Rhymes and Jingles

Not long ago, I wandered near
A play-ground in the wood,
And there heard a thing from youthful lips
That I've never understood:

"Now let the old cat die!" he laughed;
I saw him give a push,
Then gayly scamper away as he spied
My face peep over the bush.

But what he pushed, or where it went,
I could not well make out,
On account of the thicket of bending boughs
That bordered the place about.

"The little villain has stoned a cat,
Or hung it upon a limb,
And left it to die all alone," I said;
"But I'll play the mischief with him."

I forced my way between the boughs,
The poor old cat to seek,
And what did I find but a swinging child,
With her bright hair brushing her cheek.

Her bright hair floated to and fro,
Her red little dress flashed by,

But the liveliest thing of all, I thought,
Was the gleam of her laughing eye.

Swinging and swaying back and forth,
With the rose-light in her face,
She seemed like a bird and a flower in one,
And the wood her native place.

"Steady! I'll send you up, my child,"
But she stopped me with a cry:
"Go 'way! go 'way! Don't touch me, please—
I'm letting the old cat die!"

"You, letting him die?" I cried, aghast;
"Why, where is the cat, my dear?"
And lo! the laughter that filled the woods
Was a thing for the birds to hear.

"Why, don't you know," said the little maid,
The flitting, beautiful elf,
"That we call it 'letting the old cat die'
When the swing stops all itself?"

Then floating and swinging, and looking back
With merriment in her eye,
She bade me "good-day," and I left her alone,
A-letting the old cat die.

Boys and girls, come riddle and ravel,
Tell us how you would like to travel.

Crispy, crackly, snow and tingle,
"Give me sleighs!" said Jenny Jingle.

Stony, bumpty, bang and bolter,
"Give me carts!" said Johnny Jolter.

Slidy, glidy, jerky whiff-ter,
"Give me cars!" cried Sally Swifter.

Flipetty, cricketty, elegant go,
"Give me a buggy!" said Benjamin Beau.

"A fig for them all!" cried Trotty Malone,
"Give me a stout pair of legs of my own!"

Don't trust Chatter, who whispers low,
And tells you stories of Prue and Joe.
Be sure when he whispers to Joe and Prue,
He'll tell them many a tale of you.

Once on a still December night,
In the freezing, wintry weather,
Two little stockings, red and white,
Were softly talking together.

Firelight flashed in the darkened room,
Shadows were sliding and creeping
Over the beds where, half in the gloom,
Two little children were sleeping.

"Hark ye!" said White in a whisper low,
"I fancy, Red, by your bulging so,
You come from some plump little baby-leg—
If I'm mistaken, your pardon I beg."

"That's so," said Red, "for she kicked me off
This very day (and she'll have a cough,
As sure as I'm knit, for her careless ways—
A cough that may trouble her all her days).

"But you? Ah! you look so fair and trim,
You came from some little royal limb,
With your dainty heading of daisy pink—
At least so an humble sock would think."

"Hoho!" said White. "Don't you know me, Red?
Why, there's my owner in yonder bed—
Yours in the cradle and mine in the crib;
And mine is the bigger, or else I fib.

"But bless me, Red, I care not a fig,
Though yours be little and mine be big;
Soon shall we hang in equal pride
From yonder mantel side by side.

"Down the chimney a figure will bound—
Old Saint Nicholas, funny and round;
And, stuffing as though he never would stop,
He'll fill us with good things up to the top."

"Hurrah!" cried Red, "and well for me
That I bulge in the ankle and foot, you see."
"And well for me," said White, "that I,
Though narrow and slim, am long and high.

"But, Red, after all, we needn't care,
Though in shape and room we're not a pair;
For the cradle and crib hold sisters, you see,
And the crib will give to the cradle from me.

"If I hold more and you hold less,
The babies'll make it even, I guess."
"That's so," said Red, "but I quite despair
When you hang so grand on the back of a chair."

"Pooh, pooh!" said White, "don't think of that—
Think of the hours that I'm folded flat;
And how often, when shoe-pegs pierce me through,
I long to be woolen and thick like you."

