The Book of the Little Past
'I watched, ... even as it were a
Sparrow that sitteth upon the
house-top' |
Making A House
MAKING A HOUSE
Title Page
The Book of
the Little
Past
by Josephine Preston Peabody
Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green
Houghton Mifflin Company
Boston 1910 New York
COPYRIGHT 1903 BY JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
COPYRIGHT 1908 BY JOSEPHINE PEABODY MARKS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO Alison
AND OLDER CHILDREN
NOTE
Of the poems of child-life brought together in this book
many are wholly new; some are reprinted from "The
Singing Leaves," published in 1903; and others have
appeared in Harper's Monthly Magazine, to the editor
of which I am indebted for permission to reprint them.
J. P. M.
JULY, 1908
Contents
| Making A House |
1 |
| The Busy Child |
2 |
| Sunset |
4 |
| Wind |
5 |
| Late |
6 |
| Cakes and Ale |
7 |
| The Journey |
8 |
| Pigeons Out Walking |
10 |
| Concerning Love |
11 |
| Curls |
12 |
| I Was Lost |
14 |
| The Polite Visitor |
16 |
| The Mystic |
18 |
| Market |
19 |
| Little Side-Streets |
20 |
| Chestnut Stands |
22 |
| The Play's the Thing |
24 |
| Windows |
26 |
| The Masterpiece |
28 |
| Ode on the Dog |
29 |
| The Sorrows |
32 |
| Secrets |
33 |
| The Christmas Tree |
34 |
| Candle-Light |
36 |
| Cow-Bells |
37 |
| Thunder-Storms |
39 |
| Church-Time |
40 |
| Angels |
42 |
| The Beggar-Man |
43 |
| The Green Singing-Book |
44 |
| Wing-Sprouts |
46 |
| Early |
47 |
| The Wind's East |
48 |
| After-Word |
50 |
Illustrations
| Making A House |
Frontispiece |
| The Journey |
8 |
| The Mystic |
18 |
| The Masterpiece |
28 |
| Candle-Light |
36 |
| The Green Singing-Book |
44 |
Making a house
F
irst of all, I draw the Smoke
Trailing up the sky;
Then the Chimney, underneath;
And Birds all flying by;
Then the House; and every Window,
Watching, like an Eye.
Everybody else begins
With the House. But I
Love the Smoke the best of all;
And you don't know why!...
Here it goes,—like little feathers,
Sailing up the sky!
The Busy Child
I
have so many things to do,
I don't know when I shall be through.
To-day I had to watch the rain
Come sliding down the window-pane.
And I was humming, all the time,
Around my head, a kind of rhyme,
And blowing softly on the glass,
To see the dimness come and pass.
I made a picture, with my breath
Rubbed out to show the underneath.
I built a city on the floor;
And then I went and was a War.—
And I escaped, from square to square
That's greener on the carpet, there,
Until at last, I came to Us:
But it was very dangerous.—
Because, if I had stepped Outside,
I made believe I should have died!
And now I have the boat to mend;
And all our supper to pretend.
I am so Busy, all the day,
I haven't any time to play.
Sunset
T
hose islands far away are mine,
Beyond the cloudy strip;
And something beautiful, besides:—
I think it is a Ship.
Wind
I
let them call it just The Wind,
And tell me not to grieve.
But I know all it left behind,
And more than they believe.
I know; about the far-off lands,
Where people never sleep;
They hide their faces in their hands,
And rock, and weep, and weep.
And I too little, all alone,
To go and find them yet;—
But Oh, I hear!—When I am grown,
I never will forget.
Late
M
y Father brought somebody up,
To show us all, asleep.
They came as softly up the stairs
As you could creep.
They whispered in the doorway there,
And looked at us awhile.
I had my eyes shut up; but I
Could feel him smile.
I shut my eyes up close, and lay
As still as I could keep;
Because I knew he wanted us
To be asleep.
Cakes and Ale
I
'm always glad when Andrew comes.
If only I am there,
He stays awhile, and talks to me,
As if he did not care.
He took me to some Music once,
When it was all for me.
And Oh, I had a splendid time!
And he said, So did He.
It lasts as if the Music still
Went round and round the sky.—
He said he had a good time, too;
And I said, So did I!
The Journey
I
never saw the hills so far
And blue, the way the pictures are;
And flowers, flowers growing thick,
But not a one for me to pick!
The land was running from the train,
All blurry through the window-pane.
And then it all looked flat and still,
When up there jumped a little hill!
I saw the windows and the spires,
And sparrows sitting on the wires;
And fences, running up and down;
And then we cut straight through a town.
I saw a Valley, like a cup;
And ponds that twinkled, and dried up.
I counted meadows, that were burnt;
And there were trees,—and then there weren't!
We crossed the bridges with a roar,
Then hummed, the way we went before.
And tunnels made it dark and light
Like open-work of day and night.
Until I saw the chimneys rise,
And lights and lights and lights, like eyes.
And when they took me through the door,
I heard It all begin to roar.—
I thought—as far as I could see—
That everybody wanted Me!
