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PUBLISHER S ANNOUNCEMENTS
Books for Children
A BOOK OF VERSES FOR CHILDREN. Compiled by E. V.
LUCAS. With cover, title-page, and end-papers in colours
by F. D. BEDFORD. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
ALL THE WORLD OVER: A Picture Book for Children. By
MRS. FARMILOE. With verses by E.V. LUCAS. Coloured
Plates. Oblong folio, half-cloth, picture boards, 6s.
RAG, TAG, AND BOBTAIL: A Picture Book for Children.
With Verses by WINIFRED PARNELL. Coloured Plates.
Oblong folio, half-cloth, picture boards, 6s.
*,* Pictures of the above two books may also be had, uncoloured,
as a portfolio, for children to colour. Oblong folio, canvas, 2a. net
HELEN'S BABIES. By JOHN HABBERTON. With coloured
frontispiece and sixty illustrations by EVA Roos.
Foolscap 4to, cloth, with cover design by EVA Roos. 6s.
WONDERFUL WILLIE! What he and Tommy did to Spain.
Illustrated in colours and written by L. D. BRADLEY.
Oblong 4to, picture boards, 6s.
PALEFACE AND REDSKIN, and other Stories for Boys and Girls.
With cover, title-page, and over sixty illustrations by
GORDON BROWNE. Large crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.
LITTLE BERTHA: A Story for Children. By W. J. STILLMAN.
I8mo, cloth, is. 6d.
THE REALMS OF GOLD: A Book for Youthful Students of
English Literature. Small crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
THE CHILD'S COOKERY BOOK. By LOUISA S. TATE. Crown
8vo, 2s. 6d.
THE DUMPY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. Edited by E. V. LUCAS.
18mo, cloth, Is. 6d. each. With end-papers by MRS.
I. THE FLAMP, THE AMELIORATOR, AND THE SCHOOL-
BOY'S APPRENTICE. By E. V. LUCAS.
II. MRS. TURNER'S CAUTIONARY STORIES.
III. THE BAD FAMILY. By MRS. FENWICK.
IV. THE STORY OF LITTLE BLACK SAMBO. By MRS.
HELEN BANNERMAN. With Coloured Plates by the
LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS
9 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
I ", E !' .' VDD MY T.) CAB
LLFJirT T~~ lK BY o AF IUR k M-C' D-oSRD
,X- ..*-". ..: 1
THE GRAPHOTONE CO.,
PHOTO-1IECHANICAL AND GENERAL PRINTLR
In summer, in the sunlight,
The open air is best,
And playthings are neglected,
And stories have a rest.
But when the dreary winter comes,
With foggy days and rain,
The hearthrug and the bookshelves call
For patronage again.
O then for Ali Baba,
O then for Giant Despair,
For Mowgli, Beechnut, Hercules,
And Budge and Silverhair,
O then for Grimes and Little Claus,
For Friday and degree,
For Hereward and Jackanapes,
Tom Brown and Tweedledee.
The country is the place for milk-
Milk warm and creamy, with a head;
And butter fresh as fresh can be,
And bread to spread it on at tea-
The finest bread you'll ever see,
The really crusty bread.
What, don't you know the country crust?
Come, come, you must!
Not know the country crunchy crust-
How crisp it is and sweet it is,
Magnificent to eat it is,
Impossible to beat it is?
Why sure you must!
With chocolate cream that you buy in the cake
Large mouthfuls and hurry are quite a mistake.
Wise persons prolong it as long as they can
By putting in practice this excellent plan:
The cream from the chocolate lining they dig
With a Runaway Match or a clean little twig.
Many hundreds, nay thousands, of scoopings they make
Before they've exhausted a twopenny cake;
And then, when the cream is all finished, there still
Is the chocolate lining to eat as they will.
With ices 'tis equally wrongful to haste:
One ought to go slowly and dwell on each taste.
Large mouthfuls are painful as well as unwise,
For they lead to an ache at the back of the eyes,
And the delicate sip is e'en better, one finds,
If the ice is a mixture of different kinds.
