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WHEN WE WERE LITTLE 
 
The Little Grey Homestead 
 
WHEN WE WERE LITTLE 
 
 Children s Rhymes of Oyster Bay 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY FANNY YOUNGS 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 The late THEODORE ROOSEVELT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 681 Fifth Avenue 
 
Copyright 1919, by 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 
 ^i^f -0 idib 
 
 Printid in the United States of America 
 
 ©CI.A53O092 
 
TO THE 
 
 GLORIOUS MEMORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 Little Lad in the Daisy Field 
 
PREFACE 
 
 When we were little, we lived in an old 
 gray house in Oyster Bay Cove, so close 
 to the harbor that the high tides in the 
 Spring and Autumn always flooded the 
 dark, earth-floored cellar. For two hun- 
 dred and sixty years the little old house 
 has stood there, and in all that time has 
 never gone out of the possession of the 
 lineal descendants of the stanch old pioneer 
 who built it. For that reason, the love of 
 the old traditions, the old ways, the very 
 rafters over our heads and earth beneath 
 our feet, were not only, "bred in our bone," 
 they were soul of our souls. 
 
 Until a very few years ago, the life in 
 
 Oyster Bay was as simple in many respects 
 
 as it had been for the past two centuries. 
 
 Old ways of doing things were still our daily 
 
 vii 
 
PREFACE 
 
 usage, and as for the dear people who 
 helped us with our work of house and farm, 
 they were friends and helpers in very 
 truth, loyal to us, and we to them. Al- 
 though these happy, patriarchal days were 
 passing, with the Victorian era, while the 
 children of Sagamore Hill were growing 
 up, there was still much of the old, sweet 
 atmosphere left — there is some, even now, 
 among ''old Oyster Baysters!'' — and of it 
 all, the Sagamore Hill children were an ac- 
 tive and well-loved part. They, too, as well 
 as we older children from the little gray 
 Homestead, dug clams, fished for horse foot 
 crabs, went to the blacksmith shop, and hid 
 in the hay-mow, and on Sundays, watched 
 the sparkling blue harbor through the open 
 windows of the little church. 
 
 Therefore, when these rhymes about our 
 childhood doings in the Cove, and the 
 places and people we loved, were sent to 
 the Colonel and Mrs. Roosevelt, to amuse 
 them and their "grand-babies," their inter- 
 est and their great kindness moved the 
 viii 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Colonel to write a friendly foreword, and 
 Mrs. Roosevelt to lend some of her cher- 
 ished pictures, making it possible for these 
 simple rhymes to go out into the world 
 coupled with the names of those happy 
 Sagamore Hill children, who have since be- 
 come the best and bravest types of Ameri- 
 can manhood and womanhood; and with 
 the seal of kindly approval from the two 
 noblest Romans of us all. 
 
 The rhymes were originally written for 
 Harding Tremain Mason, and it is with 
 his permission that they are printed, in lov- 
 ing tribute to "the kind hearts, the true 
 hearts, who loved the place of old." 
 
 Mary Fanny Youngs. 
 
 Garden City, Long Island, 
 October, 1918. 
 
 IX 
 
POSTSCRIPT 
 
 Since the above preface was written, the 
 dear Colonel has gone to his last resting 
 place, on the hilltop by the harbor that he 
 loved. All the more may these little 
 rhymes bring back to those who love him 
 the happy memory of the old days. — May, 
 1919. 
 
 XI 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Katie . . . . . . . .3 
 
 Week-Days 5 
 
 Sunday 7 
 
 Grandma's Games 10 
 
 The Four Seasons 12 
 
 Shelling Peas 15 
 
 The Garret 16 
 
 Getting Dressed 18 
 
 The Dear Old Gran* . . . .19 
 
 The High Tides 21 
 
 The Squeaky Chair 23 
 
 Cloud Castles 25 
 
 The Wise Playmate 26 
 
 My Cats 28 
 
 The Banty Hen 30 
 
 The Corn-sheller 32 
 
 The Boat House 34 
 
 Cap'n 35 
 
 HoRSEFooT Crabbing 37 
 
 The Strawberry Patch . . , .39 
 xiii 
 
xiv CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Woodshed Roof 
 
 41 
 
 Keewaydin 
 
 43 
 
 The Land of Heart's Desire 
 
 45 
 
 The Blacksmith 
 
 47 
 
 The Garden Flowers . , . . 
 
 49 
 
 The Edge of the World . 
 
 SI 
 
 "Christmas by the Sea" . . . , 
 
 53 
 
 The Playmate of Nazareth . 
 
 55 
 
 The Grape-vine Swing 
 
 57 
 
 The Dear People .... 
 
 59 
 
 Cousin Arnold's Mill 
 
 . 61 
 
 The Yellow Stage .... 
 
 . 63 
 
 Down the Bluff .... 
 
 . 65 
 
 Bed-time Song 
 
 . 67 
 
 In the Cove 
 
 . 68 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 The Little Grey Homestead . Frontispiece 
 
 Out in the Field 6 
 
 Where the Meadow Grass is High (Quentin 
 Roosevelt) 13 
 
 In the Strawberry Patch (Archie Roosevelt) 39 
 Where the Brown Wood Robins Sing . .57 
 
 XV 
 
FOREV/ORD 
 
 Miss Youngs writes of the quaint, old- 
 time Long Island life, of which not only 
 her father and I, but she herself and my 
 children, were part. It was not the life 
 of the ''summer resident." It was the life 
 of those who lived winter and summer in 
 the simple, pleasant houses, beside the shore 
 or on the neighboring hills of the northern 
 Long Island country. It is a lovely country. 
 The coast line of the Sound is broken by 
 cove and bay, and the salt marshes alternate 
 with low tree-covered bluffs, and beach 
 plums and bayberries and beach rosemary 
 grow on the stretches of white sand. Back 
 of the coast line come meadows and 
 orchards, and in the rolling lands behind 
 are pastures, and many ponds, and very 
 rarely a brook. 
 
 xvii 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 The people who dwelt on these farms or 
 who got their Hvelihood on the waters of 
 bay and Sound, came from a stock which 
 had been on the island for nearly three cen- 
 turies. The life was what they had them- 
 selves developed. They had no traditions 
 of any other. Their roots had been in the 
 soil for generations. 
 
