A Jolly Jingle-Book | Page 5

bandanna on her head.?She's not two, as you'd suppose,?When Topsy comes, Miss Turvy goes.?Perhaps it's as it is with me.?Sometimes another child there'll be,?And mother says, "Where is my Flo??I wish that naughty girl would go."
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
POOR OLD BOOKS
The poor old books that nobody reads,?How lonely their days must be!?They stand up high on the dusty shelves,?Waiting and wishing, beside themselves,--?And nobody cares but me.?They have no pictures, they are no good,?But I'd read them through, if I only could.
The poor old books! They are fat and dull,?Their covers are dark and queer;?But every time I push the door,?And patter across the library floor,?They seem to cry, "Here, oh here!"?And I feel so sad for their lonely looks?That I hate to take down my picture-books.
The nice new books on the lower shelves?Are giddy in gold and red;?And they are happy and proud and gay,?For somebody reads in them every day,?And carries them up to bed.?But when I am big I'm going to read?The books that nobody else will heed.
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN.
SYMPATHY
Sometimes the world's asleep so soon?When all the winds are still,?That I can see the little moon?Come peeping o'er the hill.
It looks so small and scared and white,?The way I feel in bed?When I have just put out the light?And covered up my head.
It half seems wishing it had stayed,?And half creeps softly out.?"Dear moon," I say, "don't be afraid!?No bogies are about."
[Illustration: Sympathy]
A SPRING SONG
Out in the woods,?Where the wild birds sing,?It is all alive?With the happy spring.
It gets in my feet,?And the first I know?They are dancing-glad,?And away they go.
I race with the brook?Till my breath is gone,?And it laughs at me?As it races on.
I rock with the trees,?And I sway and swing,?And make believe?I am part of the spring.
SECRETS
I know a man that's big and tall,?With glasses on his nose,?And canes and shiny hats and all?Such grown-up things as those;?But we have secrets I won't tell!?Here in the nursery,?Before they ring the dinner-bells?He's just a boy like me.
He comes home from the office, where?They think he's just a man?The same as they are, with his hair?All slick and spick and span.?Oh, don't I make it in a mess!?It makes us scream for joy.?"Sh--sh!" he says, "they mustn't guess?I'm nothing but a boy!"
And sometimes when the doorbell rings,?The girl knocks at the door.?"An' is the doctor in?" she sings,?A dozen times or more.?"Good-by, old man!" he says. "That bell?Means business. Here's your toy!"?And off he goes. I'll never tell?He's nothing but a boy.
[Illustration: Secrets]
SOMEBODY DID IT
Hunting, hunting, high and low,?Where do the caps and "tammies" go??Ned's--he hung it, he knows he did,?Right on a nail, and it went and hid!?Rob's--"Well, mother, I'm almost sure?I hung it"--"Right on the parlor floor?"?"_Where_ is my 'Tam'?" cried Margery;?And the household echoes, "Where _can_ it be?"
"Somebody does it!" Yes, they do!?And not a person to "lay things to!"?Ned will sputter and Rob complain,?And Margery weeps till it looks like rain;?And the family puts its glasses on?And hunts and hunts till the day is gone;?Somebody! wicked old Somebody!?No end of trouble you make for me.
Hunting, hunting, here and there!?Rob's was under the Morris-chair;?Ned's, by a strange coincidence,?_Was_ on a nail--of the garden fence;?And Margery's little pink Tam-o'-shanter?I chanced to spy in a morning saunter?Out through the barn, where 'tis wont to hide?When they've been having a "hay-mow slide."
IN SUMMER
When all the roads are white with dust,?And thirsty flowers complain,?Our little lassie cries, "I must?Go carry round the rain."
As up and down the garden plots?With busy feet she treads,?The pansies and forget-me-nots?Lift up their drooping heads.
She waters all the lilies tall,?The fragrant mignonette,?And hollyhocks beside the wall--?Not one does she forget.
What wonder that her garden grows?And blooms, and blooms again,?When every grateful blossom knows?Who "carries round the rain!"
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
OUR LITTLE BROOK
Our little brook just sings and sings?In such a happy way,?I'd love to sit beside it,?And listen all the day.
In spring it has a merry sound,?I know the reason why--?Because the ice has gone and now?The brook can see the sky.
It loves to glisten in the sun?And sparkle in its light.?I'm sure it loves the silvery moon?And sings to it at night.
The summer song is not so gay,?The brook is now quite still,?With here and there a darling song?Sung by a tiny rill.
I love to watch the bubbles float,?I wonder where they go,?I see the little "skaters"?All darting to and fro.
When leaves are falling from the trees?As fast as they can fall,?I love to sail them in the brook--?Though there's not room for all.
They sail like little fairy boats?And start out merrily,?But sometimes find a stopping place?Before they reach the sea.
The winter brook is soon with ice?All covered up with care,?But I can hear a tiny voice,?I know the brook is there!
EDITH DUNHAM.
THE PINEWOOD PEOPLE
When winds are noisy-winged and high,?And crystal-clear the