Class "P S 311 
 
 Book_ 
 
 Vjv? M 3 
 
 Copyright N° MAJ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
MANY CHILDREN 
 
zJMANT CHILD%E^ 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. SCHUYLER VAN RENSSELAER 
 
 WITH DRAWINGS BY 
 
 FLORENCE WYMAN IVINS 
 
 J'etais la^ cette chose trta f vint 
 
 LA FONTAINE 
 
 "BOSTON 
 THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS 
 1921 
 
Copyright, IQ2I, by 
 zJtCariana Qriswold Van Re?isselaer 
 
 OCT -8 |92| 
 
 V i it ^ 
 
 Z). Z? . Updike, The zMerrymount "Press, Boston 
 
 CLA627153 
 
 ^y 
 
TO MY YOUNG KINSFOLK 
 
 zMART AND LOUISA, GEORGE AND JOHN 
 
 AND MY FRIEND 
 
 "BARBARA 
 
For permission to reprint a few of these poems the 
 author is indebted to the courtesy of the editors and 
 publishers of St, Nicholas and of Harper's Bazar 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 The Wind 
 
 3 
 
 I Wonder! 
 
 4 
 
 The New Moon 
 
 5 
 
 Families 
 
 6 
 
 To a Picture 
 
 7 
 
 Sun and Moon 
 
 8 
 
 The Typewriter 
 
 9 
 
 The Sparks 
 
 10 
 
 Horse- Chestnuts 
 
 ii 
 
 The New "Doll 
 
 12 
 
 Ifybin-Food 
 
 *3 
 
 The Shadow 
 
 "4 
 
 Toppy "Boats 
 
 i5 
 
 The Flying Seeds 
 
 l 7 
 
 <^At Bedtime 
 
 18 
 
 The Stars in Town 
 
 19 
 
 The Whispering Pine Tree 
 
 20 
 
 c « i 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 The Organ- Grinder 
 
 21 
 
 <*y\4anners 
 
 22 
 
 The Schoolboy 
 
 23 
 
 The Cat in the Cornfield 
 
 24 
 
 Bobby's Hunting-Ground 
 
 25 
 
 <*yt Voyage on the Lawn 
 
 26 
 
 ^A City Boy 
 
 27 
 
 <^A Stormy Day 
 
 29 
 
 Home from the Country 
 
 3° 
 
 Going to Sleep 
 
 3 1 
 
 The Christmas Present 
 
 3 2 
 
 Dolly's Lullaby 
 
 33 
 
 At a High Window 
 
 34 
 
 By the Shore 
 
 36 
 
 The Dragon-Fly 
 
 38 
 
 The Cave by the Sea 
 
 39 
 
 Snow in the City 
 
 41 
 
 <^A Sad Fancy 
 
 43 
 
 [x] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Harry and the Indians 44 
 
 Barbara's Treasure- Ship 47 
 
 c j^ose and her 'Brother 48 
 
 The Forest of the Corn 49 
 
 yoe-Pye Weed 50 
 
 <JMarys Apple Tree 52 
 
 The Sick Child 54 
 
 What Katherine Wished For 5 7 
 
 What Nora Imagined 58 
 
 The ^Procession 59 
 
 ^Autumn Leaves 61 
 
 Spring in the City 63 
 
 The All-Tear Crop 64 
 
 The Surf 66 
 
 Helena *s Book 67 
 
 e^ Thunder-Storm at Night 70 
 
 zJMorning, after the Storm 71 
 
 Tfo ^/W/» 72 
 
 [xi ] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Lighthouse Star 74 
 
 ^/T Summer Dream 75 
 
 <^At the End of the Summer 76 
 
 The Hunter of the Skies 7 8 
 
 When Tan Plays his Pipes 80 
 
 The Unseen Things 82 
 
MANY CHILDREN 
 
 THE SMALLEST ONES BEGIN THE BOOK, 
 THEN, AS YOU TURN THE PAGE 
 
 OR DOWN THE LIST OF TITLES LOOK, 
 THEY GROW AND GROW IN AGE 
 
THE WIND 
 
 Oh, I wish I knew! 
 What does the wind do, 
 Where does the wind go, 
 Mother, when it does not blow ? 
 
 In the leafy trees 
 Does a little breeze 
 Live till it can grow 
 Strong and loud enough to blow? 
 
 Then does it come out, 
 Blow and rush and shout, 
 Till it has to stay, 
 Weary, weary, far away ? 
 
 Oh, it must be so, 
 For when no winds blow, 
 Often in the trees 
 I can see that little breeze! 
 
 [3] 
 
/ WONDER! 
 
 I wonder if the stars are fire, 
 
 Or if the stars are gold, 
 And if a little one should drop, 
 
 'T would burn my hand to hold? 
 
 [♦] 
 
THE NEW MOOCH^ 
 
 Dear little moon that came last night, I thought 
 
 that you would be 
 All hurt and spoiled — I saw you caught and 
 
 tangled in a tree. 
 
 But here you are again and so you safely got 
 
 away. 
 I hope you 're learning, little moon, out in the 
 
 sky to stay! 
 
 [5] 
 
FAMILIES 
 
 Oh, darling birdies in the nest, your beaks are big 
 
 and wide; 
 I should not think one mother could for all of you 
 
 provide. 
 
 But little fishes are much worse, for, father said 
 
 to-day, 
 A thousand eggs or more a fish at anytime can lay. 
 
 How does she feed her children when they come 
 
 out from the eggs, 
 And swim around her faster far than if they ran 
 
 on legs? 
 
 [6] 
 
TO A PICTURE 
 
 You lovely lady in my book, 
 Who have so very sad a look, 
 As though a tear were in your eye, 
 Remember, if you want to cry, 
 Instead of smiling as you should, 
 No lady's child is always good! 
 
 [7] 
 
SUN JLUD MOOCM^ 
 
 Every, every day, 
 Just in the same way, 
 The round sun comes back 
 To begin his shining track. 
 
 Why, then, must the night 
 Get its silvery light 
 From a moon that's new 
 Every other week or two? 
 
