 Chapter 5 of the Posey Ring, a book of verse for children by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Hiawatha's Brothers' Poems Of all beasts he learned the language, learned their names and all their secrets. How the beavers built their lodges, where the squirrels hid their acorns. How the reindeer ran so swiftly, why the rabbit was so timid, talked with them when ere he met them, called them Hiawatha's Brothers. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow My Pony My Pony tossed his sprightly head, and would have smiled if smile he could. To thank me for the slice of bread. He thinks so delicate and good. His eye is very bright and wild. He looks as if he loved me so, although I only am a child. And he's a real horse, you know. How charming it would be to rear, and have hind legs to balance on, of hay and oats within the year, to leisurely devour a ton. To stoop my head and quench my drowth, with water in a lovely pail. To wear a snaffle in my mouth, fling back my ears and slash my tail. To gallop madly round a field, who tries to catch me is a goose, and then with dignity to yield my stately back for rider's use. To feel as only horses can, when matters take their proper course. And no one notices the man, while loud applauses greet the horse. He canters fast or aimless slow, and either is a pretty game. His duties are but pleasures, O. I wish that mine were just the same. Lessons would be another thing, if I might turn from book and scroll, and learn to gallop round a ring, as he did when a little fall. It must be charming to be shod, and beautiful beyond my praise, when tired of rolling on the sod. To stand upon all fours in grays. Alas, my dreams are weak and wild, I must not ape my better soul. Alas, I only am a child, and he's a real horse, you know. A. On a spaniel called Bo, killing a young bird, July 15th, 1793. A spaniel, Bo, that fares like you, while fed and at his ease, should wiser be than to pursue each trifle that he sees. That you have killed a tiny bird, which flew not till to-day, against my orders whom you heard forbidding you the prey. Nor did you kill that you might eat, and ease a dawgish pain. For him, though chased with furious heat, you left where he was slain. For was he of the fetish sort, or one whom blood allures? But innocent was all his sport, whom you have torn for yours. My dawg, what remedy remains, since teach you all I can. I see you after all my pains, so much resemble men. William Cowper. Sir, when I flew to seize the bird, in spite of your command, a louder voice than yours I heard, and harder to withstand. You cried forbear, but in my breast, a mightier cried, Proceed, twas nature, sir, whose strong behest, impelled me to the deed. But much as nature I respect, I ventured once to break, as you perhaps may recollect, her precept for your sake. And when your linnet, on a day passing his prison door, had fluttered all his strafe away, and panting pressed the floor. Allowing him a sacred thing, not destined to my tooth. I only kissed his ruffled wing, and let the feathers smooth. Let my obedience then excuse, my disobedience now. For some reproof your self-refuse, from your aggrieved bowow. If killing birds be such a crime, which I can hardly see. But thank you, sir, of killing time, with verse addressed to me. William Cowper. Seal lullaby. O hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, and black are the waters that sparkle so green. The moon or the cobras looks downward to find us, at rest in the hollows that rustle between. Your billow meets billow, their soft bee thy pillow, a weary wee flippering curl at thy ease. The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas. But you're kippling. Milking time. When the cows come home, the milk is coming, honeys made while the bees are humming. Duck and drink on the rushy lake, and the deer live safe in the breezy break. And timid, funny, pert little bunny winks his nose and sits all sunny. Christina G. Rosetti. Thank you, pretty cow. Thank you, pretty cow, that made pleasant milk to soak my bread. Every day and every night, warm and fresh, and sweet and white. Do not chew the hemlock rank, growing on the weedy bank, but the yellow cow slip eat, that will make it very sweet. Where the purple violet grows, where the bubbling water flows, where the grass is fresh and fine, pretty cow, go there and dine. Jane Taylor. The boy and the sheep. Lazy sheep, pray tell me why, in the pleasant field you lie, eating grass and daisies white, from the morning till the night. Everything can something do, but what kind of use are you? Nay, my little master, nay, do not serve thee, so I pray. Don't you see the wool that grows, on my back to make your clothes. Cold ah, very cold you'd be, if you had not wool from me. True it seems a pleasant thing, nipping daisies in the spring, but what chilly nights I pass, on the cold and dewy grass, or pick my scanty dinner where, all the ground is brown and bare. Then the farmer comes at last, when the merry spring is past, cuts my woolly fleece away, for your coat in wintry day. Little master this is why, in the pleasant fields I lie. Anne Taylor. Lams in the meadow. O little lambs, the month is cold, the sky is very gray. You shiver in the misty grass, and bleed at all the winds that pass. Wait, when I'm big some day, I'll build a roof to every fold. But now that I am small I'll pray, at mother's knee for you, perhaps the angels with their wings will come and warm you, little things. I'm sure that, if God knew, he'd let the lambs be born in May. Lawrence Alma Tadima. The pet lamb. The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink. I heard a voice, it said, drink, pretty creature drink, and looking o'er the hedge before me I aspired, a snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side. Nor sheep nor kind were near, the