 Section 1 of A Little Freckled Person, a book of child verse. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sweet Home and Little Peanut, A Little Freckled Person, a book of child verse by Mary Carolyn Davies. A Little Freckled Person. They think I'm just a little girl at study, work or play. A little freckled person who has never much to say. They do not know a princess oft in golden gown am I, with cheeks like apple petals soft and eyes like sea or sky. They only see my tumbled braids, they do not know I wear, a crown with turquoise and barrels upon my coiled up hair. They do not know adventures dire, beset me, land and sea, that page and courtier night and squire before me bend the knee, that haughty ships with silken sails upon my bidding go, all these and other happy things, they cannot, cannot know. They only see a little girl at study, work or play. A little freckled person who has never much to say. The selfish sea. The sea is very, very wide. It takes up all the room outside, and when I stand beside the sea, it comes right up and pushes me. The rabbit. A rabbit works its ears and tries to watch you with its rabbit eyes. Its saucy little tail it flounces, and when it hits the ground it bounces. The uncritical kitten. If I am selfish when I play, my kitten likes me anyway. Next door people. The next door people have a bird. The yellowest you ever heard. It hops and chirps and sings and sings. Aren't next door people pleasant things? Probation. Mother says, If you're thoughtful and polite, go to bed at eight each night, always hasten to do chores, and give up chairs for visitors. Weed the garden, carry wood, and be very still and good. Mother says, If you're faithful in your task, never beg, but only ask, fold your napkin, say your prayers, put no gum upon the chairs, keep your bureau doors quite neat. Walk through pools, but on sidewalk, till the mud is gone, and say thank you often, and sit erect and walk at stand, and wash well behind your ears. Always wait until it clears to wear your best clothes, and not fail to hang your coat upon its nail. You will find the people where you live like to have you there. Our house has a pleasant yard, and I am trying very hard. Perhaps you never know in this great world what wonders there may be. Perhaps there's buried treasure out beneath our cherry tree. Freed Stars. The stars are like us children here, not any older grown, and night the little Freed Stars stay together in the milky way. The brave ones stand alone. The Stars. The stars are lighted candles upon a Christmas tree. The branches that they hang upon we cannot ever see. On Christmas Eve the angels stand about it after tea, and if an angel's very good, he gets a present as he should. As you would be done by. Of course I believe in fairies. Of course I know they're true. Just think if you were a fairy, and no one believed in you. End of section one. Section two of A Little Freckled Person. A Book of Childbursts by Mary Carolyn Davies. This Libber Vox recording is in the public domain, recording by Sweet Home and Little Peanut. Drawing. Upon my slate I draw strange things I never saw, nor you nor anyone, but oh it is such fun. The fishing pole. A fishing pole's a curious thing. It's made of just a stick and string. A boy at one end, and a wish, and on the other end, a fish. Sympathy. Little fishing boat, a blur, on the ocean blue. Don't you ever wish you were a little taller too? I have a birthday. Look at me as you dart and dip. Grow, and maybe soon you'll be a white sailed ship. The forest school. The little forest did merely stand in studious rows on either hand. On winter days, about like these, all learning to be Christmas trees. White cherry. The moon's a white cherry for sale in the sky, and each one admires it, but no one will buy. Oh cherry that lies on the shop window shelf. When I have a penny, I'll buy you myself. The independent kite. A kite is very nice to own. It never, never grieves you, except when it wants to play alone, and just goes off and leaves you. Practicing. The black notes are the bridegrooms, the white notes are the brides, and I? Why? I'm the minister, and all the guests besides. Fairyland Secret Service. A snowflake is a letter, a fairy in the sky, is sending to the fairies here, and when they've read its message clear, lest anyone should spy, they purse their little lips and blow, to melt the telltale note of snow. Oh let us see if we can snatch, and read a fairyland dispatch. A book. A book's a magic sort of thing. That makes you sailor chief or king. When I'm old and own a shelf, I think I'll have a book myself. The lonesome sea. The sea is so lonely. Now winter is here. I wish we could only go down to the pier, and say to him kindly, don't think, Mr. Sea, we've forgotten you quite, for we haven't, not we. Last summer we scurried all sudden, I know, from the beach. Don't be worried, we hated to go. I should like to go clear to the end of the pier, for he's lonesome, and tell him, we're coming next year. The mountains. The mountains do not stir or show emotion when spring comes, I know, but though they are restrained by pride, I think that they are glad inside. End of section two. Section three of A Little Freckled Person. A book of child verse by Mary Carolyn Davies. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Little Peanut and Sweet Home. When Dolly is afraid. When lights are standing in the street, and on the sidewalk all the feet are quiet, and it's growing late, and our brown clock is striking eight. I pack the animals and arc, and push them deep into the dark, and in a quiet row I lay my cups and saucers till the day. But who could ever say goodnight, and leave her doll in such a plight? I couldn't let her stay without a friend, and hear the dark about. So she and I go straight upstairs, she shuts her eyes while we say prayers, and then we lie and count up sheep, until we both are fast asleep. It's not because I dread at all the darkness that I keep my doll, but just because I think that she would be so frightened without me. Tree children. The little trees that to the breeze make quaint and timorous courtesies. I like to come and play with these. Each grown-up pine that stands in line is but a stranger, great and fine. The little trees are friends of mine. The cockatoo. Green and yellow cockatoo, won't you let me talk to you, or if you would kinder be? Won't you come and talk to me? Tell me all about the places where the children have black faces, armlets, anklets, copper rings, where the cannibals are kings. Has a hungry crocodile ever met you with a smile? Have you taken many a trip in a rakish pirate ship? Cockatoo, cockatoo. How I'd like to talk to you, but as you can guess I'd be gladder if you'd talk to me. High cost of living. Among the angels it's a shame to tell it. Prices are so dear. They use the blown-out candle flame to mend their ragged stars this year. Need. I like the kitten of my friends. I like its claws caught in my lace. I like the way each small ear ends. I like the black upon its face. I feel its heartbeat in my hand and then I somehow understand so many things I didn't know. I'm kinder, and my voice is low, and I close doors more softly too, and do the things I'm told to do instead of wishing they were done. But mother says we mean to have one. I want a kitten all my own, to play with when I'm left alone and when the family's gone away to shop and work and call and play. Tennis and other things. It's also queer and lonely in the hall and in the parlor too, and in the sitting room where words have been but are not now. The chairs and I wait through the hours till by and by are only playmates, little fears. There's room in all our lives, I think, for one small kitten, black as ink, with two white spots behind its ears. Sky color. Blue skies are very apt to fade. Dark colors wear the best, it's true. But who would choose a useful shade? I want mine, blue. Left out. If shoemaker's children are left with feet bare, I've wondered and wondered, I don't think it's fair. If maybe at Christmas there aren't any toys left over for Santa Claus' own girls and boys. The white birch. A white birch grows in the deepest wood. If you are good and the stars are right, who knows? You may see some night the nymphs stand under the sea-green heave of its bows in a row. But if you wander, they will fade and go. You must just believe. The playmate. Last year I played with the country, this year with the sea. Now the queer old city stops and plays with me, stops in its counting of pennies, and never, never fails to know the time I'm going to bed, and tells me fairy tales. Thanksgiving. The turkey is a mournful bird from all that I have ever heard. If he could live this day to see how very thankful he would be. The nest. That tree has a nest, and if I lie, quite still, and if I have luck, I may see two heads or three stretched out, hark, hark! Wings sound, and a dark shadow comes flying through bows. They are trying to reach the food that the large bird brings, unfinished wings. Are such curious things, they are almost old enough to fly. The three, if they knew, as I do, and you, that nests are cozier than the sky. And the section three. Section four of A Little Freckled Person, a book of child verse by Mary Carolyn Davies. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Little Peanut and Sweet Home. The orange. The sky is a greedy child who holds one yellow orange in her hand. It is the sun. She holds it primly, then hid from sight, all in the darkness. He eats it at night. I almost got to Fairyland one day. I almost got to Fairyland one day. I walked out straight along the sun path, so, and there were little hummings in the world. And moving things went through the grass and all. The air was just as glad as if there were a party somewhere at a fairy's house. I knew they had a party, and I knew that they had kept a seat for me, if I could only find the right turn in the road. I was so near to Fairyland, so near, that I could almost hear the fairy gates swing open for me, waiting just for me. I was so near to Fairyland, and then, just then, I heard my mother calling me. Come in to supper, dear! I heard her call, and so I never got to Fairyland. I know that there are fairies, though, because I almost got to Fairyland one day. Untrained Trains A train should never jump the tracks. Such rude behavior shows a lack of poise. It's really a disgrace. A train should know its proper place. Handicapped I run as fast as I can go when trains run past our place. They're bigger, far than I, and so they always win the race. A Sunset Life seems so sweet, I don't know why. Perhaps it's just because the sky put on tonight to make me glad. A dress I didn't know she had. Two Ships Tall ships, tall ships sailing out to sea. Have you in your dreaming hearts any room for me? For a little singing maid who would sail with you out to where the ocean miles are blue, blue, blue. Tall ships, tall ships loosening from shore, steering all by starcraft and sailing evermore. Take a little wishful maid with you as you go. I would feel the ocean tempests blow, blow, blow. Tall ships, tall ships, sea I stretch my hands, pray you take me with you to far and foreign lands. Ships and eager little maid prays that she may be sailing as you sail, forever free, free, free. Sea Butterflies The sea is like a garden green, the spray like daisies white, and one full rose alone is seen, the great red sun at night. A fluttering in their loveliness, the ships against the skies are just, as anyone can guess, the gardens butterflies. Buds The buds have come to town, demure and brown their coats, and under sea, how can such fragile, fairy colors be? The buds have come to us, all tremulous. We're quite as glad as they. Take off your cloaks, dear little buds, and stay. The Flower Cart The flower carts coming down the street with tulips red and tulip sweet, and from the wagon color spills of hyacinths and daffodils, and purple rhododendrons grow beside the roses in a row. Oh, let us hasten down to spend, before the flower cart rounds the bend. Oh, let us bring our pennies and hold all of spring within our hands. Eavesdroppers The stars lean down and listen at fairy story time. They twinkle and they glisten to hear each happy rhyme. To all are cheerful singing, the little stars beat time. The stars lean down to hear us, they know it's not polite, but then they cease to fear us about this time of night. They creep and edge up near us, although it isn't right. Eavesdroppers, but we love them. We leave a little space and never crowd or shove them because, in any case, that stretch of blue above them is such a lonely place. Singing Secrets Bird up in the pine tree top, tossing down to me broken songs to where I sit underneath the tree. Bird up in the pine tree top, what is it you hear that you try to say again in your singing clear? What is it you see up there in the green and blue? Does the world look very strange, strange and fair to you? Do you see some happy thing that you try to show in the eager chirps you toss gaily down below? You are singing secrets, bird. I am very sure. I can understand no word, but oh, try once more. Bird up in the pine tree top, sing again to me. Maybe I can hear it now. Maybe I can see. End of Section Four Section Five of A Little Freckled Person A Book of Child Verse by Mary Carolyn Davies This Leap of Ox recording is in the public domain, recording by Little Peanut and Sweet Home. The Day Before April No little brown bird go away. I have no time to dream today. I must do certain things you see. I know not why, but it must be. Here I must study foolish books and not guess how the lilac looks. Hush, little bird, and do not sing. I have no time to play with spring. The Corn The Corns like soldiers in a row will stop and cheer them, let's. The tassels are their waving flags. The Leeds, their bayonets. They march to meet King Frost, their foe. The fight will soon begin. King Frost will conquer them, I know, but oh, if they could win. If a star, if a star were to say, I will stay and watch dawn bring the day. If a star were so bold, would the moon mother old let it stay in the sky? Try, star, try. Dryad Dryad hidden in this tree, break your bonds and talk to me. No one's watching, only peep. From your cave, the town's asleep. No one knows I stand here so. Come, for they will never know. Tell me what you think of here, when the moon is sharp and clear, when the clouds are over you, when the ground is wet with dew. Dryad, are you happy, say? Do you like to live this way? I will keep your secrets well. I will never, never tell. Dryad hidden in our tree. Come, oh, come and talk to me. The Duel Once a blotter met a blot, in a still secluded spot. Here's the blotter, brave to see. But the blot? Oh, where is he? The littlest cloud. A