Chapter 2 THE CHILD'S WORLD

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water round you curled,

And the wonderful grass upon your breast,

World, you are beautifully drest.

William Brighty Rands.

* * *

THE CHILD'S WORLD

The Wonderful World

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water round you curled,

And the wonderful grass upon your breast,

World, you are beautifully drest.

The wonderful air is over me,

And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-

It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,

And talks to itself on the top of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go,

With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,

With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,

And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,

I hardly can think of you, World, at all;

And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,

My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,

"If the wonderful World is great to you,

And great to father and mother, too,

You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!

You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands.

A Day

I'll tell you how the sun rose,

A ribbon at a time.

The steeples swam in amethyst,

The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,

The bobolinks begun.

Then I said softly to myself,

"That must have been the sun!"

. . . . . . . .

But how he set, I know not.

There seemed a purple stile

Which little yellow boys and girls

Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,

A dominie in gray

Put gently up the evening bars,

And led the flock away.

Emily Dickinson.

Good-Morning

The year's at the Spring,

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in his heaven-

All's right with the world.

Robert Browning.

What the Winds Bring

Which is the Wind that brings the cold?

The North-Wind, Freddy, and all the snow;

And the sheep will scamper into the fold

When the North begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the heat?

The South-Wind, Katy; and corn will grow,

And peaches redden for you to eat,

When the South begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the rain?

The East-Wind, Arty; and farmers know

The cows come shivering up the lane,

When the East begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the flowers?

The West-Wind, Bessy; and soft and low

The birdies sing in the summer hours,

When the West begins to blow.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Lady Moon

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

"Over the sea."

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?

"All that love me."

Are you not tired with rolling, and never

Resting to sleep?

Why look so pale and so sad, as forever

Wishing to weep?

"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me:

You are too bold:

I must obey my dear Father above me,

And do as I'm told."

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

"Over the sea."

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?

"All that love me."

Lord Houghton.

O Lady Moon[B]

O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east:

Shine, be increased;

O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the west:

Wane, be at rest.

Christina G. Rossetti.

Windy Nights[C]

Whenever the moon and stars are set,

Whenever the wind is high,

All night long in the dark and wet,

A man goes riding by,

Late at night when the fires are out,

Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud,

And ships are tossed at sea,

By, on the highway, low and loud,

By at the gallop goes he.

By at the gallop he goes, and then

By he comes back at the gallop again.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

Wild Winds

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!

Blow high,

Blow low,

And whirlwinds go,

To chase the little leaves that fly-

Fly low and high,

To hollow and to steep hill-side;

They shiver in the dreary weather,

And creep in little heaps together,

And nestle close and try to hide.

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!

Blow low,

Blow high,

And whirlwinds try

To find a crevice-to find a crack,

They whirl to the front; they whirl to the back.

But Tommy and Will and the baby together

Are snug and safe from the wintry weather.

All the winds that blow

Cannot touch a toe-

Cannot twist or twirl

One silken curl.

They may rattle the doors in a noisy pack,

But the blazing fires will drive them back.

Mary F. Butts.

Now the Noisy Winds Are Still[D]

Now the noisy winds are still;

April's coming up the hill!

All the spring is in her train,

Led by shining ranks of rain;

Pit, pat, patter, clatter,

Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!-

First the blue, and then the shower;

Bursting bud, and smiling flower;

Brooks set free with tinkling ring;

Birds too full of song to sing;

Crisp old leaves astir with pride,

Where the timid violets hide,-

All things ready with a will,-

April's coming up the hill!

Mary Mapes Dodge.

The Wind

The wind has a language, I would I could learn;

Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern;

Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song,

And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along;

And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain;

And slumber sinks down on the wandering main;

And its crystal arms are folded in rest,

And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.

Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

The Fountain

Into the sunshine,

Full of the light,

Leaping and flashing

From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,

Waving so flower-like

When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,

Rushing in spray,

Happy at midnight,

Happy by day;

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,

Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers;

Still seeming best,

Upward or downward;

Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,

Changed every moment,

Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,

Darkness or sunshine

Thy element;

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be

Fresh, changeful, constant,

Upward like thee!

James Russell Lowell.

The Waterfall

Tinkle, tinkle!

Listen well!

Like a fairy silver bell

In the distance ringing,

Lightly swinging

In the air;

'Tis the water in the dell

Where the elfin minstrels dwell,

Falling in a rainbow sprinkle,

Dropping stars that brightly twinkle,

Bright and fair,

On the darkling pool below,

Making music so;

'Tis the water elves who play

On their lutes of spray.

