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A SONG OF SIX-PENCE
Sing a song, a brand new song:“Sing a song of six-pence,A pock-et full of rye.”John and Jim-my both picked some,So they could have a pie.And when they’d filled their pock-ets full,Down in the field of rye,They found some cun-ning lit-tle birds,To put in-to the pie.Six pret-ty lit-tle hid-den nests,Down in the yel-low rye,Held four-and-twen-ty ba-by birds,E-nough to fill the pie.They set them all with-in the dish,Lined with a crust of rye;But soon the four-and-twen-ty birdsCried out in-side the pie.Then Jim-my turned and looked at John,And John took up the pie,And back the lit-tle lad-dies wentIn-to the field of rye.The moth-er bird flew up and shrieked,“O, have you baked that pie?How can you bring the cru-el dish,And eat it in the rye!” John —And soon they ate the pie;The birds flew out and found their nestsDown in the yel-low rye.PAYING BACK
Seven happy little chicks walked out one day in June,Thought they would enjoy the way by starting up a tune;Seven ugly little ducks, whose names I will not mention,Made up their minds to follow them, and spoil their good intention;Now everybody knows that a duckling’s voice is deep,And everybody knows that quack will make more noise than peep.So when they found their music drowned, these plucky little chicksMade up their minds to cure these ducks of all such naughty tricks;So they chased them from the barn-yard, on this pleasant day in June,Then started on their walk again, and went on with their tune.– J. S.THE GENEROUS CLOVER
Clover, clover in the field,Why do you hang your head?Have you done anything unkind?Or any cross word said?O no, my little maiden, no!I only droop with dew;And from my lips sweet honey drips;Come, I will share with you.– C. C. B.WHERE THEY GROW
Down in the valley, deep, deep, deep,Where little sunbeams wink and peep,Under the grasses hiding low —There’s where the dear little violets grow.Out in the meadow, bright, bright, bright,Close by the clovers red and white —With heart of gold and a fringe of snow,There’s where the dear little daisies grow.Up in the older tree, tree, tree,Peep, and a tiny nest you’ll see,Swung by the breezes to and fro —There’s where the dear little birdlings grow.Up in the nursery, neat, neat, neat,Hear the patter of wee, wee feet —Hear little voices chirp and crow —There’s where the dear little babies grow!BA-BY FAY FERN-Y
What is this, with blueLit-tle shoes, so new —Cun-ning lit-tle feet,Trot-ting down the street,What will mam-ma say?Ba-by’s run a-way —Ba-by Fay Fer-ny.Calls a boy: “Hal-loo!See here, lit-tle pop-pet show,Come with me!” No, no,Ba-by’s do-in’ doBa-by’s own self! FastRound the cor-ner passedBa-by Fay Fer-ny.Stops a great big manHur-ry-ing all he can:“Here! what’s this! My!Dropped down from the sky?Some-bod-y’s to blame!Ba-by, what’s your name?”“Ba-by Fay Fer-ny.”“Where you go-ing? say!”“Day-day.” “What’s that, hey?See the ba-by fidg-et!What d’you want, you midg-et.”“Piece o’but-ter-bed,Su-gy on it, ’las-ses on it,Jam on it,” saidBa-by Fay Fer-ny.Peo-ple pause to see:La-dies, one, two, three;A po-lice-man, too;But no one that knewWhence the ba-by came.“What’s your pa-pa’s name?”“Pa-pa Fay Fer-ny.”Comes a breath-less maid:“O dear! I’m a-fraidBa-by’s lost and gone —Ba-by Fer-gu-son!No – there down the street!O, you naugh-ty sweetBa-by Fay Fer-ny!”THE DOUGH-DOG
One day when grandma was making some pies,She wished to give Tommy a pleasant surprise;So she made a puppy-dog out of some dough,And baked it, and marked it, and named it Bruno.This wonderful dog could stand on its feet,Its body was chubby, and cunning and neat,Its little dough-head was spotted with black,And its little dough-tail curled over its back.And when Tommy saw it he shouted with glee,“How good grandma was to make that for me!”And he played with the puppy-dog day after day,Till its head and its tail were both worn away.– M. E. N. H.THE LION’S O-PIN-ION OF HIM-SELF