 It is with this life that Miss Youngs deals 
 in her charming little poems, which tell of 
 the work and the play of both grown-ups 
 and children. Naturally they appeal very 
 strongly to me ; for I love the Long Island 
 fields and woods, at all seasons ; at the high 
 tide of the year when the green foam of 
 spring breaks into the deeper green of sum- 
 mer; and at the time of the glory of the 
 sharp fall weather; and again when the 
 bleak days are shortest and winter grips the 
 land. And I love the old houses, from 
 kitchen to garret, and the life that was once 
 lived in them. 
 
 I hope these poems will also appeal to 
 others ; for our life was essentially the same 
 xviii 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 as all the old-fashioned life lived elsewhere 
 in the open country; and this was funda- 
 mentally a simple and a wholesome life. 
 
 Theodore Roosevelt. 
 
 Sagamore Hill, 
 August 15th, 1918. 
 
 XIX 
 
WHEN WE WERE LITTLE 
 
KATIE 
 
 THERE is no one like Katie that ever 
 I saw, 
 For she makes all my dresses and hats, 
 She knows ail about flowers, and the queer- 
 looking stones, 
 And she helps me find names for the cats. 
 
 When I'm sick, she takes care of me, day- 
 times and nights. 
 
 And she knows how to drive like a man, 
 
 And she knows how to row, and she knows 
 how to sail. 
 
 And catch fiddlers for bait in a can. 
 
 She tells wonderful stories of horses and 
 
 things, 
 And a crow that she had for a pet, 
 And her beau is named Peter, but lucky 
 
 for me. 
 He hasn't come after her yet. 
 3 
 
KATIE 
 
 Vm afraid I'm too big for a regular nurse, 
 But she'll stay with me, always, I hope. 
 For I love her forever, although when I'm 
 
 bad 
 She washes my mouth out with soap. 
 
WEEK-DAYS 
 
 EVERY morning I go out 
 To see what Celia is about; 
 Then I go outdoors to see 
 What the weather's g'wine to be — 
 Then I go to feed the cats, 
 Then Grandma chases me with hats 
 And overshoes, to keep me dry. 
 Then I get away, and I 
 Run as quickly as I can 
 To go and help that nice hired man — 
 (Frank's his name) and from the mows 
 We pitch down hay to feed the cows. 
 I help him fill the mangers full — 
 Feed apples to old Bill the Bull 
 Who stands so quietly in his stall 
 And never chases me at all. 
 Then I go and feed the big 
 Grunting, rooting mother pig, 
 
 5 
 
IVEEK-DAYS 
 
 And all the little pigs get out 
 
 And scamper madly all about; 
 
 Then I feed the ducks, and then 
 
 Back to Celia go again, 
 
 And if she's making cake, you know, 
 
 Why, then I steal a piece of dough, 
 
 And when she chases me away 
 
 I go out in the field and play. 
 
 After dinner, now and then, 
 
 I go back to the barn again. 
 
 Or sometimes for a drive I go. 
 
 Or Katie takes me for a row, 
 
 Then I come back and have my tea — 
 
 Then, sometimes, Grandpa reads to me. 
 
 Then, off to bed — Now don't you say 
 
 I have an awful busy day? 
 
SUNDAY 
 
 SUNDAY is such a different day 
 From all the other days — 
 I do such different kinds of things 
 And play such different plays. 
 Up to the queer old Chapel, first. 
 To Sunday-school I go, 
 And there learn Bible stories 
 Which I already know. 
 
 Then sevVal miles to church we drive 
 All in our Sunday things — 
 Across the graves and out to sea 
 The cheerful church-bell rings. 
 We sit so far toward the front 
 We never dare be late — 
 I love to hear my Grandpa sing 
 And see him pass the plate. 
 7 
 
SUNDAY 
 
 And when it comes to sermon-time 
 
 Which I can't understand, 
 
 I watch the window where the Christ 
 
 Looks down, with Hfted hand; 
 
 I look across the shining bay 
 
 All crinkled with the breeze. 
 
 And up into the still, blue sky. 
 
 And flowering locust trees. 
 
 And after we have gone back home 
 
 And dinner all is done, 
 
 Then I would like to go and play 
 
 And have a little fun, 
 
 But Grandma says ''No games to-day !"- 
 
 — Then Katie comes, and we 
 
 Go out for hours among the woods 
 
 To see what we can see. 
 
 And sometimes it is windflowers, 
 And sometimes bloodroot white. 
 And sometimes it is arbutus 
 Half hidden out of sight. 
 And sometimes it is puddingstones 
 And sometimes velvet moss — 
 8 
 
 I 
 
SUNDAY 
 
 But always we are happy there 
 And never come back cross. 
 
 Then, after tea we read awhile, 
 And when I've gone to bed — 
 When I am safely tucked away 
 And all my prayers are said, 
 Katie upstairs, and Grandpa down. 
 They both begin to sing. 
 And as I drift away to sleep 
 I hear their voices ring — 
 
 "From Greenland's Icy Mountains,' 
 ''Nearer, My God, to Thee," 
 "The Church's One Foundation," 
 "Jesus Loves Even Me" — 
 And that's the very last I hear. 
 And this is why I say 
 I like my Sundays different 
 From any other day! 
 
GRANDMA'S GAMES 
 
 GRANDMA declares she's very old- 
 A hundred, if the truth were told- 
 But I don't think she is at all, 
 For winter evenings, in the hall, 
 When I am lonesome, after tea. 
 She plays such lovely games with me, 
 And if she were that old, I know 
 She couldn't play — she'd be too slow — 
 But up and down the room we go: 
 
 "Come Philander, let's be a-marching, 
 Everyone his true love a-searching — 
 If you cannot find your lover. 
 Turn again, and take another." 
 
 And sometimes, when she's feeling spry. 
 She likes to run, and so do I, 
 So all across the hall we fly: 
 
 "I'm on Dixie's land — • 
 Dixie isn't home — 
 Dixie's got a sore toe. 
 And he can't come!" 
 10 
 
GRANDMA'S GAMES 
 
 And oh! the nicest game we play 
 
 Is much too good for every day, 
 
 For sometimes (Grandpa helps us, too,) 
 
 We play all "Cinderella" through! 
 
