The Project Gutenberg eBook of Boys and Girls, by James W. Foley.

SOMEBODY shot our cat’s eye out,
An’ stole our gate an’ just about
Scared Aunt Sophia Jane to death
So’s she could hardly get her breath,
By puttin’ on some sheets, all white,
’At just gave her a turble fright,
An’ who on earth do you suppose
Put on them big, white ghostes’ clothes
An’ made that turble screechy noise?—
The neighbor’s boys!

An’ every night it’s dark, you know,
Somebody plays some tick-tack-toe
On folkeses’ windows what’s a-scared,
An’ just as if they never cared
If they get caught or not, an’ when
You’re gone to bed they come again
Until you’re just so nervous you
Don’t hardly know just what to do;
An’ who makes such a scary noise?
The neighbor’s boys.

An’ ’en somebody tears your clothes
An’ skins your face an’ hurts your nose
Until it bleeds, an’ then your Ma
Says ’at she never, never saw

SUCH heathen youngsters, an’ they come
An’ break your sled an’ pound your drum
Until it busts, an’ wont go ’way,
It ain’t no matter what you say,
An’ they’re the ones ’at break your toys—
The neighbor’s boys.

An’ my, it’s funny, ’cause, you know
You ain’t the only ones ’at’s so.
’Cause all the next door neighbors say
It seems e’zactly the same way,
An’ when their boys gets hurted so’s
It gives ’em turble bloody nose,
An’ some one shoots their cat’s eye out,
An’ plays tick-tack, they know about
Who does it an’ who makes the noise—
The neighbor’s boys!

A QUIET AFTERNOON

MY Mamma, she did go to call about an hour ago,
An’ said if I ain’t bad at all an’ stayed at home with Flo,
Which is the maid that cooks for us, she’d bring me something good,
But if I’m one bit misschefuss she didn’t think she would.

An’ my! I’m still, ’ist like a mouse. I never went outdoors,
But ’ist sat down, inside the house, an’ took her bureau drawers
An’ emptied ’em ’ist one by one, an’ w’en they’re emptied ’en
I ’ist looked through what’s there for fun an’ put ’em back again!

An’ ’en I found the nicest ink, an’ one of ’em was red,
An’ one was black an’ ’en I think I spilt some on the bed,
But my! I wiped it up, ’ist so, an’ sopped it with a quilt
So clean you wouldn’t hardly know it’s ever once been spilt.

Well, ’en I looked up on the shelf an’ found her scissors there
An’ got ’em down all by myself an’ cut off all my hair,
’Tuz I don’t think it’s nice for girls like me ’at’s almost through
First reader to wear such a curls like Mamma makes me do.

’En Flo gave me some bread and jam, ’tuz I ’ist cried and cried
’Ist tuz I’m hungry now, I am, an’ ’en I went inside,
An’ maybe I did let it lay around the room somewhere,
’Tuz Flo came in to watch me play and squoshed it on a chair.

An’ after while I wish my Ma would ’ist come back, she would,
’Tuz my, I’m gettin’ drefful tired of simply bein’ good.
My eyes, ’ey’re ’ist so full of sand an’ heavy, ’ist like lead,
Oh-oh! I dess it’s Sleepyland! I dess I’ll go to bed!

THE OWNERLESS TOYS

OUR Uncle Bill’s attic is half full of toys,
With some that are almost brand-new;
He’s got things up there for most all kinds of boys
From ten years old clear down to two.
And one day he gave me some books from up there
Like boys had a long time ago;
And I asked if the boy they belong to would care,
But he just sort of smiled and said no.

Sometimes we would go in his attic to play
And find such a lot of fine things,
A whole lot of picture books all piled away
And tops that were wound up with strings.
And Uncle Bill told us to use what was there
Just as if it was ours, and we’d go,
But we’d ask if the boy they belong to would care,
And he just sort of smiled and said no.

And my! There were sleds with their runners all rust,
And five or six good pairs of skates,
Some old-fashioned toys that were covered with dust,
And fishlines and schoolbooks and slates,
Which Uncle Bill told us we fellows might share,
But always put back when we go;
And we thought that the boy they belong to might care,
But he just sort of smiled and said no.

And the boy they belong to, I guess, was away.
At least, we all thought he must be;
For all through the house they could hear us at play,
But he never came up there to see.
And we would pile everything back up with care
And ask Uncle Bill when we’d go
If the boy they belong to would know we’d been there,
But he just sort of smiled and said no.