 [8] 
 
THE TYPEWRITER 
 
 It talks and talks but not the words 
 It writes so clear and black; 
 
 It writes my name, T-o-m, Tom, 
 But says just Tick, tick, tack. 
 
 It 's quite unlike the telephone, 
 Which does not chatter so, 
 
 But kindly calls for us to hear 
 The things we need to know. 
 
 [9] 
 
THE SPARKS 
 
 Now the fire is getting low, 
 Come, lay the paper down 
 
 Where it will not blaze away 
 But shrivel black and brown. 
 
 Watch now for the soldier-boys 
 As slow the edges burn : 
 
 Regiments of shining sparks — 
 See them march and turn. 
 
 See the mountain that they climb ! 
 
 How fast they wheel and run ! 
 How they hurry! Out they go! 
 
 The battle-play is done. 
 
 [ 10] 
 
HORSE-CHESTNUTS 
 
 Hurry, chestnuts, smooth and brown, 
 Crack your burrs and tumble down 
 In the grass, and roll about 
 Till I come to hunt you out! 
 
 As you are not soft and sweet, 
 Like the chestnuts good to eat, 
 You are fit, grown people say, 
 Only to be thrown away. 
 
 But you're handsomer at least, 
 And I 'm glad that man and beast, 
 Finding food like meat and oats, 
 Leave you in your satiny coats. 
 
 I will fill a box with you, 
 Keep you all the winter through, 
 And discover, by and by, 
 Games to play at, you and I. 
 
 [» ] 
 
THE NEW DOLL 
 
 My Aunty says, "You never had 
 So fine a dolly; you '11 be glad 
 To give the other one away 
 To some poor little girl some day." 
 
 O Aunty, would you part with me 
 If you a finer child should see, 
 With longer hair and better dressed ? 
 Could you pretend to love her best ? 
 
 t »] 
 
ROBIN-FOOD 
 
 I always thought the robins were 
 Good parents, kind and sweet, 
 
 Until I saw one give its young 
 A worm instead of meat. 
 
 Or can it be they really like — 
 The old and young ones, too — 
 
 Things that we never could endure 
 If fed to me and you ? 
 
 Perhaps the little robins think 
 Our parents are not good, 
 
 Because they give us bread and cake 
 Instead of robin-food. 
 
 [*3] 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 The shadow of a bird upon the grass ! 
 Watch, or you will not see it pass — 
 So sudden, oh, so small and swift and light, 
 The shadow of a swallow's flight! 
 
 The little blades of grass cannot, as I, 
 See what is happening in the sky, 
 But when the shadow touches them they say, 
 The swallows are a-wing to-day! 
 
 [ '+] 
 
"POPPY "BOATS 
 
 Poppy petals — soft as silk, 
 Red as cherries, white as milk. 
 
 Shake the bowl and see them drop 
 On the polished table-top. 
 
 That 's the water where they float, 
 Red and white ones, each a boat. 
 
 Now we blow them, softly blow — 
 Slipping, dipping, see them go ! 
 
 [ '5] 
 
* 
 
 & 
 
 
THE FLYINQ SEEDS 
 
 White and tiny, here and there, 
 Floating softly in the air — 
 
 Oh, what are they ? Seeds, you say, 
 Winged to travel far away. 
 
 But they seem, in the sunshine, 
 Feathers very small and fine; 
 
 And though fairies, as we know, 
 Never in the daytime show, 
 
 They may let us see, perhaps, 
 Just the feathers in their caps. 
 
 [17] 
 
JIT "BEDTIME 
 
 LJARLING, my darling! — It was mother singing 
 
 low, 
 And I heard the little fishes through the water 
 
 come and go; 
 I saw the little tree-leaves fluttering in the sky, 
 Green amid the blueness where the little clouds 
 
 go by. 
 
 There are many, many darlings for the mothers 
 
 far and wide, 
 But my only mother sings to me, to me and none 
 
 beside; 
 I shut my eyes to hear her and she sings me far 
 
 away, 
 I open them to see her and I know what she 
 
 will say: 
 
 Parting, my darling! — I was down among the 
 
 grass, 
 The clover-blossoms nodded, so the daisies let 
 
 me pass; 
 I was up among the tree-tops and flying with a 
 
 bird, 
 But when he sang his song for me, 't was Darling 
 
 that I heard. 
 
 [18] 
 
THE STARS IU^ rOWCH^ 
 
 At the seashore last week they showed me the 
 stars, 
 And taught me the names of a few, 
 And the patterns they made, with their spangles 
 of gold, 
 On a sky that was darker than blue. 
 
 ['9] 
 
When we strolled after supper to-night in the 
 Park, 
 As I sometimes may do for a treat, 
 The very same stars — oh, I jumped with sur- 
 prise — 
 Shone high over housetop and street. 
 
 The Dipper was there, and the zigzag-y Chair, 
 And the Star of the North looking down. 
 
 — At the seashore, I wonder, what shines in the 
 place 
 Of the stars that have moved into town? 
 
 THE JVHISPERINq TINS TREE 
 
 Old pine, you whisper like the waves, 
 
 Yet you have only seen 
 The other trees and flowers and hills, 
 
 And meadows grassy green. 
 
 Your brothers near the sea have heard 
 The whispering, I suppose, 
 
 And taught their neighbors, and so on, 
 Till every pine tree knows. 
 
 [ao] 
 
THE ORGAN-GRINDER 
 
 All day long his food he earns 
 Dragging his heavy cart about, 
 And, hard at work, the crank he turns 
 To let the music out. 
 
 We pull wagons in our play, 
 And in our play we sing and drum, 
 So he for pleasure, I dare say, 
 Spells words and does a sum. 
 
 [at] 
 
MANNERS 
 
 I have an uncle I don't like, 
 
 An aunt I cannot bear: 
 She chucks me underneath the chin, 
 
 He ruffles up my hair. 
 
 Another uncle I adore, 
 
 Another aunty, too: 
 She shakes me kindly by the hand, 
 
 He says, How do you do? 
 
