New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

Recitations for Children.

The perplexing question of obtaining something suitable for the “little tots” to recite, is solved by the choice collection of pieces here presented. The pathetic, the humorous, the beautiful, in short, every variety of recitation for the young people, may be found in the following pages, including drills and motion recitals, and selections for special occasions, all of which are entertaining and admirably suited to the little folks.

TWO LITTLE MAIDENS

A sorry little maiden

Is Miss Fuss-and-Feather,

Crying for the golden moon,

Grumbling at the weather;

The sun will fade her gown,

The rain will spoil her bonnet,

If she ventures out,

And lets it fall upon it.

A merry little maiden

Is Miss Rags-and-Tatters,

Chatting of the twinkling stars

And many other matters;

Dancing in the sunshine,

Pattering through the rain,

Her clothes never cause her

A single thought or pain.

Agnes Carr.

THE WAY TO SUCCEED.

Drive the nail aright, boys,

Hit it on the head;

Strike with all your might, boys,

While the iron’s red.

When you’ve work to do, boys,

Do it with a will;

They who reach the top, boys,

First must climb the hill.

Standing at the foot, boys,

Gazing at the sky,

How can you ever get up, boys,

If you never try?

Though you stumble oft, boys,

Never be downcast;

Try, and try again, boys—

You’ll succeed at last.

WHEN PA BEGINS TO SHAVE.

When Sunday mornin’ comes around

My pa hangs up his strop,

An’ takes his razor out an’ makes

It go c’flop! c’flop!

An’ then he gits his mug an’ brush

An’ yells t’ me, “Behave!”

I tell y’u, things is mighty still—

When pa begins t’ shave.

Then pa he stirs his brush around

An’ makes th’ soapsuds fly;

An’ sometimes, when he stirs too hard,

He gits some in his eye.

I tell y’u, but it’s funny then

To see pa stamp and rave;

But y’u mustn’t git ketched laffin’—

When pa begins t’ shave.

Th’ hired hand he dassent talk,

An’ even ma’s afeard,

An’ y’u can hear th’ razor click

A-cuttin’ through pa’s beard!

An’ then my Uncle Bill he laffs

An’ says: “Gosh! John, you’re brave,”

An’ pa he swears, an’ ma jest smiles—

When pa begins t’ shave.

When pa gits done a-shavin’ of

His face, he turns around,

And Uncle Bill says: “Why, John,

Yu’r chin looks like plowed ground!”

An’ then he laffs—jest laffs an’ laffs,

But I got t’ behave,

Cos things’s apt to happen quick—

When pa begins t’ shave.

Harry Douglass Robbins.

A BOY’S VIEW.

Girl is very nice! Everybody who has not the misfortune to be girl will allow this. Nice girl will allow it also as far as itself is concerned. Strange girl is objectionable in the eyes of girl generally.

Powder improves girl sometimes, but it seldom finds this out until it is suggested to it by one of experience.

Healthy girl costs its parents less money for doctors’ bills, but persons who write romantic tales for circulating libraries choose unhealthy and pasty faced girl to write about—the swooning kind preferred.

If I were not boy I think I should like to be girl. It’s best fun to be boy when there’s plenty of girl about.

MAMMY’S CHURNING SONG.

Set still, honey, let ole Mammy tell yer ’bout de churn,

Wid de cream en clabber dashin’,

En de buttermilk er-splashin’.

Dis de chune hit am er-singin’ ’fore hit ’gin ter turn:

Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,

Bum-bum-bum,

But-ter-come,

Massa give old nigger some.

Jump down, honey, en fotch me dat rag fum de table, fer ter wipe off dis hyah led. Tole yer so, dat milk gwine ter splatter up hyah ’reckly! Dar now, dat’s er good chile, git back in mer lap.

Now de cream, en milk, en clabber’s churnin’ up so fas’,

Hyah hit splatterin’ en er-splutterin’,

En er-mixin’, en er-mutterin’,

In de churn en roun’ de dasher, singin’ ter de las’;

Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,

Bum-bum-bum,

But-ter-come,

Massa gib old nigger some.