 But Grandma says I'm sure to find 
 
 A real step-mother would be kind. 
 
 So when she's cruel, we always say: 
 
 "A real one wouldn't act that way." 
 
 And when the shining prince comes in. 
 
 Then the exciting times begin — 
 
 And after all the slipper fuss, 
 
 Then Grandpa has to marry us; 
 
 Grandma's the prince; she takes my hand, 
 
 And very solemnly we stand. 
 
 While Grandpa, with an awful frown, 
 
 A broomstick on the floor puts down. 
 
 And Grandma and her blushing bride. 
 
 We jump that broomstick, side by side, 
 
 While Grandpa thus the knot has tied: 
 
 "Follow the old Colonial Law, 
 And marry the Injun to the squaw !" 
 
 And Winter evenings after tea. 
 Wouldn't you like to come and see 
 The games my Grandma plays with me? 
 II 
 
THE FOUR SEASONS 
 
 OW is the time when the marshes ring 
 
 With the peeper's bell-Hke song of 
 
 Spring, 
 
 And the weeping willows begin to show 
 
 A green-gold fringe, and the pale shad-blow 
 
 Stands like a ghost, in the Schoolhouse 
 
 Woods, 
 And the skunk-cabbage shows its purple 
 
 hoods. 
 And the pussy-willows their silver sheen. 
 The far hills are veiled in a haze of green, 
 On the northern hillsides, close to the 
 
 ground, 
 The fairy arbutus may be found, 
 And the sun dances over a laughing bay, 
 And I take my coat off, when I play. 
 
 12 
 

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THE FOUR SEASONS 
 
 The sun is as hot as hot can be, 
 And it draws the scent from the big box-tree 
 Where I have my playhouse. Old Irish Hes 
 Out on the porch, and snaps at flies. 
 The locusts sing in the maple trees, 
 And the leaves just move in the weary breeze, 
 And out where the meadow grass is high 
 The mowing machine goes whirring by. 
 And the shutters are shut, so the sitting 
 
 room 
 Is a place of cool, sweet-scented gloom, 
 With the smell of the bowl of mignonette 
 And heliotrope, on the table set — 
 And under the blazing sun, the bay 
 Lies as still as glass, through the long, still 
 
 day. 
 
 3. Attfumn 
 
 The chestnuts are dropping, one by one — 
 Down in the garden, the flowers are done. 
 The apples are heaped in the cider mill, 
 And the evenings fall with a sudden chill. 
 13 
 
THE FOUR SEASONS 
 
 The leaves lie thickly along the street, 
 And I love to kick them beneath my feet, 
 The maples are crimson, and pink, and gold. 
 And the crows alongshore are growing bold. 
 And from over the hills and far away 
 A cold wind ruffles the steel-blue bay. 
 
 4. Wmttv 
 
 The back of the house Is banked about 
 With salt hay, to keep the North Wind out, 
 And if Grandmother lets me go out at all 
 She wraps me up in the big old shawl. 
 The apple orchard is gray and bare. 
 With a wizzled apple, here and there ; 
 Sometimes the ground with snow is white. 
 And sometimes hard and frozen tight — 
 Ice on the pond and everywhere, — 
 And you see your breath in the frosty air. 
 And in the evenings. Grandpa sits 
 And reads to Grandma, while she knits — 
 And all the boats are put away 
 From off the dark and icy bay. 
 
 14 
 
SHELLING PEAS 
 
 HEAR the peas go tinkling 
 Like raindrops in the pan! 
 Get the bottom covered 
 As quickly as you can — 
 All of us together 
 As busy as the bees — 
 Ain't it fun, when Aunty 
 Let's us shell the peas! 
 
 Keep the pods together 
 
 In a tidy pile, 
 
 We'll feed 'em to the chickens 
 
 In a little while — 
 
 Now we've done a panful 
 
 As quick as you could sneeze — 
 
 Haven't we helped splendid. 
 
 Shelling all those peas? 
 
 IS 
 
THE GARRET 
 
 UP in the garret the roof comes down 
 So low that I bump my head, 
 And a curious smell of dust and wasps 
 From under the eaves is shed. 
 
 The rafters are rough with the marks of 
 
 the ax 
 And the shingles curl with age, 
 And on hooks here and there, great bunches 
 
 hang 
 Of catnip, and thyme, and sage. 
 
 There are bags of flax, there are candle 
 
 moulds, 
 A reel, and a hetchling bench. 
 And beds that are corded across with ropes 
 Screwed up with a queer old wrench. 
 i6 
 
THE GARRET 
 
 Two big wool wheels, and three for flax, 
 And a bookcase of strange brown books — 
 And bags and bags full of clothes and rags 
 Swing down from the handwrought hooks. 
 
 I like to go up there when Aunty goes 
 
 But not by myself, at all, 
 
 For wasps and mice — yes, and rats ! — might 
 
 come 
 From down by the chimney wall. 
 
 But when Aunty goes, then I tag behind 
 And play I am very bold, 
 And I spend whole mornings in finding out 
 What the chests and the ragbags hold. 
 
 T7 
 
GETTING DRESSED 
 
 GRANDPA has harnessed Jack and Bob 
 Up to the Rockaway — 
 We're going to Matinecock 
 To spend the day. 
 Grandma has on her grenadine, 
 And Katie's after me 
 To dress me up. I know too well 
 What tJiafll be! 
 
 I'll have my shoes with shiny toes, 
 
 And my new summer hat, 
 
 And a clean dress, but that's no harm — 
 
 I don't mind that! 
 
 I like my dress, and pretty sash, 
 
 I think they're perfect dears, 
 
 I don't mind clothes, but how I hate 
 
 To wash my ears! 
 
 i8 
 
THE DEAR OLD GRAN* 
 
 THE dear old Gran' is very black, 
 And Mar'gret is her name — 
 I wouldn't care if she was pink, 
 I'd love her just the same! 
 She takes me up into her lap, 
 And calls me "po' Miss Mame." 
 
 The dear old Gran' makes ginger cakes 
 And sugar cookies too. 
 She lets me help her grease the pans 
 And stick a broomstraw through 
 The cakes, to see if they are done. 
 I love her; wouldn't you? 
 