littlest cloud in all the blue. Don't go so fast, for, see, I'm just about the size of you. Come down and play with me. But, oh, if that's the only way to come in raindrops, why? I'll stay here by myself and play. I wouldn't have you cry. Princes, Cinderella sitting in her dingy chimney corner, delving in the ashes with a smoke upon her eyes. With pots and kettles waiting, all her kinfolk, by to scorn her, longed perhaps to meet a prince, handsome, young and wise. Maybe sleeping beauty on her couch within the castle, while her golden hair crept down to touch her silent feet. Dreamed about a rider, with a scarlet cap and tassel, who would hack away the hedge and cry, Awaken, sweet! While I'm washing dishes or scraping out the skillet, or when I'm sprinkling or folding up the clothes. Sometimes I too dream, it seems foolish like to tell it. But their princes came at last and, ah, who knows? Our Cher, babies of Alaska, babies of Japan, babies born to beets or silk or fez or fur or fan. None of all the babies that are toddling anywhere is half so sweet a baby as the baby that's our Cher. If I were Santa's little boy. If I were Santa's little boy. If there is a family of Santa Claus's in the sky or where their home may be. If I were Santa's oldest son. I only hope that he has one. And my papa should say to me. What Christmas present son would be the very thing you'd like to see within your stalking Christmas day? I wouldn't stop to think, would you? But say, I want to drive the sleigh. And then, when Christmas we could come and nearly dawn on Christmas day, I'd load the sleigh with doll and drum, and find where the reindeer were tied, and hitch them quickly up, and I'd shout very loudly, clear the way. And crack the whip and drive the sleigh down from the pole and past the claying of loud icicles in a row. Blown by the wind to where the gang lives in our street, and then I'd shout, while frightened heads of boys stuck out. From open windows in surprise with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, I'd shout out loudly so that they could hear each single word I'd say. Hey dash or dancer, faster prancer, run as hard now as you can, sir. Stop your bulking when I'm talking. We must fill each Christmas stalking in a hundred million places. Dash or dancer, mind your paces, don't you dare to break the traces. Then I'd shake the reins and shout, to milkman that might be about, clear the way for Santa's sleigh because I'm driving it today. The party dress. All year long the timid maple has been dressed in prim and sober, little plain utilitarian gowns of quiet tints of green, but spring is gone and summer's past. And now that it's October, the modest little maple tree is costumed like a queen. Just look now through our window and I'm sure that you'll agree that her party dress is pretty as a party dress can be. The clock that autumn winds. School is like a clock that stops in vacation time. Tick-tock, tick-tock, a sing-song rhyme. Every school day is a minute. This clock has long minutes in it. In vacation time it stops. Not a sound at all, not a tick, not a talk. Hanging on the wall, waits the clock until fall finds it, stands upon a chair, and winds it. End of Section 5 Section 6 of A Little Freckled Person, a book of child verse by Mary Carolyn Davies. The sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Little Peanut and Sweet Home. Conversation In proper sentences of purr and monosyllables of muse, when I have told my news to her, my kitten tells me, kitten news. The homesick star. The candle stood beside my bed and dropped a little tear. I sat up, shivering, and said, I know you're lonesome here. You'd rather have the sky than me. You've been too kind by far. To say so, now I've guessed you see that you're a homesick star. I'll send you home again for I was homesick once and no, and when you're safely in the sky and I am here below. Then don't forget me, candle, please, but twinkle very plain, on dark, dark nights about like these, above my window-pane. Then, though I am afraid at night that thieves might be about, I screwed my eyes up very tight and blew the candle out. The lonesomest fairy. There's a dewdrop shining bright on the grass by the sun undried. It's a tear that fell in the night when the lonesomest fairy cried. The present. The sky is like a Christmas tree. The burning stars its candles be. The moon's a bulky gift and odd. Mark to the world with love from God. Grief. Forget it soon? It's because I know that I'll forget I'm crying so. The Saturdays party in Fairyland. All the Saturdays met one day, each was very polite, they say. They shook each other by the hand and had a party in Fairyland. They wouldn't let any Monday in, and not one Tuesday at all could win, her way past the supercilious crowd, and Wednesdays why they weren't allowed. Thursdays could only stand in the street and look through the door at the things to eat, and the Fridays and Sundays pretended