Pigeons Out Walking
T
hey never seem to hurry,—no,
Even for the crowd.
They dip, and coo, and move as slow,
All so soft and proud!
You can see the wavy specks
Of bubble-color on their necks;
—Little, little Cloud.
Cloud that goes, the very way
All the Bubbles do:
Blue and green, and green and gray,
Gold and rosy, too.
And they talk as Bubbles could
If they only ever would
Talk and call and coo!
—Till you try to catch one so,
Just to make it stay
While the colors turn. But Oh,
Then they fly away!—
All at once, two, three, four, five—
Like a snowstorm all alive,—
Gray and white, and gray!
Concerning Love
I
wish she would not ask me if I love the Kitten more than her.
Of Course I love her. But I love the Kitten, too; and It has Fur.
Curls
I
t happens that way in the world
With everything you see.
Some people have their hair all curl'd,
Some straight as straight can be.
It is a Mystery.
Yes, some have hair that waves and clings,
And does all kinds of curly things;—
And some not ever, till they Die.
And nobody knows Why....
And some,—already born with Curls,
Some of them are not even Girls!
I always think,—of Curly Hair,
It looks as if the Curls came there
The way I hum around a song
More things than really do belong.
The happier I feel, the more
I sing, I never heard before!
I curl more music round the Air,
The way it looks with Curly Hair.
[Envoi]
But you may sing all day, you know;
You cannot really make it grow.
And you may know it is Not Fair;
But that won't give you Curly Hair.
I Was Lost
[Oh, the Day that I was Lost, I never shall forget:
I wake up in the night sometimes, and think It's Happening Yet.]
S
he let me go, a minute.
She said she would take care;
But she let me go, a minute:
And then— She wasn't there.
Everything grew awful
That was good before.
And the Faces didn't look
Like people any more.
It made you feel like Wrinkles
All over you; and Cold.
It made you feel two hundred
And eighty-nine years old.
It was like being Homesick,
And Hurt; when no one Cares.
It was exactly like a Wreck;
And people smiled like Bears.
I thought that my own Mother
Had just—Forgotten me!
I thought that God had lost me,
Like a Penny in the Sea.
The Noise all seemed to grow and grow
And roar until it drowned me.—
And I could only say,—'I'm Lost.'...
And then, at last,—they Found me,
—They Found me!
Polite Visitor
I
feel polite, outside the door;
But when it should begin,
I can't remember Not to ask
If just their Cat is in.
And if the Sun should sprinkle through
Along the floor that way,
I can't remember what I do
If I am Urged to Stay.
And when I've shaken hands all round,
—No matter how I try,
I can't remember Not to go
And Kiss their Dog good-by,
—Good-by,
—Good-by!
Yes, thank you, please.—They're Very Well;
—I think I'd better go.
Yes, thank you, please. I'm always late;
My Mother told me so.
Yes, thank you!—If I Have to Bring
A message,—yes, I'll come;
—And if your Bird will only Sing;
—And when your Cat is home.
The Mystic
P
eople say to me,
'A penny for your thought.'—
And I can't remember thinking;
And I should think I ought.
I wasn't sleeping, either:
I know that, because
I saw things out of both my eyes.
I wonder where I was.
Now I'm back, I see them
Sitting all around;
And the noise, together,
Makes a purring sound.
But I know Something More
Than just awhile ago.
I know Something More!—
I wonder what I know.
Market
I
went to Market yesterday,
And it is like a Fair
Of everything you'd like to see;
But nothing live is there:
—The Pigeons, hanging up to eat;
And Rabbits, by their little feet!—
And no one seemed to care.
And there were Fishes out in rows,
Bright ones of every kind;
Some were pink, and silver too;
But all of them were blind.
Yes, everything you'd like to touch.—
It would not make you happy much,
But no one seemed to mind.
And loveliest of all, a Deer!—
Only its eyes were blurred;
And hanging by it, very near,
A beautiful great Bird.
So I could smooth his feathers through,
And kiss them, very softly, too:
But Oh, he never stirred!
Little Side-Streets
W
hy are some streets so different?
The kittens all are long and thin;
I think they have more flowers there,
But broken things to grow them in.
Why do they like the house so high,
With such a little of the ground?
And do you think they ever see
The Moon before it's old and round?
Why won't I like to play there, too?—
With all the funny things to eat,
And all the carts with little bells,
And dancing-music in the street?
And if I can't, then why do they
Stay out, the whole of evening?—
Why do they always seem to have
Just Not-Enough of everything?
Why don't you come?—Why can't I go?
It isn't Fair!—What makes it so?—
If they don't like it? Don't you know?
Why do you always never know?
Chestnut Stands
I
wonder why you feel, somehow,
It's wrong to leave a Chestnut stand,
With all so much of what you want
In both your pockets and your hand.
I always have to turn around;—
It sounds so hurt—I don't see why—
That little high-up crying sound
I don't remember by and by.
There is not anything so good
As Chestnuts (when they're hot) can be.
