There were balls, dogs, horses; books pleasing to see; And birds of all colours were perched in the tree; While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, As if getting ready more presents to drop.
Now, as the fond father the picture surveyed, He thought for his trouble he'd amply been paid; As he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, "I'm happier to night than I have been for a year;
"I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before; What care I if bank-stock fell two per cent. more! Henceforward I'll make it a rule, I believe, To have Santa Clause visit us each Christmas-eve."
So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, And, slipping downstairs, retired for the night. As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one,
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, And at the same moment the presents espied. Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found.
And they laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, And shouted for papa to come quick and see What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night (Just the things they wanted!), and left before light.
"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, "You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know;" While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, Determined no secret between them should be;
And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had said That their blessed mamma, so long ago dead, Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer.
"Den we dot up and p'ayed just as well as we tood, And Dod answered our p'ayer, now wasn't He dood?" "I should say that He was, if He sent you all these, And knew just what presents my children would please."
("Well, well, let them think so, dear little elf! 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.")
Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent, And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent? 'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly upstairs And made you His agent to answer their prayers.
Mrs. Sophia P. Snow
[Page 79—Santa Claus Land]
Budds' Christmas Stocking
It was Christmas-time, as all the world knew; It stormed without, and the cold wind blew, But within all was cheerful, snug, and bright, With glowing fires and many a light.
Budd B. was sent quite early to bed, His stocking was hung up close to his head, And he said to himself "When all grows still I will find a big stocking for Santy to fill."
Now, good, honest Hans, who worked at the house, Had gone to his bed as still as a mouse; The room where he slept was one story higher Than Budd's little room, with gaslight and fire.
Now, Hans loved "the poy," and petted him too, And often at night, when his task was all through, He would tell him strange stories of over the sea, While Budd listened gravely or laughed out in glee.
This night Hans had promised to wake Budd at four; He would softly come down and open his door; But suddenly Budd bounded out of his bed, And stole softly up to the room overhead.
On his hands and his knees he crept softly in, "I'll borrow Han's stocking," he said, with a grin; Old Santy will fill it up to the top, And Hans—oh, such fun! will be mad as a hop."
He moved very slowly, and felt near the bed; No stocking was there, but down on his head Came a deluge of water, well sprinkled with ice, While honest Hans held him as if in a vice.
"Vat is dat?" he cried out; "von robber I find, Den I pound him, and shake him, so much as I mind" "It's me," called out Budd; "Stop, Hans! oh, please do; I'm only a boy; I could not rob you."
But Hans did not pause—his temper was hot— And he dragged the young robber at once from the spot, When he reached the hall light great was his surprise To find his young master with tears in his eyes.
"I wanted your stocking," muttered Budd B.; It is bigger than mine; boo hoo! I can't see, And I'm all wet and cold." thus cried Budd aloud, Until guests and his parents ran up in a crowd.
He was wrapped up with care and taken to bed, But, strangest of all, not a harsh word was said. He flattered himself as he fell asleep That Hans and his friends the secret would keep.
Next morning, when Christmas songs filled all the air, Budd found, to his grief and boyish despair, That his neck was so stiff that he could not turn his head, And must spend the whole day alone in his bed.
What was worse, his own stocking hung limp on a chair, And on it these words were written most fair: "To him who is greedy I leave less than all; The world is so large and my reindeer so small.
"My pack is elastic when children are kind, But it shuts with a snap and leaves nothing behind, When a boy or girl is selfish or mean. Good-bye, little Budd, I am off with my team. (Signed) Santa Claus."
Again the Christmas holidays have come, We soon will hear the trumpet and the drum; We'll hear the merry shout of the girls and boys Rejoicing o'er their gifts of books and toys.
Old Santa Claus comes by at dead of night, And down the chimney creeps—a funny sight; He fills the stockings full of books and toys, But puts in whips for naughty girls and boys.
One Christmas-eve the moon shone clear and bright; I thought I'd keep awake and watch all night, But it was silent all around and stilled, Yet in the morn I found my stockings filled.
They put me in a square bed, and there they bade me sleep; I must not stir; I must not wake; I must not even peep; Right opposite that lonely bed, my Christmas stocking hung; While near it, waiting for the morn, my Sunday clothes were flung.
I counted softly, to myself, to ten and ten times ten, And went through all the alphabet, and then began again; I repeated that Fifth-Reader piece—a poem called "Repose," And tried a dozen various ways to fall into a dose—
When suddenly the room grew light. I heard a soft, strong bound, 'Twas Santa Claus, I felt quite sure, but dared not look around. 'Twas nice to know that he was there, and things were going rightly, And so I took a little nap, and tried to smile politely.
"Ho! Merry Christmas!" cried a voice; I felt the bed a-rocking; Twas daylight—brother Bob was up! and oh, that splendid stocking!
[Page 80—Santa Claus Land]
Little Nellie's Visit From Santa Claus
Santa Claus is coming to-night, papa; Please let me sit up and see him, mamma; Loaded with presents, I'm sure he'll be. He'll have something nice for you and for me.
"Mamma, do find something fresh and quite new, For dear old Santa Claus, when he comes through, I'll give it myself; I'll keep wide awake; I know he'll be glad my present to take.
"Now all go to bed as quick as you please, I'll wait for him," said the bright little tease, "He surely will ring, no doubt about that, I'll bid him come in and then have a chat."
Soon came a quick step on the piazza floor, Just then a loud ring was heard at the door. The little miss rose with dignified air, Quick ushered him in, and set him a chair.
All covered o'er with little bells tinkling, Shaking and laughing, twisting and wriggling, A funny old man, with little eyes blinking, Looking at Nellie, what was he thinking?
Not a word did he say—tired of waiting, Nellie arose, her little heart quaking, Held out her present, courage most failing, "Santa Claus, take this"—now she is smiling.
"His furry old hand, twisting and trembling, Took the sweet gift—"You dear little darling," Uttered quite softly, tenderly kissing, The bright little face, ne'er a bit shrinking.
Lots of presents quickly bestowing, Thanking her kindly—he must be going, Shaking and laughing, his little bells jingling, Down the steps, hastening off in a twinkling.
Brave little lady! all are now saying, Santa Claus truly! bright eyes are asking; See her dear papa, secretly laughing At her true faith in Santa Claus' coming.
Yes! she believes it, ever so truly, Dear precious darling! rob her not surely, Of childhood's sweet faith, now in its glory, While she's relating her own simple story.
Mrs. C. E. Wilbur
'Tis Christmas day, And little May Peeps from her bed in the morning grey.
She looks around, But not a sound Breaks on the quietness profound.
So, heaving sighs, She shuts her eyes, And hard to go to sleep she tries.
But sleep has fled That little bed. And weary moves the curly head,
Until the light (Oh, welcome sight!) Has banished every trace of night.
Then out of bed, With hurried tread, She runs to waken brother Fred;
For oh, what joys, In the shape of toys, Does Christmas bring to girls and boys!
Fred gives a groan, Or a sleepy moan, And mutters, "Do let me alone!"
But bonnie May Will not have nay; She whispers, "It is Christmas day!"
Oh, magic sound! For Fred turns round, And in a trice is on the ground.
"Our stockings, where?" "They're on that chair." "Oh, what has Santa Claus put there?"
May laughs with glee, The sight to see, Of stockings filled from toe to knee
With parcels queer, That stick out here, Before, behind, in front and rear.
"Oh, Fred! a dolly! I'll call her Molly." "Why, may, a penknife here; how jolly!"
"A necktie blue! A paintbox too!" "Oh, Fred, a pair of kid gloves new!"
"May, here's a gun! Won't we have fun, Playing at soldiers!—You'll be one."
"Now that is all. No; here's a ball; Just hold it, or these things will fall."
"What's in the toe, May, do you know? Biscuits and figs!—I told you so."
"I think," said May, That Christmas day Should come at least every second day."
And so say we; But then you see That Santa Claus would tired be.
And all his toys And Christmas joys Would vanish then from girls and boys.
From "The Prize"
Hang Up Baby's Stocking
Hang up the baby's stocking: Be sure you don't forget: The dear little dimpled darling Has never seen Christmas yet.
But I told him all about it, And he opened his big blue eyes; I'm sure he understood it, He looked so funny and wise.
Ah, what a tiny stocking; It doesn't take so much to hold Such little toes as baby's Safe from the frost and cold.
But then, for the baby's Christmas It never will do at all; For Santa Claus wouldn't be looking For anything half so small.
I know what will do for baby; I've thought of a first-rate plan; I'll borrow a stocking of grandma— The longest that I ever can.
And you shall hang it by mine, mother, Right here in the corner—so; And write a letter for baby. And fasten it on the toe.
