southern day ?

Was he witched and misled
By the gay garden-bed
Where the brave scarlet sage is still nodding its head,


And the bee wings him up,
To burrow and sup
In each blue and each rosy convolvulus cup?

Did he bet with some friend
To endure to the end
And see what the Lord of the seasons might send
Of gray skies or blue,
Snow, sunshine, or dew?
And what was the wager? I wish that I knew.

Oh, poor little bird!
Take back the rash word.
The strong, cruel winter will not be deterred.
Far off on the plain
He has planned his campaign,
And against him all blossoms and birds fight in vain.

He soon will be here.
Make haste, pretty dear,
And use thy fleet wing while the way is still clear;
Or else, by and by,
We shall sorrow and sigh
O'er a poor frozen bird who remained but to die.



N EAR the stately German palace,
Amid the deep park-green,
In a hushed and guarded silence
There sleeps the marble queen.

More beautiful than life can be,
She lies in deepest rest;
The fair hands folded quietly
Upon her moveless breast.

There is a smile upon her lips,
The cheek so snowy fair,
Half-shows the happy dimple
That one time nestled there.

They made her young and lovely;
The sculptor would not trace
A single line of pain or tears
Upon the sweet, sweet face.

But those who loved her dearest
Knew that she died of grief,
With a broken-hearted prayer to Heaven
For her dear land's relief;


They knew how long and vainly
She strove against the tide
Which swept and ruined Europe
To swell one despot's pride, -

(After the painting by Gustav Richter.)

And remembered her appeal to God,
To his justice soon or late,
As, every inch a queen she stood,
Shorn of her lands and state.


Her husband, gentler than herself,
Soon tired of earth and died;
And they carved his image like her own
And laid it by her side.

But her young son, of sterner stuff,
Had his mother's heart and brow;
And he stood beside the marble form,
And thus he made his vow:

"Mother beloved, they killed thee,
But I swear this unto thee,
If I ever live to be a man,
Your wrong shall righted be."

He made the vow in boyhood,
His locks were long and fair;
And he kept the vow, an aged king
With frost upon his hair.

He kept it on the awful day
When Paris, pale with hate,
Watched the helmet-spikes of Germany
Pour through her hard-won gate.

When the gray-bearded king rode in,
His hand upon his sword,
He rose up in his stirrups,
And he uttered one stern word.


"My mother is avenged," he cried;
And his generals caught the cry,
And the vision of the fair dead Queen
Flashed before every eye.

And while the cannon thundered,
And the bells made answer fine,
"Louisa for the Fatherland!"
Rang through the German line.

Rest sweetly, Genius of thy Land!
Full sixty years have past;
But thy boy, thy gray-haired Emperor,
Has kept his word at last.



IN the old familiar nursery
The children were busy at play,-
So busy they scarcely noticed
When, now and again, all day,
Mother or nursey entered
And carried something away.

A chair or a tiny table,
A pillow from off a bed,
The blankets and the coverlets
They took, but they nothing said;
The pretty pictures from off the wall,
The table-cloth bright and red.

The cribs and then the cradle
Rolled through the open door,
The bread-and-milk basins vanished,
The carpet from the floor;
Then one by one the playthings went,
At last there was nothing more.


And the little ones ceased their playing,
And sat with solemn surprise,
Watching mamma and nurse,
For they could not at all surmise
Why they should carry the toys away
And hide then from their eyes.

The old familiar nursery
Seemed lonely now, and bare;
They missed the little snow-white beds,
And every table and chair;
And the red lips quivered with crying,
While the grieved blue eyes did stare.

Then suddenly some one opened
A carefully guarded door,
And they saw a large, new nursery
They never had seen before,
All gay and bright and beautiful,
With sunshine on the floor.

There were the chairs and the tables,
And the pictures from the wall,
And the little beds, all neatly spread,
Each with its pillow small;
And every plaything they had missed,
There were they, one and all.


And, puzzle and sorrow forgotten,
The joyous, little crew
Left the bare, lonely room behind,
And ran the doorway through;
And they did not miss the old at all,
So pleasant was the new.