A li-on gazed down at his shad-ow one day;Said he, “I look fierce, I de-clare!No won-der my neigh-bors keep out of my way,And wish they were birds of the air!“And I own that real-ly I feel a-fraidSome-times when I hear my-self roar!”And he wished as he went and lay down in the shadeThat he need be a li-on no more.WHICH IS TALL-EST
Look! how they meas-ure,Dai-sy and Rose;Naught-y Dai-sy will standOn the tips of her toes!If I was in her placeI’d try to act fair!And Rose is the tall-estFor all, I de-clare!THE ANX-IOUS DOG-GY
Take care, lit-tle mas-ter,Or you’ll fall in!That wa-ter is upTo your ver-y chin.Please don’t! please don’t,My mas-ter dear —O, I wish your moth-erWouldn’t send you here!For oh! lit-tle mas-ter,What could I do,If you should fall in,But jump in too?NINE LITTLE BIRDIES
Nine little birdies rocked by the breeze:First birdie said, “I’m tired of these trees;”Next birdie said, “Where shall we go?”Third birdie said, “Where red cherries grow!”Fourth birdie said, “Are they ripe, do you think?”Fifth birdie laughed with a rogue’s own wink;Sixth birdie said, “I’m sure that they are;”Seventh birdie said, “Is it very far?”Eighth birdie said, “Who’ll leader be?”Ninth birdie said, “I’m off, follow me!”Whew! Whew!And away they all flewInto Mr. John Lee’sChoice cherry trees!WHAT BA-BY DID
What do you think the ba-by did?Why, Ba-by did as he was bid!The dar-ling took a pen, and wrote —A lit-tle in-vi-ta-tion note,To all the aunts, and grand-mam-ma,To un-cles all, and grand-pa-pa,To all the ba-by kin ar-ray,To come to din-ner Christ-mas Day.He wrote it ver-y black and plain,Criss-crossed and marked it all a-gain;And though he had not had his napHe next was seen in cloak and cap,And go-ing up the crowd-ed street,Safe in his hand the mis-sive sweet,To drop it in the box him-self,The aw-ful lit-tle dar-ling elf!TWO KIND LIT-TLE GIRLS
Whith-er a-way,Lit-tle la-dies so gay?“O, o-ver the hillTo Grand-moth-er Dill!”And what have you thereIn your bas-ket square?“O, pud-dings and pies,A lit-tle sur-prise!”Why such good-willTo Grand-moth-er Dill?“O, ev-er-y one shouldOn Christ-mas do good!”Lit-tle maids, good day!Flow-ers strew your way!AN APRIL RAIN
You poor little birds,It’s happened again —In the midst of your playDown patters the rain.You were caught in a showerJust so last week,And I thought that morningI ought to speak;I hear you all upA-singing at dawn,I know you have triedEach tree on the lawn,Yet not one of you allHave picked up a straw —Such improvident birdsI ne’er before saw.But I hope you see nowThat it would be bestTo let your play goAnd build you a nest.WHAT THE GRASSES SAID
Who can hear the grass talk?Very few, I know;Yet it whispers every day,Sweet and soft and low.And one day I heard it;Shall I tell you when?I lay on the grass to read,And I heard it then.Everything was pleasant;Bright the sun did shine;Dew lay in the flowers’ eyes,Heavy sleep in mine;So I gently shut them;Soon they opened wide;For I heard the grasses talkFast on every side!This is what they talked about:“Oh, what pleasant weather!Lift your heads up to the sun,Nod and wave together!“We’re so glad that we are grass,Cool and soft and green;Oh, how sad the earth would lookIf no grass were seen!“And we love the summer warm,But, oh, dear! oh, dear!What will little grasses doWhen winter cold is here?“How the wind will whistleRound about our heads!Oh it’s very hard to haveNo covers on our beds!”Then the wise red-rose bushTall, and rough and old,Shook his head, and kindly said,“You will not be cold,“For God sends a blanket warmFor every blade of grass,Soft and light, and white as wool;Not a blade He’ll pass!”“What’s the blanket made of?Quick! we want to know!”“Why, my dears,” the rose-bush said,“God’s blanket is the snow.”J. S.TAB-BY’S LULL-A-BY