"Old Santa Claus, this is a stocking Hung up for our baby dear; You never have seen our darling, He has not been with us a year,
"But he is a beautiful baby; And now, before you go, Please cram this stocking with presents, From the top of it down to the toe.
"Put in a baby's rattle, Also a coral ring, A bright new ribbon for his waist; Some beads hung on a string
"And mind a coloured ball please, And a tiny pair of shoes; You'll see from this little stocking, The size you have to choose."
A health to good old Santa Claus, And to his reindeer bold, Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down, Whose horns are tipped with gold.
Ho comes from utmost fairyland Across the wintry snows; He makes the fir-tree and the spruce To blossom like the rose.
Over the quaint old gables, Over the windy ridge, By turret wall and chimney tall, He guided his fairy sledge;
He steals upon the slumbers Of little rose-lipped girls, And lays his waxen dollies down Beside their golden curls.
He scatters blessings on his way, And sugar-coated plums; He robs the sluggard from his rest With trumpets, guns, and drums.
Small feet, before the dawn of day, Are marching to and fro, Drums beat to arms through all the house, And penny trumpets blow.
A health to brave old Santa Claus, And to his reindeer bold, Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down, Whose horns are tipped with gold.
S. H. Whitman
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The Rabbit on the Wall
The children shout with laughter, The uproar louder grows; Even grandma chuckles faintly, And Johnny chirps and crows. There ne'er was gilded painting, Hung up in lordly hall, Gave half the simple pleasure As this rabbit on the wall.
The cottage work is over, The evening meal is done; Hark! thro' the starlight stillness You hear the river run. The little children whisper, Then speak out one and all; "Come, father, make for Johnny, The rabbit on the wall."
He—smilingly assenting, They gather round his chair; "Now, grandma, you hold Johnny; Don't let the candle flare." So speaking, from his fingers He throws a shadow tall, That seems, a moment after, A rabbit on the wall.
With these three little girls and two little boys There is sure to be plenty of laughter and noise; But nobody minds it, because don't you see, At school they are quiet with lessons to say— But when the holidays come they can play the whole day.
The Fairy Queen
Let us laugh and let us sing, Dancing in a merry ring; We'll be fairies on the green, Sporting round the Fairy Queen.
Like the seasons of the year, Round we circle in a sphere; I'll be Summer, you'll be Spring, Dancing in a fairy ring.
Harry will be Winter wild; Little Annie, Autumn mild; Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, Dancing in a fairy ring.
Spring and Summer glide away, Autumn comes with tresses grey; Winter, hand in hand with Spring, Dancing in a fairy ring.
Faster! faster! round we go While our cheeks like roses glow; Free as birds upon the wing, Dancing in a fairy ring.
Come and Play in the Garden
Little sister, come away, And let us in the garden play, For it is a pleasant day.
On the grassplot let us sit, Or, if you please, we'll play a bit, And run about all over it.
But the fruit we will not pick, For that would be a naughty trick, And, very likely, make us sick.
Nor will we pluck the pretty flowers That grow about the beds and bowers, Because, you know, they are not ours.
We'll pluck the daisies, white and red, Because mamma has often said, That we may gather them instead.
And much I hope we always may Out very dear mamma obey, And mind whatever she may say.
I am tired to death of keeping still And being good all day. I guess my mamma's company Forgot to go away, I've wished and wished they'd think of it, And that they would get through; But they must talk for ever first, They almost always do.
I heard Tom calling to me once, He's launched his boat, I know; I wanted to get out and help, But mamma's eyes said no. The ladies talk such stuff to me, It makes me sick to hear— "How beautiful your hair curls!" or, "How red your cheeks are, dear!"
I'd ten times rather run a race, Then play my tunes and things; I wouldn't swop my dogs and balls For forty diamond rings. I've got no 'finement, aunty says, I 'spect she knows the best; I don't need much to climb a tree, Or hunt a squirrel's nest.
"Girls are like berries," papa says, "Sweeter for running wild," But Aunt Melissa shakes her head, And calls me "Horrid child!" I'll always be a romp she knows— But sure's my name is Sadie, I'll fool 'em all some dreadful day, By growing up a lady.
Hide and Seek
"We will have a game of hide and seek, Now mind you do not look." And Willie went and hid himself In a dark and lonely nook.
Then the children went to find him; They hunted all about. It was a funny way in which At last they found him out.
Just as they got where he was hid, In his nose he felt a tickling That made him sneeze, and so you see They found him in a twinkling.
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Tired of Play
Tired of play! tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day? The birds are silent, and so is the bee; The sun is creeping up temple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eves And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves. Twilight gathers and day is done, How hast thou spent it, restless one?
Playing? But what has thou done beside, To tell thy mother at eventide? What promise of morn is left unbroken? What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven, How with thy faults has duty striven, What hast thou learned by field and hill? By greenwood path, and singing rill?
Well for thee if thou couldst tell, A tale like this of a day spent well, If thy kind hand has aided distress, And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness;
If thou hast forgiven a brother's offence, And grieved for thine own with penitence; If every creature has won thy love From the creeping worm to the brooding dove, Then with joy and peace on the bed of rest, Thou wilt sleep as on thy mother's breast.
Two little boys, all neat and clean, Came down upon the shore: They did not know old Ocean's ways— They'd ne'er seen him before.
So quietly they sat them down, To build a fort of sand; Their backs were turned to the sea, Their faces toward the land.
They had just built a famous fort— The handkerchief flag was spread— When up there came a stealthy wave, And turned them heels over head.
After School Hours
School is closed and tasks are done, Flowers are laughing in the sun; Like the songsters in the air, Happy children, banish care!
Riding on a Gate
Sing, sing, What shall we sing, A gate is a capital Sort of thing.
If you have not a horse, Or haven't a swing, A gate is a capital Sort of thing.
Cry, cry, Finger in eye, Go home to mother And tell her why;
You've been riding, And why not I? Each in turn, isn't that the rule For work or play, at home or school.
Come, my children, come away, For the sun shines bright to-day; Little children, come with me, Birds, and brooks, and posies see; Get your hats and come away, For it is a pleasant day.
Bring the hoop and bring the ball, Come with happy faces all, Let us make a merry ring, Talk, and laugh, and dance, and sing Quickly, quickly come away, For it is a pleasant day.
The Lost Playmate
The old school-house is still to day, The rooms have no gay throng; No ringing laugh is on the air, There is no snatch of song. The white-haired master sits upon The seat beneath the tree, And thinks upon the vanished face, With all its boyish glee.
But a few short days ago, the lad Was gayest of the gay, Quick at the page of knowledge, and The heartiest in play. The pride of the home beside the stream, With his pigeons in their cots, And finding life a very dream, In pleasant homely spots.
His school companions loving him, And old folks speaking praise, Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes, And cheery, happy ways. All in the village knew the boy, From parson down to clerk, And his whistle in the village street Was clear as the song of lark.
But like a dream he's passed away, And from the chamber dim, In the fair light of summer day, The peasants carry him. And playmates gather at the grave, The old schoolmaster there, While blossomed boughs wave over-head, And all around is fair.
True is the grief that brings the tear, There is no empty show; The simple neighbours see their loss, And there is heart-felt woe. They talk of the bright and lively lad, Cut down in boyish prime, And old folks think how strange is life, More strange with passing time!
Oh! simple sight on green hill-side, Away from pomp and power; Here are the truths so oft denied To the imperial hour. Dear child, how precious are the tears, Suffusing friendly eyes! Sublimity is in their gleam, A light from God's own skies.
[Page 83—Play Land]
In the Toy Shop
Cups and saucers, pots and pans, China figures, Chinese fans, Railway trains, with tops and tables, Fairy tales, and Aesop's fables.
Clockwork mice, and colored marbles, Painted bird that sweetly warbles, Dolls of every age and size, With flaxen curls and moving eyes.
Cows and horses, chickens, cats, Rattles, windmills, boats and bats, Ducks and geese, and golden fishes, Skipping ropes, and copper dishes.
Books with coloured pictures, too, And a thousand other things for you; Dainty maidens, merry boys, Here you are, all sorts of toys.
Neat Little Clara
"Little Clara, come away, Little Clara, come and play; Leave your work, Maria's here, So come and play with me, my dear."
"I will come, and very soon, For I always play at noon; But must put my work away, Ere with you I come and play.
First my bodkin I must place With my needles in their case; I like to put them by with care, And then I always find them there.
There's my cotton, there's my thread Thimble in its little bed; All is safe—my box I lock, Now I come—'tis twelve o'clock."
"Ting-a-ling!" Now they Have opened the store, Never was such An assortment before; Mud pies in plenty, And parcels of sand, Pebbles for sugar plums, Always on hand.