lamb was all alone, and by a slender cord was tethered to a stone. With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, while to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus supper took, seemed to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook. Drink, pretty creature drink, she said, in such a tone that I almost received her heart into my own. Toa's little Barbara left a weight, a child of beauty rare. I watched them with the light, they were a lovely pair. Now with her empty can the maiden turned away, but ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay. Right toward the lamb she looked, and from a shady place I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face, if nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, thus fought I to her lamb, that little maid might sing. What ails thee, young one, what, why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee, well, both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be. Rest little one, rest, what is it that ails thee? What is it thou wouldest seek, what is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs art they not strong, and beautiful thou art. This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peers, and that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears. If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen chain. This beach is standing by, its covert thou canst gain. For rain and mountain storms, the like thou needest not fear. The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. Rest little one, rest, thou hast forgot the day. When my father found thee first, in places far away, many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, and thy mother from thy side, for ever more was gone. He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home. A blessed day for thee, then wither wouldst thou roam. A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yearn. Upon the mountaintops no kinder could have been. And I was known that twice a day I have brought thee in this can. Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran. And twice in the day, when the ground was wet with dew, I bring three draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now. Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony to the plow. My plain-mate thou shall be, and when the wind is cold, our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. It will not, will not rest, poor creature, can it be, that tis thy mother's heart, which is working so in thee. Things that I know not of be like to thee, our dear, and dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. Alas the mountaintops that look so green and fair, I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there. The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, when they are angry roar like lions for their prey. Here though needest not dread the raven in the sky, night and day though art safe, our cottage is hard-buy. Why bleat so after me, why pull so at thy chain, sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again. As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, this song to myself did I often times repeat, and it seemed, as I retrace the ballot line by line, that but half of it was hers and one half of it was mine. Again and once again did I repeat the song. Today, said I, more than half to the damsel must belong, for she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, that I almost received her heart into my own, Williams Wordsworth. The Kitten and Falling Leaves See the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall, withered leaves one, two, and three, from the lofty elder tree, through the calm and frosty air of this morning bright and fair, itting round and round they sink, softly slowly one might think, from the motions that are made, every little leaf conveyed, self or fairy hither tending, to this lower world descending, each invisible and mute, in his wavering parachute, but the kitten how she starts, crouches, stretches, pause and darts, first at one and then it's fellow, just as light and just as yellow, there are many now, now one, now they stop and there are none, with intensless of desire, in her upward eye of fire, with a tiger leap halfway, now she meets the coming prey, let it go as fast and then, has it in her power again, now she works with three or four, like an Indian conjurer, quick as he, in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart. William Wordsworth End of Chapter 5, Recording by Linda-Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter 6 of The Posey Ring, A Book of Verse for Children, by various authors. This LibriVox Recording is in the Public Domain, Recording by Linda-Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Other Little Children, Palms If thou couldest know thine own sweetness, O little one, perfect and sweet, Thou wouldest be a child for ever, Peter whilst uncomplete, Francis Turner, Paul Grave. Where go the boats? Dark brown is the river, golden is the sand, it flows along forever, with trees on either hand, green leaves afloating, castles of the foam, boats of mine aboating, where will all come home, on goes the river, and out past the mill, away down the valley, away down the hill, away down the river, a hundred miles or more. Other little children shall bring my boats ashore, Robert Louis Stevenston. Come, my little Robert, near, Fie, what filthy hands are here! Who that air could understand the rare structure of a hand, with its branching fingers fine, work itself of hands divine, strong yet delicately knit, for ten thousand uses fit, interlaid with so clear skin, you may see the blood within. Who this hand would choose to cover, with a crust of dirt all over, till it looked in hue and shape like the forefoot of an ape, man or boy that works or plays in the fields, or