The butcher boy of London,
He can't be very gay,
As with his shoulder-load of meat
He trudges all the day.
It's true he often gets a lift,
And cooks are very kind,
Yet London streets are long and dull
And London squares confined,
And even at its cheerfullest
How tame a life has he
Beside the country's butcher boy's,
So merry and so free!
Upon a spanking pony
His basket on his arm
A gallop-trot, a gallop-trot,
He darts from farm to farm;
In lanes of honeysuckle,
A blot of blue, he's seen,
And on the broad white highway,
And on the village green;
The housewife gladly greets him,
He's quite a friend of Sue's,
For with the leg of mutton
He bring's the morning's news.
How glad the fishermen must be
We go each summer to the sea,
And do the best we can all day
To drive their loneliness away!
We're always pleased to lend a hand
To pull-ahoy the boats to land,
And, though it makes us very wet,
To help the shrimper push his net.
To be a shrimper is indeed
The nicest kind of life to lead:
For every day he paddles twice,
Excepting when it's cold as ice;
And all he catches he can sell
Directly and extremely well;
Moreover as he's rather old
No nurses bother him or scold.
A watch will tell the time of day,
Or tell it nearly, any way,
Excepting when it's overwound,
Or when you drop it on the ground.
If any of our watches stop
We haste to M\r. Cogs's shop,
For though to scold us he pretends,
He's quite among our special friends.
He fits a dice-box in his eye,
And takes a long and thoughtful spy,
And prods the wheels, and says, "Dear dear !
More carelessness, I greatly fear."
And then he lays the dice-box down
And frowns a most prodigious frown;
But if we ask him what's the time
He'll make his gold repeater chime.
When Uncle gives a bat away
He adds directions how to play.
"Stick to these rules, and then," says he,
"Some day you'll be a W. G."
I copy out his rules in case
You also wish to be a Grace.
In batting, hold your bat uprigkt,
And when you kit use all your might.
In howling, toil to get them straight;
The twisters and the swifts can wait.
In fielding, put two hands to the ball;
A butter-fingers is worst of all.
At Christmas time the Poulterer's is all a blaze of gas,
And rows on rows of turkeys that will strut the farm no more.
The shopman smooths his apron and assures the folks who pass
That never was such plump and pleasing poultry seen before.
I'm sorry for the turkey, yet the fault's his own, I fear,
For-had he kept his counsel he'd have grown an older bird;
But having bade us "Gobble! Gobble! Gobble!" all the year,1
He can't complain, at Christmas, if we take him at his word.
The ordinary merchant
Lives just like you or I;
His house is made of brick or stone,
His rooms are warm and dry.
And if we want his merchandise,
On foot or in a 'bus
We journey to his shop because
His shop won't come to us.
But Basket-making Gipsies
Consider people more:
They harness horses to their house
And bring it to your door;
And neathh the shelter of the trees
It stands when day is done-
A kitchen, bedroom, workroom, shop,
And nursery, in one.
The Basket-making Gipsies,
A pleasant life is their's,
Without the sameness of a street,
The weariness of stairs-
They've every day another ride,
Another town to see,
And, in the shade beside the road,
Another picnic tea.
Without the Ironmonger
The garden wouldn't grow,
For he provides the rake and spade,
The watering-pot and hoe.
We couldn't mend the doll's house
Unless he helped us to,
For he supplies us with the nails,
The hammer and the glue.
When bicycles are broken
He puts them right again;
'Twas he made Pompey's muzzle fit,
And lengthened Pompey's chain.
The toy shop's more than pleasant,
The sweet shop's sweet indeed,
But Mr. Hoop's our truest friend,
For he's the friend in need.
Of all the kinds of shops there are
The Chemist's is the neatest, far.
Like well-drilled soldiers in a line
His sturdy bottles stand and shine.
(I wish he'd leave them on the shelf,
Or, if that cannot be,
I wish he'd drink them all himself,
And you and I go free;
For physic is the kind of stuff
Of which one quickly has enough.)