 [a.] 
 
THE SCHOOLBOY 
 
 I am not one who hates his school — 
 
 I like too many boys, 
 And even the teachers, as a rule, 
 
 Are persons one enjoys. 
 
 But certain people make me hate 
 
 To talk of school, for they 
 Behave as though they must some great 
 
 Astonishment display; 
 
 Or call me "little man," or try 
 
 To make it seem a jest 
 To ask if scholars big as I 
 
 Know Greek or Latin best. 
 
 I am not big, but I can go 
 To school and do my task — 
 
 And be polite to people who 
 Unpleasant questions ask. 
 
 [*3] 
 
THE CAT ICH^THE CORNFIELD 
 
 Just now I met it once again, 
 The lion without cage or chain, 
 Prowling about in a thick wood, 
 Growling and looking for its food. 
 Yellow it was, as it should be : 
 It stood and gazed and gazed at me, 
 Arched its back, opened its jaws, 
 And stretched its many pointed claws, 
 With just the very dangerous look 
 Of lions in my Daniel book. 
 It tried to catch me, but I could 
 Escape from it in the thick wood, 
 Or jump and shout and make it quail, 
 Crouch and crawl and lash its tail! 
 
 [>4] 
 
VOBBrs HUNTINQ-GROUND 
 
 As orchards are for growing fruit, 
 You may not guess how well they suit 
 A hunter of big game who cares 
 To meet with Indians most, or bears. 
 
 With trusty gun, high in a tree 
 I watch, a furry beast to see, 
 While on a branch I sit astride 
 And far and fast I ride and ride. 
 
 Or under the stone wall I lie 
 Amid the goldenrod, to spy 
 If stealthy comes a brave or two, 
 And plan what then I ought to do. 
 
 And if no braves or bears appear, 
 That proves they keep away through fear; 
 They hear my horse, they dread my gun, 
 And turn their backs and run and run ! 
 
 [»s] 
 
cA VOYAQE ON THE LAWD^ 
 
 Watch now a bold discoverer, 
 Just setting sail from Spain 
 To find America and bring 
 Great treasures home again. 
 
 My goat-cart is my gallant ship, 
 And if it sometimes goes 
 Too fast, perhaps, it is because 
 A stormy tempest blows. 
 
 But have no fear, though shrubs 
 
 and trees 
 Are islands hard to pass, 
 For people come alive again 
 Who only drown in grass! 
 
 [z«] 
 
Ji CITY BOY 
 
 I am a little city child, 
 
 And glad that it is so; 
 The country is too white and wild 
 In winter with the snow. 
 
 I love it in the summer days, 
 But when the trees are brown 
 
 And chilly winds blow many ways, 
 I hurry back to town. 
 
 My home is waiting, full of toys, 
 The streets are full of men, 
 
 And I can use with other boys 
 My roller-skates again. 
 
 Here, if the weather storms and snows, 
 
 I cannot come to harm; 
 It 's very different, goodness knows, 
 
 With children on a farm. 
 
 [*7] 
 
JL STORMY DAT 
 
 I look out through the window, where 
 The world is wet and wild, 
 
 And fancy I am wandering there, 
 A lost and dripping child. 
 
 That makes it pleasant when I turn 
 
 And find I am myself, 
 With food to eat, and wood to burn, 
 
 And toys upon the shelf. 
 
 Or else, a shipwrecked sailor-boy, 
 
 Upon the rug I lie, 
 And thankfully the fire enjoy 
 
 Until my clothes are dry. 
 
 Or sometimes, when a deluge falls, 
 
 At Noah's Ark I play, 
 And being all the animals 
 
 Gives me a busy day. 
 
 [-9] 
 
HOME FROM THE COUNTRY 
 
 I 'm back in town, and I rejoice 
 
 To lie in bed awake, 
 While passing feet a pleasant noise 
 
 Upon the pavement make. 
 
 The whistles greet me from afar 
 
 Of boats upon the bay, 
 The bell of an electric car, 
 
 An auto's sudden bray. 
 
 Then sounds and signals as I lie 
 Grow dreamy in my head; 
 
 But if the firemen thunder by, 
 How can I stay in bed ? 
 
 [30] 
 
goiNg TO SLEEP 
 
 Tucked in bed but wide awake, 
 A little journey then I take, 
 Here and there where I have been, 
 To see the things that I have seen: 
 
 Pleasant things in summer places, 
 And streets of people, funny faces, 
 Fountains dancing in the Square 
 To yellow tulips planted there. 
 
 Though my eyes are shut up tight, 
 And in my room is darkest night, 
 Toy-shop windows I can see, 
 The swing beneath the maple tree, 
 
 Towers we built upon the beach 
 Beyond the creeping water's reach, 
 Flowers in grandma's garden growing, 
 The flag above the schoolhouse blowing. 
 
 Clear at first, at last they seem 
 All mixed and misty like a dream; 
 Sudden comes the morning light — 
 I must have been awake all night! 
 
 1 31 ] 
 
THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT 
 
 My little box of shining blue, 
 I hardly can believe that you, 
 With feet of gold so bright and fine — 
 That you are really, truly mine. 
 
 My father said, while mother smiled, 
 You were no present for a child — 
 Much more, of course, I would enjoy 
 A picture-book or else a toy. 
 
 O little box of gold and blue, 
 And lined inside with satin, too, 
 How strange it is they do not know 
 The reasons why I love you so: 
 
 Because you 're pretty and, still more, 
 
 Because I never had before, 
 
 Or dreamed that Christmas-time could 
 
 bring, 
 For me, for me, a grown-up thing ! 
 
 [3*] 
 
DOLLY'S LULLABY 
 
 Sing, I must sing to my dear dolly, sing, 
 And tell her the stories of everything. 
 She is tired of my singing just "Sleep, dear, sleep,'' 
 She is tired of the songs about Little Bo-Peep, 
 Jack Horner, Miss Muffet, and all of the rhymes 
 I have sung from my picture-book dozens of times. 
 Sing, I must sing to my dear dolly, sing, 
 And tell her the stories of everything! 
 