 The dear old Gran' ties up her head 
 In a white turban thing. 
 She wears long-sleeved red flannel shirts 
 Both Summer-time and Spring, 
 Because of mis'ry in her back 
 Which hurts like anything. 
 19 
 
THE DEAR OLD GRAN' 
 
 The dear old Gran' gets awful cross 
 
 If I forget to show 
 
 All my new clo'es, and shoes, and hats, 
 
 It hurts her feeHn's so — 
 
 She says ''Miss Mame is gittin' proud''- 
 
 But she knows better, though. 
 
 The dear old Gran* is very old — 
 
 She says she has a plan 
 
 To go away and leave us soon — 
 
 I don't see how she can! 
 
 I don't see quite how we could live 
 
 Without the dear old Gran'! 
 
 20 
 
THE HIGH TIDES 
 
 OST every Autumn, when the storm 
 They call the ''Line storm" comes, 
 With howling wind, and slanting rain 
 That on the tin roof drums. 
 Grandpa comes in the north-side door 
 And slams it with a pull, 
 And shakes himself, and stamps, and says, 
 
 "Well, Tom, the cellar's full." 
 
 Oh, then what fun! — at least, for me — 
 
 The rest are not so glad — 
 
 They do not like the cellar full. 
 
 It seems to make them mad — 
 
 So Grandpa gets his rubber boots 
 
 And Uncle Tom gets lights. 
 
 And Frank gets washtubs, and they go 
 
 To ''set the place to rights." 
 
 I sit upon the cellar stairs. 
 And watch them splash around — 
 You see, the tide comes washing In, 
 And soaks up through the ground, 
 
 21 
 
THE HIGH TIDES 
 
 And makes our cellar like a lake 
 With everything afloat, 
 So in a washtub each man sits 
 And paddles like a boat! 
 
 They sail around securing things — 
 I watch their lanterns glow, 
 Up in the dark, and then again 
 Reflected down below. 
 They look like pirates in a cave 
 Upon a lake of ink — 
 Wouldn't I like to scuttle Frank 
 And make his washtub sink! 
 
 But on the steps I quietly sit 
 
 And watch them bump around, 
 
 And play it is a flooded mine. 
 
 Or robbers underground, 
 
 And when they've rescued everything 
 
 From off the cellar floor. 
 
 The washtub fleet turns home again 
 
 And paddles safe to shore! 
 
 22 
 
THE SQUEAKY CHAIR 
 
 A QUEER old rocking-chair there 
 stands 
 Right by my Httle bed, 
 It has a cover on the back 
 With yellow flowers, and red, 
 And when I have been very good 
 And said my prayers all right 
 I go to Katie, and I say — 
 "Rock me to sleep, to-night?" 
 
 (Fm awful big to rock to sleep, 
 Fm nearly half-past five.) 
 Then Katie says 'Why, Baby's back, 
 As sure as I'm alive!" 
 But then she takes me on her lap, 
 Although my legs hang down, 
 And laughs, and says **Now, Baby dear, 
 We're off to Sleepy Town!" 
 23 
 
THE SQUEAKY CHAIR 
 
 "Eenk — awnk, eenk — awnk,'* the old chair 
 
 goes, 
 It has an awful squeak. 
 *'Eenk — awnk, eenk — awnk.'* I try to talk, 
 But I — forget — to — speak. 
 "Eenk — awnk, eenk — awnk," the old chair 
 
 says. 
 From some place far and deep 
 I hear it call "Eenk — aw^nk — eenk — 
 
 awnk " 
 
 And then 
 
 I 
 go 
 to 
 
 sleep. 
 
 (Published in The Wildman Magazine.) 
 
 24 
 
CLOUD CASTLES 
 
 I LIE on my back, looking up at the sky 
 And watch all the different clouds go by, 
 And wherever they wander, they seem to 
 
 grow 
 Like the towns and the country down below„ 
 
 One is a church with a steeple tall, 
 And one is a castle, with ruined wall. 
 One is a mountain, and one a tree — 
 Or that is the way they look to me. 
 
 And there, v/here a bit of the sky shows 
 
 through. 
 Is a valley, that holds a lake of blue; 
 And that tiniest cloud, that goes so fast 
 Is a wee little boat, a-sailing past. 
 
 I could lie on my back in the grass all day, 
 And watch while the clouds fly by in play — 
 I wonder if children I cannot see 
 Lie up in the clouds and look down at me? 
 25 
 
THE WISE PLAYMATE 
 
 HLIKE to play by my lonesome self, 
 Because I know how to play — 
 And when other children come around 
 I have to show them the way. 
 
 I can be a princess with golden hair. 
 And a jailer, cruel and grim, 
 And as for the prince, you'd better believe 
 I know jiist how to act like him! 
 
 I talk to myself, and scare the cook, 
 Because I know what to say — 
 The other children say stupid things 
 Not at all in the story way. 
 
 I can be a soldier, all full of cuts. 
 And a doctor to sew him up, 
 And a pretty nurse, in a snowy cap 
 With medicine in a cup. 
 26 
 
THE WISE PLAYMATE 
 
 So I play by myself, and talk to myself. 
 And when I am grown quite big 
 I shall be a cook, and a captain bold 
 Like the crew of the "Nancy'* brig! 
 
 27 
 
MY CATS 
 
 S GUESS I have pretty considerable cats — 
 I can't quite remember 'em all — 
 For two or three couple o' kittens are wild, 
 And hide in a hole in the wall. 
 
 There*s Bupsy, the yellow one, tags me 
 
 around 
 Like a dog on the end of a string; 
 And Little Me-Eye I have tried hard to 
 
 train. 
 But I can't teach that kitten a thing! 
 
 And Big Tige is no kind of father to have, 
 For he chased Little Tige up a tree, 
 And clawed the poor thing on the end of 
 
 his tail 
 Till he really was awful to see! 
 28 
 
MY CATS 
 
 Then Dixie, he lives with the chickens and 
 
 ducks, 
 And Pussina White sleeps on my bed, 
 And then in the ice house there's six or 
 
 nine more — 
 But Norval, the cross one, is dead. 
 
