When Mother drops things on the floor,
My father asks me: “Who
Should always pick them up for her?”
And so I always do.
He says I haven’t far to reach
And that a gentleman
Must do things for his Mother
And be helpful as he can.
But Mother bends down just the same,—
She has to, don’t you see?
For after she’s said “Thank you, dear,”
She stoops and kisses me.
There’s a time to run and a time to walk;
There’s a time for silence, a time for talk;
There’s a time for work and a time for play;
There’s a time for sleep at the close of day.
There’s a time for everything you do,
For children and for grown-ups, too.
A time to stand up and a time to sit,—
But see that the time and actions fit.
Umbrellas and rubbers
You never forget,
Whenever it’s raining
Or snowy or wet;
But if it should clear up,
While you are away,
Please bring them back home
For the next rainy day.
“Do not whisper” is a rule
You will find in every school,
And the reason here is given
In a rhyme:
For children all will chatter
About any little matter—
And there’d be a dreadful clatter,
All the time!
RECESS
The romping boys
Make lots of noise,
And run and jump and laugh and shout,
While here and there,
With quiet air,
The girls in couples walk about.
A game begins,
But no one wins,
Although they play with might and main,
For long before
The game is o’er
The bell rings out for school again.
AFTER SCHOOL
Although we like to go to school,
We’re rather glad to put away
Our books and slates and other things,
When it is over for the day.
And off we go to play and romp,
While teacher, who is good and kind,
Is left behind all by herself—
But then, perhaps, she doesn’t mind.
MONDAY’S LESSONS
Study them well on Friday,
For it’s much the better way,
Because when once they’re finished
You’ve all Saturday for play.
No matter where we children are
We run in answer to the bell,
And dinner comes in piping hot;
It makes us hungry just to smell.
Poor Father sharpens up his knife,
And carves with all his might and main;
But long before he’s had a bite
Our Willie’s plate comes back again.
We eat our vegetables and meat,
For Mother, who is always right,
Says those who wish to have dessert,
Must show they have an appetite.
And when a Sunday comes around,
So very, very good we seem,
You’d think ’most any one could tell
That for dessert we’d have ice-cream.
VALOR.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
There isn’t any giant
Within this forest grim,
And if there were, I wouldn’t be
A bit afraid of him!
A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
My doll, my doll, my Annabel,
She’s really feeling far from well!
Her wig is gone, her eyes are out,
Her legs are left somewhere about,
Her arms were stolen by the pup,
The hens ate all her sawdust up,
So all that’s really left of her
Is just her clothes and character.
THE CAPITALIST.
I always buy at the lollipop-shop,
On the very first day of spring,
A bag of marbles, a spinning-top,
And a pocketful of string.
IN MERRY ENGLAND.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
In merry, merry England,
In the merry month of May,
Miss Mary Ella Montague
Went out in best array.
Her wise mama called out to her,
“My darling Mary Ella,
It looks like rain to-day, my dear;
You’d best take your umbrella!”
That silly girl she paid no heed
To her dear mother’s call.
She walked at least six miles that day,
And it never rained at all!
THE GOOSE GIRL.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
Oh, I’m a goose, and you’re a goose, and we’re all geese together.
We wander over hill and dale, all in the sweet June weather,
While wise folk stay indoors and pore
O’er dusty books for learning lore.
How glad I am—how glad you are—that we’re birds of a feather:
That you’re a goose, and I’m a goose, and we’re all geese together!
THE PHILOSOPHER
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
Let me make you acquainted with Mrs. O’Toole,
Though she’s had little learning, she’s nobody’s fool,
She loves her fine geese, but when they are dead
She’ll comfort herself with a new feather bed.
EVERY-DAY VERSES
BY ALDEN ARTHUR KNIPE
PICTURES BY EMILIE BENSON KNIPE
THIRSTY FLOWERS
I have a little wat’ring-pot,
It holds two quarts I think,
And when the days are very hot
I give the plants a drink.