they didn't like parties anyway. But the Saturdays had the greatest fun. They played hopscotch and run sheep run, and frog in the meadow and pull away in everything else they wanted to play. They used the throne for musical chairs, as if the Fairy Queen's house were theirs. In rooms enchanted they ran and hid, and whatever they wished they could do they did. And after they played and played and played, they had pink straws in their lemonade, and the cookies and tarts were like a dream, and all the Saturdays had ice cream. I had my doubts when I heard, and you have yours, but strange things happen on foreign shores, and they say that the best fat ever planned was the Saturdays party in Fairyland. The sorrows of a seamstress. I'm learning to sew, and basting, and hemming, and all that, but I wish that the eye were bigger or the thread not quite so fat. My mother's garden is the sea. My mother's garden is the sea, if it is viewed aright. The sweet, elissum borders are the ocean's breakers white. The butterflies and hummingbirds are seagulls flying oar, and in our gravel garden path I pace, a foreign shore. The gymnastic clock. The little clock is friends with me. It talks as plain as plain can be, and says, each morning as it rises, now don't forget your exercises, both hands above your head, you know, then lower them very slowly so, oh, don't get tired and stop that way. I exercise like this all day, right in its face, then I say, poo, I wouldn't boast of it like you, but I can swing my arms round too, and so the clock then looks at me, and I look back, and I and he, each single morning when we rise, just exercise and exercise. Snowflakes. The fairies called snowflakes all dressed up in white, they went to the dance, and were dancing all night, and now they lie tired, wear sleep, chance to overtake them, step lightly, speak softly, take care not to wake them. Pirate song. A pirate, a pirate, I'd like to be a pirate, a black-bearded pirate with a pistol at my side. With a crew to take my orders, and scour the ocean's borders, I tramp along the quarter-deck, my ship upon the tide. A pirate, a pirate, I want to be a pirate. A sailing off to Tartary to India and Spain, I'd show them I was master, as we scutted fast and faster. We pirates bowled a search for gold across the Spanish main. A pirate, a pirate, I'd like to be a pirate, a scarlet scarf about my neck, a cutlass at my wrist, with my boots of shining leather creaking when they rubbed together, and a foaming lank to walk the plank whenever I'd insist. A pirate, a pirate, I want to be a pirate, to sail the seas for treasure and to keep it in our hold, to fear no foe nor nation, what a splendid occupation, to be a dowdy pirate in the daring days of old. A pirate, a pirate, but if I were a pirate, I couldn't have a pair of skates, a football or a sled. So when I think it over, though I'd like to be a rover, I'd rather be in our house, and be myself instead. End of section six. Section seven of A Little Freckled Person, a book of child verse by Mary Carolyn Davies. This labor box recording is in the public domain, recording by Little Peanut and Sweet Home. Our playhouse is so near to Fairyland. Our playhouse is so near to Fairyland I think the fairies come and peep to see how children play. So sometimes when there's something in the grass that sounds like fairies' footsteps very faint not far away, we sit quite still, all on the playhouse wall. But though we wait and wait for them to speak, they never do. Our playhouse is so near to Fairyland they'll come someday and start to play with us, I think. Don't you? New leaves. It doesn't do you any good to hide. Trees. Everybody knows you're there inside. Besides, although you think your head complete, we see your feet. Beach birds. Beach birds, beach birds, flying into me from the wide blue palaces of your home, the sea. What have you to tell about islands green and fair? Stories of the ships that tramp the trail to everywhere. Have you seen a sailor lad dreaming at the wheel? Have you seen the great shark's flash, white beneath a keel? Have you seen the savages dancing in a ring? Have you, on a desert isle, ever seen a king? Beach birds, beach birds, flying into me in some far blue palace hall of your home, the sea. Will you tell the listening birds how, in a curious land, once you saw a little maid playing in the sand? The sky song. The sky stands up to sing before us, each stars a word, the moons, the chorus. A spring thought. The new birds tweet and buds come sweet and puffy clouds are in the sky. The world is full of little girls, but very few as nice as I. The zoo. We were walking in the zoo and all the animals looked at us, the bear and the hippopotamus, and quite a few lions and wolves and a yak and a new. And we were glad someone had made cages around them so that we could walk there and not be afraid, but could just pretend that they were free and could eat us both. If they wanted to. Six