Plenty of customers Coming to buy, "Brown sugar, white sugar Which will you try? Paper for money; Their wealth, too, is vast; In spite of the plenty, They scatter it fast.
Quick little hands Tie bundles with care, Summer's glad music Is filling the air; Birdies fly over, And wonder, no doubt, What all these gay little folks are about.
He took a stick, he took a cord, He took a crooked pin, And went a-fishing in the sand And almost tumbled in. But just before he tumbled in, By chance it came about, He hooked a whiting and a sole, And made them tumble out.
Hide and Seek
When the clean white cloth is laid, And the cups are on the table, When the tea and toast are made, That's a happy time for Mabel.
Stealing to her mother's side, In her ear she whispers low, "When papa comes I'll hide; Don't tell him where I go,"
On her knees upon the floor, In below the sofa creeping; When she hears him at the door, She pretends that she is sleeping.
"Where is Mabel?" father cries, Looking round and round about. Then he murmurs in surprise, "Surely Mabel can't be out."
First he looks behind his chair, Then he peers beneath the table, Seeking, searching everywhere All in vain for little Mabel;
But at last he thinks he knows, And he laughs and shakes his head, Says to mother, "I suppose Mabel has been put to bed."
But when he sits down to tea, From beneath the sofa creeping, Mabel climbs upon his knee, Clasps her hands: "I was not sleeping."
When he asks, "Where is my girl's Very secret hiding-place?" Mabel only shakes her curls, Laughing, smiling, in his face.
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Now, Harry, pull the chairs up, And, Fanny, get the shawl; We'll play that we are sailors, And that we're in a squall.
The fire will be a lighthouse, To warn us off the shore; And we will place the footstools For rocks, out on the floor.
Now this chair is the stern And that one is the bow; But there, you must be careful, And not lean hard, you know.
Now, sailors, pull that sail up, And tuck the corners in— Well if you want it tighter, Ask mother for a pin.
Now couldn't we sing something About the "Ocean Blue"? Well, never mind, "By-baby" Or anything will do.
Take care, you careless sailors, And mind what you are about, You know the sea will drown you, If you should tumble out.
Up and down the play-room, Then behind the door, Now upon the sofa, Now upon the floor.
In below the table, Round the big arm-chair, Goes my little brother, Crying "Are you there?"
And when brother sees me, Then away I run; And he follows after, Merry with the fun.
So at hide and seek we play. And pass the happy hours away.
Girls and Boys, Come Out to Play
Girls and boys, Come out to play, The sun is shining Away, away.
Into the meadow Over the way, Tumbling and tossing The new-mown hay.
Into the hedgerow Picking the May; Over the hills And far away.
Down by the brook Where the ripples play, Whirling and winding Their silvery way,
Then home again By a different way, Picking an armful Of wildflowers gay.
For mother dear To gladden her way, And wake in her heart A cheerful lay.
For every leaf Has it's sunny ray; All nature is happy And seems to say:
Girls and boys, Come out to play. The sun is shining Away, away.
Two Merry Men
Two merry men, One summer day, Forsook their toys, And forgot their play.
Two little faces, Full of fun, Two little hearts That beat as one.
Four little hands, At work with a will, Four little legs That can't keep still.
For labour is sweet, And toil is fun, When mother wants Any work to be done.
Tell me little ladies, Playing in the sun, How many minutes Till the baking's done?
Susy gets the flour, All of golden dust; Harry builds the oven, Lily rolls the crust.
Pat it here, and pat it there; What a dainty size! Bake it on a shelf of stone, Nice mud pies!
Now we want a shower— For we need it so— It would make a roadside, Such a heap of dough.
Turn them in, and turn them out, How the morning flies! Ring the bell for dinner— Hot mud pies!
The Playful Girl
I know a little girl, Who is very fond of play: And if her ma would let her, Would do nothing else all day.
She has a little doll, And another one quite large. She plays she has a little home, And house cares to discharge.
But when her mamma calls her, Some real work to do, She does not like to leave her play, And pouts till she is through.
In the hay, in the hay, Toss we and tumble; No one to say us nay, All through this Summer's day! No one to grumble.
In the hat, in the hay, Arthur we'll smother; Bring armfuls, heap them high, Pile them up—now good-bye, Poor little brother!
In the hay, in the hay, Snugly reclining, Shaded from the noontide heat, Smelling the clover sweet, See us all dining;
While the haymakers sit Under the willows, Each with his bread and cheese Spread out upon his knees, Hay for their pillows.
Hark! how the laugh and chat, Happy, light hearted! Now to their work they go, Raking up one long row, Fit to be carted.
Now comes the wagon near, Quickly they're loading; Rake away! rake away! While it's fine make the hay— Rain is foreboding.
Now that the sunset ray Says the day's over, Homeward we make our way, In the cart strewn with hay, Smelling of clover.
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Johnny the Stout
"Ho! for a frolic!" Said Johnny the stout; "There's coasting and sledding; I'm going out."
Scarcely had Johnny Plunged in the snow, When there came a complaint Up from his toe:
"We're cold" said the toe, "I and the rest; There's ten of us freezing, Standing abreast."
Then up spoke an ear; "My, but it's labor— Playing in winter. Eh! Opposite neighbour!"
"Pooh!" said his nose, Angry and red; "Who wants to tingle? Go home to bed!"
Eight little fingers, Four to a thumb, All cried together— "Johnny, we're numb!"
But Johnny the stout Wouldn't listen a minute; Never a snow-bank But Johnny was in it.
Tumbling and jumping, Shouting with glee, Wading the snow-drifts Up to his knee.
Soon he forgot them, Fingers and toes, Never once thought of The ear and the nose.
Ah! What a frolic! All in a glow, Johnny grew warmer Out in the snow.
Often his breathing Came with a joke; "Blaze away, Johnny! I'll do the smoke."
"And I'll do the fire," Said Johnny the bold. "Fun is the fuel For driving off cold."
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Supper is over, Now for fun, This is the season Children must run;
Papa is reading; Says, of these boys; "Pray did you ever Hear such a noise?"
Riding on "camels" Over the floor, See, one's a squirrel Climbing the door;
There goes the baby Flat on his nose, Brother was trying To tickle his toes.
Little he minds it, Though he would cry, Changed it to laughter As Lyn galloped by;
Order is nowhere, Fun is the rule; Think, they are children Just out of school.
Home is their palace; They are the kings Let them be masters, Of just a few things;
Only one short hour Out of all day, Give them full freedom; Join in their play.
Do not be angry Do not forget You liked to make noise Sometimes do yet;
Home will be sweeter Till life is done If you will give them An hour of fun.
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Play-time, play-time, hurrah! Out in the fields together! Don't let us lose a moment's time, This fine, bright, glorious weather.
Run, boys! Run, boys! faster! Ball and the bats for cricket; Jack, you're the fastest runner here, Be off, and pitch the wicket.
Football for those who choose— The goal stick—go, Jim, fix it; Give us the ball; who's won the toss? Now, for the first who kicks it.
No lazy ones today; Off, stretch your legs running! Now for the hip, hip, hip, hurrah! And let the noise be stunning.
Hear how it echoes round! Another and another! No fear of noise, it won't disturb Old granny and poor mother.
Hullo there! no foul play! Dick, what is that you're saying? No bad words and no cruel sport; We're come for fun and playing.
Why now, my dear boys, this is always the way, You can't be contented with innocent play; But this sort of romping, so noisy and high, Is never left off till it ends in a cry.
What! are there no games you can take a delight in, But kicking and knocking, and tearing, and fighting? It is a sad thing to be forced to conclude That boys can't be merry, without being rude.
Now what is the reason you never can play Without snatching each other's playthings away? Would it be any hardship to let them alone, When every one of you has toys of his own?
I often have told you before, my dear boys, That I do not object to your making a noise; Or running and jumping about, anyhow, But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.
So, if any more of these quarrels are heard, I tell you this once, and I'll keep to my word, I'll take every marble, and spintop and ball, And not let you play with each other at all.
When the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still.
"Then come home my children, the sun is gone down And the dews of the night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, Till the morning appears in the skies."
"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are covered with sheep."
"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed." The little ones leaped, and shouted and laughed, And all the hills echoed.
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Here we go on the garden swing, Under the chestnut tree. Up in the branches birdies sing Songs to Baby and me, Baby and Kitty and me. Then up, high up, for the ropes are long, And down, low down, for the branch is strong.
And there's room on the seat for three, Just Baby and Kitty and me Merrily swinging, Merrily singing, Under the chestnut tree.
