A Jolly Jingle-Book | Page 9

I fear--?A dolly's blue cap and some jackstones are here.?In the other are marbles and fishhooks and strings,?Some round shiny stones and a red top that sings,?A few apple cores and a tin full of bait,?A big black jack-knife in a sad bladeless state.?And now I wonder how many can guess?Which pocket Bob owns and which one does Bess?
REBECCA DEMING MOORE.
MY HORSE
I give my pony corn and hay,?With oats to tempt him twice a week;?I smooth and curry every day?Until his coat is bright and sleek;?At night he has a cosy stall;?He does not seem to care at all.
I mount him often, hurriedly,?And ride him fast and ride him far;?With whip and spur I make him fly?Along the road where robbers are;?But when I've galloped madly home?He is not wet or flecked with foam.
He does not plunge against the rein,?Nor take a ditch nor clear a rail.?He does not toss his flowing mane,?He does not even switch his tail.?Oh, well, he does his best, of course;?He's nothing but a hobby-horse!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
MAY-TIME
Sing a song of May-time,?And picnics in the park.?Such a happy playtime!?Birds are singing--hark!?Bluebird calls to bluebird,?Robins chirp between,?And little lads and lasses?Are dancing on the green.
Marigolds are golden?All along the brooks.?Violets are peeping?In the shady nooks.?Out into the fields now!?Choose your happy queen;?For all the lads and lasses?Are dancing on the green.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
BOOKS
My father's books are made of words,?As long and hard as words can be,?They look so very dull to me!?No pictures there of beasts and birds,?Of dear Miss Muffet eating curds,?And things a child would like to see.
My books have pictures, large and small,?Some brightly colored, some just plain,?I look them through and through again.?Friends from their pages seem to call,?Jack climbs his bean-stalk thick and tall,?I know he will not climb in vain.
Here comes Red-Riding-Hood, and here?The Sleeping Beauty lies in state,?The prince will come ere 'tis too late!?And this is Cinderella dear.?The godmother will soon appear?And send her to her happy fate.
Oh, father's books are very wise,?As wise as any books can be!?Yet he wants stories, I can see;?For really, it's a great surprise?How many picture-books he buys,?And reads the fairy tales to me!
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
THE LITTLE BOOK PEOPLE
At half past eight I say "good night" and snuggle up in bed. I'm never lonely, for it's then I hear the gentle tread?Of all the tiny book people. They come to visit me,?And lean above my pillow just as friendly as can be!?Sometimes they cling against the wall or dance about in air. I never hear them speak a word, but I can see them there. When Cinderella comes she smiles with happy, loving eyes, And makes a funny nod at me when she the slipper tries.?Dear Peter Pan flies in and out. I see his shadow, too,?And often see his little house and all his pirate crew.?I think they know I love them and that's why they come at night, When other people do not know that they've slipped out of sight; But I have often been afraid that while they visit me?Some other little boy, perhaps, may stay up after tea,?And when he tries to find them on the pages of his book?He cannot see them anywhere, though he may look and look! That's why I never stay awake nor keep them here too long. I go to sleep and let them all slip back where they belong.
EDNA A. FOSTER.
CHARLOTTE THE CONQUEROR
When Charlotte is playing croquet?It's really refreshing to see.?She wins in the cheerfullest way,?Or loses (but rarely!) with glee.?She chooses the ball that is blue,?And dashes straight into the fray.?I want to be present--don't you?--?When Charlotte is playing croquet.
And Charlotte is playing croquet?From breakfast-time almost till tea.?She coaxes us, "Please, won't you play?"?And somehow, we always agree.?Then oh, for the ball that is blue!?What matter the tasks of the day??There's something important to do,?For Charlotte is playing croquet!
When Charlotte is playing croquet,?The neighbors come over to see,?The grocer is tempted to stay,?The butcher's boy gives advice free,?The doctor, forgetting his care,?Will linger a bit on his way.?There are partners enough and to spare,?When Charlotte is playing croquet.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.
THE SCARECROW
He doesn't wander up and down?And hoarsely call all day,?"O' clo'! O' clo'!" This old-clothes man?Has not a word to say.
He stands so stiff among the corn,?His one stiff arm stuck out,?And points a musket at the crows?That circle all about.
He doesn't tramp the dusty streets,?Nor travel, ankle-deep,?Through mush and slush, but quiet stands?Where baby corn-cobs sleep.
He's such a funny old-clothes man!?I wonder if it's hard?To stand amid the growing corn?All summer long on guard.
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