And I thought, as I saw them going,
Of lives grown dull and bare, -
Stripped of the sweet, accustomed things
Which made them dear and fair,
And only a puzzled patience left
For the hearts that waited there;

And how shall suddenly open,
Some day with a heavenly key,
A closely guarded invisible door,
And the happy eyes shall see
Where, set in a glory of sunshine,
The vanished and dear things be.

And they will laugh for pleasure,
And scarcely believe it true,
And hasten to pass the portal,
And once they are safely through,
Forget the old sad and lonely life
In the happiness of the new.



B IRDIE, where are you going, dear,
In such haste ?
Grapes are purpling far and near;
Stop and taste.

Apples are reddening on the bough,
Warm winds blow,
Never was world so pleasant as now;
Wherefore go?

Who has been filling your
With such dismay
That, with rudder-like tail
You hurry, away?

feathery head

and wings outspread,

Surely if we big things and wise
See no cause
To flee from these blue and sunny skies,
You might pause.

Pause for a little while and see.
'T is autumn yet;
Winter is old and blind, and he
May forget.


Mercy upon us! Birdie stops,
Winks his eye
Like a black bead, and nearer hops
To make reply.

i .-r L..
/':li .. -

/ A 1,

"Big and silly, led by the nose
By a little blue
And a little sun, not an owl but knows
Better than you.

"Winter 'forget,' indeed! Not he!
Any linnet
Would laugh at the foolish hope and see
Nothing in it.


"Could you but see my nest safe swung
In the great fan palm,
With perfumed flower-cups overhung,
And breath of balm.

"Great gold oranges close by,
Ripen at will;
A single hop from my nest, and I
Can use my bill.

"Do you think, with the prospect of such sweet
Sights and shapes,
I am likely to linger here and eat
Your sour grapes?

"To see the roses pale and die,
And ice and snow
In the nests we built so lovingly
Awhile ago ?

"Not if I know it! Stay, if so
Your wisdom seems;
We birds, thank goodness, better know
What comfort means."

A flick, a whirr, he is off, is gone,
Lost in the sky;
And I shiver and think how sad to be
Too big to fly.



N OW it is like a hand
S Laid on the baby's cheeks.
It pats with fingers bland,
But no voice speaks.

Now it is like a blow
Dealt by a giant's fist,
Which the strongest man, you know,
Can scarce resist.

Then it is like a tune
By elfin voices sung,
In the hush of August noon,
The yellow sheaves among.

Again 't is like a wail
Of human pain and fright;
We listen and we turn pale,
And shut the windows tight.

And while we listen and fear,
The tricksome fairy thing
Changes to peals of cheer,
Like silver bells which ring;


Breaks into laughs of bliss,
Comes in a rush of play,
And with its rose-leaf kiss
Charms our affright away.

Sometimes at midnight dark
It steals to where we lie,
Wakes us, and whispers: "Hark!
This is a mystery."

The wise wind whispers low,
Chooses its gossips well;
Those who the secret know
Keep it and never tell.

A giant form, a child,
A ballad and a bell,
A whisper, soft and mild,
A dirge, a furious yell,

A kiss, a laugh of glee,
A ghost who weeps his lot,-
All these the wind may be;
Tell me what it is not.



"T HE dear little hands are gone away,
"1 The small soft hands, so busy and kind,
Which have toiled so faithfully all the day,
And rounded and shaped me before, behind,

i-i--I U T

LL i-i-iJ

My head, and my hat, and my wonderful clothes,
And the pipe in my mouth, and my queer long nose,



"As long as they stayed I was almost warm,
I could feel a pulse that came and went,
A movement stirred in my frozen form;
Or was it the children who shook and bent,
Who shook me and pounded, until I felt
As if I were real, and going to melt?

"Now they are gone in to their nursery tea;
Pray what is tea? I wish that I knew!
And the cold white lawn is left for me,
And the cold round moon in a sky cold blue,
And the icicles hanging along the eaves,
And the crackling frost on the stiff, dead leaves.