Up to the clustering leaves we go, Down we sweep to the grass, Touching the daisies there below, Bowing to let us pass, Smiling to us as we pass. Then up, high up, for the ropes are long, And down, low down, for the branch is strong.
And there's room on the seat for three, Just Baby and Kitty and me Merrily swinging, Merrily singing, Under the chestnut tree.
One day it chanced that Miss Maud did meet The poet's little son, "I'm going skating, Sir," she said; "And so am I," said John.
"If you can skate and I can skate, Why let me skate with you, We'll go the whole world round and round, And skate the whole year through."
They skated left, and skated right, Miss Maud and little John, That is—as long as there was ice For them to skate upon.
And then they did unstrap their skates Like other girls and men, And never used them once—until They put them on again!
The Skipping Rope
Lessons now at last are over, Books and slates are put away; Hymns attentively repeated, Copy without a blot completed, Now's the time for fun and play.
Lessons done with cheerful spirit Bring the sure reward of merit, Smiling face and heart so gay; In this bright and smiling weather, Merrily they all together, With the skipping rope will play;
And if only Tom and Polly Will come too, it will be jolly! Here they are now, foot it lightly, Hand in hand they skip so sprightly, Bees are humming, Summer's coming.
Birds are singing as they're bringing Twigs from many a distant tree; Lined with down, and moss, and feather, Where they'll sit and chirp together, Oh! how snug those homes will be!
O'er the ropes so lightly skipping, O'er the grass so lightly tripping, The children are as glads as they. Lessons are done with cheerful spirit, Bring the sure reward of merit;
And remember, too, that they Who work hardest day by day, Always most enjoy their play.
[Page 89—Play Land]
The Baby's Debut
My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New Year's day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is, He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang with might and main, It's head against the parlor door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he's to melt, all scalding hot. Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth!
Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury-lane for you to-day!" And while papa said "Pooh, she may!" Mamma said "No she sha'n't!"
Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While molly mopp'd it with a mop, And brush'd it with a broom.
My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise among the flags, And leaves me where I am.
My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.
What a large floor! 'tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!—my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.
Let the Child Play
He who checks a child with terror, Stops its play and stills its song, Not alone commits an error But a great and grievous wrong.
Give it play, and never fear it; Active life is no defect. Never, never break its spirit; Curb it only to direct.
Would you stop the flowing river, Thinking it would cease to flow? Onward in must flow forever; Better teach it where to go.
[Page 90—Reading Land]
"And so you do not like to spell, Mary, my dear, oh, very well: 'Tis dull and troublesome,' you say, And you had rather be at play.
"Then bring me all your books again; Nay, Mary, why do you complain? For as you do not choose to read, You shall not have your books, indeed.
"So, as you wish to be a dunce, Pray go and fetch me them at once; For if you will not learn to spell, 'Tis vain to think of reading well.
"Do you not think you'll blush to own When you become a woman grown, Without one good excuse to plead, That you have never learnt to read?"
"Oh, dear mamma," said Mary then, "Do let me have my books again; I'll not fret any more indeed, If you will let me learn to read."
Mrs Grammar's Ball
Mrs Grammar once gave a fine ball To the nine different parts of our speech; To the short and the tall, To the stout and the small, There were pies, plums and puddings for each.
And first little Articles came, In a hurry to make themselves known— Fat A, An, and The; But none of the three Could stand for a minute alone.
The Adjectives came to announce That their dear friends the Nouns were at hand, Rough, rougher and roughest, Tough, tougher and toughest, Fat, merry, good-natured and grand.
The Nouns were indeed on their way, Tens of thousands, and more, I should think; For each name we could utter, Shop, shoulder, or shutter, Is a noun: lady, lion or link.
The Pronouns were hastening fast To push the Nouns out of their places: I, thou, he, and she, You, it, they, and we, With their sprightly intelligent faces.
Some cried out, "Make way for the Verbs! A great crowd is coming in view!" To light and to smile, To fight and to bite, To be, and to have, and to do.
The Adverbs attended on the Verbs, Behind as their footmen they ran; As this, "to fight badly," And "run away gladly," Shows how fighting and running were done.
Prepositions came in, by, and near; With Conjunctions, a wee little band, As either you or he, But neither I nor she; They held their great friends by the hand.
Then, too, with a hip, hip, hurrah! Rushed in Interjections uproarious; Dear me! well-a-day! When they saw the display, "Ha! Ha!" they all shouted out, "glorious!"
But, alas! what misfortunes were nigh! While the fun and the feasting pleased each, Pounced on them at once A monster—a Dunce! And confounded the nine parts of speech!
Help! friends! to the rescue! on you For aid Verb and Article call; Oh! give your protection To poor Interjection, Noun, Pronoun, Conjunction, and all!
Grammar In Rhyme
Three little words we often see, And Article, a, an, the.
Noun's the name of anything, As school or garden, hoop or string.
Adjective tells the kind of noun, As great, small, pretty, white or brown.
Instead of nouns, the Pronoun stand John's head, his face, my arm, your hand.
Verbs tell us of something being done, To read, write, count, sing, jump, or run.
How things are done, the Adverbs tell, As slowly, quickly, ill, or well.
A Preposition stands before A noun, as in or through a door.
Conjunctions join the nouns together as men and children, wind and weather.
The Interjection shows surprise, As Oh, how pretty! Ah, how wise!
The whole are called nine parts of speech, Which reading, writing, speaking teach.
Value of Reading
The poor wretch who digs the mine for bread, Or ploughs so that others may be fed,— Feels less fatigue, than that decreed To him that cannot think or read!
[Page 91—Reading Land]
[Page 92—Writing Land]
Little Flo's Letter
A sweet little baby brother Had come to live with Flo, And she wanted it brought to the table, That it might eat and grow. "It must wait a while," said grandma, In answer to her plea, "For a little thing that hasn't teeth Can't eat like you and me."
"Why hasn't it got teeth, grandma?" Asked Flo in great surprise, "O my, but isn't it funny?— No teeth, but nose and eyes. "I guess," after thinking gravely, They must have been forgot. Can't we buy him some like grandpa's? I'd like to know why not."
That afternoon, to the corner, With paper, and pen, and ink, Went Flo, saying, "Don't talk to me; If you do, it'll 'sturb my think. I'm writing a letter, grandma, To send away to-night, An' 'cause it's very 'portant, I want to get it right."
At last the letter was finished, A wonderful thing to see, And directed to "God, in Heaven." Please read it over to me," Said little Flo to her grandma, "To see if it's right, you know." And here is the letter written To God by little Flo:—
"Dear God: The baby you brought us Is awful nice and sweet, But 'cause you forgot his tooffies The poor little thing can't eat. That's why I'm writing this letter, A purpose to let you know. Please come and finish the baby, That's all—From Little Flo."
Eben. E. Rexford
Exercise Makes Perfect
True ease in writing Comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest Who have learned to dance.
Hurrah for the Postman
Hurrah for the postman Who brings us the news! What a lot it must take To pay for his shoes.
For he walks many miles Each day of the week, And though he would like to, Must not stay to speak.
Red stripes round his blue cap, With clothing to match it; If he lost any letters, Oh, wouldn't he catch it!
Dear Grandmamma—I write to say (And you'll be glad, I know,) That I am coming, Saturday, To spend a week or so.
I'm coming, too, without mamma, You know I'm eight years old! And you shall see how good I'll be, To do as I am told.
I'll help you lots about your word— There's so much I can do— I'll weed the garden, hunt for eggs, And feed the chickens, too.
And maybe I will be so good You'll keep me there till fall; Or, better still, perhaps you'll say I can't go home at all!
Now grandmamma, please don't forget To meet me at the train, For I'll be sure to come—unless It should cloud up and rain!
Dear Mamma—Please put on your things, And take the next express; I want to go back home again— I'm very sick, I guess!
My grandma's very good to me, But grandma isn't you; And I forgot, when I came here, I'd got to sleep here, too!
Last night I cried myself to sleep, I wanted you so bad! To day, I cannot play or eat, I feel so very sad.
Please, mamma, come, for I don't see How I can bear to wait! You'll find me, with my hat and sack Out by the garden gate.
And grandma will not care a bit If you should come, I know; Because I am your own little girl, And I do love you so.
Dear Grandmamma, I will try to write A very little letter; If I don't spell the words all right, Why next time I'll do better.
My little rabbit is alive, And likes his milk and clover, He likes to se me very much, But is afraid of Rover.
I have a dove as white as snow, I hall her "Polly Feather"; She flies and hops about the yard, In every kind of weather.
The hens are picking off the grass, And singing very loudly; While our old peacock struts about, And shows his feathers proudly.
I think I'll close my letter now, I've nothing more to tell; Please answer soon, and come to see Your loving, little Nell.