Wash-wash-you-cat,Now this side, now that!Wash-wash-you-cat,Keep clean and grow fat!Four lit-tle ears,And eight lit-tle paws,Two small nos-es,And for-ty sharp claws,Give moth-er’s tongueA great deal to do.So hush! keep still,And I’ll sing to you:Purr-r! purr-r!In a sil-ver house,Moth-er once sawA lit-tle white mouse,Soft white fur,And lit-tle pink eyes,So round and plump,And so ver-y wise.Wash-wash-you-cat,Now hold up your chin.Me-ow! don’t you scratch —To scratch is a sin.Me-ow! Me-ow!You bad lit-tle cat,You mustn’t bite;Moth-er won’t stand that!Purr-r! purr-r!Now shut up your eyes;Moth-er will makeYou some cat-nip pies.Purr-r! purr-r!Lit-tle balls of fur,Purr-r! purr-r!Lie still, and don’t stir.Wash-wash-you-cat,Lit-tle balls of fur!Wash-wash-you-cat,Purr-r! purr-r!SOME NAUGHTY I’S
“I, I, I,”Some little people cry:“I won’t, I can’t,I shall, I shan’t – ”Oh, what a naughty I;“I, I, I,”Now hear them passing by:“I han’t, I be,I are, I see – ”Oh, what a naughty I.AT BREAK-FAST
A gay lit-tle birdThat want-ed some funFlew in and light-edOn the ba-by’s bun.He pecked at a cur-rant,He sipped from the cup,Then hopped on the loaf,And thus piped up:“Peep-sy weeps! Ba-by, say,What’ll you give if I will stay?Peep-sy weeps! Ba-by, O,What’ll you give if I will go?”He splashed the milk,He nib-bled the bread,He spread both wings,He stood on his head.But still the ba-bySaid nev-er a word —And out of the win-dowFlashed the bird!“Peep-sy weeps!” loud sang he,“Such a stu-pid ba-by I nev-er did see!Nev-er a smile, nev-er a word —Peep-sy weeps! I’m glad I’m a bird!”BA-BY DIM-PLE AT BREAK-FAST
She sits in the porch with her sau-cer;Smeared are her fin-gers and thumbs;While a-round with nois-y clat-terOld hen, with her chick-ens comes.Ba-by shoos and shoos, and strikes themWith the spoon that spills the crumbs:“Do ’way chick-ies! ’ou s’an’t hab em —My nice bwead an’ las-ses tums!”But the chick-ies sly will pick themWhen Miss Dim-ple’s not on the watch;And old moth-er hen comes bold-lyWith her mind made up for a snatch.Take care, Mrs. Hen-ny-pen-ny!One good rap is what you catch,With Miss Dim-ple’s sharp ad-vise-ment:“’Ou la-zy ol’ fing – go scwatch!”NOBODY KNOWS
How the wind whistles and roars!How he blows, he blows, and he blows!But what does he say at the doors?Nobody knows, nobody knows.The ground is covered with white,For it snows, it snows, and it snows;But it falls so silent at nightThat nobody knows, nobody knows.The grass is springing again,And it grows, it grows, and it grows,In the sunshine and the rain —How, nobody knows, nobody knows.Hear the black cock flap his wings!And he crows, he crows, and he crows;But whether he laughs or he sings,Why, nobody knows, nobody knows.The brook runs sparkling along,And it flows, it flows, and it flows;But what is its rippling song,Why, nobody knows, nobody knows.The cow comes down through the lane,And she lows, she lows, and she lows;But what she says it is plainThat nobody knows, nobody knows.Over the fields and awayFly the crows, the crows, the crows;They caw, they caw, but they sayWhat nobody knows, nobody knows.– E. B.THE LOST CHICKENS
“Cluck, cluck! cluck, cluck!” called the mother-hen,“Some harm has come to my chickens, I fear;I counted this morning, and then there were ten;Now four are gone, and but six are here.”“Peep, peep! peep, peep!” four chickens replied,As they sipped the dew from a burdock leaf;“We must hurry back to our mother’s side,She is calling us now with a voice of grief.”Then away to her side they ran again,Leaving the dainty drink they had found;“Cluck, cluck! cluck, cluck!” said the mother-hen,“Here are my ten, all safe and sound.”– M. E. N. H.LIKE BABY
I’m going to make a dolly,Just like the baby there;I’m going to take some sunshineAnd twist it up for hair.I’m going to take the bluest speckIn all the great blue skies,And make a bright blue pretty pairOf little winking eyes.I’m going to take some roses,The sweetest, brightest pink,To make her little darling cheeks,The very thing, I think!But, oh dear me! I surely amForgetting all the while,I cannot find a single thingTo make baby’s smile.HOW THE BABY WAS NAMED