in June. The leaves are born, the organ man has gotten new quick tune. It's rained, the kitten's gone to sleep, and I'll be six in June. Cloud magic. Beneath the comfortable sky all afternoon I love to lie and think about the books I've read and all the things I dream in bed when I am not quite sleeping yet the things that day makes me forget. The white clouds looked like ships one day and then like lamkins straight away and as I look I understand just where it is that's fairyland is only lying down you know the clouds make pictures for me so when I stand up to see them why there's nothing there but clouds and sky. Ambition. A lonely little desert isle that was not comforted by all the oceans mile on mile, sighed wistfully and said it's hard sometimes to be content I wish I were a continent. Tree birthdays. Look look at me today is my birthday tree. See let me stand up so beside you how you grow. I'm tall but oh I'll never be as tall as you I know. Tree when's your birthday please why don't you speak I seem so small and you're so tall perhaps you have a birthday every week. In autumn I am sorry trees your leaves have gone and left you but don't cry don't shiver so you're luckier than I when summer's gone and falls here stern and cool I have to go to school. Don't tremble trees you shouldn't mind I wish that I were you you don't have fractions no nor maps to do and no one tries to make trees keep a rule I have to go to school. End of section seven. Section eight of A Little Freckled Person. A Book of Child Verse by Mary Carolyn Davies. The sleeper fox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Little Peanut and Sweet Home. Star cast. A star looked down upon the sea and to a lighthouse trim said he I wonder what you are. The lighthouse twinkled instantly why you are the aristocracy and I'm a working star. A news boy it must be hard to stand and stand but think of pennies in your hand. A playground. All the day from dawn till dark nations play within this park. East and west are in that swing feet that crowd and hands that cling. Europe leans to catch a ball in the shadow of that wall Asia sings and hugs it all. All the day from dawn till dark nations play within this park. Moons. Mountain moons are large and white mountain moons are round. I have seen the moons at night growing from the ground and I like the seaside moons in the sea blue sky. But in town the moons are also very far and high. The discovery. It often rains in our town and you know it always happens when we've planned to go. On walks or hikes or somewhere out to play it's curious how it seems arranged that way. We used to use those rainy days to pout and stand there at the window looking out and wishing things about the weather. Oh I never knew a wish to change it though. But now the gladdest secret. We don't need our dad to tell us stories we can read. We found that fairyland is everywhere. You open up a book and why you're there. Gardening is heaps of fun. Gardening is heaps of fun. We are partners with the sun for we help him make things grow with our spade and rake and hoe. First we spade the ground then rake it ready for the seeds we make it. Then in furrows carefully plant them as they ought to be. Soon above the ground we spy tiny green things push and pry little plants that from their night wake and climb to find the light. They are thirsty so we give water first that they may live. Then the weeds we vanquish so each we shoot may thrive and grow. Busy raindrops light and air haste to come our work to share for to them too everyone. Gardening is heaps of fun. Fairy town a lullaby. In fairy town in fairy town where fairy folks go up and down. Where fairy children we and gay frisk and romp in fairy play every day's a holiday. And every night is sweeter still for when behind the fairy hill the tiny fairy sun goes down. It's sleepy time in fairy town. Sleepy time in fairy town sleep sleep sleep while the stars of fairy town safe watch keep. All the fairy babies so off to dream and softly go sleep sleep sleep. In fairy town in fairy town each baby in a moonlight gown lies and dreams the live long night. Fairy babies are so white white and pink and we and bright petals of a rose a curl make a fairy baby girl. Autumn leaves all deer and brown make the boys of fairy town. Sleepy time in fairy town sleep sleep sleep while the stars of fairy town safe watch keep. Like the fairy babies go off to dream line softly so sleep sleep sleep. Straight hair I wish my hair would curl there isn't any other little girl with hair as straight as mine. I try to twine it round my finger so but oh it just won't grow that way no matter how I twist and whirl and coax it. If tonight I wish upon a star that it would curl oh then tomorrow do you think it might? Bedtime it's eight o'clock now kitten see good night sweet dreams of mice and me. End of section eight. End of A Little Freckled Person a book of child verse by Mary Carolyn Davies.