It must be fun to count them out,
With One for You and One for Me;
And yet it stays so doleful there,
—For all the People going by,—
And breathing frosty on the air,
Like something trying not to cry.
—It Isn't something I was Told!—
I know it's small and scared and thin.—
It's like when both your hands are cold,
And Pockets you can't put them in!
—Like something happened long ago;
—Like feeling Homesick,—yes, and Shy;
Like being Sorry,—when you know
You won't remember, by and by.
The Play's the Thing
I
never dared to look away
While they were tuning so,
For fear the Curtain might go up,
—And I not see it go!—
Then all at once, it all went Dark;—
To make you hold your breath and hark,
—Oh, hold your breath and hark!
Excepting where the Curtain was,
It stayed as black as night;
And that kept still one minute more,
All edged across with light:—
Then Up—and Up—
And Oh, so soon,
It was like all Inside the Moon,
—Yes, sitting in the Moon!
And Oh, how Beautiful they were!—
And could we see them near?—
And Oh, how brave at everything!
But it was somehow queer
To see that smiling way they had:
They smiled so much, but not all glad;
—No, not so always glad.
I wish we couldn't go away;
I wish it would begin
All over, now, and never end;
I wish we were Locked In!
Oh, can't we see it all again?
To-morrow!—Sunday! Monday? When?
—Ah, when, when?
Windows
O
nce, and in the daytime too, I made myself afraid,
Playing Eyelids-Up-and-Down, with the window-shade;
Till the Houses seemed to watch People going by;
And they kept me looking, too,—wondering where and why.
If I were that Other Boy,—if I were those Men,
Going by with things to sell,—who would I be, then?
Windows with their eyebrows high; windows like a frown,
Thinking it all over, so, with the curtains down;
Tall ones that are somehow sad, narrow ones that blink,—
All the Windows you can see make you think, and think.
If I were that Old Man, and I looked up at me
Watching from the window here, Oh, then how would it be?
Sometimes they are golden, with shining in their eyes.—
Every time the sun sets, it happens like surprise,—
And so bright, I almost forget the dream I made;
But I keep it, for the days I want to make myself afraid.
If I were that Boy who limps,—now it's dark and snowing,
And if I were going home,—Oh, where would I be going?
The Masterpiece
M
y Mother cut it out for me,
And started it, so I could see;
And then she turned some edges in,
And let me take it to begin.
I made it. But I did not know
How very long it takes to sew.
I took a long time for that stitch;
And now it's there, I don't know which
Is better. But not one is small,
And they are not alike at all.
That side was very hard to fix.
And then, the needle always pricks:
But you must hold it, and take care,—
Because the point is always there;
And knots keep coming by and by;
And then, no matter how you try,
The thread comes out of its old eye!
But some way, now I have it done,—
I think it is a Pretty One.
The Masterpiece
THE MASTERPIECE
Ode on the Dog
I
M
y Pitch-dark Angel with a Rosy Tongue,
My Own—my Own,
Why can't the grown-up Things we live among
Let us alone?
Why do they have to talk the livelong day
About such silly things?
But if they must,—why can't they, anyway,
Have either Tails or Wings?
II
Of Course I cannot love them as they are,
As much as You.
Why aren't they ever really Beautiful,
—They too?—
With curly coats, like wool;
And floppy ears to pull;
Yes, and a wide pink mouth, with such a Smile!
Yes, and a Tail that beats time all the while;
Beautiful, Beautiful!—
And golden stars, for eyes,
Behind the darkest trees
(Till your hair's parted)!
Why can't they have such darling ways as these?—
Why can't they be so lovely when they sneeze?—
Why can't they ever be so tender-hearted,
Or even look so wise
As You?—
My Wonderful (even if you Won't say Mew),
My True Prince in Disguise!
Why can't they be
As funny, when they try to sing a song?
And when, for everything that I can do,
They Won't Agree,—
Why can't they think they're always in the wrong?
—Like You!
III
Why you,—O Precious Thing,
You are swift (almost) as any Sparrow.—
Over the tall grass how you arch and spring,
Yes, like a bow and arrow!—
Oh, and how good to see you, when it snows,
Plough a long, lovely pathway with your nose!
(No one grown-up could do it, I suppose.)
IV
My dearest Blessing and my Very Own,
Even when I am grown,
Never do you forsake me!
If you don't go to heaven when you die,
—Neither will I:
Nothing can ever make me!
I won't go,
For all that they can do.
No; on the steps Outside, and down, below,
Forever and ever and ever, I'll stay too!
—With You.
The Sorrows
I
f This is all it will be like,
I wish to Die;—I don't care how—
While I am very, very young;
As young as almost Now.
They never felt what Sorrow was;
Or never learned their Golden Rule;
They say, These are your happiest days,
—With School,—School,—School!
When Saturday's all out of breath
With all the week before in sight;—
And Monday coming after you
Spoils every Sunday night!
And Nothing done but yesterdays;
And Nothing coming but to-morrows!
Don't cheer me up. Please let me be.
—I have the Sorrows.
Secrets