the highways, may without a fence or hurt, from the soil contract a dirt, which the next clear spring or river washes out and out forever, but to cherish stains impure, soil deliberate, to endear, on the skin to fix a stain, till it works into the grain, argues a degenerate mind, soared, slothful, ill inclined, wanting in that self-respect, which does virtue best protect, all endearing, cleanliness, virtue next to godliness, easier, cheaper, needful, duty, to the body, health and beauty, who that's human would refuse it, when a little water does it, Charles and Mary Lamb. Wishing Ring-ting, I wish I were a primrose, a bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring, the sloping bow above me, the wandering bee to love me, the fern and moss to creep across, and the elm tree for our king, nay, stay, I wish I were an elm tree, a great lofty elm tree, with green leaves gay, the winds would set them dancing, the sun and moonshine glanced in, and birds would house among the boughs, and sweetly sing, oh no, I wish I were a robin, a robin or a little wren, everywhere to go, through forest field or garden, and ass no leave or pardon, till winter comes with icy thumbs to ruffle up our wing. Well, tell, where should I fly to? Where go sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before the day was over, home must come the rover, for mother's kiss sweeter this than any other thing. William Allingham The Boy The boy from his bedroom window looked over the little town, and away to the bleak black upland, under a clouded moon. The moon came forth from her cavern, he saw the sudden gleam of a tarn in the swarthy moonland, or perhaps the whole was a dream, for I never could find that water in all my walks and rides, for off in the land of memory that midnight pool abides. Many fine things had I glimpse of, and said, I shall find them one day. Whether within or without me, they were, I cannot say. William Allington Infant Joy I have no dame, I am but two days old, what shall I call thee? I happy am, joy is my name. Sweet joy befall thee, pretty joy, sweet joy but two days old, sweet joy I call thee. Thou dost smile, I sing thee while, sweet joy befall thee. William Blake A blessing for the blessed. When the sun has left the hilltop, and the daisy fringe is furled, when the birds from wood and meadow in their hidden nests are curled, then I think of all the babies that are sleeping in the world. There are babies in the high lands, and babies in the low. There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins, on the margin of the snow, and brown ones naked in the aisles, where all the spices grow, and some are in the palace, on a white and downy bed, and some are in the garret, with a clout beneath their head, and some are on the cold-heart earth, whose mothers have no bread. O little men and women, dear flowers yet unblown, O little kings and beggars, of the pageant yet unshown, sleep soft and dream pale dreams now, to-morrow is your own. Alma Tadama Piping down the valley's wild Piping down the valley's wild, piping songs of pleasant glee, on a cloud I saw a child, and he, laughing, said to me, pipe a song about a lamb, so I pipe with merry cheer, pipe, pipe that song again, so I piped, he wept to hear, drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, sing thy songs of a happy cheer, so I sang the same again, while we wept with joy to hear. Piper sit thee down and write, in a book that all may read, so he vanished from my sight, and I plucked a hollow reed, and I made a rural pen, and I stained the water clear, and I wrote my happy songs, every child may joy to hear. William Blake A sleeping child, lips lips open, up comes a little bird that lives inside, up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies, all the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings, up he comes and out he goes, at night to spread his wings, little bird, little bird, wither will you go, round about the world while nobody can know, little bird, little bird, wither do you flee, far away round the world while nobody can see, little bird, little bird, how long will you roam, all round the world and around again home, round the world, round the world and back through the air, when the morning comes the little bird is there, back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies, up wakes the little boy and opens both his eyes, sleep, sleep little boy, little birds away, little bird will come again by the peep of day, sleep, sleep little boy, little bird must go, round about the world while nobody can know, sleep, sleep sound little bird goes round, round and round he goes, sleep, sleep sound, Arthur Hugh clow, birdies with broken wings, birdies with broken wings hide from each other, but babies in trouble can run home to mother, Mary mates dodge, seven times one, exultation, there's no dew left on the daisies and clover, there's no rain left in heaven, I've said by seven times over and over, seven times one are seven, I am old so old I can write a letter, my birthday lessons are done, the lambs play always, they know no better, they are only one times one, oh moon in the night I have seen you sailing and shining so round and low, you were bright, aw bright, but your light is failing, you are nothing now but a bowl, you moon have you done something wrong in heaven, that God has hidden your face, I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven and shine again in your place, oh velvet bee you're a dusty fellow, you've powdered your legs with gold, oh brave marsh, merry buds rich and yellow, give me your money to hold, oh columbine open your folded wrapper, where two twin turtledoves dwell, oh cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper that hangs in your clear green bell, and show me your nest with the young ones in it, I will not steal them