"If I only could move these useless feet,
Or open these heavy arms once more,
I would cross the brown grass, glazed with sleet,
And peep through the crack of the nursery door.
How the little ones would laugh with glee,
When they saw their snow-man coming to tea!

"But no: I am fettered and prisoned well;
I may not move for an inch, alas!
My pipe is as cold as an icicle,
And my pockets are each a chill crevasse;
The long, long night must come and go,
And to-morrow will find me standing so."

When the children ran in the morn to seek
The snow-man who stood there stiff and drear,
They found a tear on his frozen cheek;
But they never guessed that it was a tear!
"He 's beginning to melt about his head;"
That was all that the children said!



H E great round world is full of things, -
Not only armies and realms and kings,
And lands and seas and forests tall,
But little things, so small to see,
So many they cannot counted be,
Yet, wonderful thought, the Lord knows all!

The wide-winged eagles he sees, and too
The tiny nest, with its eggs so blue,
Which the meadow-lark has hidden close:
Not only the storm-cloud sweeping vast,
But the least dew-droplet, folded fast
In the bosom of the summer rose.

The filament fine of purpled gold,
On the crest of the butterfly one day old,
Is ordered and measured by his will;
He hears the thrill of the bobolink's song,
And, though the thunder be loud and long,
If the cricket chirps, he notes it still.


He counts each drop of the lifting wave,
Each grain of sand on each nameless grave,
Each blade and ear of the manifold grains,
He hears the sigh of the heart's unrest,
The laugh from the happy childish breast,
And the plash of a tear in the rush of the rains.

Oh, wonderful thought, that he can know all,
Not only the mighty, but the small;
Not only the Alp, but each flake of its snows!
And he pities and pardons, and loves so well,
That you and I in the thought may dwell,
And not be afraid, though we know he knows.

SF ever you go to the North Countree,
N Where the oak and the ash and the rowan be,
And the ivy bosses the castle wall,
You must go to Edenhall.

'T is an old gray house, built stanchly and well
To stand a siege if a siege befell;
And sieges sometimes did befall
To test strong Edenhall.

There dwelt the Musgrave's hardy clan,
Raiders and fighters every man;
S Like warlike bees they clustered all,
Their hive was Edenhall.

Out from its doors they flew in swarms,
Whenever there sounded the cry, "To arms!"
The border paled at the trumpet-call
That rang through Edenhall.


Now, when you knock at that same oak door,
A sober old goody of some threescore
Comes primly forth in a cap and shawl,
-THE:"I- And shows you Edenhall.
Old chairs, old settles, a mighty jack
For the roasting of beeves, a dungeon black,
The heir's quaint cradle, the rusty pall
Of the Lords of Edenhall.
And chiefest of all its treasures, stands,
Safe-hidden from intermeddling hands,
In a guarded cupboard built into the wall,
rF The "Luck" of Edenhall.
'- I'T is an oddly-shaped goblet, strong and thick,
Enamelled by some glass-working trick
Unknown to our modern craft, -that's all
This "Luck" of Edenhall.
They say it was made by the fairies' selves,
And used at the banquets of the elves
When their king and their queen held carnival
In the woods of Edenhall.


- And that once a bold Musgrave lurked unseen,
And snatched the glass from the fairy-queen,
And spurred his courser fleet and tall,
And sped toward Edenhall.
The furious fays pursued him in vain,
And stabbed at his horse, and seized his rein;
But he leaped the brook near the rippling brawl,
And was safe in Edenhall.
And he bore in his ears this charmed song:
"Joy to thee, Knight, for thy heart is strong.
But if the goblet shall break or fall,
-- 111 luck for Edenhall!"
So the fairy trophy is prized to this day,
And the canny Scot's folk whisper and say,
So long as no harm to the glass befall,
Luck stays with Edenhall."
'T is a whimsical fantasy to trace,
The fragile glass and the stalwart race;
But the Musgraves are "lucky," say men all,
And they still own Edenhall.


