Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text ll her piggies when nobody knows?
An' who's des' as _quiet_ as _quiet_ can be?
Muvver says--_me_.
Who w'ites wif a pencil all over a book?
An' who gets the ink when nobody does look?
An' who gets her fingies all blacker than black?
An' who gets 'em spatted when Muvver comes back?
An' who's des' as _sorry_ as _sorry_ can be?
Muvver says--_me_.
Who goes down to dinner on Sundays at two,
All dressed in w'ite frillies, an' tied up in blue?
An' who waits for Father to cut up her meat,
When she is _so_ hungry an' nuffin' to eat?
An' who's des' as "_patient_" as "_patient_" can be?
Muvver says--_me_.
Who gets on her nightie an' says all her prayers?
An' then comes a-stealin' an' creepin' down-stairs?
Who cuddles up comfy an' teases to stay?
An' who is so spoiled 'at she _won't_ go away,
Even when she's as _sleepy_ as _sleepy_ can be?
Muvver says--_me_.
MY DEAREST IS A LADY
BY MIRIAM S. CLARK
My dearest is a lady, she wears a gown of blue,
She sits beside the window where the yellow sun comes through;
The light is shining on her hair, and all the time she sews,
She sings a song about a knight, a dear, brave knight she knows.
My dearest is a lady--and oh, I love her well!
Full five and twenty times a day this very tale I tell;
For I'm the knight in armor, a shield and sword I wear,
And Mother is my lady, with the light upon her hair.
HOW MANY LUMPS!
How many lumps of sugar
Ought a little girl to use
To sweeten a cup of chocolate?
I can take just what I choose.
Five make it just like candy,
And four are most as good--
There's no one to say I mustn't,
Now I wonder if I should.
Three is what Nurse allows me,
So that would be surely right.
Uncle Jack takes two lumps always
And says it is "out of sight."
Five, four, three, two--I wonder--
Or none, just like Papa?
Well, after all, I'll take but one
And copy my dear Mama.
[Illustration: From the painting by H. Morisset.
By permission of the artist.]
When Mother Goes Away
BY CLARA ODELL LYON
Says Bobby to Mother:
"I'll be good as I can."
"I _know_ you will, Bobby;
You're Mother's little man."
BUT--
His mother then takes every match from the box;
The door of the pantry securely she locks;
Puts the hammer and tacks, and the scissors and ink
In the best hiding places of which she can think
And wonders at last, as her hat she pins on,
What mischief her Bobby will do while she's gone!
AN OLD SONG--"THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!"
When people ask me where I live,
I hate to have to go and give
A name like Smithville, plain.
I'd rather say:--"Sir, if you please,
My home is in the Hebrides,"
Or, "High up in the Pyrenees,"
Or, "At Gibraltar, Spain."
"Constantinople," too, sounds fine,
And "Drachenfels-upon-the-Rhine,"
And "Madagascar," too;
And "Yokohama" sounds so great,
And "Hindustan" is just first-rate;
I rather like even "Bering Strait,"
And "Cuzco" in Peru.
And yet, I would not be at night,
Alone upon the "Isle of Wight,"
Or on the "Zuyder Zee."
At "Nova Zembla," in a gale,
I know that I should just turn pale;
For fear of earthquakes, I should quail
In "sunny Italy."
A place that sounds nice on the map,
May have a little too much snap
To keep within its wall,
And so, though many names I see,
That sound as stylish as can be,
There's no place quite so good for me,
As Smithville, after all!
_Blanche Elizabeth Wade._
#UNCLES AND AUNTS AND OTHER RELATIVES#
GRANDMOTHER'S MEMORIES
BY HELEN A. BYROM
[Illustration: "STANDS WATCHING THE SETTING SUN."]
Grandmother sits in her easy-chair,
In the ruddy sunlight's glow;
Her thoughts are wandering far away
In the land of Long Ago.
Again she dwells in her father's home,
And before her loving eyes
In the light of a glorious summer day
The gray old farm-house lies.
She hears the hum of the spinning-wheel
And the spinner's happy song;
She sees the bundles of flax that hang
From the rafters, dark and long;
She sees the sunbeams glide and dance
Across the sanded floor;
And feels on her cheek the wandering breeze
That steals through the open door.
Beyond, the flowers nod sleepily
At the well-sweep, gaunt and tall;
And up from the glen comes the musical roar
Of the distant waterfall.
The cows roam lazily to and fro
Along the shady lane;
The shouts of the reapers sound faint and far
From the fields of golden grain.
And grandma herself, a happy girl,
Stands watching the setting sun,
While the spinner rests, and the reapers cease,
And the long day's work is done;
Then something wakes her--the room is dark,
And vanished the sunset glow,
And grandmother wakes, with a sad surprise,
From the dreams of long ago.
Great-Aunt Lucy Lee
By Cora Walker Hayes
Sometimes when I am tired of play
My mother says to me,
"Come, daughter, we will call to-day
On Great-aunt Lucy Lee."
And soon, by mother's side, I skip
Along the quiet street,
Where tall old trees, on either side,
Throw shadows at my feet.
The houses stand in solemn rows,
And not a child is seen;
The blinds are drawn, the doors are shut,
The walks are span and clean.
Then when we come to number three,
I stretch my hand up--so!
And find the old brass knocker's ring;
I rap, and in we go.
There Great-aunt Lucy, small and prim,
Sits by the chimney-piece;
Her knitting-needles clicking go,
And never seem to cease.
Aunt Lucy's eyes are blue and kind,
Her wrinkled face is fair;
She hides with cap or snowy lace
Her pretty silver hair.
Aunt Lucy's voice is sweet and low,
Her smile is quick and bright;
She wears a gown of lavender,
And kerchief soft and white.
I fold my hands in front of me
And sit quite still and staid,
Till Great-aunt Lucy, smiling, says,
"Come hither, little maid!"
There Great-aunt Lucy small and prim
Sits by the chimney-piece
Her knitting needles clicking go
And never seem to cease]
[Illustration:
Pale roses of a hundred leaves
Sweet-William, Four-o'clocks
Pinks, daisies, bleeding-hearts and things
All bordered round with box]
And from her silken bag she takes
A peppermint or two,
And questions me about my play,
My school, my dolls, the Zoo.
And then she rings for Hannah, who
Comes hobbling stiffly in,
With sugared cakes and jelly-tarts
Upon a shining tin.
When I have eaten all I can,
Aunt Lucy bids me go
Into the garden, where all kinds
Of lovely flowers grow.
Pale roses of a hundred leaves,
Sweet-william, four-o'clocks,
Pinks, daisies, bleeding-hearts and things
All bordered 'round with box.
And there's an arbor, where the grapes
Hang low enough to reach;
A plum-tree just across the path,
And by the wall a peach.
And oh! I think it very nice
To come and visit here;
The house, the garden and the folks
All seem so very queer!
And though I am well satisfied
A while to romp and play,--
A wee old lady, kind and dear,
_I_ want to be some day;
And so I hope that when I, too,
Have grown to eighty-three,
I'll be a lovely lady like
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