Baby's Letter to Uncle
Dear Old Uncle—I dot oor letter; My dear mamma, she ditten better; She every day a little bit stronger, Don't mean to be sick very much longer.
Dear little baby had a bad colic; Had to take three drops of nassy palagolic. Toot a dose of tatnip—felt worse as ever; Shan't tate no mors tytnip, never!
Wind on tomit, felt pooty bad; Worse fit of sickness ever I had! Ever had stomit ate, ole uncle Bill? Ain't no fun, now, say what oo will.
I used to sleep all day, and cry all night; Don't do it now, 'cause it ain't yite. Got a head of hair jess as black as night And big boo eyes, yat look very bright.
My mamma say, never did see Any ozzer baby half as sweet as me. Grandma come often, aunt Sarah, too; Baby loves zem, baby loves oo.
Baby sends a pooty kiss to his uncles all, Aunties and cousins, big folks and small. Can't say any more, so dood by— Bully old uncle wiz a glass eye!
The First Letter
"Did you ever get a letter? I did the other day. It was in a real envelope, And it came a long, long way.
A stamp was in the corner And some printing when it came, And the one that wrote the letter Had put 'Miss' before my name.
Then there came a lot more written, I forget now what it read, But it told the office people Where I lived, mamma said.
Don't you s'pose those letter-persons, If they hadn't just been told, Would have thought 'twas for a lady Who was awful, awful old?
For it looked real big and heavy, The outside was stuck with glue, So they couldn't know I'm little, I don't think they could. Do you?"
[Page 93—Writing Land]
I'm Going to Write to Papa
I'm going to write to papa, I guess he'd like to hear What his little girl is doing, The same as when he is near;
I'll tell him how I miss him, And how I'd wish he'd come, And never, never, leave us, But always stay at home.
I'll tell him 'bout my dolly, She's sleeping on the floor, I fear that noise will wake her, Oh! please don't slam the door.
For I must not be bothered, That's just what ma would say, When she begins a letter, And sends me off to play.
I'll send him lots of kisses, And one bright shining curl, I'll ask him to remember His lonely little girl;
I want so much to see him, But I won't cry a wink, Cause when I write my letter, The tears would blot my ink.
I'm going to write to papa, And oh! how glad he'll be. To get a little letter That was written all by me.
I gaze upon ye, once again, Old records of the past, And o'er the dim and faded lines My tears are falling fast;
I deem'd not there was a power yet, In these few simple words, To stir within my quiet heart Such old familiar chords.
Ye bring me back mine early dreams— Oh, but to dream them now, With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart, And pure unsadden'd brow!
The loved—the lost—the changed— The dead—all these we conjure up, And mingled in the draught That lies in memory's magic cup.
Old letters—sad mementoes ye, Of friendship's shatter'd chain, Oh! that the hand these pages traced, My own might clasp again.
They tell me yet of early love, Of feelings glad and gay, Of childhood's April hopes and fears— The writers, where are they?
Time's changes are for deeper things Than folly's vain pursuit, Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place For autumn's ripen'd fruit.
Look back upon the buried past, But not with vain regret, Be grateful for the many joys That bloom around thee yet.
Bend heavenward thine onward course, That years of coming age May leave an impress in life's book, Pure as its opening page!
I was sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard: "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me That you mustn't be disturbed.
But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer thing to do. Writing letters is 'ou mamma? Tan't I write a letter, too?"
"Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty now." "No—no mamma; me wite letter, Ten you will show me how."
I would paint my darling's portrait, As his sweet eyes searched my face— Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said: "I'll make a letter, Of you, darling boy, instead."
So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted, 'Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said: "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news," And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes.
Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee: "Mamma's witting lots of letters; I'se a letter, Mary, see."
No one heard the little prattler, As once more he climbed the stair. Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the table there.
No one heard the front door open, No one saw the golden hair, As it floated o'er his shoulders On the crisp October air.
Down the street the baby hastened, Till he reached the office door: "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman, Is there room for any more?
'Cause this letter's going to papa; Papa lives with God, 'ou know: Mamma sent me for a letter; Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"
But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man;" "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must go if I tan."
Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, And the little feet were hastening, By the busy crowd swept on.
Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left and right, As a pair of maddened horses At that moment dashed in sight.
No one saw the baby figure, No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late: a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there: Then the little face lay lifeless Covered o'er with golden hair.
Rev'rently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Saw the stamp upon the forehead Growing now so icy cold.
Not a mark left the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod; But the little life was ended— "Papa's letter" was with God.
I have got a letter, A letter of my own, It has my name upon it, Miss Bessie L. Stone.
My papa sent it to me, He's away from home—you see I guess the postman wondered Who Bessie Stone could be.
I'd like to send an answer, But I don't know how to spell; I'll get mamma to do it, And that will do as well.
A Little Boy's Valentine
Little girl across the way, You are so very sweet, I shouldn't be a bit surprised If you were good to eat.
Now what I'd like if you would too, Would be to go and play— Well, all the time, and all my life, On your side of the way.
I don't know anybody yet On your side of the street, But often I look over there And watch you—you're so sweet.
When I am big, I tell you what, I don't care what they say, I'll go across—and stay there, too, On your side of the way.
Heaven first taught letters For some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, Or some captive maid.
They live, they speak, They breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, And faithful to its fires;
The virgin's wish Without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, And pour out all the heart—
Speed the soft intercourse From soul to soul, And waft a sigh From Indus to the pole.
Boil it Down
Whatever you have to say my friend, Whether witty, grave, or gay, Condense as much as ever you can, And that is the readiest way; And whether you write of rural affairs, Or particular things in town, Just take a word of friendly advice— "Boil it down."
Letters from Home
Letters from home! How musical to the ear Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main, When, from the friendly vessel drawing near, Across the billow floats the gentle strain, The words the tear-drops of his memory move; They tell a mother's or a sister's love; And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home. How warmly there the tender home-light shines! What household music lives in those dear tender lines.
[Page 94—Writing Land]
Polly's Letter to Brother Ben
Dear Brother Ben, I take my pen To tell you where, And how, and when, I found the nest Of our speckled hen. She would never lay, In a sensible way, Like other hens, In the barn or the hay;
But here and there And everywhere, On the stable floor, And the wood-house stair, And once on the ground Her eggs I found. But yesterday I ran away, With mother's leave, In the barn to play.
The sun shone bright On the seedy floor, And the doves so white Were a pretty sight As they walked in and out Of the open door, With their little red feet And their features neat, Cooing and cooing More and more.
Well, I went out To look about On the platform wide, Where side by side I could see the pig-pens In their pride; And beyond them both, On a narrow shelf, I saw the speckled hen Hide herself
Behind a pile Of hoes and rakes And pieces of boards And broken stakes. "Ah! ha! old hen, I have found you now, But to reach your nest I don't know how, Unless I could creep Or climb or crawl Along the edge Of the pig-pen wall."
And while I stood In a thoughtful meed, The speckled hen cackled As loud as she could, And flew away, As much as to say, "For once my treasure Is out of your way." I did not wait A moment then: I couldn't be conquered By that old hen!
But along the edge Of the slippery ledge I carefully crept, For the great pigs slept, And I dared not even look to see If they were thinking Of eating me But all at once, Oh, what a dunce!
I dropped my basket Into the pen, The one you gave me, Brother Ben; There were two eggs in it, By the way, That I found in the manger Under the hay. Then the pigs got up And ran about With a noise between A grunt and a shout.
And when I saw them, Rooting, rooting, Of course I slipped And lost my footing, And tripped, And jumped, And finally fell Right down among The pigs pell-mell. For once in my life I was afraid; For the door that led Out to the shed
Was fastened tight With and iron hook, And father was down In the fields by the brook, Hoeing and weeding His rows of corn, And here was his Polly So scared and forlorn, But I called him, and called him, As loud as I could. I knew he would hear me— He must and he should.
"O father! O father! (Get out, you old pig). O father! oh! oh!" For their mouths are so big. Then I waited a minute And called him again, "O father! O father! I am in the pig pen!" And father did hear, And he threw down his hoe, And scampered as fast As a father could go.
The pigs had pushed me Close to the wall, And munched my basket, Eggs and all, And chewed my sun-bonnet Into a ball. And one had rubbed His muddy nose All over my apron, Clean and white;
And they sniffed at me, And stepped on my toes, But hadn't taken The smallest bite, When father opened The door at last, And oh! in his arms He held me fast.
E. W. Denison
Little pens of metal, Little drops of ink, Make the wicked tremble, And the people think.