And I thought, as I looked at the small, slight
Which has outlived many a mighty king, -
Tudor and Stuart and Guelph and Gaul, -
Still safe in Edenhall, -

That, whether the fairy tale be true,
S (Which I don't believe in the least, do you ?)
There is this in "Luck," or what folks so call,
And not only at Edenhall, -

That if we are manly and trust in ourselves,
Though holding no commerce with the elves,
And owning no fairy pledge at all,
No glass of Edenhall,"

But do our best and our most each day,
With a heart resolved and a temper gay,
Which pleasure spoils not, nor fright appall, -
Though we never see Edenhall, -
We may safely count on the kindly fate
Which crowns all good work soon or late,
it And be sure that a "Luck" to our lot will fall, -
As it has to Edenhall.



DEAR little girl, chiding the morning long,
With pouting lip and eyes all wet and blue,
Counting it as a hardship and a wrong
That other children are more loved than you.

Sweet things from sweet, and fair from fair, must be;
Hearts have their wages, reckonings strict are made;
We scold, rebel, but other people see
That, soon or late, we are exactly paid.

The willing love which counts not any cost,
But daily lavishes its first and best,
Although to careless eyes its pains seem lost,
Reaps in the end a tenfold interest;

While selfish souls who keep a strict account,
And tally, like a huckster in his stall,
Of all they give and feel, and the amount,
Get back their dues, indeed, but that is all.

Love is not free to take, like sun and air;
Nor given away for naught to any one;
It is no common right for men to share, -
Like all things precious, it is sought and won.


So if another is more loved than you,
Say not "It is unjust," but say, "If she
Has earned more love than I, it is her due;
When I deserve more, it will come to me."

But if your longing be for love indeed,
I'll teach you how to win it, -a sure way:
Love and be lovely; that is all you need,
And what you wish for will be yours some day.



(A Little Rhymed Story.)

THE wind was blowing over the moors,
And the sun shone bright upon heather and whin,
On the grave-stones hoary and gray with age
Which stand about Haworth vicarage,
And it streamed through a window in.

There, by herself, in a lonely room, -
A lonely room which once held three, -
Sat a woman at work with a busy pen,
'Twas the woman all England praised just then.
But what for its praise cared she ?


Fame cannot dazzle or flattery charm
One who goes lonely day by day
On the lonely moors, where the plovers cry,
And the sobbing wind as it hurries by
Has no comforting word to say.

So, famous and lonely and sad she sat,
And steadily wrote the morning through;
Then, at stroke of twelve, laid her task aside,
And out to the kitchen swiftly hied.
Now what was she going to do ?

Why, Tabby, the servant, was "past her work,"
And her eyes had failed as her strength ran low;
And the toils, once easy, had one by one
Become too hard, or were left half-done
By the aged hands and slow.

So, every day, without saying a word,
Her famous mistress laid down the pen,
Re-kneaded the bread, or silently stole
The potatoes away in their wooden bowl,
And pared them all over again.

She did not say, as she might have done,
1" The less to the larger must give way, -
These things are little, while I am great;
And the world will not always stand and wait
For the words that I have to say."


No; the clever fingers that wrought so well,
And the eyes that could pierce to the heart's intent,
She lent to the humble task and small;
Nor counted the time as lost at all,
If Tabby were but content!

Ah, genius burns like a blazing star,
And Fame has a honeyed urn to fill;
But the good deed done for love, not fame,
Like the water-cup in the Master's name,
Is something more precious still.



N ATURE called her children to her,
Said: "Oh, mighty sons and daughters,
Ye who delve and ye who travail,
Ye who laugh in laughing waters,
Flash in sun-ray,- now unravel
All my wish: for me a rose
Build, the Queen of all the Summer,
Sweetest flame of all that blows;
For a mission has my rose."

So the earth her wan alembic
Fed, renewed; and, soft appealing
Thrills and tremulous shoots and shivers
Through the rose-tree's stem went stealing;
And the sun his jewelled quiver
Emptied of a diamond dart,
Took a certain aim and deadly,
Hurled it with a sudden smart
At the rose's quickening heart.

Twilight then with cooling fingers
Stroked and soothed the wound, and kissed her;
And the rain with tears of blessing
Hovered overhead, nor missed her;


Till at last, their love confessing,
Couched in velvet-leaved repose,
Child of sun and dew and twilight,
White as drifted Lapland snows,
Lay at last a new-born rose.