 I think there are more, but I can't be quite 
 
 sure — 
 Aunty says there are "any am.ount" — 
 And they mostly sit 'round in the sun by 
 
 the shed 
 So I guess I'll go out there and count. 
 
 29 
 
THE BANTY HEN 
 
 THE banty hen is awful cross, 
 She picks like anything, 
 She takes the skin right off my legs, 
 And goodness! don't it sting! 
 And once, when I was kneeling down, 
 She grabbed me by the nose, 
 And maybe you don't think that hurt! — 
 — She's nervous, I suppose. 
 
 And if you do a gentle dance, 
 And shuffle with your feet. 
 She dances, too, a regular jig 
 You'd find it hard to beat 
 She waves her wings, and spreads her toes, 
 And prances up and down, 
 And picks, and picks your shoes and legs. 
 And pulls you by the gown. 
 30 
 
THE BANTY HEN 
 
 She hides her eggs 'most anywhere — 
 
 I steal 'em, when I'm bad, 
 
 And mix 'em up to make mud pies, 
 
 Which makes the hired man mad. 
 
 He wants a clutch of banty chicks. 
 
 And, really, I do, too. 
 
 But I can't seem to help but steal 
 
 Those cunnin' eggs — could you? 
 
 But if I leave the eggs alone 
 
 (I'll do it, if I can) 
 
 Or, if I take them, one by one, 
 
 To Frank, the nice hired man, 
 
 I'll have a lot of banty hens 
 
 From out those cunnin' eggs — 
 
 But oh! suppose they all should take 
 
 To pickin' my poor legs! 
 
 31 
 
THE CORN-SHELLER 
 
 THE corn-crib stands on four tall legs, 
 As high as I can reach — 
 An old tin pan, turned upside down. 
 Is on the top of each. 
 
 No rats nor mice can clamber up 
 Across those guardian tins, 
 And oh! the glories you will find 
 Within the safe-kept bins! 
 
 Crimson and gold the long ears lie, 
 And through the cracks and chinks 
 In dazzling streaks across the piles 
 The winter sunlight blinks. 
 
 And in the sheller, ear by ear, 
 The hired man lets me drop 
 The corn, while he turns 'round the wheel. 
 And never lets it stop. 
 32 
 
THE CORN-SHELLER 
 
 Oh, how can anyone be cross, 
 
 Or sit around and mourn, 
 
 When they could have a nice hired man 
 
 And help him shell the corn! 
 
 33 
 
THE BOAT HOUSE 
 
 HOT summer sun, and a smell of tar, 
 Little bare feet on a sandy floor, 
 Oars, and nets, and a half-done spar. 
 And the harbor shining outside the door. 
 
 Glorious corners for hide-and-seek — 
 Glorious dunnage stowed away — 
 Oar-locks, pulleys, and bits of rope — 
 Just the things for a youngster's play. 
 
 Golden sun on the living green 
 Of the salt thatch waving along the beach, 
 Wash of the ripples, and gleam of sails, 
 And the oystermen shouting each to each. 
 
 And you fall asleep on a ragged seine, 
 And dream you're afloat on a summer sea. 
 Or sailing your ship on the Spanish Main- 
 Till Grandmother wakes you in time for tea. 
 34 
 
CAP'N 
 
 [OW Captain, he's the rooster. 
 But Cap'n's a different thing — 
 AH me and Captain ever do 
 Is sit around and sing, 
 But Cap'n, he's the nicest man 
 That ever dug a clam, 
 And everywhere that Cap'n goes 
 I follow like a lamb. 
 
 Cap'n, he wears big rubber boots. 
 
 And rows around the bay, 
 
 And sails our boat, and runs our launch 
 
 To pass his time away — 
 
 He never seems a busy man 
 
 Although he works so hard — 
 
 He always stops and talks to me 
 
 When I am in the yard. 
 
 35 
 
CAP'N 
 
 He knows the way you ought to tie 
 
 A thousand kinds of knots; 
 
 He lets me dabble all around 
 
 His paint and varnish pots; 
 
 He lets me help him paint the boats, 
 
 And stuff the cracks with oakum, 
 
 And when I smashed the oars, he laughed, 
 
 And never told I broke 'em. 
 
 And when he goes to dig for clams 
 
 He lets me get a hoe 
 
 And fill my own small kettle full 
 
 And don't I love to go! 
 
 While Captain — well, he's very nice 
 
 But then he's not a man. 
 
 And can't amuse me quite as well 
 
 As dear old Cap'n can! 
 
 36 
 
HORSEFOOT CRABBING 
 
 EN the golden sunset, when the shining bay 
 Lies as smooth as looking-glass at the 
 close of day, 
 Katie gets the oars out, Nellie gets the boat, 
 And off we go a-crabbing, three bold thieves 
 afloat ! 
 
 On her face lies Nellie, on the broad stern 
 
 seat, 
 With me, to keep her in-board, sitting on 
 
 her feet; 
 Katie does the rowing, Nellie dives and 
 
 grabs 
 Shoulder-deep in water, after horsefoot 
 
 crabs. 
 
 None of your side-traveling, common crabs 
 
 are these — 
 Like a big brown horse-shoe, they walk 
 straight off, with ease, 
 37 
 
HORSEFOOT CRABBING 
 
 And oh! their tails are lovely, spiky, long 
 
 and stiff, 
 Just the thing to grab them by, and land 
 
 them in the skiff! 
 
 They walk along the bottom, so dignified 
 
 and slow, 
 iA^nd in the shallow water we can see them 
 
 as they go. 
 And Nellie watches carefully, and hardly 
 
 ever fails 
 To reach them as they scuttle off, and catch 
 
 them by their tails. 
 
 When the bay grows silvery, and vanished 
 
 is the sun. 
 Home we go, like fisher-folk, all our labor 
 
 done — 
 Oh, pity the poor children who have never 
 
 known our bay. 
 Nor gone to fish for horsefoot crabs at 
 
 close of summer day! 
 
 38 
 
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THE STRAWBERRY PATCH 
 
 HEN Uncle is not looking — 
 The best of times, perhaps, 
 Is when the sun is high and hot, 
 For then he takes his naps — 
 I hurry to the garden gate, 
 And struggle with the latch, 
 And get inside, and scuttle quick 
 Down to the berry patch. 
 