Value of Writing
Blest be that gracious power Who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image On the mind:
Beasts may convey, And tuneful birds may sing Their mutual feelings In the opening spring;
But man alone has skill And power to send The heart's warm dictates To the distant friend:
Tis his also to please, Instruct, advise, Ages remote, And nations yet to rise.
Use the Pen
Use the pen! there's magic in it, Never let it lag behind; Write thy thought, the pen can win it From the chaos of the mind.
Many a gem is lost forever By the careless passer-by, But the gems of thought should never On the mental pathway lie.
Use the pen! reck not that others Take a higher flight than thine. Many an ocean cave still smothers Pearls of price beneath the brine.
So thy words and thoughts securing Honest praise from wisdom's tongue, May, in time, be as enduring As the strains which Homer sung.
J. E. Carpenter
Power of the Pen
Beneath the rule of men entirely great, The pen is mightier than the sword.
Such a little thing—a letter, Yet so much it may contain: Written thoughts and mute expressions Full of pleasure, fraught with pain.
When our hearts are sad at parting, Comes a gleam of comfort bright, In the mutual promise given: "We will not forget to write."
Plans and doings of the absent; Scraps of news we like to hear, All remind us, e'en though distant, Kind remembrance keeps us near.
Yet sometimes a single letter Turns the sunshine into shade; Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects, Blights our hopes and makes them fade.
Messengers of joy or sorrow, Life or death, success, despair, Bearers of affection's wishes, Greetings kind or loving prayer.
Prayer or greeting, were we present, Would be felt, but half unsaid; We can write—because our letters— Not our faces—will be read?
Who has not some treasured letters, Fragments choice of other's lives; Relics, some, of friends departed, Friends whose memory still survives?
Touched by neither time nor distance, Will their words unspoken last? Voiceless whispers of the present, Silent echoes of the past!
The Right Method of Composition
Never be in haste in writing: Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow, Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But once Begun, work thou all things into thy work: And set thyself about it, as the sea About the earth, lashing it day and night: And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it As thorough as the fossil flower in clay: The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast, Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising, Rending the stones, and crying—Resurrection.
P. J. Bailey
[Page 95—Drawing Land]
[Page 96—Drawing Land]
Just cast your beautiful, your sparkling, your penetrating, your discriminating
Over this page, and read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest its Contents.
THE two greatest educating powers in the ancient world were Pictures and Poetry—the two greatest educating powers are pictures and poetry still, and pictures and poetry blended in an interesting manner is the intended educating feature of this PLEASANT-LEARNING-LAND, but my object in this place is to speak of pictures only, as perhaps the greatest of all educating powers, and to demonstrate that they are not sufficiently used for educational purposes. Firstly: pictures are in a universal language—when they are true to nature every person on the earth can understand them. Show a picture of a person or a bird, a horse or a house, a ship, a tree, or a landscape, and everyone knows what is meant, and this is why most of the peoples of the ancient world conveyed their ideas in picture language. FLETCHER, in his Cyclopedia of Education, says:— "It has long been accepted as an axiom that the best explanation of a thing is the sight and study of the thing itself, and the next best a true picture of the thing." DRYDEN, speaking of poetry and painting says:—
"The poets are confined to narrow space, To speak the language of their native place; The painter widely stretches his command, His pencil speaks the tongue of every land."
Many writers, ancient and modern, have taught the great educational power of pictures. HORACE says:—A picture is a poem without words". SYDNEY SMITH says:—"Every good picture is the best of sermons and lectures." O. S. FOWLER says:—"A single picture often conveys more than volumes." W. M. HUNT says:—"From any picture we can learn something." HENRY WARD BEECHER says:—"A picture that teaches any affection or moral sentiment will speak in the language which men understand, without any other education than that of being born and of living." GARRICK, speaking of Hogarth, says:—
"His pictured morals mend the mind, And through the eye improve the heart."
But pictures are not only a means of education, for they bring pleasure, comfort, and education combined. STEELE says:—"Beautiful pictures are the entertainment of pure minds." G. P. PUTMAN says:— "How many an eye and heart have been fascinated by an enchanting picture." CICERO says:—"The eyes are charmed by pictures, and the ears by music." JOHN GILBERT says:—"Pictures are consolers of loneliness; they are a sweet flattery to the soul, they are a relief to the jaded mind; they are windows to the imprisoned thought; they are books, they are histories and sermons, which we can read without the trouble of turning over the leaves." UGO FOSCOLIO says:— "Pictures are the chickweed to the gilded cage, and make up for the want of many other enjoyments to those whose life is mostly passed amid the smoke and din, the bustle and noise of an overcrowded city." PANDOLFINI says:—Many an eye has been surprised into moisture by pictured woe and heroism; and we are mistaken if the glow of pleasure has not lighted in some hearts the flame of high resolve, or warmed into life the seeds of honorable ambition."
Many pictures, particularly portraits, by bringing up reminiscences, are a great source of consolation. In millions of houses the most-loved and treasured possession is the photographic album containing the likenesses of dear absent or departed friends. SHEE, writing of the soothing influences of the portrait, says:—
"Mirror divine! which gives the soul to view, Reflects the image, and retains it too! Recalls to friendship's eye the fading face, Revives each look, and rivals every grace: In thee the banished lover finds relief, His bliss in absence, and his balm in grief: Affection, grateful, owns thy sacred power, The father feels thee in affliction's hour; When catching life ere some lov'd cherub flies. To take its angel station in the skies, The portrait soothes the loss it can't repair, And sheds a comfort, even in despair." Or— "The widow'd husband sees his sainted wife In pictures warm, and smiling as in life,— And— While he gazes with convulsive thrill, And weeps, and wonders at the semblance still, He breathes a blessing on the pencil's aid, That half restores the substance in the shade."
But it is more particularly with pictures as a direct means of education that I have to speak. MR. STEAD holds that in the coming education of the world the magic lantern will play a very great part, for through its aid you can portray any object you wish—pictures of scenery, of buildings, of distant countries, of the microscopic world, and in fact any kind of pictures you choose, in a most beautiful, life-like, interesting, and educational manner. I think and earnestly hope that MR. STEAD'S prediction will be fulfilled.
There are two other ways which I think that pictures should be used for educational purposes. Firstly, in books, as in this one, and secondly, on the walls of buildings—outside and inside if you like —but I will speak only of the inside in this paper. Why should not every room of every house be covered with pictures where it is not covered with furniture? In millions of rooms there is a great waste of opportunity. Many times I have thought why do they not have varying patterns of different scenery, etc, in the different rooms of the houses instead of the wall paper, with its uninteresting pattern perpetually repeated. There is no reason why a house of twelve rooms should not represent on its walls twelve different countries, or twelve histories of striking events, etc. Possibly this may take place later on. With respect to hanging pictures everywhere on the walls, it may be objected that it would be too expensive—so it would if they were costly pictures—but really good pictures are produced by the million now so cheaply, that the objection of expense vanishes. The walls can be covered now almost as cheaply with intellectual pictures as with unintellectual wall paper. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS says:—"A room hung with pictures, is a room hung with thoughts." JOHN GILBERT says:—"A room with pictures in it, and a room without pictures, differ by nearly as much as a room with windows and a room without windows; for pictures are loopholes of escape to the soul, leading it to other scenes and to other spheres, as it were, through the frame of an exquisite picture, where the fancy for a moment may revel, refreshed and delighted."
I was convinced many years ago of the almost criminal waste of wall space, and issued the following doggerel lines, partly from trade and partly from sentimental motives:—
Every cottage, Two-roomed cottage, Should contain full Twenty PICTURES.
Every cottage, Four-roomed cottage, Should contain full Forty PICTURES.
Every cottage, Six-roomed cottage, Should contain full Sixty PICTURES.
Every villa, Eight-roomed villa, Should contain full Eighty PICTURES.
Every mansion, Ten-roomed mansion, Should contain a Hundred PICTURES.
Every large school For instruction Should contain a THOUSAND PICTURES.
Walls are made to Keep out weather And also to Display PICTURES.
Count your PICTURES All your walls on. See if you have Quite the number, You will want more You will wish more, You will get more Shouldn't wonder.
PICTURES they are Made to please you— First to please you When you buy them; Next to please your Own dear children, Pictures please and Teach them too. Next to please your Friends and neighbours When they kindly Call on you.
They'll admire them, Then they'll praise them. Then that pleases You again. PICTURES please and Teach for ever, All the Children, Women, Men.