away, I am old, you may trust me, linnet linnet, I am seven times one today, jean ingolo, I remember, I remember, I remember, I remember, the house where I was born, the little window where the sun came peeping in at morn, he never came a wink too soon nor brought too long a day, but now I often wish the night had borne my breath away, I remember, I remember, the roses red and white, the violets and the billy cups, those flowers made of light, the linux where the robin built, and where my brother set, the laburnum on his birthday, the tree is living yet, I remember, I remember, where I was used to swing, and though the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing, my spirit flew in feathers then that is so heavy now, and summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow, I remember, I remember, the fir trees dark and high, I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky, it was a childish ignorance, but now this little joy, to know I'm farther off from heaven than when I was a boy, Thomas Hood, good night and good morning, a fair little girl sat under a tree, sewing as long as her eyes could see, then smoothed her work and folded it right, and said, dear work, good night, such a number of rooks came over her head, crying, ca, ca, on their way to bed, she said as she watched their curious flight, little black things, good night, good night. The horses' naid and the oxen-load, the sheep's bleep-bleed came over the road, all seeming to say with a quiet delight, good little girl, good night, good night. She did not say to the sun, good night, though she saw him there like a ball of light, for she knew he had God's own time to keep, all over the world and never could sleep. The tall pink fox-glove bowed his head, the violets curtsied and went to bed, and good little Lucy tied up her hair, and said on her knees her favorite prayer, and while on her pillow she softly lay, she knew nothing more till again it was day, and all things said to the beautiful sun, good morning, good morning, our work is begun. Lord Houghton, Richard Moncton Milms, little children, sporting through the forest-wide, playing by the waterslide, wandering o'er the heathy-fells, down within the woodland dels, all among the mountains wild, dwelleth many a little child, in the barren's hall of pride, by the poor man's dull fireside, mid the mighty, mid the mean, little children may be seen, like the flowers that spring up fair, bright and countless everywhere, in the fair aisles of the main, in the desert's lonely domain, in the savage mountain-glenn, among the tribes a swarthy men, where so ere the sun has shone, on a league of peopled ground, little children may be found, blessings on them they in me move a kindly sympathy, with their wishes, hopes and fears, with their laughter and their tears, with their wonder so intense, and their small experience, little children not alone, on the wide earth, are ye known, mid its labours and its cares, mid its sufferings and its snares, free from sorrow, free from strife, in the world of love and life, where no sinful thing hath trod, in the presence of your God, spotless, blameless, glorified, little children ye abide, Mary Howet, the angels whisper, a baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, for her husband was far on the wild raging sea, and the tempest was swelling, round the fisherman's dwelling, and she cried, Dermot darling, oh come back to me! Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered, and smiled on her face as she bended her knee, oh bless be that warning, thy sweet sleep adorning, for I know that the angels are whispering to thee, and while they are keeping, bright watch or thy sleeping, oh pray to them softly, my baby with me, and say thou wouldest rather, they'd watch or thy father, for I know that the angels are whispering to thee, the dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, and the wife wept with joy her babes father to see, and closely caressing her child with a blessing said, I knew that the angels were whispering to thee, Samuel lover, little Gareen, where do the stars grow, little Gareen, the garden amoons is, it far away, the orchard of suns, my little Gareen, will you take us there some day, if you shut your eyes, quoth little Gareen, I will show you the way to go, to the orchard of suns and the garden amoons and the field where the stars do grow, but you must speak soft, quoth little Gareen, and still must your footsteps be, for a great bear prowls in the field of stars and amoons they have meant to see, and the suns have the children of signs to guard, and they have no pity at all, you must not stumble, you must not speak, when you come to the orchard wall, the gates are locked, quoth little Gareen, but the way I'm going to tell, the key of your heart it will open them all, and theirs where the darlings dwell, Sir Gilbert Parker, a letter to Lady Margaret Cavendish Halls Harley, when a child, my noble lovely little Peggy, let this my first epistle beg ye, at dawn of morn and close of even, to lift your heart and hands to heaven, in double duty say your prayer, our father first, then notre-père, and dearer's child, along the day, in everything you do and say, Obey and please my lord and lady, so God shall love an angel's aid ye, if to these precepts you attend, no second letter need I send, and so I rest your constant friend. Matthew Pryor, Love and the Child, Toys and treats and pleasures pass, like a shadow in a glass, like the smoke that mounts on high, like a noonday's butterfly, quick they come and quick they end, like the money that I spend, some to-day, to-morrow more, short like those that went before. Mother, fold me to your knees, how much should I care for these, little joys that come and go, if you did not love me so? And when things are sad or wrong, then I know