 There grow the biggest berries 
 That ever yet were seen, 
 In long green rows, all orderly. 
 With salt hay in between. 
 And of all the ways to eat them 
 The very nicest way 
 Is to sit there in the broiling sun 
 Upon the sweet salt hay. 
 39 
 
THE STRAWBERRY PATCH 
 
 Perhaps you think cold strawberries 
 
 Are lovely, but they're not. 
 
 They're fifty thousand times as good 
 
 All sunny-sweet, and hot — 
 
 Yes, getting in the berry patch 
 
 Is quite the best of fun, 
 
 But oh! when Uncle sees me, 
 
 Don't I have to cut and run! 
 
 40 
 
THE WOODSHED ROOF 
 
 EF you are bold, and have no fear, 
 And hold adventure high and dear. 
 Oh, come and put it to the proof 
 A-sliding down the woodshed roof! 
 
 You first shin up a pile of wood, 
 (I hope your gathering strings are good!) 
 'And, if you reach the top alive, 
 Upon a flat roof you arrive. 
 
 There you may stop, and breathe a space 
 Upon that lovely resting place. 
 And then you scrabble, claw and crawl 
 Up to the tip- top roof of all! 
 
 I find it is a noble plan 
 To wear my rubbers when I can — 
 I hate 'em, every other time. 
 But my! how nice they help you climb! 
 41 
 
THE WOODSHED ROOF 
 
 Then you sit down, right at the top. 
 
 . . . Then, the first thing you know, you 
 
 stop! 
 Bang! where you started from before! 
 , . . Then you crawl up, and slide some 
 
 more. 
 
 Then Grandma says in grave reproof, 
 "You've been a-sliding down the roof!'* 
 How do you b'lieve my Grandma knows? 
 — She tells it by my underclo'es! 
 
 (Published in The Housekeeper.) 
 
 42 
 
KEEWAYDIN 
 
 ^VER the hills, 
 
 And across the bay 
 The wind is blowing 
 
 The fog away — 
 Over the harbor 
 
 The white-caps foam — 
 And the Nor'-West Wind 
 
 Brings the sea-gulls home. 
 
 The pines are roaring 
 
 A windy song, 
 And the gusts are blowing 
 
 The leaves along, 
 The sky is the bluest 
 
 That ever was seen — 
 The Nor'-West Wind 
 
 Sweeps the whole world clean. 
 
 43 
 
KEEWAYDIN' 
 
 The white-caps fly 
 
 Like fairy ships, 
 And the salt of the spray 
 
 Is on my Hps — 
 Of all God's winds 
 
 I love the best 
 The Home-Wind, blowing 
 
 From sheer Nor'-West! 
 
 44 
 
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 
 
 ^UT in the swamp where the lilies 
 bloom — 
 
 The tall red lilies like fairy fire — 
 And where the flag-flowers are blue in 
 
 spring, 
 That is the Land of Heart's Desire. 
 
 There in the brook there are speckled trout, 
 And holes where my feet go sinking down. 
 Shining, pebbly, shallow rifts, 
 And pools and binnikills, still and brown. 
 
 Then there are spots that you have to jump, 
 And fat green hummocks on which to 
 
 land — 
 Waving cat-tails, and meadow pinks, 
 And pussy-willows on either hand. 
 45 
 
THE LAND OF HEARTS DESIRE 
 
 And somewhere a black-snake as big as me 
 (Or very nearly) has made his den — 
 And when I remember that he is there 
 Oh, how I run to get home again! 
 
 But I mostly forget him. I love my swamp 
 Where the cardinal flowers lift their slender 
 
 fire — 
 Grandmother says it's a dirty hole, 
 But / call it my Land of Heart's Desire. 
 
 46 
 
THE BLACKSMITH 
 
 BESIDE the little brook that flows 
 Through my Land of Heart's Desire 
 The blacksmith has his grimy shop, 
 And tends his glowing hre — 
 The shop has such a funny smell 
 Of hot iron, hoofs and smoke 
 I really think the blacksmith can't 
 Be quite like other folk. 
 
 There all day long the horses stamp 
 And farmers come and go. 
 And all day long, among the sparks 
 The red-hot horse shoes glow — 
 I shouldn't think a horse would like 
 His shoes nailed to his toes. 
 But Grandpa says it doesn't hurt, 
 And Grandpa always knows. 
 47 
 
THE BLACKSMITH 
 
 Some times the blacksmith hammers out 
 
 iA! ringing, shining tire, 
 
 And rolls it in my sparkling brook 
 
 To cool it from the fire, 
 
 And sometimes Grandpa stops with me 
 
 When we are driving 'round, 
 
 And makes him look at Midget's shoes, 
 
 And give the nails a pound. 
 
 The blacksmith is the dirtiest! 
 
 His face is never clean. 
 
 His hands, his apron, and his shirt 
 
 The blackest ever seen. 
 
 But Sundays, what do you suppose? 
 
 In church I often see 
 
 The blacksmith, dressed in real man's 
 
 clo'es. 
 As clean as he can be! 
 
 48 
 
THE GARDEN FLOWERS 
 
 THE first little flowers that I' find in 
 Spring 
 Are the Bluebells — I listen to hear them 
 
 ring, 
 But they never seem to. And next I see 
 White Violets, down by the chestnut tree — 
 Then come Daffodils, gay and tall. 
 And Sea-Pinks, all over the low stone 
 
 wall — 
 Then, in the garden, when Summer comes, 
 When the fairy humming-bird whirs and 
 
 hums, 
 Come Johnny-jump-ups, and Roses, too, 
 And sweet Clove Pinks, and the Larkspur 
 
 blue, 
 And the Lady's Slippers, whose funny seeds 
 Go pop! when you pinch them. Among the 
 
 weeds 
 
 49 
 
THE GARDEN FLOWERS 
 
 By the Seckel pear tree, the Mandrakes 
 
 grow, 
 And over the fence Nasturtiums glow, 
 And every flower that a perfume sheds 
 Grows thick and sweet in the long, straight 
 
 beds; 
 And backwards and forwards between the 
 
 rows, 
 With her basket and scissors, my Aunty 
 
 goes — 
 Then Artemisias, the last of all 
 Bloom golden and brown in the frosty Fall. 
 