 Slumber, my dolly ! I '11 tell you to-night 
 Of trees that are blossoming rosy and white; 
 Of brooks where the ripples of brown water run 
 And tinkle like music and shine in the sun; 
 Of nests where the baby birds sit in a heap, 
 And the mother sits over them when they 're 
 asleep. 
 Sing, I must sing to my dear dolly, sing, 
 And tell her the stories of everything! 
 
 The summer is green and the winter is white, 
 There is sunshine by day and star-shine at night; 
 The stars are so many it cannot be told, 
 The moon is of silver but they are of gold; 
 
 [33] 
 
The clouds are like ships and the sky like the sea, 
 Only turned upside down over dolly and me. 
 Sing, I must sing to my dear dolly, sing, 
 But I never can tell her of everything ! 
 
 ATA HIGH WINDOW 
 
 Here is my lofty watch-tower where 
 I see the things of earth and air. 
 
 I see the clouds that bring the rain, 
 Their shadows on the fields of grain, 
 
 The cloaks they lay upon the breast 
 Of hill and mountain at the west. 
 
 Beyond the hills I see the sun 
 
 Grow large and red when day is done; 
 
 The moon I see, quite small and new, 
 A curving line upon the blue; 
 
 And down the valley, now and again, 
 Far, far away, a railroad train, 
 
 [34] 
 
By day a trail of smoke, by night 
 A little moving line of light. 
 
 Far, far away, I think, in it 
 How many men and women sit, 
 
 All rushing on and on to come 
 
 To their own town and happy home, 
 
 Where they may like some day to see 
 A train go by that 's carrying me. 
 
 [35] 
 
<BT THE SHORE 
 
 When tired of building forts and walls and ditch- 
 ing them about, 
 
 I sit upon the sand and watch the tide flow in or 
 out. 
 
 And always at the edge are waves, always, though 
 
 there may be 
 No ripples on the water near, no tossing out at 
 
 sea. 
 
 They may be little, little waves, perhaps an inch 
 
 in height, 
 Yet they can rise and curl and fall and plash as big 
 
 ones might. 
 
 [36] 
 
Just as one dies another comes, and always more 
 
 and more, 
 While ever runs their whispering voice along the 
 
 quiet shore. 
 
 At night when all is hid away in darkness, still I 
 
 know 
 They curl and break, and up and down their little 
 
 distance go. 
 
 And even in winter, I am sure, when I am far 
 
 away, 
 There 's surf upon the beach or else my little 
 
 waves at play. 
 
 [37] 
 
THE T>R AGON-FLY 
 
 Flitter, flitter, Darning-needle! Who 's afraid 
 of you, 
 
 Though you are so thin and sharp, so steely-bright 
 and blue, 
 
 Though you come and go so quickly with a buzz- 
 ing noise, 
 
 Quite as though you meant to worry timid girls 
 and boys. 
 
 Flitter, flitter, Darning-needle! Oh, I know you 
 are 
 
 Only hunting flies for supper, hunting near and 
 far— 
 
 For I don't believe the gardener when he says he 
 fears 
 
 That a Darning-needle sometimes sews up chil- 
 dren's ears! 
 
 [sn 
 
THE CAVS BY THS SEA 
 
 Among the great rocks at the end of the beach 
 There is a great cave that I never can reach, 
 Nor should any boy who is smaller than I 
 Climb up, as I do, to look over and spy 
 The tide flowing in or the tide flowing out, 
 And crabs in the kelp, perhaps, scuttling about! 
 
 For once I discovered, deep down in a place 
 Near the mouth of the cave, what I thought was 
 a face 
 
 [39] 
 
Looking up through the water, and watched it to 
 
 know 
 If it moved or the tide only made it seem so. 
 But the waving of hair I was sure I had seen — 
 At least if the hair of a mermaid is green. 
 
 [40] 
 
SNOW IC^THE CITY 
 
 Winter, winter, here again ! 
 Soon you '11 rage with might and main ! 
 Soon the flurries of the snow 
 Whirling through the streets will go, 
 Or, perhaps, the livelong night 
 Down will come the flakes of white 
 Straight and softly everywhere 
 Through the cold and quiet air, 
 Covering all the silent street 
 Smoothly with a spotless sheet. 
 
 Then, alas, will people come 
 In and out of house and home — 
 People, horses, autos, all 
 Trampling down the white snow-fall, 
 Men to shovel it all day, 
 Carts to carry it away. 
 
 Oh, if we were flakes of snow, 
 I would beg the wind to blow 
 Far across the river, far, 
 Where the hills and valleys are, 
 Where, beyond the towns and homes, 
 Never any person comes. 
 
 t4' ] 
 
There the sparkling whiteness may 
 Lie unspoiled for many a day, 
 Only patterned by the track 
 Of a rabbit scurrying back 
 To his burrow, or a bear 
 Hunting near his hidden lair — 
 Sparkling, shining, till the sun 
 Wakes the green things one by one, 
 And the snow-flakes melt to be 
 Springtime drink for flower and tree. 
 
 [4* ] 
 
Jl SAD FANCY 
 
 Suppose Columbus had not sailed the sea! 
 Then all the grandfathers of you and me 
 In foreign countries would have had to stay, 
 Instead of setting forth to drive away 
 The Indians first, the British later on, 
 And change King George for General Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 And you and I, of course, would have been born 
 In some strange place abroad to mope and mourn, 
 To have no country of our own but be 
 Just English, Dutch, or Irish; never see 
 The flying Stars and Stripes, and take no trips 
 To Europe ever in the big steamships. 
 
 [43] 
 
HARRY cAND THE INDIANS 
 
 You say corn-stalks piled together, 
 Drying in the autumn weather; 
 / say Indians, many a row, 
 Where the corn-stalks used to grow 
 Leaves and tassels changed to be 
 Blankets, feathers, plain to see. 
 
 Indian chieftains seated round, 
 Cold and ragged, on the ground, 
 Rustling, talking — never a one 
 Sees me creeping with my gun, 
 As they crept when 't was their joy 
 Our forefathers to destroy. 
 