Tinkle, tinkle!

Like a fairy silver bell;

Like a pebble in a shell;

Tinkle, tinkle!

Listen well!

Frank Dempster Sherman.

The Voice of the Grass

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

By the dusty roadside,

On the sunny hill-side,

Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;

All around the open door,

Where sit the aged poor;

Here where the children play,

In the bright and merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

In the noisy city street

My pleasant face you'll meet,

Cheering the sick at heart

Toiling his busy part,-

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

You cannot see me coming,

Nor hear my low sweet humming;

For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

More welcome than the flowers

In summer's pleasant hours;

The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

. . . . . . . .

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

My humble song of praise

Most joyfully I raise

To him at whose command

I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Sarah Roberts Boyle.

The Wind in a Frolic

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,

Saying, "Now for a frolic! Now for a leap!

Now for a madcap, galloping chase!

I'll make a commotion in every place!"

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,

Creaking the signs, and scattering down

Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls,

Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.

There never was heard a much lustier shout,

As the apples and oranges tumbled about;

And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes

Forever on watch, ran off with each prize.

Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,

And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.

It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,

And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows,

Till offended at such a familiar salute,

They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.

So on it went capering and playing its pranks;

Whistling with reeds on the broad river-banks;

Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,

Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.

It was not too nice to bustle the bags

Of the beggar and flutter his dirty rags.

'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke

With the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak.

Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "Now,

You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"

And it made them bow without more ado,

Or it cracked their branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm,

Striking their inmates with sudden alarm;

And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,

And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;

There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,

Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane

With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain,

For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood

With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

William Howitt.

Clouds

The sky is full of clouds to-day,

And idly to and fro,

Like sheep across the pasture, they

Across the heavens go.

I hear the wind with merry noise-

Around the housetops sweep,

And dream it is the shepherd boys,

They're driving home their sheep.

The clouds move faster now; and see!

The west is red and gold.

Each sheep seems hastening to be

The first within the fold.

I watch them hurry on until

The blue is clear and deep,

And dream that far beyond the hill

The shepherds fold their sheep.

Then in the sky the trembling stars

Like little flowers shine out,

While Night puts up the shadow bars,

And darkness falls about.

I hear the shepherd wind's good-night-

"Good-night and happy sleep!"

And dream that in the east, all white,

Slumber the clouds, the sheep.

Frank Dempster Sherman.

Signs of Rain

The hollow winds begin to blow,

The clouds look black, the glass is low,

The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,

The spiders from their cobwebs peep:

Last night the sun went pale to bed,

The moon in halos hid her head;

The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,

For, see, a rainbow spans the sky:

The walls are damp, the ditches smell,

Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel.

Hark how the chairs and tables crack!

Old Betty's joints are on the rack;

Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,

The distant hills are seeming nigh.

How restless are the snorting swine;

The busy flies disturb the kine;

Low o'er the grass the swallow wings,

The cricket too, how sharp he sings;

Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,

Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws.

Through the clear stream the fishes rise,

And nimbly catch the incautious flies.

The glow-worms, numerous and bright,

Illumed the dewy dell last night.

At dusk the squalid toad was seen,

Hopping and crawling o'er the green;

The whirling wind the dust obeys,

And in the rapid eddy plays;

The frog has changed his yellow vest,

And in a russet coat is dressed.

Though June, the air is cold and still,

The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill.

My dog, so altered in his taste,

Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast;

And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,

They imitate the gliding kite,

And seem precipitate to fall,

As if they felt the piercing ball.

'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow,

Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

Edward Jenner.

A Sudden Shower

Barefooted boys scud up the street,

Or scurry under sheltering sheds;

And school-girl faces, pale and sweet,

Gleam from the shawls about their heads.

Doors bang; and mother-voices call

From alien homes; and rusty gates

Are slammed; and high above it all

The thunder grim reverberates.

And then abrupt,-the rain, the rain!

The earth lies gasping; and the eyes

Behind the streaming window-panes

Smile at the trouble of the skies.

The highway smokes, sharp echoes ring;

The cattle bawl and cow-bells clank;

And into town comes galloping

The farmer's horse, with steaming flank.

The swallow dips beneath the eaves,

And flirts his plumes and folds his wings;

And under the catawba leaves

The caterpillar curls and clings.