 50 
 
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 
 
 FROM the top of the Bluff, where the 
 wind blows free, 
 Clear out to the edge of the world I see. 
 And I look and look, till my eyes grow dim. 
 But I can't see what lies over the rim! 
 
 I see the steamers go In towards town; 
 I watch the schooners sail slowly down — 
 Down out of sight, and far away — 
 Oh ! I shall sail over the rim, some day. 
 
 Over the rim, and far beyond, 
 
 To Hong-Kong, and Bagdad, and Treb- 
 
 izond. 
 And Ceylon's Isle, where the breezes blow, 
 And the Happy Harbor, where good 
 
 ships go. 
 
 51 
 
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 
 
 ■And it may be bad, or it may be fair, 
 And I may come back, or I may stay there, 
 But one thing is sure — be it gay or grim, 
 Some day — some day — I must cross that 
 rim! 
 
 52 
 
"CHRISTMAS BY THE SEA" 
 
 N Christmas Eve we always go 
 Through frost and cold, through ice 
 and snow 
 Down to the church, and there we see 
 Oh! such a shining Christmas tree! 
 
 In front of it, a manger low — 
 Like that in Bethlehem, you know. 
 And there we put our gifts and toys 
 For all the orphan girls and boys. 
 
 And then the sweet loud bell is rung, 
 And prayers and carols said and sung. 
 Then come our presents off the tree — 
 And then comes "Christmas by the Sea!" 
 
 No other children ever sing 
 Our song of sailors wandering; 
 They do not know it, far away, 
 But only here, beside the Bay. 
 
 53 
 
"CHRISTMAS BY THE SEA" 
 
 It is a little song which tells 
 How we have Christmas lights and bells. 
 But how, at sea, each lonely bark 
 Sails on in silence, and the dark. 
 
 But how, by riverside and Bay 
 And everywhere, 'tis Christmas Day, 
 And even sailors, far at sea 
 Remember Christmas happily. 
 
 Then homeward, through the frosty air 
 Beneath a clear, cold Heaven, where 
 The still, bright stars are shining down 
 As once they shone o'er Bethlehem town- 
 And oh! I love the Christmas tree 
 And our own Christmas, by the sea. 
 
 54 
 
THE PLAYMATE OF NAZARETH 
 
 LITTLE Lord Jesus, Who used to play 
 With the children of Nazareth every 
 day, 
 Look down from Heaven, oh Playmate 
 
 mild. 
 And hear the prayers of a little child. 
 
 As You used to help Your dear father work 
 Teach my little fingers not to shirk 
 And as You used to play when Your work 
 
 was done, 
 Be near, and watch over my work and fun. 
 
 You know all the woes of a little lad, 
 
 So help me and comfort me when I am 
 
 sad — 
 But You used to be laughing and cheerful, 
 
 too, 
 So make me a happy child. Lord, like You. 
 
 55 
 
THE PLAYMATE OF NAZARETH 
 
 Little Lord Jesus, Who played, like me, 
 On the shore by the lake in Galilee, 
 Take care of a little child I pray, 
 And help me remember You every day. 
 
 (Published in The Evening Mail Saturday Magazine.) 
 
 56 
 
THE GRAPE-VINE SWING 
 
 THE leaves are green above my head, 
 And brown beneath my feet 
 Where they have lain for years and years, 
 A carpet deep and sweet, 
 The sunshine sprinkles through the boughs 
 And brown wood-robins sing, 
 While I go sweeping through the air 
 On the wild-grapevine swing. 
 
 The long, straight cable dangles down 
 From a tall chestnut tree — 
 It's plenty strong enough to hold 
 A heavy girl like me — 
 I grab it tight with both my hands 
 And wrap my legs around, 
 And like a pendulum I swing, 
 Far, far above the ground. 
 57 
 
THE GRAPE-VINE SWING 
 
 I push off from a little hill 
 
 And sway out from the slope — 
 
 Not like a quickly-flying swing" 
 
 Made out of boards and rope, 
 
 But out — far out — a long, slow sweep 
 
 The great vine makes, until 
 
 It stops, and brings me slowly back 
 
 To touch the little hill. 
 
 Sunlight, green leaves, and shadows dance, 
 And sweet wood-robins sing. 
 While I sway, dreaming to and fro 
 On the wild grape-vine swing. 
 
 S8 
 
THE DEAR PEOPLE 
 
 THERE'S Aunty Baker, who always 
 makes 
 Dear little scallopy patty-pan cakes 
 Just as cunnin' as they can be, 
 And puts pink sugar on top, for me ! 
 Nicholas Bennett, bent and gray 
 Goes to his garden every day 
 Up the Cove, with his stout old cane, 
 And I trot with him along the lane. 
 Katherine comes to our house and cleans, 
 Bunches asparagus, shells the beans — 
 Anything, almost, she can do! 
 And she tells me tales about Ireland, too. 
 Teddy Regan, he goes to sea 
 And he brought a parrot home to me, 
 And a bag made of wonderful knotted 
 
 strings. 
 And a sandal-wood box for my sewing 
 
 things. 
 
 59 
 
THE DEAR PEOPLE 
 
 When I have sick and sorry days 
 
 Dear Mrs. Townsend comes and stays, 
 
 And hugs me up close against her breiast 
 
 Until I forget the ache, and rest. 
 
 And then Frank Hall knows how to tap 
 
 The maple trees, to get the sap 
 
 And lets me have some, so I can 
 
 Boil syrup in my little pan. 
 
 Oh, there are dozens more I love — 
 
 Katrina Carll, from up the Cove; 
 
 The three black ''Aunties," tall and fine, 
 
 Aunt Julia and Aunt Caroline 
 
 And plump Aunt Gusta — and all three 
 
 Always so good and kind to me; 
 
 Cap'n John Hawx (but oh, disgrace! 
 
 He will swear when he sails a race!) — 
 
 I can't begin to tell you, though, 
 
 All the dear people that I know, 
 
 But I remember every name 
 
 And love them dearly, just the same! 
 
 60 
 
COUSIN ARNOLD'S MILL 
 
 SOMETIMES with Grandfather I go 
 Up past the schoolhouse hill 
 And down along the little lane 
 To Cousin Arnold's mill, 
 And while they talk of grown-up things 
 Like "middhn's," *'grist," and ''bran," 
 I run to see the mill-wheel turn 
 As quickly as I can. 
 