Uh-er! Teck kyah, honey, keep dem fingers way fum dar! Butter mos’ come now: set still jis’ er leetle w’ile longer.

Sooen de lumps ob butter ’ll be er-floatin’ on de top—

Now de ole churn’s fa’rly hummin’,

Tell yer wot, de butter comin’—

Done come! Mammy’s arm so ti-yerd, now she’s gwine ter stop.

Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery, jum,

Bum-bum-bum,

But-ter-come,

Mammy ’ll gib de baby some.

Dar now! [removing the top and giving the dasher a circular motion] jis’ peep in dar en see de lumps ob yaller butter er-huddlin’ tergedder. Now run fotch yer leetle blue mug, en Mammy ’ll gib yer some nice sweet buttermilk right outen dis hyah churn.

Edward A. Oldham.

THE TWENTY FROGS!

Twenty froggies went to school,

Down beside a rushy pool;

Twenty little coats of green,

Twenty vests all white and clean.

“We must be in time,” said they;

“First we study, then we play;

That is how we keep the rule

When we froggies go to school.”

Master Bullfrog, grave and stern,

Called the classes in their turn;

Taught them how to nobly strive,

Likewise how to leap and dive.

From his seat upon the log,

Taught them how to say “Ker-chug,”

Also how to dodge a blow

From the sticks which bad boys throw.

Twenty froggies grew up fast;

Bullfrogs they became at last;

Not one dunce among the lot,

Not one lesson they forgot;

Polished in a high degree,

As each froggie ought to be;

Now they sit on other logs,

Teaching other little frogs.

ONLY A BIRD.

Only a bird! and a vagrant boy

Fits a pebble with a boyish skill

Into the fold of a supple sling.

“Watch me hit him. I can an’ I will.”

Whirr! and a silence chill and sad

Falls like a pall on the vibrant air,

From a birchen tree, whence a shower of song

Has fallen in ripples everywhere.

Only a bird! and the tiny throat

With quaver and trill and whistle of flute,

Bruised and bleeding and silent lies

There at his feet. Its chords are mute.

And the boy, with a loud and boisterous laugh,

Proud of his prowess and brutal skill,

Throws it aside with a careless toss—

“Only a bird! it was made to kill.”

Only a bird! yet far away

Little ones clamor and cry for food—

Clamor and cry, and the chill of night

Settles over the orphan brood.

Weaker and fainter the moaning call

For a brooding breast that shall never come.

Morning breaks o’er a lonely nest,

Songless and lifeless; mute and dumb.

Mary Morrison.

THE WAY TO DO IT.

Teach the child to make all the gestures and facial expressions. This is a captivating recital for any “little tot” who can do it well, and this will require patient practice.

I’ll tell you how I speak a piece:

First, I make my bow;

Then I bring my words out clear

And plain as I know how.

Next, I throw my hands up—so!

Then I lift my eyes:

That’s to let my hearers know

Something doth surprise.

Next, I grin and show my teeth,

Nearly every one,

Shake my shoulders, hold my sides:

That’s the sign of fun.

Next, I start, and knit my brows,

Hold my head erect:

Something’s wrong, you see, and I

Decidedly object.

Then I wabble at my knees,

Clutch at shadows near,

Tremble well from top to toe:

That’s the sign of fear.

Now I start, and with a leap,

Seize an airy dagger.

“Wretch!” I cry: that’s tragedy

Every soul to stagger.

Then I let my voice grow faint,

Gasp, and hold my breath,

Tumble down and plunge about:

That’s a villain’s death.

Quickly then I come to life,

Perfectly restored;

With a bow my speech is done.

Now you’ll please applaud.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

WE MUST ALL SCRATCH.

For five little children and one older, a girl, who takes the part of the mother. They stand in a row and each steps forward and recites the verse.