They lift their heads as flowers should,
And look so green and gay;
I’m sure that if they only could,
“We thank you, Sir,” they’d say.
SHARING WITH OTHERS
Sometimes Mother gives to me
Such a lot of money—See!
But it’s very hard to buy
All the things you’d like to try,
And you always share your penny
With a child who hasn’t any.
POCKETS
Pockets are fine
For marbles and twine,
For knives and rubber bands;
So, stuff them tight
From morning till night
With anything else but hands!
WAITING FOR DINNER
When one is very hungry,
It’s hard to wait, I know,
For minutes seem like hours
And the clock is always slow.
There isn’t time to play a game,
You just sit down and wait,
While Mother says, “Be patient,
Our cook is never late.”
It’s best when one is hungry,
To think of other things,
For then, before you know it,
The bell for dinner rings.
THE CRITIC
If only more people would write fewer books
How well pleased I would be!
If all the authors would change into cooks
’T would suit me perfectly.
DIPLOMACY
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
The Widow Hill has a fine plum-tree!
The Widow Hill is fond o’ me.
I’ll call on her to-day!
The plum-tree grows by her front door.
I’ve been meaning to call for a week or more
To pass the time o’ day!
IF I WERE QUEEN.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
If I were Queen of Anywhere,
I’d have a golden crown,
And sit upon a velvet chair,
And wear a satin gown.
A Knight of noble pedigree
Should wait beside my seat,
To serve me upon bended knee
With things I like to eat.
I’d have bonbons and cherry pie,
Ice-cream and birthday cake,
And a page should always stay near by
To have my stomach-ache!
THOUGHTS IN CHURCH
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
Oh, to be a sailor
And sail to foreign lands—
To Greenland’s icy mountains
And India’s coral strands!
To sail upon the Ganges
And see the crocodile,
Where every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.
I’d love to see the heathen
Bow down to wood and stone,
But his wicked graven image
I’d knock from off its throne!
The heathen-in-his-blindness
Should see a thing or two!
He’d know before I left him
What a Yankee boy can do!
This is the way we wash our clothes,
Wash our clothes,
Wash our clothes;
This is the way we wash our clothes,
So early Monday morning.
This is the way we iron our clothes,
Iron our clothes,
Iron our clothes;
This is the way we iron our clothes,
So early Tuesday morning.
This is the way we mend our shoes,
Mend our shoes,
Mend our shoes;
This is the way we mend our shoes,
So early Wednesday morning.
This is the way we visit our friends,
Visit our friends,
Visit our friends;
This is the way we visit our friends,
So early Thursday morning.
This is the way we sweep the house,
Sweep the house,
Sweep the house;
This is the way we sweep the house,
So early Friday morning.
This is the way we bake our cake,
Bake our cake,
Bake our cake;
This is the way we bake our cake,
So early Saturday morning.
This is the way we go to church,
Go to church,
Go to church;
This is the way we go to church,
So early Sunday morning.
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is brave and glad,
Thursday’s child is never bad,
Friday’s child is loving and kind,
Saturday’s child is clear in mind,
The child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good and gay.
They that wash on Monday
Have all the week to dry;
They that wash on Tuesday
Are not so much awry;
They that wash on Wednesday
Are not so much to blame;
They that wash on Thursday
Wash for very shame;
They that wash on Friday
Wash because of need,
And they that wash on Saturday,
Oh, they are lazy indeed!
Solomon Grundy,
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday:
This is the end
Of Solomon Grundy—
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married, etc.
How many days has my baby to play?
Saturday, Sunday, Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday, Monday.
“Oh, ho! little maidens, all in a row,
And each one wearing a butterfly bow.
Which is the prettiest, Betty, or Lou,
Dolly, or Polly, or Sallie, or Sue?
I do not know, so I’ll have to ask you.”
BY STELLA GEORGE STERN
Little-Mouse-Sunday found a great, big bun;
Little-Mouse-Monday wished that he had one;
Little-Mouse-Tuesday was fat enough without;
Little-Mouse-Wednesday sat down to sulk and pout,
Said Little-Mouse-Thursday, “I’ll get one for myself!”