Of all the kinds of men there are
The Chemist is precisest, far.
Though but a halfpenny you spend
He treats you like his dearest friend;
He stands beside his tiny light,
And hurries not a bit,
And folds the paper smooth and white,
And sealing-waxes it,
And hands it to you with the air
Of one who serves a millionaire.
If any one should come to me and bid me recommend
The very nicest animal to care for as a pet,
I should answer, "As a playmate and one's own especial friend,
I have never known the creature to excel the bullfinch yet.
"The rabbit has a twitching nose and bright and startled eye
(And when he happens to be white his eye is pinky too),
But nothing will he do for you, however you may try,
Excepting eat, and eat, and eat, and eat, his lifetime through.
"The squirrel is a lively little brilliant mass of fur,
Who frolics when he wishes but to love is not inclined;
The dormouse has attractions, but for months he doesn't stir,
The silkworm is industrious but lacks the mirthful mind.
"The bullfinch, on the contrary, is full of love and cheek,
He'll hop among the breakfast things and peck what suits him best,
He'll nestle on your shoulder and he'll kiss you with his beak,
And sing his little soothing song and puff his rosy chest."
M LLUNER ,
A shark at play
In your morning bath,
A lion at bay
In the garden path,
A railway train
In the village church,
Or dear Aunt Jane
On the parrot's perch-
Now each of these is a striking case
Of a thing that is thoroughly out of place,
Yet not more thoroughly, you'll agree,
That a boy in a Milliner's shop can be.
Each Fifth of November
The boys march along,
Asking for coppers
And droning this song:-
The Fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Ever should beforgot.
Holla boys, holla boys, let the bells ring,
Holla boys, holla boys, God save the king.
They march to the common
As soon as it's night,
And build a huge bonfire
And set it alight;
While we at our windows
Look over the town,
As the rockets rush up
And their stars trickle down.
A stamp's a tiny flimsy thing,
No thicker than a beetle's wing,
And yet 'twill roam the world for you
Exactly where you tell it to.
This very moment that I write,
And every moment day and night,
A sturdy stamp-battalion scours
The earth in search of friends of ours.
It's hard to think how people used
To live ere stamps were introduced.
Without the postman where should we
On Christmas Day, for instance, be?
On Christmas Day beneath his load
Our postman staggers on his road;'
Instead of reaching us at eight,
He's very often three hours late.
We never give him time to rap,
We're on him like a thunder clap,
With hands outstretched for card or letter;
And if a parcel, so much better !
Potatoes on the table
To eat with other things,
Potatoes with their jackets off,
May do for dukes and kings.
But if you wish to taste them
As Nature meant you should,
Why, cook them at a rubbish fire,
And eat them in a wood.
A little salt and pepper,
A deal of open air,
And never was a banquet
That offered nobler fare.
But if the time is winter.
There's still another plan:
You simply pay a penny to
The Hot Potato Man.
The children cluster round him
To catch a ray of heat.
"All 'ot," he cries, "and mealy,
And warm yer 'ands a treat!"
He picks you out a "wopper,"
His "own per-tic-u-lar,"
And once again you're conscious
What real potatoes are.
When Uncle gives us half-a-crown,
It's almost too exciting,
For toy shops keep so many things
All equally inviting.
For instance, Mary wished an ark
Until she saw a kitchen,
And finally she bought a doll-
Though dolls she's over rich in.
While Henry meant to buy a ship,
But fixed on Parlour Fishing,"
Then changed it later for a kite,
And now a ship's still wishing.
It's nice to see so large a stock,
But also it's confusing.
And yet if there were fewer things
It would'nt be amusing.
On Saturday night in the London East End
Those children are grand who've a penny to spend,
For where farthings are riches it's easy to tell
A penny is something tremendously swell.
Indeed you've no hint what a penny can buy
Until in the East End of London you try:
Why, a penny willpfll, if expended aright,
And especially so on a Saturday night.
If you're cold there are chestnuts, if hot there is ice,
Hokey-pokey as well (which is frozen ground-rice),
The date and banana are favourites there,
But the orange is quite the most popular fare.