 [44] 
 
Maybe — who can tell us now? — 
 As he walked behind his plough 
 In this very field, a dart 
 Pierced a pale-face to the heart, 
 Or a captured child was borne, 
 Shrieking, through the rows of corn, 
 
 Yet it seems a shame for me, 
 Now they sit so mournfully, 
 Cold and ragged, bent and brown — 
 Shame for me to shoot them down. 
 And suppose, when it was done, 
 Hiawatha should be one ! 
 
 [«] 
 
"BARBARA'S TREASURE-SHIP 
 
 Oh, sailor-men and sailor-boys, far, far away at 
 
 sea, 
 Fill up your ship with curious toys and foreign 
 
 things for me ! 
 
 Bring me a branch of coral white, and shells all 
 
 pink inside, 
 And amber beads they say you find on beaches at 
 
 low tide. 
 
 Bring me the scarves and golden shoes that Per- 
 sian ladies wear, 
 
 With emerald rings, and pearls in strings to twist 
 up in my hair; 
 
 A big macaw, all red and blue, a small green par- 
 
 rakeet — 
 And do be careful, sailor-boys, when stormy 
 
 winds you meet ! 
 
 Then if you 're tired of voyaging when at my gate 
 
 you stop, 
 I '11 give you new-laid eggs, and cakes with icing 
 
 on the top. 
 
 [47] 
 
ROSE .AND HER 'BROTHER 
 
 Often by myself I play, 
 For my brother, strange to say, 
 Does not like the things he ought 
 Or have patience to be taught. 
 
 Never will he search with me 
 For the cave where we should see 
 Crooked little gnomes come out, 
 Or a faun to frisk about. 
 
 He will not believe when I 
 Show where fairies danced, or try 
 Underneath the ferns to find 
 One that has been left behind. 
 
 Seldom will he even be 
 With Columbus on the sea, 
 Or with a Crusader band 
 Spurring to the Holy Land. 
 
 Sleds he likes, and skates and swings, 
 Bats and balls and shooting things, 
 And he laughs whenever I say 
 He does not know how to play. 
 
 [ 48 ] 
 
THE FOREST OF THE CORC^ 
 
 Between the tasseled rows I run 
 And hide from people and the sun; 
 They roof me in and shut away 
 The world I live in every day. 
 
 They rustle like a forest tall 
 Where orchids grow and parrots call, 
 Or like the swish on marble stairs 
 Of silken skirts a princess wears. 
 
 And when I tire of listening, then 
 I turn around and round again — 
 So fast and oft, I do not know 
 Which way I came, which way to go. 
 
 I cry, Vm lost, I'm lost! and fear 
 There is some lurking danger near ; 
 Swiftly I run and run, and then 
 I reach the open world again. 
 
 I love to shudder and pretend 
 
 A wilderness without an end, 
 
 And find it only is the corn 
 
 Quite near the house where I was born, 
 
 [49] 
 
JOE-PYS WEED 
 
 I wonder who Joe Pye may be that owns the 
 
 purple weed. 
 I 've watched it slowly blossom, slowly fade, and 
 
 go to seed; 
 
 But I have had no word or sign that Joe Pye ever 
 
 came 
 To see the purple blooming of the plant that 
 
 bears his name. 
 
 'T is very handsome — it may be he stays away, 
 
 Joe Pye, 
 Because he hates to have it called a weed when 
 
 he is by. 
 
 Of course the farmers scoff at it and say it does 
 
 no good; 
 They only care for things that serve for men or 
 
 beasts as food. 
 
 But if they 'd look at it for once, would really 
 stop and look, 
 
 And see it growing tall and thick beside the hid- 
 den brook, 
 
 [50] 
 
With golden-rod all mingled in and wreaths of 
 
 virgin's-bower, 
 Perhaps they would not laugh at me for calling 
 
 it a flower. 
 
 I hope, though, that Joe Pye may come in blos- 
 soming-time next year, 
 
 For who he is and where he got his plant I long 
 to hear. 
 
 [51] 
 
{MART'S JtPPLE TREE 
 
 They Ve cut it down since I was here 
 In the warm summer-time last year; 
 They 've cut it down, the apple tree 
 That really did belong to me ! 
 
 It did not stand, my apple tree, 
 In any orchard company, 
 But in a garden large and square 
 With pleasant pathways everywhere. 
 
 The paths are edged with rows of box, 
 The birds come there in busy flocks, 
 And lovely flowers as summer passes, 
 And parsley-beds and ribbon-grasses. 
 
 Always this garden was for me 
 The Garden of the Apple Tree, 
 For there its strong and leafy boughs 
 Had made for me a pleasure-house. 
 
 High up they held, yet not too high, 
 Hidden from every passing eye 
 In the green shadow cool and sweet, 
 A true and comfortable seat. 
 
 [ 5* ] 
 
One branch was large to sit upon, 
 And then there was a smaller one 
 That ran quite straight and properly 
 To make a sofa-back for me. 
 
 I loved to climb into my seat, 
 And sit at ease and swing my feet, 
 And there my knitting-work I took, 
 A story-paper, or a book. 
 
 I loved to sit there and to find 
 Strange fancies coming to my mind, 
 As though the whispering leaves might be 
 Repeating fairy poetry. 
 
 It was my apple tree, my own, 
 Because I knew, and I alone, 
 That it had shaped itself to be 
 A playhouse for a child like me. 
 
 The men that killed it could not know 
 I loved my tree so much — but oh! 
 Why did they cut it down? And how, 
 How can I do without it now ? 
 
THE SICK CHILD 
 
 I 
 
 The ^Aquarium 
 
 I do not care to see the toys 
 A child when it is well enjoys, 
 Or speak when mother stoops to say 
 I 'm better now than yesterday. 
 
 It tires me even when she talks; 
 I wonder how she stands and walks; 
 / cannot turn myself in bed, 
 Or use my spoon, or lift my head. 
 
 [ 54] 
 
The pinks and roses that she brings 
 Please me to look at, but the things 
 That do the most to comfort me 
 My father put where I can see. 
 