Mother’s busy washing;Jack has gone to school;Baby’s in the garden;Kitty has a spool.Every one is busyThis bright summer day,None more so than Baby,Working hard to play.Hat stuck full of daisies,Dolls are daisy-crowned —Daisies, daisies everywhereLying on the ground.Out comes little pussyTossing them about;Baby calls, “Go way now!”With a little pout.Summer sun grows warmer;Baby tires with play;Down upon the green grassFast asleep she lay;Daisies all about her,Sunshine overhead,Pussy nestled closelyIn this summer bed.Mother from her washingComes, and finds her thereWith the wide-eyed daisiesNestling in her hair.Then was Baby christenedIn the summer sweet;Now, no longer “Baby,”But sweet Marguerite.THE WINDOW-PANE TREE
With her warm little finger,Gold Locks wroteOn the icy window-paneA note.“Make me a Christmas-tree,”It read;It was signed with a flourish,“Yours, Gold Head.”Then out came the sunlight’sSparkling ray;It melted the messageAll away.But the very next morning,Lo! behold!On the glass of the window,White and cold,Was a tapering fir-tree,Weighed with snow,Spire-like at the top,And broad below.Cried out little Gold Locks,“See, oh, see!Jack Frost has paintedMy Christmas-tree!”BIRDS IN WINTER
Come now, little birds,You must stop in your play,The snow’s coming down,You must hide you away.You must huddle togetherAnd keep yourselves warm,In snug nooks and cornersShut out from the storm.Be patient and wait,The clouds will go by,And sunshine once moreWill brighten the sky.In the woods and the fieldsWhere summer-plants grew,The buds and the seedsAre stored up for you.You can seek them for foodWhen the weather is fair,And chirp your sweet songsIn the clear pleasant air.THREE TRAVELLERS
Three funny little travellersSet out to leave the town;And all they wore to keep them warmWas one white, ruffled gown.I asked these little travellersIf far they meant to roam.“Oh, no,” they all together said;“We’ll not go far from home.”The first brave one who started outWas our sweet Baby May;She said, “I’m going to By-lo-Land,”In such a sleepy way.The second one, in gown of white,Was Alice, six years old;She said, “I go to Shutty-eye-town,”And on she went, both fast and bold.And Lottie, eldest one of all,Said, “On this road I plod,To 76, Old Blanket street,Bedfordshire, the Land of Nod.”I wondered where these towns could be,When mamma softly said,“Good night, good night, my children dear!Now hurry off to bed!– J. S.A TALE OF A BOT-TLE
A bot-tle of ink on the ta-ble,A lit-tle girl on the floor —And now I don’t think I’ll be a-bleTo tell you an-y-thing more.The lit-tle girl up to the ta-ble,Mam-ma look-ing in at the door —And now I don’t think I’ll be a-bleTo tell you an-y-thing more.The lit-tle girl runs from the ta-ble,Bot-tle rolls down to the floor —And now I don’t think I’ll be a-bleTo tell you an-y-thing more.Then mam-ma runs up to the ta-ble,Lit-tle girl runs for the door —And now I don’t think I’ll be a-bleTo tell you an-y-thing more.Mam-ma runs a-way from the ta-ble,And catch-es the girl at the door —And now, oh! I know I’m not a-bleTo tell you an-y-thing more.A WONDERFUL SCHOLAR
O, a wonderful scholarIs our little Kate!She reads in a primer;She writes on a slate;Her lines are not even;Her O’s are not round;And her words in the readerCould not be found.Her sewing – what puckers!What stitches! what knots!And along the whole hem,There are tiny red spots.Her weekly reportsTell how oft she has spoken;And there’s not a ruleThat she never has broken.Yet she comes to mammaFor a smile and a kiss,As if a “bad mark,”Should be paid for by this.And she cries in delight,While she swings round her hat:“I’m a wonderful scholar,For I can spell ‘cat!’C-A-T, Cat!”– K. L.OUT IN THE MEADOW
What do you think I saw to-dayOut in the meadow bright,It tripped along on four little feetIn a coat all woolly and white;I said “Good morning, you pretty thing!”And it raised its gentle headAs if it wanted to chat awhile;But, “Baa-Baa,” was all it said!What do you think I led with me,Blue eyed, dimpled, and sweet?It hardly bent the daisies downWith two little toddling feet;She laughed and chattered at Woolly-back,She patted his little head;But he talked almost as well as she,For “ma-ma” was all she said!