"That's so," said Red—'twas his pet reply—
"But then I take so long to dry!
It's very unpleasant to be so thick—
Besides, I'm just as red as a brick."

"My friend," said White, with an anxious sigh,
"How quickly your troubles multiply!
I really think" (here he gave a cough)
"It affects your spirits—to be kicked off."

"That's so," said Red again—"I feel
Just good for nothing from toe to heel.
She kicks me off, till I'm almost dead,
I'd die of the blues if I wasn't so red."

"Come, neighbor, cheer up!" said White in distress;
"We're only stockings, I must confess;
Yet we suit the feet that are wearing us out,
So there really is nothing to worry about.

"The worst that stockings or children can do
Is to hold the dark side always in view.
This fretting and fussing, dear Red, is shocking.
I know it is; though I'm only a stocking.

"And think how grand it will be, dear Red—
Or how glad we shall feel, I should have said—
When on Christmas morning, after their sleep,
Our dear little owners into us peep."

"That's so!" cried the other. "Away with folly,
For the rest of my days I mean to be jolly.
She may kick me off—the dear little tot—
Whenever she pleases; I'll mind it not.

"Christmas is coming! that's so! that's so!
And then I'll be somebody—won't I, though?
By the way, old White, I wish it were day,
So she'd put me on, and frolic and play."

White laughed with joy, and said, "All right.
You've come to your senses now. Good-night."
And so all quiet and peaceful they lay
Till the children awoke at break of day.

Ha, ha! little toddlekins—cash did you say?
You shall have it, my boys.
For racket and noise,
Crackers and powder,
Louder and louder,
Shall bang and resound on the glorious day!

Here's a dollar for Johnny, a dollar for Paul.
And you, little Dick,
Come to father my chick!
Now that's for a pack,
And that's for a pack,
And that's for torpedoes and snappers and all!

Now Robbie and Willie,—you boys with "real" pockets;
Ha, ha! I declare.
Shall I put it in there?
Hear it dropping, co-chunk!
What! you want more for punk?
Here it is. And I'll see to the pin-wheels and rockets.

Of course, you all know of the great Declaration
That made us as free
As a country could be.
On that glorious Fourth,
East, West, South, and North
Were proclaimed a United American Nation!

How our forefathers bled,—they, the mighty and wroth!
To make us all free,—
Yes, you, boys, and me.
Though you can't understand
How they wrestled and planned,
You can honor them, boys, and remember the Fourth.

Be off with your money! To-morrow's the word!
Hold, Johnny, here's more
To divide 'twixt you four.
And Dick, here's a dime,—
Hurrah! What a time!
We'll have such a racket as never was heard!

When I am big, I mean to buy
A dozen platters of pumpkin-pie,
A barrel of nuts, to have 'em handy,
And fifty pounds of sugar-candy.

When I am big, I mean to wear
A long-tailed coat, and crop my hair;
I'll buy a paper, and read the news,
And sit up late whenever I choose.

Wind for the tree-top, sun for the spear;
Johnny will be a big boy in a year.
When he is big he can battle the storm;
While he is little, we'll wrap him up warm.

"Here's plenty of shells and clay and water,
Make me some nice mud-pies, my daughter."
"Oh! yes, mamma—and the sun is hot,
I can heat my oven as well as not.
If you will take, why, I will make—
Pit 'em and pat 'em and set 'em to bake."

O mamma! look, cried little Bell Dreer;
There's a girl in the cover like me;
And whenever I move she looks so queer;
It's so funny—I never did see!

Why, she makes a face if I turn my cheek;
She makes a face if I wink.
Oh! her hair runs off, and she tries to speak;
Why, she's frightened at me, I think!

Come out little girl, and see my doll;
Come out of the shine and play.
I haven't a bit of a sister at all,
And my dolly is sick to-day.

My dolly is sick, and my book is torn,
And my hair has got to be curled;
And mother is reading. It's real forlorn
To be all alone in the world.

Come out, little girl. Oh! I wish you would.
[You mustn't make faces that way.]
I'd lift you out of the shine if I could,
And play with you all the whole day.

As soon as I take my degree
As a classical scholar perfected,
No sharp politician I'll be,
Asking favors of all the elected.
No learned profession my plan,
Nor trade, till my courage is blunter;
For surely, deny it who can?
The greatest of men is the hunter!

There's Cummings the bold lion-tamer,
And fearless, undaunted Gérard,
And Baldwin, by tigers made lamer,
And Speke with his cámelopard.
And one of those days 't will be Tremble,—
Most famous of all, I'll be bound,—
The great lion-crusher, young Tremble,
None equal to him the world round.

Already, I've tested my mettle:
No cat but will flee at my tread;
And let a mosquito but settle
And nip me—that instant he's dead!
Know also that only this morning
A terrible peril I met,
While taking a ramble—no warning—
(That hour shall I ever forget?)

I was longing at heart for a rifle,
And a chance for some wonderful shot
(A lion seemed then a mere trifle,
I would rather encounter than not),
When, presto! a horrible creature
Came buzzing and diving at me,
Aiming straight at my favorite feature—
A horrible, black bumble-bee!

A horrible black humble bumble,
Bound straight for my beautiful nose;
For an instant (I'll own) I did tumble,
But quickly in majesty rose.
Each childish emotion I swallowed,
Moving onward as fast as I could;
The great buzzing monster, he followed
Till we came to a shadowy wood.

Ha! what was that sharp thrill of anguish,
And what the great swelling that came?
And why was I rushing and shouting—
The whole of my face in a flame?
I knew that the buzzing was louder,
That my nose was as big as my head;
I wanted to grind him to powder;
I wished him a thousand times dead!

Blind battle! my ev'ry-day jacket
Was tighter than steel coat of mail,
And the monster kept up such a racket,
I scarce knew his head from his tail.
He, plunging and wheeling and darting
And pitching and screeching at me;
I, maddened with burning and smarting—
What wonder I dodged by a tree!

What wonder that soon, in his frenzy,
My murderous foe bumped his head!
The tree never tumbled nor tottered,
But he fell co-chunk in its stead.
Then I turned, in a terrible passion,
And stamped with my full might and main:
I stamped in the sledge-hammer fashion,—
My bee never bumbled again!

Then why should I not be a hunter,
So gallant and fearless and spry?
What other vocation would answer
For such a brave fellow as I?
Ah! woe to the beasts of the forest!
And woe to all monsters with wings!
As soon as my studies are over,
I mean to do terrible things.

Hark! hark! O my children, hark!
When the sky has lost its blue
What do the stars sing in the dark?
"We must sparkle, sparkle, through."

What do leaves say in the storm,
Tossed in whispering heaps, together?
"We can keep the violets warm
'Till they wake in fairer weather."

What do happy birdies say,
Flitting through the gloomy wood?
"We must sing the gloom away—
Sun or shadow, God is good."

Two little sisters, one little brother,
Five little kittens, and one cat mother.
One little kit is tossed up overhead,
One little kit is put upon the bed;
One very little cat, solemn as a fish,
One great big cat is feeding from a dish.
Two little kitty-kits seated on the floor,
Each little kitty-kit washing his own paw.

One little pig-tail. Now, where is that?
One little crown-piece; cap, is it, or hat?
Four little blue eyes, and three little chicks;
Five little kittens full of pretty tricks.
Kitty-kits, pig-tail, blue eyes, and bed;
Chicks, cat, and crown-piece top of baby's head;
Dish, tricks, and downy paws being licked so clean,
All, in the picture, are plainly to be seen.

Some are starving, some are filling,
Some are lazy, and some are willing,
Some are frowzy, and others are curled,
It takes all kinds, sir, to make a world.

Give me your ear, good children all,
I'm going to set up a terrible ball—
A terrible ball that began to grow
From only the least little speckle of snow.
And, to make the lesson pointed and plain,
I'll just remark that life, in the main,
Is, etcet'ra—you know; and I hope you'll be good
In future to show that you've understood.

Three lovely, little artless boys,
All of them being mothers' joys,
One day decided, in innocent mirth,
To make a snow-ball as big as the earth.
What makes the story more touching still,
The big-eyed school-house on the hill
Was in session, under the cross Miss Stookey,
And these little boys were "playing hookey."

Hookey from Stookey, they worked with a will,
And, from making a ball like a tiny pill,
They rolled and rolled, till, no longer small,
'Twas big as Miss Stookey's waterfall.
Then, like a pumpkin fair and round,
They kept it rolling on the ground—
Bigger, bigger, bigger, bigger,
Bigger, bigger, bigger, bigger!
The boys could hardly push it along,
It grew so mighty stout and strong.

Now, this mammoth ball that began as a pill,
Was made, you must know, on top of a hill;
This hill was so wonderful steep and high,
That even the coasters would pass it by;
And, saving a road by the cattle made,
It sloped right down, at a fearful grade,
To the meadow where stood a cottage red
Where these little children were born and bred.

"Halloo!" they cried, "let's have some fun,
There's Stookey's pig as sure as a gun!"
"Hooray! hooray!" cried the children three,
Thus giving vent to their youthful glee.
When—what do you think?—this ungrateful pill,
That they'd made so big on top of the hill,
With an air that said, "Now, I think I've got 'em!"
Resolved to roll all the way to the bottom.

The ball was swift, the ball was big,
Alas for Stookey's innocent pig!
Alas for lovers who walked that way,
They ne'er in their lives forgot the day!

Alas for the learn'd Professor Gath
Who happened to stroll in the snow-ball's path!
And alas, alas for those children three,
Who shouted and cheered in their pretty glee!

Rolling, growing, demolishing all,
On and on went the terrible ball;
It left the cattle down on their knees,
It crushed the fences and bent the trees;
Even the hay-stacks went ker-flop.
It wouldn't turn, nor it wouldn't stop,
But still rolled on in steady motion,
Making a bee-line for the ocean!

With laugh and shout and merry hoot,
Those children followed in glad pursuit.
"Hooray! hooray!" they cried again,
And gave the chase with might and main;
They gave the chase with main and might,
But the terrible ball rolled out of sight.

And now comes the saddest part of all.
(Oh! that cruel, wicked, terrible ball!)
When at last the three little artless boys,
Tired of running and making a noise,
Resolved to go home to their little bed,
Where, oh! where was that cottage red?
Where, oh! where? Ask the terrible ball—
Never a home had those children small.
Gone, clean gone! with picket and paling—
And all their joy was turned to wailing!

Tell me, O youth so straight and tall,
So glad with eager thought!
Have you seen of late a bouncing boy
Brimful of merry sport?
Brimful of merry sport is he,
A lad of fifteen summers,
With velvet lip still smooth and fair,
But a fist that awes all comers.

He used to laugh with unconcern
Whene'er a school-girl met him,
Unconscious quite what wondrous power
She'd have in time to fret him.
He only cared for "fellows" then,
And ball, and "tag," and "shinny,"
And thought a chap who brushed his hair
Was just a fop or ninny.

Somehow, I loved this bouncing boy,
Because he was my own;
I had him here a year ago,
And don't know where he's flown.
I don't know where he's flown, and yet
Whenever you are near—
It's very odd!—I'm reconciled,
Because you grow so dear.

You bear great likeness to my boy
I think, and—strange the whim!—
There's that in you which I have prayed
Might come in time to him.
Then if you'll stay, my dashing youth,
And love me, like the other,
I'll let him go, and, clasping you,
Be still a happy mother.

So hold me close, my bigger boy,
My larger-hearted Harry,
With broader shoulders, older head,
And more of life to carry;
Hold close, and whisper, heart to heart,
Our Lord has blessed us truly,
Since every year we love so well,
And find it out so newly.

With deepened joy and prayerful love
All in the autumn's splendor,
I hail you, boy of mine, and give
A welcome proud and tender.
'Tis grand to take the birthdays in,
If, while the years we're counting,
In heart and soul, in hope and aim,
We steadily keep mounting.

Three-year-old Willie, bare-footed Willie,
Willie, with hair in a golden-thread tangle;
Tottering Willie, self-helping Willie,
Child in whom sweetness and poverty wrangle;
Willie, whose mother toils in my kitchen;
Willie, whose father carried a hod;
Willie, whose childish disdain is bolder
Than the pride of the emperor, favored of God—

Why dost thou knock at my heart, little pauper,
Bidding me love thee, entering there,
Sitting beside little cherubs who blessed me,
Thy manner half saucy, half debonair?
With garments all tattered and soiled, little Willie,
And face all begrimed? 'Tis not fitting, you know—
Velvets and laces are mine, naughty Willie,
And poor little boys should not come to me so.

The chubby intruder, still wickedly smiling,
And, ah! what a shout! (is he laughing at me?
He surely can't take in a word I am saying)
Now rushes upon me, and climbs to my knee.
And though he is silent, I hear him quite plainly—
To listening hearts a baby can speak—
He tells me (while velvet and rags are blending
And his unkempt hair is brushing my cheek):

"I'm a poor little fellow, with no one to teach me;
But my soul is a new one—fresh from God;
And he gave it something so brave and holy
It never can turn to an earthly clod.
What though the gifts of the purse are denied me,
Poverty need not look out of my eyes;
Though it surround me, the bright world beyond it
Neither its warmth nor its beauty denies.

"The birds never sing, 'Little Willie is ragged!'
Nor the flowers, 'He will soil us! Take him away!'
But they're glad when I happen to look and to listen,
And the sky is above me night and day.
Did God make you richer because you were better?
And what if my mother does cook for you,
Isn't she cheerful? With half of her trials
Would you be as patient, and willing, and true?

"And what if my father, with hod and trowel,
Carried and toiled the whole day long,
Didn't he comfort my mother and love her?
Didn't he cheer her with joke and song?
I never saw him. One bright autumn morning,
Just three years ago, he went to the war—
Went out to battle for you and your country:
And then he never came home any more.

"Nevermore labored with hod and with trowel,
Never came back with his joke and his song.
Mother would know only working and weeping
If I were not sunny and careless, and strong.
She chides me and kisses me, beats me and blesses,
And prays to the saints that her boy may be good;
But for work, she would keep me as fresh as a daisy,
Not ragged and soiled, in my babyhood."—

Say no more, Willie! Mock me and love me!
Into my heart enter blithesomely still.
Bright little soldier's boy, poor little worker's boy,
Shame to the coward who uses thee ill!

Bumble, bramble, which came first, sir,
Eggs or chickens? Who can tell?
I'll never believe that the first egg burst, sir,
Before its mother was out of her shell.

One day, when the sun was going down,
He said to a star hard by:
"Sparkle your best; for you see, my friend,
I'm going out of the sky."

Now, the little star was old as the sun,
Though rather small of his age,
So he kept quite still in the yellow light,
And looked as wise as a sage.

"I'm going, you see!" cried the sun again,
"Going right out of the sky!"
And he slid away, but not out of sight
Of that little star hard by.

The little star, peeping, saw him go
On his gorgeous western way;
And twinkled with fun, as he said, "O Sun!
You're in for another day!

"And as for going out of the sky,
Your majesty knows you can't;
You are shining somewhere, full and strong,
In spite of your rays aslant."

No answer. Then the star grew bright,
And sparkled as neighbors came;
He told the joke to the twinkling crowd,
And they laughed the sun to shame.

One gay little star was so amused,
That he shot across the sky;
And all the others bobbed and blinked
To see him go speeding by.

But after awhile, a rosy light
Appeared on the eastern side;
And, one by one, the stars grew shy,
And tried in the sky to hide.

"Ho! ho!" the sun broke forth. "Ho! ho!
Just stay where you are, my dears,
And shine away, for you can't be seen
When all of my light appears.

"The people below will say you are gone,
Though you're shining. Think of that!
Well, they thought all night I had left the sky,
So it's only tit for tat."