 There in the water, through the glass, 
 I watch the goldfish float and pass 
 Among the plants and creeping snails, 
 And gently move their golden tails. 
 
 They float, they swim, here by my bed, 
 But make no sound to pain my head, 
 The golden fish that silently 
 Wave the green plants to comfort me. 
 
 II 
 
 getting Well 
 
 Long weeks I lived in mother's bed, 
 Or on the sofa, but to-day, 
 "Stand up, my girl," the doctor said, 
 " And walk a little way." 
 
 As slowly then I moved around, 
 
 I felt astonishingly tall, 
 
 And in the glass a face I found 
 
 Too white for mine and small. 
 
 [55] 
 
Then, holding by the window-sill, 
 How great the change that met my eye 
 Such thick green leaves when I fell ill, 
 And now so few and dry. 
 
 As far as to the library 
 To-morrow I may walk, and there 
 Wait for my dinner pleasantly 
 In father's easy chair. 
 
 [56] 
 
WHAT KATHSRINS WISHED FOT^ 
 
 What are we going to be 
 
 When we get to be women and men 
 Jennie and Florence and me, 
 
 Johnnie and Peter and Ben ? 
 
 It is a game to play, 
 
 But I hardly can play with the rest, 
 For they try to persuade me to say 
 
 I wish for what they think the best. 
 
 [57] 
 
/ wish only to look 
 
 Like Juno or Helen of Troy, 
 Write a wonderful poetry-book, 
 
 And have five little girls and a boy. 
 
 WHAT NORA IMAGINED 
 
 In from the sea to the bay 
 
 (When I am not a child any more) 
 A ship may come sailing some day 
 
 As I sit on a rock by the shore. 
 
 In from the ship to the beach 
 The sailors will come in a boat, 
 
 And finding me there within reach, 
 Will capture and bear me afloat. 
 
 Out of the harbor's mouth 
 
 I shall sail at the turn of the tide, 
 
 Off to the isles of the south 
 
 With a pirate chief as his bride! 
 
 [58] 
 
THE PROCESS 10 C^ 
 
 Soldiers march, a band of music plays its finest 
 
 tune, 
 But there 's something better still that must be 
 
 coming soon. 
 
 Now I hear it, far away yet — hear it as it comes 
 Nearer, nearer, up the street — the sound of fifes 
 and drums ! 
 
 Oh, there is no other noise that 's half so brave 
 
 and gay, 
 Or that makes your heart beat so and takes your 
 
 breath away. 
 
 Drum, you drummers ! Fife, you fifers ! How I 
 
 wish I could 
 March behind you into battle as a soldier should! 
 
 Drum, you drummers! Roll your thunder, loud 
 
 and louder still ! 
 Fife, you fifers ! Fife and whistle, high and clear 
 
 and shrill! 
 
 If I hardly keep the tears back, 't is not only I — 
 Any one must laugh and shout or he would have 
 to cry! 
 
 [59] 
 
AUTUMCH^LEAFES 
 
 Oh, the rustle of the dead leaves, 
 Yellow, russet, brown, and red leaves ! 
 All night long the storm-wind blew them, 
 Shook them from the trees to strew them 
 Where the children's feet can go 
 Tramping, trampling, to and fro. 
 
 Oh, the wind, the stormy fellow ! 
 
 How he blew them, brown and yellow, 
 
 Red and russet, hither, thither, 
 
 Like the flakes in wintry weather, 
 So we might tramp to and fro 
 In the leaves as in the snow. 
 
 Forward march, then! Follow, follow! 
 March along here in the hollow, 
 Where the piles knee-deep are lying, 
 Kick and toss and send them flying. 
 Hear them crackle as we go, 
 Tramping, trampling, to and fro ! 
 
 [6. ] 
 
SPRINQ IC^ THE CITY 
 
 Oh, the spring comes very quickly when it really 
 
 means to come, 
 And we soon forget the long delays that were so 
 
 wearisome. 
 
 The gusty rains, the dusty winds, have blown 
 
 themselves away; 
 The breeze is soft as summer-time and warmer 
 
 every day; 
 
 And the flags that top the houses all along the 
 Avenue 
 
 Seem twice as gay because the sky is such a shin- 
 ing blue. 
 
 Out in the Park the winter-buds, that safe on 
 
 every bough 
 Kept from the cold the baby leaves, are bursting 
 
 open now. 
 
 The maple-trees and elms are hung with fringes 
 
 green or red — 
 The tasseled flowers that come before the leaves 
 
 have time to spread. 
 
 [63] 
 
There are bushes golden yellow, there are bushes 
 
 frothy white, 
 That were only budding yesterday but blossomed 
 
 overnight. 
 
 And by hundreds and by thousands dandelions 
 
 will star the grass, 
 Till the scent of the first cutting fills the sunshine 
 
 as we pass. 
 
 7H£ ALL-TEAT^CROP 
 
 It is springtime in the Park and a million flowers 
 
 are out ; 
 There are tulips, there are daffodils, and pansies 
 
 all about. 
 
 But however bright the blossoming and sweet the 
 
 green may be, 
 All round the year the babies are the sweetest 
 
 things I see. 
 
 [64] 
 
In their go-carts and their basket-wagons all the 
 
 paths they fill, 
 Unless it 's really raining or is snowing harder 
 
 still. 
 
 They are so very many,it seems strange who owns 
 
 them all, 
 Yet sometimes there 9 s a family, like ours, with 
 
 none at all. 
 
 O mother, do you know the plan, and think it 
 
 would succeed, 
 To coax the friendly stork who brings the babies 
 
 people need? 
 
 With his present in a kerchief, safely knotted in 
 
 his bill, 
 Will he fly to any window where there 's sugar on 
 
 the sill ? 
 
 [65] 
 
THE SURF 
 
 A storm, a storm, has blown at sea ! 
 The waves it made roll up to me 
 And break upon the rocks and sand, 
 Making a splendid shouting noise, 
 As to the green and quiet land 
 They call with loud and louder voice, 
 A storm, a storm far out at sea, 
 A storm, a storm, a storm at s-ea! 
 