Said the first little chicken,

With a queer little squirm,

“I wish I could find

A fat little worm.”

Said the next little chicken,

With an odd little shrug,

“I wish I could find

A fat little bug,”

Said the third little chicken,

With a sharp little squeal,

“I wish I could find

Some nice yellow meal.”

Said the fourth little chicken,

With a small sigh of grief,

“I wish I could find

A green little leaf.”

Said the fifth little chicken,

With a faint little moan,

“I wish I could find

A wee gravel stone.”

“Now, see here,” said the mother,

From the green garden patch,

“If you want any breakfast,

Just come here and scratch.”

KITTY AT SCHOOL.

Come, Kitty dear, I’ll tell you what

We’ll do this rainy day;

Just you and I, all by ourselves,

At keeping school, will play.

The teacher, Kitty, I will be;

And you shall be the class;

And you must close attention give,

If you expect to pass.

Now, Kitty, “C-A-T” spells cat.

Stop playing with your tail!

You are so heedless, I am sure

In spelling you will fail.

“C-A” oh, Kitty! do sit still!

You must not chase that fly!

You’ll never learn a single word,

You do not even try.

I’ll tell you what my teacher says

To me most ev’ry day—

She says that girls can never learn

While they are full of play.

So try again—another word;

“L-A-C-E” spells “lace.”

Why, Kitty, it is not polite

In school to wash your face!

You are a naughty, naughty puss,

And keep you in I should;

But then, I love you, dear, so much

I don’t see how I could!

O, see! the sun shines bright again!

We’ll run out doors and play;

We’ll leave our school and lessons for

Another rainy day.

Kate Ulmer.

A FELLOW’S MOTHER.

“A fellow’s mother,” said Fred the wise,

With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes,

“Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt

By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the dirt.

“A fellow’s mother has bags and strings,

Rags and buttons, and lots of things;

No matter how busy she is, she’ll stop

To see how well you can spin your top.

“She does not care—not much, I mean—

If a fellow’s face is not always clean;

And if your trousers are torn at the knee

She can put in a patch that you’d never see.

“A fellow’s mother is never mad,

But only sorry if you are bad,

And I’ll tell you this, if you’re only true,

She’ll always forgive whate’er you do.

“I’m sure of this,” said Fred the wise,

With a manly look in his laughing eyes,

“I’ll mind my mother, quick, every day,

A fellow’s a baby that don’t obey.”

M. E. Sangster.

THE STORY KATIE TOLD.

Now, stay right still and listen, kitty-cat, and I’ll tell you a story.

Once there was a girl.

She was a pretty good little girl, and minded her papa ’n’ mamma everything they said, only sometimes she didn’t, and then she was naughty; but she was always sorry, and said she wouldn’t do so any more, and her mamma’d forgive her.

She was going to hang up her stocking.

“You’ll have to be pretty good, ’lest ’twon’t be filled,” said her mamma.

“’Less maybe there’ll be a big bunch of sticks in it,” said her papa.

Do you think that’s a nice way to talk, kitty-cat? I don’t.

So the little girl was good as she could be, ’less she was bigger, and didn’t cry and slap her little sister hardly any at all, and always minded her mamma when she came where the chimney was, ’specially much.

So she hung up her stocking.

And in the night she got awake, and wanted it to come morning; but in the morning she didn’t get awake till ’twas all sunshiny out doors.

Then she ran quick as she could to look at her stocking where she’d hung it; and true’s you live, kitty-cat, there wasn’t the leastest thing in it—not the leastest bit of a scrimp!

Oh, the little girl felt dreadfully! How’d you feel, s’pose it had been you, kitty-cat?

She ’menced to cry, the little girl did, and she kept going harder ’n harder, till by’mby she screeched orfly, and her mamma came running to see what the matter was.

“Mercy me!” said her mamma. “Look over by the window ’fore you do that any more, Kathie.”

That little girl’s name was Kathie too, kitty-cat, just the same’s mine.