Said Little-Mouse-Friday, “There’s another on the shelf”;
Little-Mouse-Saturday began to beg and squeak;
“Come on!” said all the seven, “we’ve enough to last a week!”
“Good morning, Monday!
Tell me how is Tuesday?”
“Very well, Dame Wednesday.
Please to tell Miss Thursday,
Also little Saturday,
To call on Mister Sunday.”
(In a meter neither new nor difficult)
BY TUDOR JENKS
All was well on Sunday morning,
All was quiet Sunday evening;
But, behold, quite early Monday
Came a queer, surprising Weakness—
Weakness seizing little Tommy!
It came shortly after breakfast—
Breakfast with wheat-cakes and honey
Eagerly devoured by Tommy,
Who till then was well as could be.
Then, without a moment’s warning,
Like a sneeze, that awful Aw-choo!
Came this Weakness on poor Tommy.
“Mother, dear,” he whined, “dear mother,
I am feeling rather strangely—
Don’t know what’s the matter with me—
My right leg is out of kilter,
While my ear—my left ear—itches.
Don’t you know that queerish feeling?”
“Not exactly,” said his mother.
“Does your head ache, Tommy dearest?”
Little Thomas, always truthful,
Would not say his head was aching,
For, you know, it really wasn’t.
“No, it doesn’t ache,” he answered
(Thinking of that noble story
Of the Cherry-tree and Hatchet);
“But I’m tired, and I’m sleepy,
And my shoulder’s rather achy.
Don’t you think perhaps I’d better
Stay at home with you, dear mother?”
Thoughtfully his mother questioned,
“How about your school, dear Tommy?
Do you wish to miss your lessons?”
“Well, you know,” was Tommy’s answer,
“Saturday we played at football;
I was tired in the evening,
So I didn’t learn my lessons—
Left them all for Monday morning,
Monday morning bright and early—”
“And this morning you slept over?”
So his mother interrupted.
“Yes, mama,” admitted Tommy.
“So I have not learned my lessons:
And I’d better wait till Tuesday.
Tuesday I can start in earnest—
Tuesday when I’m feeling brighter!”
Smilingly his mother eyed him,
Then she said, “Go ask your father—
You will find him in his study,
Adding up the week’s expenses.
See what father says about it.”
Toward the door went Tommy slowly,
Seized the knob as if to turn it.
Did not turn it; but, returning,
Back he came unto his mother.
“Mother,” said he, very slowly,
“Mother, I don’t feel so badly;
Maybe I’ll get through my lessons.
Anyway, I think I’ll risk it.
Have you seen my books, dear mother—
My Geography and Speller,
History and Definitions,—
Since I brought them home on Friday?”
No. His mother had not seen them.
Then began a search by Tommy.
Long he searched, almost despairing,
While the clock was striking loudly.
And at length when Tommy found them—
Found his books beneath the sofa—
He’d forgotten all his Weakness,
Pains and aches were quite forgotten.
At full speed he hastened schoolward.
But in vain, for he was tardy,
All because of that strange Weakness
He had felt on Monday morning.
Would you know the name that’s given,
How they call that curious feeling?
’Tis the dreaded “Idon’twantto”—
Never fatal, but quite common
To the tribe of Very-lazy.
Would you know the charm that cures it—
Cures the Weakness “Idon’twantto”?
It is known as “Butyou’vegotto,”
And no boy should be without it.
Now you know the curious legend
Of the paleface little Tommy,
Of his Weakness and its curing
By the great charm “Butyou’vegotto.”
Think of it on Monday mornings—
It will save you lots of trouble.
BY HENRY JOHNSTONE
Oh, Friday night’s the queen of nights, because it ushers in
The Feast of good St. Saturday, when studying is a sin,
When studying is a sin, boys, and we may go to play
Not only in the afternoon, but all the livelong day.