 All that my sailor friends have said 
 
 Who live and travel on the sea, 
 
 All that in books I ever read, 
 
 Or learned in my geography, 
 
 Of ships and ports and foreign men, 
 
 Of distant lands and wondrous sights, 
 
 Of pirates and of old sea-fights, 
 
 The surf repeats it all again 
 
 And cries, A storm far out at sea, 
 
 A storm, a storm, a storm at sea! 
 
 [66] 
 
HELENA'S <B001^ 
 
 Some day I mean to write a book, 
 And never let a person look 
 At any page or word or line 
 Till it is printed clear and fine, 
 Till in the bookstore it is piled, 
 And parents buy it for their child. 
 
 It shall be made of verses all, 
 Of different poems, large and small, 
 And no one shall the writing see 
 Because I want my book to be 
 My own entirely, from my heart. 
 There I shall rhyme and set apart, 
 In poetry-pictures, this and that 
 That children love or wonder at, 
 That children do, or want to do, 
 Believe, or wish was coming true. 
 
 Oh, many are the books that hold 
 Beautiful poems that were told 
 By men and women, so that we 
 May read and happy children be. 
 But only one on all our shelves, 
 I think, tells of the children's selves, 
 From end to end, in such a way 
 We might have written it at our play, 
 
 [67] 
 
I mean the one, the "Garden" one, 
 Of Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 This is so very true and good, 
 
 I 'm almost sure I never should 
 
 Have thought to write another one, 
 
 If Robert Louis Stevenson 
 
 Had put in all the things I see 
 
 And all the thoughts that come to me. 
 
 When he was young he was a boy, 
 
 And there are things that girls enjoy, 
 
 Things that they think or like to play, 
 
 That the "Garden" children do not say. 
 
 I cannot try to do it now — 
 I must be older to know how 
 To choose a word, to match a rhyme, 
 To make the lines keep perfect time. 
 But of my book in bed at night 
 I think, and plan to make it right, 
 And in my memory store away 
 Important things I want to say. 
 
 O Robert Louis Stevenson, 
 If, when my little book is done, 
 There is a child of any age, 
 And anywhere, who finds a page 
 
 [68] 
 
That gives such pleasure as you give 
 
 Wherever little children live, 
 
 I shall be proud, and grateful too. 
 
 I shall confess I copied you, 
 
 And wrote (perhaps not quite so well) 
 
 Only what you forgot to tell. 
 
 [69] 
 
JL THUNDERSTORM JIT NIQHT 
 
 Lightning — off there in the south where 
 through the darkness show 
 
 Shapes of distant mountain-tops against the sud- 
 den glow. 
 
 Thunder — very far away but echoing back and 
 
 forth, 
 Nearer, nearer coming as the clouds are rolling 
 
 north. 
 
 Wind — how shrill it whistles as it pulls the clouds 
 along, 
 
 [70] 
 
Pulls and whistles, shrieks and sings a loud and 
 piping song. 
 
 Rain — how suddenly it falls, with what a dash- 
 ing sound, 
 
 Like a solid thing, almost, that shatters on the 
 ground. 
 
 Lightning in the wind and rain — right here a 
 
 blinding flash, 
 Thunder in the rain and wind — just overhead 
 
 a crash. 
 
 Let them rage, all four of them, and roar around 
 
 the skies; 
 Soon the morning comes and then a shining sun 
 
 will rise! 
 
 (MORNING, AFTET^THE STORM 
 
 More diamonds than a king has seen 
 Hang on a million blades of grass ; 
 Like fairy-land the woods are green 
 Beneath the blue and shining sky, 
 Where pass and pass 
 The white clouds softly by. 
 
 [ 7i ] 
 
Loud, loud and merry is the brook 
 That only murmured yesterday; 
 The maples have a glittering look, 
 And all the dark old pines are bright, 
 On every spray 
 A jewel-drop of light. 
 
 I love the lovely world that wakes 
 Out of the storm so smilingly, 
 And yet I sorrow for their sakes — 
 The nest that perished in the rain, 
 The broken tree, 
 The field of beaten grain. 
 
 THE riOLIV^ 
 
 Far, far, and high and clear, 
 
 Oh, I could hear 
 
 An angel sing as he began — 
 
 As he, the man 
 
 Who played to us^ first touched the strings 
 
 And moved the bow that says so many things, 
 
 Far in the sky 
 
 The angel sang, so softly and so high, 
 
 So faintly clear, 
 
 I held my breath to hear. 
 
 [7*] 
 
Then soon 
 
 The music grew to be a little plashing tune 
 
 Like rain that dropped 
 
 On summer leaves. And when it stopped — 
 
 The little plashing tune 
 
 Like gentle rain upon the leaves in June — 
 
 It was because 
 
 The violin had other things to tell 
 
 That, while it spoke, I understood as well. 
 
 Now I forget, excepting that there was 
 
 An ending when 
 
 The angel came to sing again — 
 
 Oh, very soft and high — 
 
 A sweet and far-away good-bye. 
 
 [73] 
 
THE LIQHTHOUSB STAT^ 
 
 In at my open window a star, 
 More bold and bright than the planets are, 
 Shines to my pillow — now dimly shows 
 Through the cloudy white as the curtain blows 
 In the breath of the wind, now darts its gold 
 Straight as a spear and as bright and bold. 
 
 On the long coast north, on the long coast south, 
 At the harbor's heart and the harbor's mouth, 
 Guarding the edge of the pine-grown land, 
 Warning away from the spits of sand, 
 A star of the reef or an island star — 
 Many the brothers of my light are. 
 
 The Lord did not station them there to show 
 The ships of the sea where their pathways go. 
 With a loving heart and a patient hand, 
 It was men that lifted them up to stand 
 Darting their beams to the ocean's rim, 
 To watch for the sailor and counsel him. 
 