that love is strong, when I ache or when I weep, then I know that love is Father, now my prayer is said, lay your hand upon my head, pleasures pass from day to day, but I know that love will stay, while I sleep it will be near, I shall wake and find it here, I shall feel it in the air, when I say my morning prayer. Maker of this little heart, Lord of love, I know thou art, little heart, though thou forget, still the love is round thee set, William Bright he rands, Polly, brown eyes, straight nose, dirt pies, rumple clothes, torn books, spoilt toys, arch looks, unlike a boy's, little rages, obvious arts, three her ages, cakes, tarts, falling down off chairs, breaking crown downstairs, catching flies on the pain, deep sighs, cause not plain, bribing you with kisses, for a few farthing blisses, wide awake, as you hear, mercy seek, quiet, dear, new shoes, new frock, vague views of what's o'clock, when it's time to go to bed, and scorn sublime for what is said, folded hands, saying prayers, understands not nor cares, thinks it odd, smiles away, yet may God hear her pray, bed gown white, kiss dolly, good night, that's Polly, fast asleep, as you see, heaven keep my girl for me, William Bright he rands, Achille, what can lambkins do, all the keen night through, nestle by their woolly mother, the careful oo, what can nestlings do, in the nightly dew, sleep beneath their mother's wing, till day breaks agnew, if in field or tree, there might only be such a warm, soft sleeping place, found for me, Christina G. Rosetti, a child's laughter, all the bells of heaven may ring, all the birds of heaven may sing, all the wells on earth may spring, all the winds on earth may bring, all sweet sounds together, sweeter far than all things heard, hand of harper, tone of bird, sound of woods at sundawn stirred, welling waters, winsome word, wind in warm, warm weather, one thing yet there is that none, hearing ear its chime be done, knows not well the sweetest one, heard of man beneath the sun, hoped in heaven hereafter, soft and strong in loud and light, very sound of very light, heard from morning's rosiest height, when the soul of all delight fills a child's clear laughter, golden bells of welcome rolled, never forth such note nor told, ours so blithe in tone so bold, as the radiant month of gold, here that rings forth heaven, if the golden-crested wren were a nightingale, why then, something seen and heard of men, might be half as sweet as when, laughs a child of seven, Algernon see swinburn, the world's music, the world's a very happy place, where every child should dance and sing, and always have a smiling face, and never sulk for anything, I waken when the mornings come, and feel the air and light alive, with strange sweet music like the hum of bees about their busy hive, the linets play among the leaves, at hide and seek, and chirp and sing, while flashing to and from the eaves, the swallows twitter on the wing, and twigs that shake and boughs that sway, and tall old trees you could not climb, and winds that come but cannot stay, are singing gaily all the time, from dawn to dark the old mill-wheel makes music going round and round, and dusty white with flour and meal, the miller whistles to its sound, the brook that flows beside the mill, as happy as a brook can be, go singing its old song until it learns the singing of the sea, for every wave upon the sands sings songs you never tire to hear, of laden ships from sunny lands where it is summer all the year, and if you listen to the rain, where leaves and birds and bees are dumb, you hear it pattering on the pain, like Andrew beating on his drum, the coals beneath the kettle-crune and clap their hands and dance in glee, and even the kettle hums a tune to tell you when it's time for tea. The world is such a happy place that children, whether big or small, should always have a smiling face, and never, never sulk at all. Gabriel Satune, the little land, when at home alone I sit, and am very tired of it, I have just to shut my eyes, to go sailing through the skies, to go sailing far away, to the pleasant land of play, to the fairy land afar, where the little people are, where the clover tops are trees, and the rain-pools are the seas, and the leaves like little ships sail a boat on tiny trips, and above the daisy tree, through the grasses, high or head the bumblebee hums and passes. In that forest to and fro, I can wander, I can go, I see the spider and the fly, and the ants go marching by, carrying parcels with their feet, down the green and grassy street, I can in the sorrel sit, where the ladybird alit, I can climb the jointed grass, and on high, see the greater swallows pass in the sky, and the round sun rolling by, heeding no such thing as I, through the forest I can pass, till, as in a looking glass, humming fly and daisy tree, and my tiny self I see, painted very clear and neat on the rain-pool at my feet, should a leaflet come to land, drifting near to where I stand, straight aboard that tiny boat round the rain-pool sea to float, little thoughtful creature sit on the grassy coast of it, little things with lovely eyes, see me sailing with surprise, some are clad in armor green, these have sure to battle being, some are pied with every hue, black and crimson, gold and blue, some have wings and swift are gone, but they all look kindly on, when my eyes I once again open and see all things plain, high bare walls, great bare floor, great big knobs on drawer and door, great big people perched on chairs, stitching tucks and mending tears, each a hill that I could climb and talking nonsense all the time, oh dear me that I could be, a sailor on the rain-pool sea, a climber in the clover tree, and just come back a sleepy head, late at night to go to bed, Robert Louis Stevenson, in a garden, baby see the flowers, baby sees, fairer things than these, fairer