It was neathh a golden sunrise:
Earth and air and sky and morning
Seemed to pause, to float, to hover
O'er the cradle, o'er the dawning
Loveliness within; like lover
Seemed to gaze, caress; to keep
Watch and ward, as fain to linger, -
Linger for another peep
Where a fair thing lay asleep.

Sudden on the air a gleeful
Laugh of children broke the quiet;
Childish voices as in pleasure
Shouted; feet in noisy riot
Trod the garden where the treasure
Lay in beauteous, full repose.
Then a wanton, childish finger
Snapped the stem, to heedless nose
Put it, dropped, and crushed the rose!

Then Dame Nature's sons and daughters,
Angry, sad, complaining, ran
To her presence: "Mother! mother!
Rose so fair." they all began,


"Never was, nor will another
Be so beautiful again,
Ever be so sweet, so stately;
All our joy is turned to pain,
And our labor is in vain."

But dear Nature, gracious mother,
Laughed and soothed and calmed their grieving.
"Listen, faithful ones, and kindly
Listen, nor be unbelieving.
Nothing chances, idly, blindly!
Now my secret I disclose:
Just to give a moment's pleasure,
Just to tempt a childish nose,
Was the Mission of the Rose! "

1/ IY tasks are over for the day,
hV Over at last, and I am free!
No girl in all the land, they say,
Has so much study, so little play,
As I, the little Queen, dear me!

First came my French, and then my Greek,
And then my German, that makes three!
The one to read, and the others to speak;
And two are modern, and one antique;
And I hate them all most fervently.

Then I played the harp till my fingers stung,
That tiresome adagio, minor C;
And then the piano, and then I sung;
Next the doctor came to examine my tongue,
And ordered a horrible dose for me.

Then the hour of sums, the worst of all,
Such long, long sums in the Rule of Three;
And the dance to practise for the ball,
When I was so tired I could hardly crawl,
And Ancient and Modern History!


And once I paused and looked about,
And missed my answer, for a bee,
Caught in a flower-cup just without,
Was making a furious buzz and rout, -
Then how my master looked at me!

Your Majesty is much to blame
To heed such trivial things," said he;
And all my ladies said the same.
I felt my cheeks grow hot with shame,
So solemnly they looked at me.

They tell me that throughout the land
The other children envy me,
Because I am so rich and grand:
I cannot, cannot understand
Why people judge so foolishly.

The other children shout and run,
And play together full of glee;
I never have a bit of fun,
There are no games for only one,-
Nobody ever plays with me!

The other children go upstairs
After their merry nursery-tea,
Their mothers brush and comb their hairs,
And tuck them in, and hear their prayers, -
How pleasant all those things must be!


My ladies duly bend and wait,
And serve me soft on bended knee,
Put off and on my robes of state,
And bathe and brush and curl and plait;
But no one ever kisses me!

I am the Queen, and I am told
That the whole land belongs to me,
Mine to upbear and rule and hold;
And I am only twelve years old, -
Only a little girl, you see!

If I might change for a few days,
And just a common child could be,
To live in common happy ways,
With easy tasks and easy plays,
And no one by to chide or see, -

I might perhaps come back and class
Myself as happiest, it might be:
But that will never come to pass;
I am the little Queen, alas!
And there is no escape for me!



W HEN the world is dark and sad,
And I do not care to play,
And the happy times I had
Seem to melt and fade away,
And the merry sounds without,
Where the other children are,
Every laugh and call and shout,
Falls as with a heavy jar
On my hot head and hot cheek,
And I frightened am, and weak, -

Then the only thing that is
Comforting and cool and bright,
Is to lie and think of this,
As my mother said I might, -
That, when children keep their beds,
Sick and sorrowful and drear,
With sick hearts and aching heads,
Then it is that God draws near;
Then it is he comes and stays
All the weary nights and days.

Friends and nurses may forget
(So she says), or fall asleep,
But the great Lord never yet
Failed his loving watch to keep,


Close he holds my little hands,
Though I do not see him there;
Close beside my bed he stands
Listening to my every prayer.
All the night-time dark and long
God is there, so kind and strong.