 But the Lord gives thanks to the men, I am sure, 
 Who thought of the stars that can make secure 
 The path of His children at sea in the night, 
 Who builded their towers and kindled their 
 light — 
 
 [74] 
 
Hundreds of others and my great star, 
 As steady and sure as the planets are! 
 
 JL SUMMER DREAM 
 
 In the night I left my bed 
 
 To follow where the moonbeams led ; 
 
 And the night-wind and the moon 
 
 They led me on, and showed me soon 
 In the woods a hidden nook, 
 While they whispered, Look, oh, look! 
 
 Fairies, fairies dancing there 
 With waving hands and blowing hair, 
 Scarves of cobweb, swords of grass — 
 I saw them meet and turn and pass 
 In a ring of firefly light, 
 Fairy folk of the summer night. 
 
 Then the moonbeams led and led, 
 And, hearing what the night-wind said, 
 Left I looked, and looked to right, 
 And saw another wondrous sight, 
 
 Seldom seen and seldom told — 
 Pygmies, kobolds, digging gold. 
 
 [75] 
 
And once more the night-wind cried, 
 Oh, harken well on every side ! 
 And the forest seemed to be 
 All full of things I could not see, 
 
 Calling, singing, Come, oh, come! 
 
 As the moonbeams led me home. 
 
 JIT THE END OF THE SUMMER 
 
 What whispers, whispers, in the hollow 
 Where the leaning birch tree grows ? 
 What bids me come, what bids me follow, 
 When the wind at twilight blows? 
 
 Not the wind and not the tree — 
 Something else is calling me. 
 
 I hear it when the rain is dropping 
 
 On the bushes ; in the stream 
 
 It murmurs, murmurs without stopping, 
 
 Like the river of a dream ; 
 
 And I seem to hear it sing 
 Wherever birds are on the wing. 
 
 It must be Summer, calling, calling ! 
 For the cold is drawing near, 
 
 [76] 
 
The frost is biting, leaves are falling, 
 So she calls for me to hear: 
 
 I am flying south, and you, 
 If you will, come too, come too! 
 
 t77] 
 
THE HUNTET^OF THE SKIES 
 
 There he shines, Orion, splendid in the night, 
 With the two great stars that make his shoul- 
 ders bright, 
 One that 's like a buckle worn upon his knee, 
 And a glittering sword-belt where the stars are 
 three. 
 
 Hunter is Orion, huntress is the moon, 
 
 But he hunts all winter, she grows weary soon. 
 
 When she comes again and waxes brave and 
 
 bright, 
 She will find Orion has not missed a night. 
 
Once, late in the summer, from my bed I crept 
 Wondering what the world was doing while I 
 
 slept, 
 And I saw the Hunter rising from the sea, 
 Shoulder-stars and belt and star upon his knee. 
 
 Up from the sea-water slow I watched him come; 
 All the other stars moved on to give him room; 
 The great Bull he hunted kept a space ahead, 
 And the Dog Star followed where the Hunter led. 
 
 Then on the sea-water, smooth and almost black, 
 Trembled here and there a tiny golden track; 
 That was where Orion sprinkled down the light 
 Of the stars he carried, climbing up the night. 
 
 When at last I turned and stole back to my bed, 
 Low down in the east the sky was growing red. 
 Oh, you great Orion ! your chase that night was 
 
 done — 
 Even the great Hunter flees before the sun ! 
 
 [79] 
 
WHECK^PAN TLATS HIS PIPES 
 
 \JH, I know, I know the way 
 That, when 'Tan begins to play, 
 Trooping come from far and near 
 All the things that want to hear ! 
 
 Birches twinkle by the river, 
 Swallows flash on slanted wing, 
 
 Thrushes, with their hearts a-quiver, 
 Shut their throats and dare not sing. 
 
 Wild-fowl come with hurried flocking 
 Where the wild god pipeth shrill, 
 
 Sedges, in the river rocking, 
 To the rapid motion thrill. 
 
 Tiny furry creatures linger, 
 
 Stretch round eyes and stare to see 
 
 How the honeysuckle's finger 
 Marks the measure daintily. 
 
 Lazy moths forget their sleeping, 
 Lizards glitter as they run — 
 
 Dancing, flying, fluttering, creeping, 
 Come the wild folk every one. 
 
 [So] 
 
From the fields, the woods, the hollows, 
 Rocky clefts, and river's brim, 
 
 Every little live thing follows 
 Horned Pan who pipes to him. 
 
 [81 ] 
 
THE UNSEEO^THINQS 
 
 Along the banks of the smooth brown brooks, 
 Where the birches lean and the grape-vine swings, 
 By the river pools, in the forest nooks, 
 
 On the garden paths at night, 
 
 On the sea-beach at twilight, 
 I have looked, I have longed, for the Unseen 
 Things : 
 
 For the nymph of the hills and the water-sprite, 
 For the faun and the dryad of woodland ways, 
 For the tiny ones met in a fairy rite — 
 All the sweet wild folk of old, 
 That we know from stories told 
 By the poets and singers of far-off days. 
 
 In their own old time they were not unseen — 
 The hunter, the shepherd, the wandering boy, 
 Might chance on the places where they had been 
 
 At rest in the shade by day, 
 
 In the dawn or dusk at play, 
 And know them by signs of an innocent joy : 
 
 By the trodden grass, by a withering wreath 
 
 Of white narcissus, an unstrung bow, 
 
 Or a flute, perhaps, that was dropped beneath 
 
A laurel bush carelessly, 
 Or the broken twigs of a tree 
 Where a bather had swung to the stream below. 
 
 And once in a lifetime, perchance, in a place 
 All stillness and beauty and strangeness, he met 
 With one of the Wonderful face to face — 
 With one who had strayed away 
 From the sport of the rest or lay, 
 Though they had awakened, in slumber yet. 
 
 Oh, surely to-day they are not all gone; 
 
 They are few, they are shy, but are not all dead ; 
 
 In the wild-wood I shall have glimpse of one, 
 
 If only a flutter of white 
 
 Far off" in the dim green light, 
 And the flying hair of a golden head ! 
 
 THE END 
 
 [ 83 ] 
 
J£XK