though they be than dreams of ours, baby hear the birds, baby knows, better songs than those, sweeter though they sound than sweetest words, baby see the moon, baby's eyes, laugh to watch it rise, answering light with love and night with noon, baby hear the sea, baby's face, takes a graver grace, touch with wonder what the sound may be, baby see the star, baby's hand, opens warm and bland, calm and claim of all things fair that are, baby hear the bells, baby's head, bows as ripe for bed, now the flowers curl round and close their cells, baby flower of light, sleep and sea, brighter dreams than we, till good days shall smile away good night, Algernon Charles Swinburne, Little Gustava, one, Little Gustava sits in the sun, safe in the porch, and the little drops run, from the icicles under the eaves so fast, for the bright spring sun shines warm at last, and glad is Little Gustava. Two, she wears a quaint little scarlet cap, and a little green bowl she holds in her lap, filled with bread and milk to the brim, and a wreath of marigolds round the brim. Ha ha, laughs Little Gustava. Three, up comes her little gray coaxing cat, with her pink nose, and she mews, what's that? Gustava feeds her, she begs for more, and a little brown hen walks in at the door, good day, cries Little Gustava. Four, she scatters crumbs for the little brown hen, there comes a rush and a flutter, and then down fly her little white dove so sweet, with her snowy wings and crimson feet. Welcome, cries Little Gustava. Five, so dainty and eager they pick up the crumbs, but who is this through the doorway comes? Little scotch terrier, little dog rags, looks in her face, and his funny tail wags. Ha ha, laughs Little Gustava. Six, you want some breakfast too? And down, she sets her bowl on brick floor brown, and little dog rags drinks up her milk, while she strokes his shaggy locks like silk. Dear rags, says Little Gustava. Seven, waiting without stood, sparrow and crow, cooling their feet in the melting snow. Won't you come in, good folk, she cried, but they were too bashful and stood outside. Though prey come in, cried Gustava. Eight, so the last she threw them, and knelt on the mat with doves and bitty and dog and cat, and her mother came to the open house door. Dear little daughter, I bring you some more. My Mary, little Gustava. Nine, kitty and terrier, bitty and doves, all things harmless, Gustava loves. The shy kind creatures, tis joy to feed, and oh, her breakfast is sweet indeed. To happy, little Gustava. Celia, faxter. A bunch of roses. The rosy mouth and rosy toe, a little baby brother, until about a month ago, had never met each other, but nowadays the neighbor's sweet, in every sort of weather, halfway with rosy fingers meet, to kiss and play together. John B. Tab. The child at Bethlehem. Long, long before the babe could speak, when he would kiss his mother's cheek, and to her bosom press, the brightest angel standing near, would turn away to hide a tear, for they are motherless. John B. Tab. After the storm, and when its force expended, the harmless storm was ended, and as the sunrise splendid came blushing o'er the sea, I thought, as day was breaking, my little girls were waking, and smiling and making, a prayer at home for me. Will you make peace, Thackery? Lucy Gray. oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, and when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day. The solitary child. No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew, she dwelt on a wide moor. The sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door. You yet may spy the fawn at play, the hair upon the green, but the sweet face of Lucy Gray will never more be seen. Tonight will be a stormy night, you too the town must go, and take a lantern child to light your mother through the snow. That father will, I gladly do, to scarcely afternoon. The minster clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon. At this his father raised his hawk and snapped a faggot band. He plied his work, and Lucy took the lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain row with many a want on strike. Her feet disperse the powdery snow that rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time. She wandered up and down, and many a hill did Lucy climb, but never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night went shouting far and wide, but there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. A daybreak on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor, and thence they saw the bridge of wood, a furlong from their door. They wept and turning homeward cried, in heaven we all shall meet. When in the snow the mother spied the print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmark small, and through the broken hawthorn hedge and by the low stone wall. And then an open field they crossed, the marks were still the same. They tracked them on, nor ever lost, and to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank, those footmarks one by one, into the middle of the plank, and further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child, that you may see Lucy Gray upon the lonesome wild. Or rough and smooth she trips along and never looks behind, and sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind. Williams Wordsworth Deaf and dumb He lies on the grass, looking up to the sky. Blue butterflies pass like a breath or a sigh. The shy little hare runs confidingly near, and wise rabbits stare with inquiry, not fear. Gay squirrels have found him and made him their choice, all creatures flock round him and seem to rejoice. While lady birds leap on his cheek fresh and fair, young partridges creep nestling under his hair. Brown honeybees drop something sweet on his lips, rash grasshoppers hop on his round fingertips. Birds hover above him with musical call. All things