So she looked over by the window, the way her mamma said, and—oh! there was the loveliest dolly’s house you ever saw in all your born life.

It had curtains to pull to the sides when you wanted to play, and pull in front when you didn’t.

There was a bed-room, kitty-cat, and a dinner-room, and a kitchen, and a parlor, and they all had carpets on.

And there was the sweetest dolly in the parlor, all dressed up in blue silk! Oh, dear! And a penano, to play real little tunes on, and a rocking-chair, and—O kitty-cat! I can’t begin to tell you half about it.

I can’t about the bed-room, either, and the dinner-room.

But the kitchen was the very bestest of all. There was a stove—a teeny tonty mite of a one, kitty-cat,—with dishes just zactly like mamma’s, only littler, of course, and fry-pans and everything; and spoons to stir with, and a rolling-pin, and two little cutters-out, and the darlingest baker-sheet ever you saw!

And the first thing that little girl did was to make some teenty mites of cookies, ’cause her mamma let her; and if you’ll come right down stairs, kitty-cat, I’ll give you one.

’Cause I was that little girl, kitty-cat, all the time.

A LITTLE ROGUE.

Grandma was nodding, I rather think;

Harry was sly and quick as a wink;

He climbed in the back of her great arm-chair,

And nestled himself very snugly there;

Grandma’s dark locks were mingled with white,

And quick this fact came to his sight;

A sharp twinge soon she felt at her hair,

And woke with a start, to find Harry there.

“Why, what are you doing, my child?” she said;

He answered, “I’se pulling a basting fread?”

MATTIE’S WANTS AND WISHES.

I wants a piece of cal’co

To make my doll a dess;

I doesn’t want a big piece;

A yard’ll do, I guess.

I wish you’d fred my needle,

And find my fimble, too—

I has such heaps o’ sewin’

I don’t know what to do.

I wants my Maud a bonnet;

She hasn’t none at all;

And Fred must have a jacket;

His ozzer one’s too small.

I wants to go to grandma’s;

You promised me I might.

I know she’d like to see me;

I wants to go to-night.

She lets me wipe the dishes,

And see in grandpa’s watch—

I wish I’d free, four pennies

To buy some butter-scotch.

My Hepsy tored her apron

A tum’lin’ down the stair,

And Cæsar’s lost his pantloons.

And needs anozzer pair.

I wants some newer mittens—

I wish you’d knit me some,

’Cause most my fingers freezes,

They leaks so in the fum.

I wored ’em out last summer,

A pullin’ George’s sled;

I wish you wouldn’t laugh so—

It hurts me in my head.

I wish I had a cookie;

I’m hungry’s I can be.

If you hasn’t pretty large ones,

You’d better bring me free.

I wish I had a p’ano—

Won’t you buy me one to keep?

O, dear! I feels so tired,

I wants to go to sleep.

Grace Gordon.

WON’T AND WILL.

Sha’n’t and Won’t were two little brothers,

Angry, and sullen, and gruff;

Try and Will are dear little sisters,

One can scarcely love them enough.

Sha’n’t and Won’t looked down on their noses,

Their faces were dismal to see;

Try and Will are brighter than roses

In June, and as blithe as a bee.

Sha’n’t and Won’t are backward and stupid,

Little, indeed, did they know;

Try and Will learn something new daily,

And seldom are heedless or slow.

Sha’n’t and Won’t loved nothing, no, nothing,

So much as to have their own way;

Try and Will give up to their elders,

And try to please others at play.

Sha’n’t and Won’t came to terrible trouble:

Their story is awful to tell;

Try and Will are in the schoolroom,

Learning to read and spell.

WILLIE’S BREECHES.

The boy’s garments should suit the description contained in the piece. In reciting the last two lines he should point to his head, stretch out his hands to show them, look down at his feet, and then catch hold of his pants and spread them out on the sides, putting on at the same time a look of pride.

I’m just a little boy, you know,

And hardly can remember,

When people ask how old I am,

To tell ’em four last ’vember.

And yet for all I am so small,

I made so many stitches

For mamma’s fingers, that she put

Her little boy in breeches.

You may be sure that I was glad;

I marched right up and kissed her,

Then gave my bibs and petticoats,

And all, to baby sister.

I never whine, now I’m so fine,

And don’t get into messes;

For mamma says, if I am bad,

She’ll put me back in dresses!

There’s buttons up and down my legs,

And buttons on my jacket;

I’d count ’em all, but baby makes

Just now, an awful racket.

She’s sitting there, behind the chair,

With blocks, and dolls, and kitty,

A playing “go to gran’ma’s house,”

Alone, ’n that’s a pity.

I think I’ll go and help her some,

I’m sure it would amuse me;

So I won’t bother any more

To talk—if you’ll excuse me.

But first I’ll stand before the glass,

From top to toe it reaches;

Now look! there’s head, and hands, and feet,

But all the rest is breeches!

Etta G. Salsbury.

LITTLE DORA’S SOLILOQUY.

I tan’t see what our baby boy is dood for anyway:

He don’t know how to walk or talk, he don’t know how to play;

He tears up ev’ry single zing he posser-bil-ly tan,

An’ even tried to break, one day, my mamma’s bestest fan.

He’s al’ays tumblin’ ’bout ze floor, an’ gives us awful scares,

An’ when he goes to bed at night, he never says his prayers.

On Sunday, too, he musses up my go-to-meetin’ clothes,

An’ once I foun’ him hard at work a-pinc’in’ Dolly’s nose;

An’ ze uzzer day zat naughty boy (now what you s’pose you zink?)

Upset a dreat big bottle of my papa’s writin’ ink;

An’, ’stead of kyin’ dood an’ hard, as course he ought to done,

He laughed and kicked his head ’most off, as zough he zought ’twas fun.

He even tries to reach up high, an’ pull zings off ze shelf,

An’ he’s al’ays wantin’ you, of course, jus’ when you wants you’self.

I rather dess, I really do, from how he pulls my turls,

Zey all was made a-purpose for to ’noy us little dirls;

An’ I wish zere wasn’t no such zing as naughty baby boys

Why—why, zat’s him a-kyin’ now; he makes a drefful noise,

I dess I better run and see, for if he has—boo-hoo!—

Felled down ze stairs and killed his-self, whatever s-s-s’all I do!

THE SQUIRREL’S LESSON.

Two little squirrels, out in the sun,

One gathered nuts, and the other had none;

“Time enough yet,” his constant refrain;

“Summer is still just on the wane.”

Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate:

He roused him at last, but he roused him too late;

Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud,

And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud.

Two little boys in a school-room were placed,

One always perfect, the other disgraced;

“Time though yet for my learning,” he said;

“I will climb, by and by, from the foot to the head.”

Listen, my darling; their locks are turned gray;

One as a Governor sitteth to-day;

The other, a pauper, looks out at the door

Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of yore.

Two kinds of people we meet every day;

One is at work, the other at play,

Living uncared for, dying unknown—

The busiest hive hath ever a drone.

LITTLE KITTY.

Once there was a little kitty,

Whiter than snow;

In the barn she used to frolic,

Long time ago;

In the barn a little mousie

Ran to and fro;

For she heard the kitty coming,

Long time ago.

Two black eyes had little kitty,

Black as a sloe;

And they spied the little mousie,

Long time ago.

Nine pearl teeth had little kitty,

All in a row;

And they bit the little mousie,

Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie,

Little mousie cried, “Oh!”

But she got away from kitty,

Long time ago.

Kitty White so shyly comes,

To catch the mousie Gray;

But mousie hears her softly step

And quickly runs away.

LABOR SONG.

This is a charming exercise for boys and girls. Each should be dressed in the costume of the character to be represented, and, as far as possible, should go through the motions called for by the part. The properties can all be placed on the stage before the performance begins. Each character comes in alone, those who have already entered remaining until the close. All unite in singing the chorus, after each performer has spoken or sung (according to choice) the part he or she is to act. Music suitable for this selection is herewith furnished. Come in promptly and avoid long pauses.

The Farmer (with scythe and dressed like a farmer.)

I’m glad I am a husbandman,

My acres broad to till,

And in the Autumn of the year

My many barns to fill.

How happy is the farmer’s life,

’Tis one of peace and joy,

To reap and sow, and plow and mow,

And thus the time employ.

Chorus.

How happy is the laborer,

For when the day is o’er,

The evening shadows gather round,

That he may work no more;

How happy is the laborer,

His heart is light and gay,

And merrily his song rings out,

Throughout the livelong day.

The Farmer’s Wife (kneading bread).

I’m glad I am a farmer’s wife,

The wheaten bread to knead,

And when the men come home from work

Their hungry mouths to feed.

I keep my house in perfect trim,

I sweep and dust and bake,

And when the busy day is done,

Sweet is the rest I take.—Chorus.

The Farmer’s Girl (with broom and milk pail)

I’m glad I am a farmer’s girl,

I love the farmer’s life,

And if I ever wed at all,

I’ll be a farmer’s wife.

My milking pails make music sweet,

I’m happy all the day,

Work gives my cheek the glow of health,

And drives dull care away.—Chorus.

The Farmer’s Boy (with rake).

I’m glad I am a farmer’s boy,

To plant and rake and hoe—

I get upon old Dobbin’s back,

And don’t I make him go?

I shout and make the welkin ring,

I sing my merry song,

And, roaming through the fields and woods,

I’m jolly all day long. [Boy whistles Chorus.

Dairy Maid (with churn.)

I’m glad I am a dairy maid,

My butter is so yellow;

I know the lad that catches me

Will be a lucky fellow.

I’m glad I am a dairy maid,

My heart is light and gay,

And with my milk and cream and churn,

I’m happy all the day.—Chorus.

Washerwoman (with tub and washboard).

I’m glad I am a washerwoman,

Ye know me by my look,

I’ll wash and starch your snowy clothes,

And fold them like a book;

Then sind me in your orders quick

For I’ve no time for fooling;

(Spoken).

I’ll do thim to the best of my ability,

Ontirely sure.—Chorus.

The Shoemaker (shoe, last and hammer).

I’m glad I am a shoemaker,

With hammer, last and shoe;

Without the slippers that I make,

What would the ladies do?

I cut the leather, fit the last—

To me, my work is play—

From morn to night, with heart so light,

I sing and peg away.—Chorus.

The Blacksmith (with anvil and hammer).

I’m glad I am a blacksmith,

A noble horse to shoe,

I hold within my lap his hoof,

And whack the shoe-nail through;

I swing the hammer and I know

Just how to make a hit,

And indigestion, if you please,

Don’t trouble me a bit.—Chorus.

The School-Teacher (with slate, hook and rule;
three or four children to take part of scholars).

I’m glad I am a school-teacher,

With slate and book and rule,

To teach the young idea to shoot,

And extirpate the fool.

The heights of knowledge I point out,

And upward lead the way,

And with my pupils pressing on,

I’m happy every day.—Chorus.

New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

About This Book

Recitations for Children.

TWO LITTLE MAIDENS

THE WAY TO SUCCEED.

WHEN PA BEGINS TO SHAVE.

A BOY’S VIEW.

MAMMY’S CHURNING SONG.

THE TWENTY FROGS!

ONLY A BIRD.

THE WAY TO DO IT.

WE MUST ALL SCRATCH.

KITTY AT SCHOOL.

A FELLOW’S MOTHER.

THE STORY KATIE TOLD.

A LITTLE ROGUE.

MATTIE’S WANTS AND WISHES.

WON’T AND WILL.

WILLIE’S BREECHES.

LITTLE DORA’S SOLILOQUY.

THE SQUIRREL’S LESSON.

LITTLE KITTY.

LABOR SONG.