All my pains and aches he knows,
Every time I fret or cry,-
For the Lord's eyes never close;
And he helps me silently,
Whispers thoughts to make me brave,
Soothes my terrors with a touch,
Tells me he is strong to save,
And he loves me, oh, so much!
And I think, since this is true,
I should patient be; don't you ?



T HE Christmas Day was coming, the Christmas Eve drew near;
The fir-trees they were talking low, at midnight cold and clear.
And this is what the fir-trees said, all in the pale moonlight:
"Now which of us shall chosen be to grace the Holy Night?"

The tall trees and the goodly trees raised each a lofty head,
In glad and secret confidence, though not a word they said.
But one, the baby of the band, could not restrain a sigh:
"You all will be approved," he said, "but, oh! what chance have I?

"I am so small, so very small, no one will mark or know
How thick and green my needles are, how true my branches grow.
Few toys or candles could I bear; but mind and will are free,
And in my heart of hearts I know I am a Christmas-tree."


The Christmas angel hovered near; ne caught the grieving word,
And laughing low he hurried forth, with love and pity stirred.
He sought and found Saint Nicholas, the dear old Christmas saint,
And in his fatherly kind ear rehearsed the fir-tree's plaint.

Saints are all-powerful, as we know. So it befell that day
That, axe on shoulder, to the grove a woodman took his way;
One baby girl he had at home, and he went forth to find
A little tree as small as she, just suited to his mind.

Oh glad and proud the baby-fir, amid his brethren tall,
To be thus chosen and singled out, the first among them all!
He stretched his fragrant branches out, his little heart beat fast,
He was a real Christmas-tree: he had his wish at last!

One large and shining apple with cheeks of ruddy gold,
Six tapers, and a tiny doll, were all that he could hold;
The baby laughed, the baby crowed to see the tapers bright;
The forest baby felt the joy, and shared in the delight.

And when at last the tapers died, and when the baby slept,
The little fir in silent night a patient vigil kept;
Though scorched and brown its needles were, it had no heart to grieve:
"I have not lived in vain," he said; "thank God for Christmas Eve!"



THE East Wind is a spinster,
With a tongue both loud and shrill;
The West Wind is a frisky girl,
Who laughs and sings at will;
The South Wind is a languid dame,
Scornful and proud of mien;
But the North Wind is a doctor,
The busiest ever seen.

All day, and sometimes all night, too,
She drives the land about,
Cleansing the haunts of fell disease,
And rooting fevers out;
Quickening low pulses, bringing life
To weary nerve and brain,
And making dull and heavy hearts
Feel strong and fresh again.

More winds there are, her kith and kin, -
East-northeast, North-northwest,
North-by-northeast; but of them all
I love the North Wind best.


She was my playmate when a child,
She bowed me to her will,
And taught me many secret things
Which I remember still:

Secrets of stars, of moonbeam steeds,
Bridled by fairy wights;
Of pictures drawn on frosty pane,
And gleaming Northern Lights;
Of air-built palaces of cloud,
Tinted like ocean-shell:
She never, ,never tired of me,
And, oh! I loved her well.

Half angel and half woman,
Her beautiful, strong face
Bent o'er me, and my heart beat fast
When touched by her embrace;
Her cool clasp was so tender,
Her keen kiss brought such zest,
I never really felt afraid,
But stood to be caressed.

We have been friends these many years,
This dear North Wind and I;
And always when I hear her wings
Sweeping along the sky,


I smile and look up where she is,
And she smiles down at me;
For her heart is true as steel to those
Who love her loyally.

She is so big and strong, and yet
She cares for little joys, -
Spreads frozen tracts for little sleds,
And ice for skating boys;
Furnishes myriad balls of snow
For all the children's plays;
And sends fresh, sudden puffs of air
To cool the summer days.

If we should ever choose a queen
To rule our country through,
I mean to vote for dear North Wind,
And so I hope will you.
No one is quite so brave or strong,
Or fit to reign as she;
And the land which serves her faithfulest
Is worthiest to be free.