St. Saturday—so legends say—lived in the ages when
The use of leisure still was known and current among men;
Full seldom and full slow he toiled, and even as he wrought
He’d sit him down and rest awhile, immersed in pious thought.
He loved to fold his good old arms, to cross his good old knees,
And in a famous elbow-chair for hours he’d take his ease;
He had a word for old and young, and when the village boys
Came out to play, he’d smile on them and never mind the noise.
So when his time came, honest man, the neighbors all declared
That one of keener intellect could better have been spared,
By young and old his loss was mourned in cottage and in hall,
For if he’d done them little good, he’d done no harm at all.
In time they made a saint of him, and issued a decree—
Since he had loved his ease so well, and been so glad to see
The children frolic round him and to smile upon their play—
That school boys for his sake should have a weekly holiday.
They gave his name unto the day, that as the years roll by
His memory might still be green; and that’s the reason why
We speak his name with gratitude, and oftener by far
Than that of any other saint in all the calendar.
Then, lads and lassies, great and small, give ear to what I say—
Refrain from work on Saturdays as strictly as you may;
So shall the saint your patron be and prosper all you do—
And when examinations come he’ll see you safely through.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
I caught a hare alive.
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
I let it go again.
BY OLIVE A. WADSWORTH
Over in the meadow,
In the sand, in the sun,
Lived an old mother toad
And her little toadie one.
“Wink!” said the mother;
“I wink,” said the one:
So she winked and she blinked
In the sand, in the sun.
Over in the meadow,
Where the stream runs blue,
Lived an old mother fish
And her little fishes two.
“Swim!” said the mother;
“We swim,” said the two:
So they swam and they leaped
Where the stream runs blue.
Over in the meadow,
In a hole in a tree,
Lived a mother bluebird
And her little birdies three.
“Sing!” said the mother;
“We sing,” said the three:
So they sang and were glad
In the hole in the tree.
Over in the meadow,
In the reeds on the shore,
Lived a mother muskrat
And her little ratties four.
“Dive!” said the mother;
“We dive,” said the four:
So they dived and they burrowed
In the reeds on the shore.
Over in the meadow,
In a snug beehive,
Lived a mother honeybee
And her little honeys five.
“Buzz!” said the mother;
“We buzz,” said the five:
So they buzzed and they hummed
In the snug beehive.
Over in the meadow,
In a nest built of sticks,
Lived a black mother crow
And her little crows six.
“Caw!” said the mother;
“We caw,” said the six:
So they cawed and they cawed
In their nest built of sticks.
Over in the meadow,
Where the grass is so even,
Lived a gray mother cricket
And her little crickets seven.
“Chirp!” said the mother;
“We chirp,” said the seven:
So they chirped cheery notes
In the grass soft and even.
Over in the meadow,
By the old mossy gate,
Lived a brown mother lizard
And her little lizards eight.
“Bask!” said the mother;
“We bask!” said the eight:
So they basked in the sun
By the old mossy gate.
Over in the meadow,
Where the clear pools shine,
Lived a green mother frog
And her little froggies nine.
“Croak!” said the mother;
“We croak,” said the nine:
So they croaked and they splashed
Where the clear pools shine.
Over in the meadow,
In a sly little den,
Lived a gray mother spider
And her little spiders ten.
“Spin!” said the mother;
“We spin,” said the ten:
So they spun lace webs
In their sly little den.
Over in the meadow,
In the soft summer even,
Lived a mother firefly
And her little flies eleven.
“Shine!” said the mother;
“We shine,” said the eleven:
So they shone like stars
In the soft summer even.
Over in the meadow,
Where the men dig and delve,
Lived a wise mother ant
And her little anties twelve.
“Toil!” said the mother;
“We toil,” said the twelve:
So they toiled and were wise
Where the men dig and delve.