Even in the poorest houses pictures must always be a blessing. Many a poor man's cheerless home would be made much more comfortable and endurable if a few shilling's worth of good pictures were posted or hung round its bare walls. If houses were universally decorated with true speaking pictures what an immense influence for good it would bring them. What intellectual and refined tastes it would create and nurture. One most important thing in selecting pictures to cover the walls it to always choose good subjects. A poor picture takes up as much room as a good one, and generally costs as much. Always choose live speaking pictures that will interest and instruct. There is an immense multitude of poor, tame, an uninteresting pictures produced in the world, and which in millions of instances keep out the good ones. If these poor ones could be kept back or destroyed, and the best ones only take their place, the world would be better for it. In choosing materials to build up a bright, happy home, always select the best—the best books—the best music—the best pictures. In conclusion, there is one more suggestion I would make on the picture question, and I think it is the most important of all; it is that a good clear map of the world should be hung in every house in the world, to give every person an idea of the world they live in. For it is a most deplorable fact that ninety-nine out of every hundred of the inhabitants, even of the civilized world, have a very poor conception of the geography and ethnology of the world. And this should not be, for every person ought to have a clear idea of their world-fatherland, and of their fellow creatures, and a knowledge of the map of the world is the first lesson to be learned in that most desirable direction.
E W COLE, Book Arcade, Melbourne.
[Page 97—Drawing Land]
The New Slate
See my slate. I dot it new Cos I b'oke the other, Put my 'ittle foot right froo, Runnin' after modder.
I tan make you lots of sings, Fass as you tan tell 'em, T's and B's and O rings, Only I tan't spell 'em
I tan make an elephant, Wid his trunk a hangin'; An' a boy—who says I tan't? Wid his dun a bangin'
An' the smoke a tummin' out; (Wid my t'umb I do it, Rubbin' all the white about,) Sparks a flying froo it.
I tan make a pretty house, Wid a tree behind it, And a 'ittle mousey-mouse Runnin' round to find it.
I tan put my hand out flat On the slate and draw it; (Ticklin' is the worst of that!) Did you ever saw it?
Now, then, s'all I make a tree Wid a birdie on it? All my pictures you s'all see If you'll wait a minute.
No, I dess I'll make a man Juss like Uncle Rolly, See it tummin', fass it tan! Bet my slate is jolly!
[Page 98—Drawing Land]
Learning to Draw
Come, here is a slate, And a pencil, and string. And now sit you down, dear, And draw pretty thing; A man and a cow, And a horse and a tree, And when you have finished Pray show them to me.
What! cannot you do it? Shall I show you how? Come, give me your pencil; I'll draw you a cow. You've made the poor creature Look very forlorn! She has but three legs, dear, And only one horn.
Now look, I have drawn you A beautiful cow; And see, here's a dicky-bird, Perched on a bough, And there are some more Flying down from above; There now, is not that Very pretty, my love?
Oh, yes, very pretty! Now make me some more— A house with a gate, And a window, and a door, And a little boy flying His kite with a string; Oh, thank you, mamma, Now I'll draw pretty thing.
[Page 99—Drawing Land]
A Lesson in Drawing
Take a pencil, black or red. Draw a little loaf of bread On a piece of paper white— Make the bread extremely light.
Then, before your work you stop, Draw a little loop on top, And a satchel will be found Such as ladies carry round.
Then you may, my pretty dears, Add a pair of little ears; And, if Art is not in fault, There's a bag of extra salt.
Pause, and in rapture fine, Contemplate the great design— Add a flowing tail, and that Makes a perfect pussy cat.
[Page 100—Old Men Tales]
Old Man and His Wife
There was an old man who lived in a wood, As you may plainly see, He said he could do as much work in a day As his wife could do in three.
"With all my heart," the old woman said, "If that you will allow; To-morrow you'll stay at home in my stead, And I'll go drive the plough.
"But you must milk the Tidy cow, For fear she may go dry. And you must feed the little pigs That are within the sty;
"And you must mind the speckled hen, For fear she lay away; And you must reel the spool of yarn That I spun yesterday."
The old woman took a whip in her hand, And went to drive the plough; The old man took a pail in his hand, And went to milk the cow.
But Tidy hinched and Tidy flinched, And Tidy broke his nose, And Tidy gave him such a blow That the blood ran down to his toes.
"Hi! Tidy! Ho! Tidy! Hi! Tidy! do stand still! If ever I milk you, Tidy, again, 'Twill be sore against my will."
He went to feed the little pigs, That were within the sty; He hit his head against the beam And he made the blood to fly.
He went to mind the speckled hen, For fear she'd lay away; And he forgot the spool of yarn His wife spun yesterday.
So he swore by the sun, the moon, the stars, And the green leaves on the tree, If his wife didn't do a day's work in her life, She should never be ruled by he.
John Ball Shot Them All
John Ball shot them all. John Scott made the shot, But John Ball shot them all.
John Wyming made the priming, And John Brammer made the rammer, And John Scott made the shot, But John Ball shot them all.
John Block made the stock, And John Wyming made the priming, And John Brammer made the rammer, And John Scott made the shot, But John Ball shot them all.
John Crowder made the powder, And John Block made the stock, And John Wyming made the priming, And John Brammer made the rammer, And John Scott made the shot, But John Ball shot them all.
John Puzzle made the muzzle, And John Crowder made the powder, And John Block made the stock, And John Wyming made the priming, And John Brammer made the rammer, And John Scott made the shot, But John Ball shot them all.
John Clint made the flint, And John Puzzle made the muzzle, And John Crowder made the powder, And John Block made the stock, And John Wyming made the priming, And John Brammer made the rammer, And John Scott made the shot, But John Ball shot them all.
John Patch made the match, John Clint made the flint, John Puzzle made the muzzle, John Crowder made the powder, John Block made the stock, John Wyming made the priming, John Brammer made the rammer, John Scott made the shot, But John Ball shot them all.
The Funny Old Man
There was an old man, and though 'tis not common, Yet if he said true, his mother was a woman; And though it's incredible, yet I've been told He was a mere infant, but age made him old. Whene'er he was hungry he wanted some meat, And if he could get it, 'twas said he could eat; When thirsty he'd drink, if you gave him a pot, And his liquor most commonly ran down his throat. He seldom or never could see without light, And yet I've been told he could hear in the night. He has oft been awake in the daytime 'tis said, And has fall'n fast asleep as he lay in his bed. 'Tis reported his tongue always moved when he talked, And he stirred both his arms and his legs when he walk'd, And his gait was so odd, had you seen him you'd burst, For one leg or t'other would always be first. His face was the saddest that ever was seen, For if 'twere not washed it was seldom quite clean; He showed most his teeth when he happened to grin, His mouth stood across 'twixt his nose and his chin. At last he fell sick, as old chronicles tell, And then, as folk said, he was not very well! And what is more strange, in so weak a condition, As he could not give fees, he could get no physician. What a pity he died; yet 'tis said that his death Was occasioned at last by the want of his breath. But peace to his bones, which in ashes now moulder, Had he lived a day longer he'd been a day older.
Piper and His Cow
There was and old piper who had a cow, But he had no hay to give her, So he took his pipes and played her a tune "Consider, old cow, consider."
Old John Brown
Poor old John Brown is dead and gone, We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear an old brown coat, All button'd down before.
Three Wise Men
Three wise men of Gotham, Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl it had been stronger, My song would have been longer.
Frightened Old Man
There was a man and he had nought, And robbers came to rob him; He crept up the chimney pot, And then they thought they had him; But he got down on t'other side, And so they could not find him; He ran fourteen miles in fifteen days, And never look'd behind him.
A Man with a Wife
I had a little wife, the prettiest ever seen, She washed up the dishes, and kept the house clean; She went to the mill to fetch me some flour, She brought it home in less than an hour; She baked me my bread, she brewed me my ale, She sat by the fire and told me many a fine tale.
Crooked Old Man
There was a crooked man, And he went a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence, Against a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, Which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together In a little crooked house.
When good King Arthur ruled this land, He was a goodly King; He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag pudding. A bag pudding the King did make, And stuffed it well with plums; And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs. The King and Queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night The Queen next morning fried.
Barney Bodkin broke his nose, Without feet we can't have toes, Crazy folks are always mad, Want of money makes us sad.
A man of words and not of deeds, Is like a garden fill of weeds; And when the weeds begin to grow, It's like a garden full of snow; And when the snow begins to fall, It's like a bird upon the wall; And when the bird away does fly, It's like an eagle in the sky; And when the sky begins to roar, It's like a lion at the door; And when the door begins to crack, It's like a stick across your back; And when your back begins to smart, It's like a penknife in your heart; And when your heart begins to bleed, You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.
