You who to the rounded prime

Of a life of toil and stress,

Still have kept the morning-time

Of glad youth in heart and spirit,

So your laugh, as children hear it,

Seems their own, no less,—

Take this book of childish rhyme—

The Book of Joyous Children.

Their first happiness on earth

Here is echoed—their first glee:

Rich, in sooth, the volume's worth—

Not in classic lore, but rich in

The child-sagas of the kitchen;—

Therefore, take from me

To your heart of childish mirth

The Book of Joyous Children.

Bound and bordered in leaf-green,

Edged with trellised buds and flowers

And glad Summer-gold, with clean

White and purple morning-glories

Such as suit the songs and stories

Of this book of ours,

Unrevised in text or scene,—

The Book of Joyous Children.

Wild and breathless in their glee—

Lawless rangers of all ways

Winding through lush greenery

Of Elysian vales—the viny,

Bowery groves of shady, shiny

Haunts of childish days.

Spread and read again with me

The Book of Joyous Children.

Be a truant—know no place

Of prison under heaven's rim!

Front the Father's smiling face—

Smiling, that you smile the brighter

For the heavy hearts made lighter,

Since you smile with Him.

Take—and thank Him for His grace—

The Book of Joyous Children.

When I wuz ist a little bit

o' weenty-teenty kid

I maked up a Fairy-tale,

all by myse'f, I did:—

Wunst upon a time wunst

They wuz a Fairy King,

An' ever'thing he have wuz gold—,

His clo'es, an' ever'thing!

An' all the other Fairies

In his goldun Palace-hall

Had to hump an' hustle—

'Cause he wuz bosst of all!

He have a goldun trumput,

An' when he blow' on that,

It's a sign he want' his boots,

Er his coat er hat:

"Wasn't it a funny dream!—perfectly bewild'rin'!—

Last night, and night before, and night before that,

Seemed like I saw the march o' regiments o' children,

Marching to the robin's fife and cricket's rat-ta-tat!

Lily-banners overhead, with the dew upon 'em,

On flashed the little army, as with sword and flame;

Like the buzz o' bumble-wings, with the honey on 'em,

Came an eerie, cheery chant, chiming as it came:—

Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling!

Where go the children, travelling ahead?

Some go to kindergarten; some go to day-school;

Some go to night-school; and some go to bed!

Smooth roads or rough roads, warm or winter weather,

On go the children, tow-head and brown,

Brave boys and brave girls, rank and file together,

Marching out of Morning-Land, over dale and down:

Some go a-gypsying out in country places—

Out through the orchards, with blossoms on the boughs

Wild, sweet, and pink and white as their own glad faces;

And some go, at evening, calling home the cows.

Where go the children? Travelling! Travelling!

Where go the children, travelling ahead?

Some go to foreign wars, and camps by the firelight—

Some go to glory so; and some go to bed!

Some go through grassy lanes leading to the city—

Awf'lest boy in this-here town

Er anywheres is Elmer Brown!

He'll mock you—yes, an' strangers, too,

An' make a face an' yell at you,—

"Here's the way you look!"

Yes, an' wunst in School one day,

An' Teacher's lookin' wite that way,

He helt his slate, an' hide his head,

An' maked a face at her, an' said,—

"Here's the way you look!"

An' sir! when Rosie Wheeler smile

One morning at him 'crosst the aisle,

He twist his face all up, an' black

His nose wiv ink, an' whisper back,—

"Here's the way you look!"

Wunst when his Aunt's all dressed to call,

An' kiss him good-bye in the hall,

An' latch the gate an' start away,

He holler out to her an' say,—

"Here's the way you look!"

An' when his Pa he read out loud

The speech he maked, an' feel so proud

It's in the paper—Elmer's Ma

She ketched him—wite behind his Pa,—

"Here's the way you look!"

Nen when his Ma she slip an' take

Him in the other room an' shake

Him good! w'y, he don't care—no-sir!—

He ist look up an' laugh at her,—

"Here's the way you look!"

There are many things that boys may know—

Why this and that are thus and so,—

Who made the world in the dark and lit

The great sun up to lighten it:

Boys know new things every day—

When they study, or when they play,—

When they idle, or sow and reap—

But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.

Boys who listen—or should, at least,—

May know that the round old earth rolls East;—

And know that the ice and the snow and the rain—

Ever repeating their parts again—

Are all just water the sunbeams first

Sip from the earth in their endless thirst,

And pour again till the low streams leap.—

But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.

A boy may know what a long glad while

It has been to him since the dawn's first smile,

Wasn't it a good time,

Long Time Ago—

When we all were little tads

And first played "Show"!—

When every newer day

Wore as bright a glow

As the ones we laughed away—

Long Time Ago!

Calf was in the back-lot;

Clover in the red;

Bluebird in the pear-tree;

Pigeons on the shed;

Tom a-chargin' twenty pins

At the barn; and Dan

Spraddled out just like "The

'Injarubber'-Man!"

Me and Bub and Rusty,

Eck and Dunk and Sid,

'Tumblin' on the sawdust

Like the A-rabs did;

Wasn't Dunk—his leaping lion—

Chief of all delights!

Yes, and wasn't "Little Mack"

Boss of all the Show,—

Both Old Clown and Candy-Butcher—

Long Time Ago!

Sid the Bareback-Rider;

And—oh-me-oh-my!—

Bub, the spruce Ring-master,

Stepping round so spry!—

In his little waist-and-trousers

All made in one,

Was there a prouder youngster

Under the sun!

And NOW—who will tell me,—

Where are they all?

Dunk's a sanatorium doctor,

Up at Waterfall;

Sid's a city street-contractor;

Tom has fifty clerks;

And Jamesy he's the "Iron Magnate"

Of "The Hecla Works."

And Bub's old and bald now,

Yet still he hangs on,—

Gracie wuz allus a careless tot;

But Gracie dearly loved her doll,

An' played wiv it on the winder-sill

'Way up-stairs, when she ought to not,

An' her muvver telled her so an' all;

But she won't mind what she say—till,

First thing she know, her dolly fall

Clean spang out o' the winder plumb

Into the street! An' here Grace come

Down-stairs, two at a time, ist wild

An' a-screamin', "Oh, my child! my child!"

Jule wuz a-bringin' their basket o' clo'es

Ist then into their hall down there,—

When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree—

It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—

The bird sings low as the bumble-bee—

It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—

The poor shote-pig he says, says he:

"When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree

There's enough for you and enough for me."—

It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.

For just two truant lads like we,

When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree

There's enough for you and enough for me—

It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.

When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree—

It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—

The mole digs out to peep and see—

It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!—

The dusk sags down, and the moon swings free,

There's a far, lorn call, "Pig-gee! 'Pig-gee!"

And two boys—glad enough for three.—

It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.

Our three cats is Maltese cats,

An' they's two that's white,—

An' bofe of 'em's deef—an' that's

'Cause their eyes ain't right.—

Uncle say that Huxley say

Eyes of white Maltese—

When they don't match thataway—

They're deef as you please!