One, I love,
Two, I love,
Three, I love, I say,
Four, I love with all my heart,
And five, I cast away;
Six, he loves,
Seven, she loves,
Eight, they both love;
Nine, he comes,
Ten, he tarries,
Eleven, he courts,
Twelve, he marries;
Thirteen, wishes,
Fourteen, kisses,
All the rest little witches.
TWINS
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
Here’s a baby! Here’s another!
A sister and her infant brother.
Which is which ’tis hard to tell,
But “mother” knows them very well.
IN JULY.
BY A. S. WEBBER.
10
Ten little fire crackers
Standing in a line,
One thought he’d light a match
Then——
There were nine.
9
Nine little fire crackers
Walking very straight,
One caught an engine spark
Then——
There were eight.
8
Eight little fire crackers
Trying to spell “LEAVEN,”
One went too near the gas,
Then——
There were seven.
7
Seven little fire crackers
Cutting up tricks,
One played with lighted punk
Then——
There were six.
6
Six little fire crackers
Glad they are alive,
One went to have a smoke
Then
There were five.
5
Five little fire crackers
Wishing there were more,
One went to find a friend
Then
There were four.
4
Four little fire crackers
Merry as could be,
One played upon the hearth
Then
There were three.
3
Three little fire crackers
Puzzled what to do,
One started the kitchen fire
Then
There were two.
2
Two little fire crackers
Looking for some fun,
One met a little boy
Then
There was one.
1
One little fire cracker
Sat him down to cry,
’Tis such a risky thing
To live
In July.
Priscilla Penelope Powers one day
Took tea at a neighbor’s just over the way.
Two pieces of pie they urged her to take,
And seven whole slices of chocolate cake!
“Oh, dear,” sighed Priscilla Penelope Powers,
“I wish I was your little girl ’stead of ours!”
Mrs. John T Van Sant.
Winkelman Von Winkel is the wisest man alive,
He Knows that one and one make two, and two and three make five;
He knows that water runs down hill, that the sun sets in the west,
And that for winter weather wear, one’s winter clothes are best;
In fact, he does not mingle much with common folk around,
Because his learning is so great—his wisdom so profound.
Clara Odell Lyon.
Ten little cookies, brown and crisp and fine—
Grandma gave Baby one; then there were nine.
Nine little cookies on a china plate—
Betty took a small one; then there were eight.
Eight little cookies, nice and round and even—
The butcher boy ate one; then there were seven.
Seven little cookies, much liked by chicks—
The old hen ate one, then there were six.
Six little cookies, when grandma went to drive—
Betty had another one; then there were five.
Five little cookies, placed too near the door—
The little doggie ate one; then there were four.
Four little cookies, brown as brown could be—
Grandma took one for herself, then there were three.
Three little cookies—when grandpa said, “I too,
Would like a very little one”, then there were two.
Two little cookies—fast did Betty run
To give one to her mamma; then there was one.
One little cooky—and now our story is done,
Baby Jane ate the last, then there was none.
One head with curly hair,
Two arms so fat and bare,
Two hands and one wee nose,
Two feet with ten pink toes,
Skin soft and smooth as silk,
When clean, ’tis white as milk.
BY ELIZABETH PRENTISS
Once there was a little Kitty,
White as the snow;
In a barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago.
In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro,
For she heard the little Kitty,
Long time ago.
Two black eyes had little Kitty,
Black as a sloe;
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Four soft paws had little Kitty,
Paws soft as snow;
And they caught the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Nine pearl teeth had little Kitty,
All in a row;
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.
When the teeth bit little mousie,
Mousie cried out, “Oh!”
But she slipped away from Kitty,
Long time ago.
One, Two—buckle my shoe;
Three, Four—open the door;
Five, Six—pick up sticks;
Seven, Eight—lay them straight;
Nine, Ten—a good fat hen;
Eleven, Twelve—I hope you’re well;
Thirteen, Fourteen—draw the curtain;
Fifteen, Sixteen—the maid’s in the kitchen;
Seventeen, Eighteen—she’s in waiting;
Nineteen, Twenty—my stomach’s empty.