There was a man and he was mad, And he jumped into a pea-pod; The pea-pod was over-full, So he jumped into a roaring bull; The roaring bull was over-fat, So he jumped into a gentleman's hat; The gentleman's hat was over-fine, So he jumped into a bottle of wine; The bottle of wine was over-dear, So he jumped into a bottle of beer; The bottle of beer was over-thick, So he jumped into a club-stick; The club-stick was over-narrow, So he jumped into a wheel-barrow; The wheel-barrow began to crack, So he jumped into a hay-stack; The hay-stack began to blaze, So he did nothing but cough and sneeze.
[Page 101—Old Men Tales]
Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so between them both They licked the platter clean. Jack ate all the lean, Joan ate all the fat, The bone they both picked clean, Then gave it to the cat.
When Jack Sprat was young, He dressed very smart, He courted Joan Cole, And soon gained her heart; In his fine leather doublet And old greasy hat, Oh! what a smart fellow Was little Jack Sprat.
Joan Cole had a hole In her petticoat, Jack Sprat, to get a patch, Gave her a groat. The groat bought a patch Which stopped the hole, "I thank you, Jack Sprat," Says little Joan Cole.
Jack Sprat was the bridegroom, Joan Cole was the bride, Jack said from the church His Joan home should ride. But no coach could take her, The road was so narrow; Said Jack, "Then I'll take her Home in a wheelbarrow."
Jack Sprat was wheeling His wife by a ditch, Then the barrow turned over, And in she did pitch. Says Jack, "She'll be drown'd!" But Joan did reply, "I don't think I shall, For the ditch is quite dry."
Jack brought home his Joan, And she sat in a chair, When in came his cat, That had got but one ear. Says Joan "I've come home, Puss, Pray how do you do?" The cat wagg'd her tail And said nothing but "mew."
Jack Sprat took his gun, And went to the brook; He shot at the drake, But he killed the duck. He bought it home to Joan, Who a fire did make, To roast the fat duck While Jack went for the drake.
The drake was swimming With his curly tail, Jack Sprat came to soot him, But happened to fail. He let off his gun, But missing the mark, The drake flew away Crying "Quack, quack, quack."
Jack Sprat to live pretty Now bought him a pig, It was not very little, It was not very big; It was not very lean, It was not very fat, "It will serve for a grunter," Said little Jack Sprat.
Then Joan went to market To buy her some fowls, She bought a jackdaw And a couple of owls; The owls were white, The jackdaw was black, "They'll make a rare breed," Says little Joan Sprat.
Jack Sprat bought a cow, His Joan to please, For Joan could make Both butter and cheese; Or pancakes or puddings Without any fat; A notable housewife Was little Joan Sprat.
Joan Sprat went to brewing A barrel of ale, She put in some hops That it might not turn stale; But as for the malt— She forgot to put that; "This is a brave sober liquor." Said little Jack Sprat.
Jack Sprat went to market And bought him a mare, She was lame of three legs, An as blind as she could stare. Her ribs they were bare, For the mare had no fat; "She looks like a racer," Said little Jack Sprat.
Jack and Joan went abroad, Puss looked after the house; She caught a large rat, And a very small mouse, She caught a small mouse, And a very large rat, "You're an excellent hunter," Said little Jack Sprat.
Now I've told you the story Of little Jack Sprat, Of sweet Joan Cole And the poor one-ear'd cat; Now Jack he loved Joan, And good things he taught her, Then she gave him a son, Then after a daughter.
Now Jack has got rich, And has plenty of pelf; If you know any more you may tell it yourself.
Cross Old Man
There was a cross old man and what do you think, He lived on nothing but victuals and drink; Victuals and drink were his principal diet, Yet this crabbed old man would never be quiet.
He teased a poor monkey, who lived in a cage, Till the animal got in a terrible rage, And seized on his nose with finger so strong, That it stretched it until it was quite a yard long.
Old Man in the Moon
The man in the moon came tumbling down, And asked his way to Norwich, He went by the south, and burnt his mouth, With supping cold pease-porridge.
A Funny Man
There was a man of Newington, And he was wondrous wise, He jump'd into a quickset hedge And scratch'd out both his eyes. But when he saw his eyes were out With all his might and main He jump'd into another hedge. And scratched them in again.
Doctor Faustus was a good man, He whipt his scholars now and then. When he did he made them dance Out of Scotland into France; Out of France into Spain, And then he whipped them back again.
If! If! If!
If all the would was apple pie, And all the seas were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What would we have to drink? It's enough to make an old man Scratch his head and think.
Alderman Absolute Always Adjudicated with Astonishing Ability After he had read some books from Cole's Book Arcade.
Benjamin Bouncer Banged a Brown Bear with a Blunderbuss, In a lane at the back of Cole's Book Arcade.
Christopher Crabstick was Cross, Captious, Cutting, and Caustic, Whenever he could not get a book brought from Cole's Book Arcade.
Francis Fizgig Ferociously Fought and Frightened a Fiddler, At midday, right in front of Cole's Book Arcade.
Gregory Gimcrack Grinned and Gaped at the Geese and Ganders Exposed for sale in the Eastern Market, just above Cole's Book Arcade.
Horatio Headstrong Hurled a Hatchet at the Head of a Hawk Which sat on top of Cole's Book Arcade.
Isaac Ichabod Inhabited an Isolated and Inhospitable Indian Island, At an enormous and disheartening distance from Cole's Book Arcade.
Lugubrious Longface Loved Learning and Literary Lore, Which he always got out of the books he bought at Cole's Book Arcade.
Marmaduke Meddlesome Munificently Meted out Mercy to a Miserable Man Who stole a book at Cole's Book Arcade.
Obadiah Orpheus Opened an Original Overture Outrageously Oddly, With a small whistle and a big drum, in front of Cole's Book Arcade.
Quinton Querulous Queerly Questioned a Quibbling and Querulous Quidnunc, And asked Quizzingly if he had ever seen the inside of Cole's Book Arcade.
Reuben Ramble Ran a Ridiculous Rattling Race on a Railway, And beat the train in hasting to get a book at Cole's Book Arcade.
Theodore Thunderbolt Told Terrible and Tremendous Tales of Travelling, Which were afterwards printed in books and sold at Cole's Book Arcade.
Valentine Valiana Valorously Vanquished a Vapouring Villager, Who spoke ignorantly and slightingly of Cole's Book Arcade.
Xenophon Xenocles eXhibited eXtraordinary and eXcessive eXcitability Whenever he was not calmed down by books from Cole's Book Arcade.
Young Yokel, a Youthful Yorkshire Yeoman Yawned at York, For want of a few interesting and entertaining books from Cole's Book Arcade.
Zachariah Zany Zealously studied Zoology Out of the works which he bought at Cole's Book Arcade.
[Page 102—Old Men Tales]
There was an Old Person of Prague, Who was suddenly seized with the plague, But they gave him some butter, which caused him to mutter, And cured that Old Person of Prague.
There was an Old Man with a gong, Who bumped at it all the day long, But they called out, "Oh, law! you're a horrid old bore!" So they smashed that Old Man with a gong.
There was an Old Man of the Isles, Whose face was pervaded with smiles, He sang "Hi dum diddle," played on the fiddle, That amiable Old Man of the Isles.
There was an Old Person of Dover, Who rushed through a field of blue clover; But some very large Bees stung his nose and his knees, So he very soon went back to Dover.
There was an Old Man of Quebec,— A beetle ran over his neck: But he cried, "With a needle I'll slay you, O beetle!" That angry Old Man of Quebec.
There was an Old Man of Vesuvius, Who studied the works of Vitruvius; When the flames burned his book, to drinking he took, That morbid Old Man of Vesuvius.
There was an Old Person of Buda, Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder, Till at last with a hammer they silenced his clamour, By smashing that Old Person of Buda.
There was an Old Man of Marseilles, Whose daughters wore bottle-green veils, They caught several fish which they put in a dish, And sent to their Pa at Marseilles.
There was an Old Man of Coblenz, The length of whose legs was immense, He went with one prance from Turkey to France, That surprising Old Man of Coblenz.
There was an Old Person of Gretna, Who rushed down the crater of Etna; When they said, "Is it hot?" he replied, "No, it's not!" That mendacious Old Person of Gretna.
There was an Old Person of Bangor, Whose face was distorted with anger; He tore off his boots and subsisted on roots, That borascible Person of Bangor.
There was an Old Person of Spain, Who hated all trouble and pain; So he sat on a chair, with his feet in the air, That umbrageous Old Person of Spain.
There was an Old Man of the West, Who never could get any rest; So they set him to spin on his nose and his chin, Which cured that Old Man of the West.
There was an Old Man in a tree, Who was horribly bored by a bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" he replied, "Yes it does! It's a regular brute of a bee!"
There was an Old Man who said, "How, Shall I flee from this horrible Cow? I will sit on this stile and continue to smile, Which may soften the heart of this Cow."