I-- --
"" i i '.

T HE long day's tasks were neatly done,
I The milk-pail scoured, the milk set by,
li And Ursel at the set of sun
Stood wistfully her mistress nigh.

The Dame was stern, the Dame was shrewd,
So all the neighbors were agreed, -
Thrifty and sharp in word and mood,
But kindly still and just of deed.

She glanced at Ursel's braided hair,
She watched the color come and flit I
On the young cheek so round and fair,
And well she knew the cause of it.


And smiling at the little maid,
"You have worked well and had no play,
And been a steady lass," she said,
"Now you shall have a holiday.

"To-morrow Mothering Sunday is,
When children to their parents go,
Each with a gift for her or his;
And you shall have a gift also.

"The small, round cheese I bade you make,
The pat of butter on the shelf,
The crusty loaf you saw me bake,-
These you shall carry home yourself.

"I mind me how, a lass like you,
With such a basket on my arm,
I hied" me home, as you shall do,
On Mothering Day, to the old farm;

"And how my mother, rest her soul!
She has been dead these forty years," -
The Dame's voice shook beyond control,
She could not see the fire for tears.

But little Ursel's cheeks were red,
Her heart was bounding light and gay;
;' Oh, thank you, thank you, Dame!" she said,
And quietly she stole away.


The morning's dawn was clear and fair,
And Ursel rose before the sun;
She neatly bound her long bright hair,
And did her morning tasks, each one.

She made her ready for the road,
She tied her shoes and Sunday hat,
And in a basket she bestowed
The bread-loaf and the butter-pat.

The Dame at window overhead
Watched the girl go with joyous speed;
"Mothers are happy folk," she said,
"Mothers are lucky folk indeed."

Across the moor four distant miles,
At the same time a lad set forth,
With clean-washed face all lit with smiles;
He headed south, and Ursel north.

His holiday was hard to gain;
His surly master cared no whit
For Mothering Sunday, and in vain
The boy had urged his wish for it;

Until at last the farmer's wife,
With pity touched, had won consent;
And glad as never in his life
The shepherd boy arose and went.


He bore no gift, poor little lad,
His wage was naught but clothes and food;
But mother would, he knew, be glad,
And count his coming as a good.

Northward ran Ursel o'er the fell,
Southward the shepherd fleeter yet;
And half-way, by a roadside well,
The brother and the sister met.

Both clapped their hands in gladsome wise;
Long months had, since they met, gone by;
Tears shone in Ursel's happy eyes,
But manly Robin scorned to cry.

"Have you no gift for mother brought?"
She asked; her brother shook his head;
"Nothing with nothing can be bought,
How could I bring one?" Robin said.

"You shall share mine, then," Ursel cried, -
"It shall be gift from both us twain."
And hand in hand, and side by side,
They hastened on their way again.

They danced down the lower hill,
Threaded the copse, and crossed the brook;
Till Ursel suddenly stood still,
Crying, "0 Robin! Robin! Look!"


There in a sheltered hollow set,
Couched shyly by a mossy stone,
They saw the earliest violet,
All purple sweet and fully blown.


"Your gift ?" she cried; "and best of all,
The proverb runs, that you could bring:
It says that 'Violets shall befall
Him who shall go a-mothering!'"


Their mother at the doorway stood,
Her hearth was swept all cleanly bright.
She looked to moor, she looked to wood,
Shading her eyes against the light.

"--~-- ~'~L---- -.----C- IL ~;I~---- .L_

She saw the youthful figures dawn
Dark shapes against the shining sky;
And as they rapidly came on,
Contentment filled the mother's eye.


And it was, You have grown, my lass,"
And it was, "Welcome home, dear lad,"
As laughing, chattering, in they pass
With lightsome steps and kisses glad.

The yellow simnels shone like gold,
The frumenty was spiced and hot;
The children feasted as of old,
The mother too, -though eating not.

Ah, sweet old Mothering Holiday
Which bound the ties of kindred fast!
Lost and forgotten in our day,-
What pity that it could not last!

University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs