Rhymes and Jingles

"Now children," said Puss, as she shook her head,
"It is time your morning lesson was said:"
So her kittens drew near with footsteps slow,
And sat down before her, all in a row.

"Attention, class!" said the cat-mamma,
"And tell me quick where your noses are."
At this all the kittens sniffed the air
As though it were filled with a perfume rare.

"Now what do you say when you want a drink?"
The kittens waited a moment to think,
And then the answer came clear and loud—
You ought to have heard how those kittens meow'd!

"Very well. 'Tis the same, with a sharper tone,
When you want a fish or a bit of bone.
Now what do you say when children are good?"
And the kittens purred as soft as they could.

"And what do you do when children are bad?
When they tease and pull?" each kitty looked sad.
"Pooh!" said their mother, "that isn't enough;
You must use your claws when children are rough!"

"And where are your claws? no, no, my dear,
(As she took up a paw) see! they're hidden here:"
Then all the kittens crowded about
To see their sharp little claws brought out.

They felt quite sure they never should need
To use such weapons—oh, no, indeed!
But their wise mamma gave a pussy's "pshaw!"
And boxed their ears with her softest paw.

"Now 'Stpisss!' as hard as you can," she said—
But every kitten hung down its head—
"Stpisss! I say," cried the mother cat,
But they said, "O mammy we can't do that!"

"Then go and play," said the fond mamma;
"What sweet little idiots kittens are!
Ah well, I was once the same, I suppose"—
And she looked very wise and rubbed her nose.

Whether fair, whether foul,
Be it wet or dry,
Cloudy time or shiny time
The sun's in the sky.
Gloomy-night, sparkle-night,
Be it glad or dread,
Cloudy time or shiny time,
Stars are overhead.

"What says the book, my lassie?
What says the book to thee?"
"It says the wood is beautiful,
The blossoms fair to see;
It says the brook tells merrily
A little tale of glee,
And birds, brimful of melody,
Do sing their songs for me."

"Then close the page, my lassie,
And lift thy pretty head,
And what the book would say to thee
The wood shall say instead.
The brook shall tell its merry tale,
The flowers their brightness shed,
And the birds shall sing—for life is life,
And printed words are dead.

"Hear what the bird sings, lassie:
'O little lady fair!
The breath of flowers is over thee,
The sunlight in thy hair;
The heart of a little maiden
Is free as birds in the air—
And God is good to thee and me,
O little lady fair!'"

Two children once sat in the twilight gray
Playing a tune in a comical way;
They both pressed a comb to their rosy red lips,
And little they cared for tickles and slips,
For wheezings, and paper that always would fall,
For oh! such loud music, or no note at all.
'Twas sweet to their ears, as fondly they heard
This musical strain coming forth, word for word:
"W-h-h-wome, w-h-h-wome, szzzeeet, zhhweet zome,
Bheet wev zo hhumble, therzzz nho blazzze liew zhhome!"

Now they are grown, and sing in the choir
Of their own village church with the beautiful spire;
So sweet are her notes, so perfect her skill,
Not a bird of the air but might envy her trill,
Not a wind of the night but right gladly would know
How to make his rich music so plaintive and low.

Together their voices in harmony blend,
And steep all their days in a joy without end;
And yet in their hearts they have always confessed
That lovely duet long ago was the best,
When they tingled their lips at the musical comb,
And told all the world there was "zno blaizzz liew zhome."

Oh, a perfect nose,
And dainty toes,
And woolen hose,
Had Miss Rose!

A dog was she of high degree,
Born of an ancient family.
From her mother's side
Came her Spanish pride;
She had royal ways,
And her pedigree reckoned
From the glorious days
Of Charles the Second!

Well, she needed an escort
To a party of some sort,
One evening in May.
And to see her bother
'Twixt one dog and t'other,
Was good as a play.

Many pups came to say
They would be at her service,
But she sent them away
With a manner quite nervous.
In fact, I must own,
Of dogs fully grown,
She snubbed them by name
As fast as they came:
Sir Rover was coarse,
And Ponto was cruel;
Old Bounce was a horse,
Young Pip lived on gruel;
Spitz was a sneak,
Fido was surly;
Pomp was too sleek,
Carlo too curly;
Even elegant Pap,
Who wore a gold collar,
She said, with a snap,
Wasn't worth a lead dollar.

Then came a brave wight
For a desperate pull;
He had been in a fight,
Old Major de Bull.
He was cross as a bear,
And scanty of hair.

Also young Isle of Skye,
Rather down at the heel;
And the well-mannered Guy,
Who was sour, but genteel.

But dainty Miss Rose
Still tossed up her nose—
She oughtn't, she couldn't,
She wouldn't, she shouldn't
With one of them go,
She'd thank 'em to know.

By this time it was growing late,
And dainty Rose bemoaned her fate;
When, in the sky, there sprang in sight
A throbbing, sparkling thing of light.
"What's that," she cried, "I see afar?"
And Guy replied, "The great Dog Star—

Too Sirius, dear, for such as you,
And very much above you, too."
"Not so, indeed!" cried dainty Rose,
No longer tossing up her nose.
"Now, I am matched at last, you see,
The Dog Star shall my escort be!"

Then off she started, quite content,
And gallantly the Dog Star went.
For all the way he kept in sight,
And held her in his tender light,
Guiding her steps with steady rays,
And blinking when he met her gaze.

Poor little mousie, what a mishap!
Why did you put your nose in the trap?
Hold still, mousie, and trust to me—
I'll touch the spring, and set you free!

In the gray of the twilight and glow of the fire,
A little girl sat on the rug.
She was warming a slipper; and pussy sat nigh her,
And also her friend, Mr. Pug.
And the song in the heart of the glad little girl,
As the light of the fire played over each curl,
Was, "Father is coming—hurrah! hurrah!
Father is coming—hurrah!"

She had spread out his soft woolen gown on the chair,
With its facings of beautiful blue;
Had picked up her playthings that lay here and there,
And arranged things as well as she knew.
"For the room must be tidy and pretty and bright,"
She said to herself, "when he comes, every night,
And soon he is coming—hurrah! hurrah!
Father is coming—hurrah!"

How rosy her cheeks, and how sparkling her eyes!
How dimpled her soft little hand!
While Pussy and Pug look as solemn and wise
As if the whole scene they had planned.
But you never would think, so demure are the three,
That the little maid's heart could be singing with glee,
"Father is coming—hurrah! hurrah!
Father is coming—hurrah!"
The sunlight has vanished, and bleak is the street,
And beggars are dreading the night.
The pavement is noisy with home-speeding feet,
And only the windows are bright;
When quickly the little maid springs from the rug,
Leaving Pussy half sleeping, but followed by Pug;
"Father is coming—hurrah! hurrah!
Father is coming—hurrah!"

Halloo, old scuttle! good old soul,
What's become of all your coal?
"Why the tongs he came with a gobbledy-gun,
And took my coals out, one by one;
And the blaze ran in with a tricksy-spire
And set the pretty things a-fire;
And the blower came with a roaring-roar,
And made them burn up more and more;
And then the poker with koppitty-hop,
He poked their ashes and made 'em drop—
And that, O Gobbledy-Koppitty-dole!
Is what's become of all my coal."

If blue-birds bloomed like flowers in a row,
And never could make a sound,
How would the daisies and violets know
When to come out of the ground!
They would wait and wait the seasons round;
Never a flower could on earth be found.
And what would birds and butterflies do
If the flowers had wings to fly?
Why, birds and blossoms, and butterflies too,
Would stay far up in the sky;
And then the people would droop and sigh,
And all the children on earth would cry.

Oho! but he travels the country over,
The queer little, kind little, elfish rover!
Lightly he bears in his tricksome hand
A silvery horn full of sleepy sand,
Shaking it here, and shaking it there,
Till the blossoms nod in the drowsy air;
Till the sunlight creeps up hill to bed,
Or slips through the sky where clouds are red;
Till the lambkins bleat a soft "good-night!"
And birds grow still in the tree-tops bright,
While sweet little eyelids, all over the land,
Droop with the weight of the silvery sand.

Oho! Oho! where the Sand Man goes
Every one wonders and nobody knows;
For just when the right time comes to peep,
Little and big are falling asleep.
He steals to the cradles, the cribs, the beds,
And sprinkles his sand over children's heads,
Till bright little faces lie warm and still,
Smiling or grave, at the Sand Man's will.
He catches them often at full midday,
And bids them stop in their merry play—
With a "Ho! my darling," "Hi! my dear,"
"I'll sing a dream-song into your ear."

Some on the carpet, some on the chairs,
Some curled up on the nursery stairs;
Some in the grass where the shadows play,
Some hidden deep in the fragrant hay,
And some who, folded in mother's embrace,
Float in a lullaby, pressing her face.
Oho! but he travels the country over,
The queer little, kind little, elfish rover!
And whence he comes, and whither he goes,
Every one wonders, and nobody knows;
For just when the right time comes to peep,
All the children are falling asleep.

Winnie Whiney, all things grieve her;
Fannie Fibber, who'd believe her?
Lotty Loozem, late to school, sir;
Albert Allplay, quite a fool, sir;
Kitty Kissem, loved by many,
Georgy Grump, not loved by any.
Ralphy Ruff—beware his fist, sir!
Tillie Tattle, like a blister,
Gus Goodaction, bright and cheery,
Sammy Selfish, sour and dreary.
Do you know them, as I've sung them?
Easy 'tis to choose among them.

There was a brave knight of Lorraine,
Who hated to give people pain.
"I'll skeer them," he said,
"But won't kill 'em dead"—
This noble young knight of Lorraine.

Old Can-an'-must is a giant bold,
But one thing scares him, I've been told;
"I'm afraid when a youngster wastes his crust,
He'll never be thrifty," says Can-an'-must.

Old Can-an'-must is a giant bold,
And only one thing makes him scold:
"If I catch a youngster leaving a crust,
I'll gobble him up!" says Can-an'-must.