seem to love him, and he loves them all. Is nothing afraid of the boy lying there? Would all nature aid if he wanted its care? Things timid and wild with soft eagerness come. Ah, poor little child, he is deaf, he is dumb. But what can have brought him? But how can they know what instinct has taught them to cherish him so? Since first he could walk, they have served him like this. His lips could not talk, but they found they could kiss. They made him a court, and they crowned him a king, a who could have thought of so lovely a thing. They found him so pretty, they gave him their hearts, and some divine pity has taught them their parts. A. The blind boy. Oh, say, what is that thing called light, which I must never enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight? Oh, tell your poor blind boy. You talk of wondrous things, you see. You say the sun shines bright. I feel him warm, but how can he make either day or night? My day and night myself I make, when ere I sleep or play, and could I always keep awake? With me there were always day. With heavy sighs I often hear, you mourn my hapless woe, but sure with patience I can bear, a loss I nare can know. Then let not what I cannot have, my peace of mind destroy, whilst thus I sing I am a king, although a poor blind boy. Caught he, siber. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter number 7 Of the Posey Ring A Book of Verse for Children by Various This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Playtime, poems The world's a very happy place, where every child should dance and sing, and always have a smiling face, and never sulk for anything. Gabriel Satune A boy's song, where the pools are bright and deep, where the gray trout lives asleep, up the river and o'er the lee, that's the way for Billy and me. Where the blackbird sings the latest, where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, where the nestlings chirp and flee, that's the way for Billy and me. Where the mowers mow the cleanest, where the hay lies thick and greenest, there to trace the homeward bee, that's the way for Billy and me. Where the hazel bank is steepest, where the shadow falls the deepest, where the clustering nuts fall free, that's the way for Billy and me. Why the boys should drive away little sweet maidens from the play, or love to banter and fight so well, that's the thing I never could tell. But this I know I love to play, through the meadow among the hay, up the water and o'er the lee, that's the way for Billy and me. James Hogg The Ettrick Shepherd The Lost Doll I once had a sweet little doll, dears, the prettiest doll in the world. Her cheeks were so red and white, dears, and her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, as I played on the heath one day, and I cried for her more than a week, dears, but I never could find where she lay. I found my poor little doll, dears, as I played on the heath one day. Folks say she is terrible changed, dears, for her paint is all washed away. And her arms trotted off by the cow's deer, and her hair not the least but curled. Yet for old's sake, she is still, dears, the prettiest doll in the world. Charles Kingsley Dolledine This is her picture, dolledine, the beautifulest doll that ever was seen. Oh, what nose gaze! Oh, what sashes! Oh, what beautiful eyes and lashes! Oh, what a precious, perfect pat! On each instep a pink rosette, little blue shoes for her little blue tauts, elegant ribbons in bows and knots. Her hair is powdered, her arms are straight, only feel, she is quite a weight. Her legs are limp, though. Stand up, miss! What a beautiful buttoned up mouth to kiss! William Brighty Rans Dressing the doll This is the way we dress the doll. You may make her a shepherdess, the doll. If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook, but this is the way we dress the doll. Bless the doll, you may press the doll, but do not crumple and mess the doll. This is the way we dress the doll. First you observe her little chemise, as white as milk with ruches of silk, and the little drawers that cover her knees. As she sits or stands with golden bands and lace in beautiful filigrees. This is the way we dress the doll. You may make her a shepherdess, the doll. If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook, but this is the way we dress the doll. Bless the doll, you may press the doll, but do not crumple or mess the doll. This is the way we dress the doll. Now these are the bodies she has too. One of pink with ruches of blue, and sweet white lace. Be careful, do. And one of green with buttons of sheen. Buttons and bands of gold, I mean. With lace on the border in lovely order. The most expensive we can afford her. This is the way we dress the doll. You may make her a shepherdess, the doll. If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook, but this is the way we dress the doll. Bless the doll, you may press the doll, but do not crumple or mess the doll. This is the way we dress the doll. Then with black at the border jacket, and this, and this, she will not lack it. Skirts, why? There are skirts, of course. And shoes and stockings we shall enforce. With a proper bodice in the proper place. Stays that lace have had their days. And made their martyrs likewise garters, all entire. But our desire is to show you her knight attire. At least a part of it, pray admire. This sweet white thing that she goes to bed in. It's not the one that's made for her wedding. That is special, a new design. Made with a charm and a counter sign. Three times three, and nine times nine. These are only her usual clothes. Look, there's a wardrobe. Gracious nose. Is pretty enough as far as it goes. So you see the way we dress the doll. You might make her a shepherdess, the doll. If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook. With sheep and a shed and shallow brook. And