The bumble-bee is pelted down

The wet stem of the hollyhock;

And sullenly in spattered brown

The cricket leaps the garden walk.

Within, the baby claps his hands

And crows with rapture strange and vague;

Without, beneath the rosebush stands

A dripping rooster on one leg.

James Whitcomb Riley.

Strange Lands

Where do you come from, Mr. Jay?

"From the land of Play, from the land of Play."

And where can that be, Mr. Jay?

"Far away-far away."

Where do you come from, Mrs. Dove?

"From the land of Love, from the land of Love."

And how do you get there, Mrs. Dove?

"Look above-look above."

Where do you come from, Baby Miss?

"From the land of Bliss, from the land of Bliss."

And what is the way there, Baby Miss?

"Mother's kiss-mother's kiss."

Laurence Alma Tadema.

Guessing Song

Oh ho! oh ho! Pray, who can I be?

I sweep o'er the land, I scour o'er the sea;

I cuff the tall trees till they bow down their heads,

And I rock the wee birdies asleep in their beds.

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

I rumple the breast of the gray-headed daw,

I tip the rook's tail up and make him cry "caw";

But though I love fun, I'm so big and so strong,

At a puff of my breath the great ships sail along.

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and sail o'er the sea?

I swing all the weather-cocks this way and that,

I play hare-and-hounds with a runaway hat;

But however I wander, I never can stray,

For go where I will, I've a free right of way!

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

I skim o'er the heather, I dance up the street,

I've foes that I laugh at, and friends that I greet;

I'm known in the country, I'm named in the town,

For all the world over extends my renown.

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

Henry Johnstone.

The Rivulet

Run, little rivulet, run!

Summer is fairly begun.

Bear to the meadow the hymn of the pines,

And the echo that rings where the waterfall shines;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Sing to the fields of the sun

That wavers in emerald, shimmers in gold,

Where you glide from your rocky ravine, crystal-cold;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Sing of the flowers, every one,-

Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;

Of the red mountain rose-bud, all dripping with dew;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Carry the perfume you won

From the lily, that woke when the morning was gray,

To the white waiting moonbeam adrift on the bay;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Stay not till summer is done!

Carry the city the mountain-birds' glee;

Carry the joy of the hills to the sea;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Lucy Larcom.

Jack Frost

The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,

And whispered, "Now, I shall be out of sight;

So, through the valley, and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train,

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,

That make such a bustle and noise in vain;

But I'll be as busy as they!"

So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest.

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed

With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake, he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear

The glittering point of many a spear

Which he hung on its margin, far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the window of those who slept,

And over each pane like a fairy crept:

Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,

By the light of the morn were seen

Most beautiful things!-there were flowers and trees,

There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;

There were cities and temples and towers; and these

All pictured in silvery sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-

He peeped in the cupboard: and finding there

That all had forgotten for him to prepare.

"Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,

"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three!

And the glass of water they've left for me,

Shall 'tchick' to tell them I'm drinking."

Hannah F. Gould.

Snowflakes[E]

Whenever a snowflake leaves the sky,

It turns and turns to say "Good-by!

Good-by, dear clouds, so cool and gray!"

Then lightly travels on its way.

And when a snowflake finds a tree,

"Good-day!" it says-"Good-day to thee!

Thou art so bare and lonely, dear,

I'll rest and call my comrades here."

But when a snowflake, brave and meek,

Lights on a rosy maiden's cheek,

It starts-"How warm and soft the day!

'Tis summer!"-and it melts away.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

The Water! the Water!

The Water! the Water!

The joyous brook for me,

That tuneth through the quiet night

Its ever-living glee.

The Water! the Water!

That sleepless, merry heart,

Which gurgles on unstintedly,

And loveth to impart,

To all around it, some small measure

Of its own most perfect pleasure.

The Water! the Water!

The gentle stream for me,

That gushes from the old gray stone

Beside the alder-tree.

The Water! the Water!

That ever-bubbling spring

I loved and look'd on while a child,

In deepest wondering,-

And ask'd it whence it came and went,

And when its treasures would be spent.

The Water! the Water!

The merry, wanton brook

That bent itself to pleasure me,

Like mine old shepherd crook.

The Water! the Water!

That sang so sweet at noon,

And sweeter still all night, to win

Smiles from the pale proud moon,

And from the little fairy faces

That gleam in heaven's remotest places.

. . . . . . . .

William Motherwell.

* * *