 Along beneath the cool green trees 
 
 The cool green mill stream flows, 
 
 Then through a long gray wooden flume 
 
 Down to the wheel it goes; 
 
 The wheel is green with shining moss 
 
 And fringed with tiny ferns, 
 
 And glittering drops of silver spray 
 
 Fly from it as it turns. 
 
 I love to hear it turn and turn 
 With gentle creak and drip — 
 6i 
 
COUSIN ARNOLD'S MILL 
 
 Then from the cool, and green, and quiet 
 
 Into the mill I slip, 
 
 And there — oh! such a whizz, and whirr. 
 
 And clatter, buzz, and jar. 
 
 Within the white, flour-dusted room 
 
 Where the great mill-stones are! 
 
 The whirring belts fly, overhead; 
 
 The golden wheat runs down; 
 
 And at my feet the great gray stones 
 
 Grind steadily around, 
 
 And flour is over everything 
 
 Like fine, soft-powdered snow — 
 
 Why, even Cousin Arnold's clothes 
 
 Are wliite from top to toe! 
 
 When I grow up, it's hard to tell 
 What I would like to be — 
 Sometimes I think a blacksmith brave, 
 Sometimes a man at sea, 
 But when I think hoAV white the flour, 
 How cool the stream and still. 
 How swift the stones — I'd like to live 
 In Cousin Arnold's mill! 
 62 
 
THE YELLOW STAGE 
 
 EKNOW that in the city streets 
 Horse-cars go jingling up and down. 
 And omnibuses, green and gay, 
 Madly career about the town, 
 But I am sure that nowhere else 
 In this or any other age 
 Was there so grand a wagon seen 
 As Amos Boerum's yellow stage! 
 
 On every week-day, rain or shine, 
 
 (On Sundays, Amos goes to church) 
 
 To meet the early morning train 
 
 The stage starts off, with jolt and lurch, 
 
 With creak and rattle, bounce and bang, 
 
 Up the long street it makes its way — 
 
 The two old horses jog along. 
 
 The yellow paint shines brave and gay. 
 
 Then home again at noon it comes 
 Important with the daily mail, 
 
 63 
 
THE YELLOW STAGE 
 
 And back to meet the evening train — 
 
 Why, if the yellow stage should fail 
 
 The skies would fall, I'm very sure! 
 
 It matters not how hot the sun 
 
 How hard the rain, how deep the snow, 
 
 The yellow stage is sure to run! 
 
 But oh! upon the Glorious Fourth, 
 Comes its most splendid trip of all 
 For then the band, with fife and drum, 
 Blare of trombone, and bugle call, 
 Comes forth to celebrate the day 
 And makes a gorgeous pilgrimage 
 From house to house for miles around 
 In Amos Boerum's yellow stage! 
 
 Clash, clash the cymbals, beat the drums! 
 "Gem of the Ocean," how we roar! 
 "Star- Spangled Banner," how it floats 
 With horn and fife, from door to door! 
 Bang, bang the bass drum ! here she comes ! 
 Columbia's grandest equipage — 
 The spirit of our bravest brave 
 In Amos Boerum's yellow stage! 
 
 64 
 
DOWN THE BLUFF 
 
 SF you would prove that you are made 
 Of real true hero stuff 
 You go on Sunday afternoon 
 And run down Cooper's Bluff! 
 
 Across the fields where cedar trees 
 Stand up like grenadiers, 
 And through the woods, you take your way 
 In spite of secret fears. 
 
 You stand upon the Bluff's high edge, 
 While with a joyous roar 
 Down dash the bigger boys and girls 
 Who have been down before. 
 
 Far, far below the harbor shines, 
 It looks at least a mile, 
 You don't see hozv the others face 
 That prospect with a smile! 
 6s 
 
DOWN THE BLUFF 
 
 You wish you were that Oak Neck man 
 Who on a shovel sat 
 And coasted gaily down the Bluff! 
 You think you might do that! 
 
 You start. You jump. You plunge. You 
 
 hop. 
 At first you think you'll fall — 
 But then you gallop madly on — 
 It isn't bad at all! 
 
 And then on Sunday afternoons 
 You find it fun enough 
 To take new children out, to try 
 The run down Cooper's Bluff ! 
 
 66 
 
BED-TIME SONG 
 
 SHUT tight, Starry Eyes! 
 The stars are opening in the skies 
 And they will watch over the world, to- 
 night, 
 While you are hiding your amber light. 
 
 Rest, rest, Butterfly Hands! 
 
 The white moths are out in shimmering 
 
 bands, 
 And they will be busy among your flowers 
 While you are quiet for a few short hours. 
 
 Be still, Twinkling Feet! 
 
 The wind comes whirling along the street, 
 
 Into the East; out of the West — 
 
 He dances, while you lie still and rest. 
 
 And out, far out, on the wings of a dream, 
 Fly, Little Soul, like a white moon-gleam, 
 Till the sun comes out of his hole — and 
 
 then 
 Quick! Little Soul, come back again! 
 
 67 
 
IN THE COVE 
 
 THERE'S a hill above the harbor 
 Which ebbs and flows beneath it 
 there — 
 A small hill, a grassy hill, 
 The path is rough and steep; 
 The pine-trees sing above it, 
 And creeping vines enwreath it there — 
 The little quiet hilltop 
 Where the Colonel lies asleep. 
 
 The circling seagulls v^heel above 
 When winter gales blow over it; 
 The song-birds build their nests there, 
 And rabbits run and play; 
 The locust-trees drop scented flowers, 
 And moss and myrtle cover it, 
 And the wind brings whiffs of sea-salt 
 From the white-caps on the bay. 
 68 
 
IN THE COVE 
 
 Close, close within the heart of home 
 
 The soldier lays him down at last; 
 
 Deep in the quiet Cove he loved 
 
 The hunter is at rest; 
 
 The Heart of all the Nation sleeps 
 
 Upon our tiny hill at last, 
 
 While all the trumpets sound for him 
 
 Beyond the shining West. 
 
 (Printed in the Outlook for March 5. iQip) 
 THE END 
 
 69 
 
I