all that out of the poetry book. This is the way we dress the doll. You may make her a shepherdess, the doll. If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook. But this is the way we dress the doll. Bless the doll. You may press the doll. But do not crumple and mess the doll. This is the way we dress the doll. If you had not seen, could you guess the doll? William Brighty Rans. The peddler's caravan. I wished I lived in a caravan, with a horse to drive like a peddler man. Where he comes from, nobody knows. Or where he goes to, but on he goes. His caravan has windows too, and a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through. He has a wife with a baby brown, and they go riding from town to town. Chairs to mend and delft to sell. He clashes the basins like a bell. Tea trays, baskets ranged in order. Plates with the alphabet round the border. The roads are brown and the sea is green. But his house is just like a bathing machine. The world is round and he can ride, rumble and splash to the other side. With the peddler man I should like to roam, and write a book. When I came home, all the people would read my book, just like the travels of Captain Cook. William Brighty Rans. A sea song from the shore. Hail-ho, sail-ho, ahoy, ahoy, ahoy. Who calls to me, so far at sea, only a little boy. Sail-ho, hail-ho, the sailor he sails the sea. I wish he would capture a little sea horse, and send him home to me. I wish as he sails through the tropical gales, he would catch me a seabird, too, with its silver wings and the song it sings, and its breast of down and dew. I wish he would catch me a little mermaid, some island where he lands, with her dripping curls and her crown of pearls, and the looking glass in her hands. Hail-ho, sail-ho, sail far o'er the fabulous main. And if I were a sailor, I'd sail with you. Though I never sailed back again. James Wiccan Riley. The Land of Story Books Footnote from A Child's Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson by permission of Charles Scribner's sons and footnote. At evening when the lamp is lit, around the fire my parents sit. They sit at home and talk and sing, and do not play at anything. Now with my little gun I crawl, all in the dark along the wall, and fall around the forest track, away behind the sofa-back. There in the night where none can spy, all in my hunter's camp I lie, and play at books that I have read, till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, these are my starry soliditudes, and they are the river by whose brink the roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away, as if in firelit camp they lay, and I, like two an Indian scout, around their party proud about. So when my nurse comes in for me, home I return across the sea, and go to bed with backward looks at my dear land of story books. Robert Louis Stevenson The City Child Dainty little maiden, wither would you wander? Wither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells. Far and far away, said the dainty little maiden, all among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, roses and lilies, and cantabary bells. Dainty little maiden, wither would you wander? Wither from this pretty house, this city house of ours. Far and far away, said the dainty little maiden, all among the meadows, the clover and the comatose, daisies and king cups, and honeysuckle flowers. Alfred Lord Tennyson Going into breeches, joy to Philip, he this day, has his long coats cast away, and the childish season gone, put the manly breeches on, officer on gay parade, red coat in his first caucade, bright groom in his wedding trim, birthday bow surpassing him, never did, with conscious gait, strut about in half the state, or the pride, yet free from sin, of my little mannequin, never was their pride or bliss half so rational as his. Sashes frocks to those that need him, Philip's limbs have got their freedom. He can run, or he can ride, and do twenty things beside. Which his petty coats forbade, is he not a happy lad? Now he's under other banners, he must leave his former manners, bid adieu to female games, and forget their very names, puss in corners hide and seek, sports for girls and punnies weak. Bass the bear he now may play at, leapfrog football sport away at, show his skill and strength at cricket, mark his distance, pitch his wicket, run about in winter snow till his cheeks and fingers glow, climb a tree or scale a wall, without any fear to fall. If he get a hurt or bruise, to complain he must refuse, through the anguish and the smart, go unto his little heart. He must have his courage ready, keep his voice and visage steady, brace his eyeballs stiff as drum, that a tear may never come, and his grief must only speak from the collar in his cheek. This and more he must endure, hero he, in miniature, this and more must now be done, now the breeches are put on. Charles and Mary Lamb Hunting song, up up ye dames and lasses gay, to the meadows trip away, Tiss you must tend the flocks this morn, and scare the small birds from the corn. Not a soul at home may stay, for the shepherds must go, with glance and bow, to hunt the wolf in the woods today. Leave the hearth and leave the house, to the cricket and the mouse, find Granam out a sunny seat, with babe and lambkin at her feet. Not a soul at home may stay, for the shepherds must go, with glance and bow, to hunt the wolf in the woods today. Samuel Taylor Coolridge High Away High Away, high away, over bank and over bray, where the cops would is the greenest, where the fountains listen sheenest, where the lady fern grows strongest, where the morning dew lies longest, where the black cock sweetest sips it, where the fairy latest rips it, high to haunts wright seldom seen, lovely lonesome cool and green, over bank and over bray, high away, high away. Sir Walter Scott End of Chapter 7