An orange cut up and spread out on a plate
Is all very well for occasions of state,
But to make a small hole and to suck till it's done,
With both hands to squeeze it, is much better fun.
Some people make the Barber bring
His scissors and his comb,
His aprons, brushes, everything,
And cut their hair at home;
They spread a dust-sheet on the floor,
And bid Eliza guard the door.
But 0, how tame a way is this,
And not for me and you!
For think, the whirling brush they miss,
They miss the fierce shampoo,
The squirmy change from hot to cold,
-A feeling worth its weight in gold.
They miss the bustle of the shop,
They miss the lathered chin,
The Barber's onslaught on the strop
Before he can begin,
They miss the razor's deadly sheen,
The perfume of the Brilliantine.
The wealthy Banker lives behind
A row of shining rails,
Between a shining shovel and
A pair of shining scales.
And father often visits him
And hands him paper slips,
Which set the Banker counting gold
With pointed finger tips.
He scoops it up, and weighs it out,
And counts it all again,
And pours it into father's hands
Just like a golden rain.
And why the Banker is so rich,
And why he is so free,
And why so fond of paper slips,
Are mysteries to me.
\ I b. I rii I\ --~. up
;.' 7 117
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Hooray! Hooray! it's market day!
Let's watch it all instead of play.
No matter where you walk you meet
Some frightened creature in the street.
The men so wave their arms and shout
That bullocks cannot help but doubt-
Poor worried bullocks always yearning
For any but the proper turning.
And little flocks of sheep flood in
Like waves, at paddling time, at Lynn.
The farmers stand in twos and threes,
Or gossip over bread and cheese,
And show each other bags of grain.
And shake their heads about the rain.
The farmers' wives, red faced and smart,
Descend in grandeur from the cart,
And vanish through the draper's door,
And never re-appear till four.
The market place is full of stalls
Of gingerbread and brandy balls,
As well as things one never needs,
Like calico and tracts and seeds.
And all the time the cattle low,
The sheep Baa Baa," the roosters crow,
And someone says, where'er you stay,
)" Now then, my boy, you're in the way!"
Some people make collections
Of fossils, eggs and ferns,
Of coins, and stamps, and butterflies,
And other things by turns.
But Uncle's more original
Than anyone you'll meet,
For he collects the penny toys
They sell you in the street.
Wherever crowds are thickest
' These merchants stand all day,
With every kind of "novelty"
Spread out upon a tray.
And Uncle takes his business bag
And buys from every one,
Though once he bought a running mouse
And couldn't make it run.
In the town, .where each shop's of a different kind,
From one to another we fare;
But in quaint little hamlets one only we find,
And O what a mixture is there!
There are corduroy trousers and biscuits and pins,
Mazawattee, new bonnets and lamps,
There are shovels and watchchains and peaches in tins,
And hymn-books and leggings and stamps.
There are medicines for toothache, tobacco and bread,
Quaker oats, cocoatina and nails,
There are ribbons and saucepans and treacle and thread,
China-ornaments, rat-traps and pails.
There are buttons, Sapolio, bullseyes and' balls,
Coloured handkerchiefs, popguns and rakes,
Pharoah's Serpents and butter, tomatoes and shawls,
Postal-orders and beehives and cakes.
There gossip goes on to a fearful extent,
Since customers shop at their ease;
And everything lives in the permanent scent
Of calico, bacon and cheese.
Along the road the horses trail-
Poor things, beset by flies---
With restless tai's and shaggy manes
And patient, wondering eyes.
And with them come the gipsy men
Who crack their whips and shout,
And caravans with open doors
And children peering out.
And wagons with the Roundabout,
The cocoanuts and tents,
And all the things that make our Fair
The greatest of events.
From morn to night the Roundabout's
Asthmatic organ blares
To every corner of the town
Its three familiar airs.
"Roll, bowl, or pitch! All milky ones "
The brawny gipsies bawl;
The rifles snap; the swvingers scream;
But the organ drolwni tliem all.