Our Uncle Bill’s attic is half full of toys,
Some old ones and some almost new;
He’s got things up there for most all kinds of boys
From ten years old clear down to two.
And often when we boys go up there to play
We ask Uncle Bill when we go
If the boy they belong to will be back that day,
And he smiles sort of sad and says no.

THE STRANGER

SERIOUS-minded little maid,
Wondering and half afraid,
Half inclined to speak with me,
Half disposed to let me be;
Hesitating yet, and shy,
Half a twinkle in your eye,
Half in doubt and half in fear,
Staying neither far nor near.

How I wonder what you see
With those eyes that question me;
What the instinct bids you know
If I may be friend or foe;
Fawnlike, full of grace and sweet,
Ready with fast-flying feet
In the orchard’s deepest shade
To find cover, little maid.

Grave and curious little lass,
Like a wild bird in the grass,
Still intently watching me,
With your wings half spread, to see
If my smile bodes good or ill,
Willing to make friends and still
Undecided if to stay
Here and near or fly away.

Serious-minded little maid,
When, with smiles and unafraid,
O’er the lawn you come to me,
Stranger to you though I be,
When your curious eyes have tried
Soul with mine and, satisfied,
Looked still into mine and smiled,
Blessed am I, little child.

Blessed am I to be just
Worthy of your childish trust,
More than conqueror of kings
When the wild bird of your wings
Bids you fly not forth but see
Something tender, kind, in me;
Oh, the gladness you have laid
At my heart’s gate, little maid!

IN VACATION TIME

THERE’S a hole in his hat with the hair sticking through,
And a toe that peeps out from a hole in his shoe;
There’s a patch in his trousers, a darn in his hose,
And a freckle that tilts on the bridge of his nose;
But oh, in his heart there’s the glimmer and shine
Of a sun that I wish could be shining in mine.

There’s a smudge on his face that is dusty and dark,
But a song in his heart like the song of a lark;
There’s a rent in his coat where the lining shows through,
But the whistle he tunes to the wild bird is true;
And, oh, in his heart, with a sparkle like wine,
Is a gladness I wish could be sparkling in mine.

There’s an imp in his hair that may keep it awry,
But a twinkle so rare in the blue of his eye;
There’s an uneven slant of his trousers, made fast
With a nail through their tops, for a button won’t last;
But deep in his heart lies a spring cool and fine
Of good cheer that I wish could be bubbling in mine.

There’s a tan on his cheek where the flush of health glows,
And the skin has all peeled from the tip of his nose;
His pockets are bulged with tops, marbles and strings,
With jack-knives and other uncountable things;
But the brooks and the woods bring a music divine
To his ears that I wish they were bringing to mine.

BEREAVED

GUESS he must be awful old; we had him years and years,
And he’s so old the ends were worn all off of both his ears.
He couldn’t hardly eat, because his teeth were all worn out,
And all his legs got stiff, so he could hardly drag about.
One day he lay down by the house, right near the cellar door,
And gasped and gasped for breath, until he couldn’t any more;
So I went out and patted him, and when he heard me call
He looked at me and wagged his tail, which died the last of all.

My! he was black and curly once, when he was new and young,
And he would open up his mouth at us and curl his tongue,
Just like he laughed, and play with us; and he would go into
The creek, and bring our hats to us, or anything we threw.
In winter we would hitch him up, and he would haul our sled,
And walk or trot or run with it, or anything we said;
So when he wagged his tail at me I laid him right beside
The cellar door, and then I went behind the barn and cried.

He was a friend of all the boys, and when they came to play
He’d wag his tail and bark and look at them the smartest way;
And he’d pretend to bite at them and nip their pants, but he
Would never bite, ’cause he was just as kind as he could be.
And Henry Watson looked at him beside the cellar door,
And said, “He’ll never haul us boys on our sled any more.”
He turned his ears back straight and nice; he liked him awful well;
Because he had tears in his eyes, and then a big one fell.

So after while we got a spade, and Billy Gibson came,
And Tommy Dean and Eddie Brink, and they all felt the same.
We dug some turf up in the yard, right underneath a tree,
And laid him in and left him there, all covered carefully;
It was an awful solemn day for all of us, for though
He’d got worn out and couldn’t eat, we boys all liked him so;
And Eddie Brink, he didn’t think the Lord would really care
If we boys sang a hymn for him and said a little prayer.

My! it was awful sad that day! And Tommy said he thought
We wouldn’t play that afternoon, because he’d rather not.
And Mamma made some nice ice-cream, which cheered us up, but when
We wanted her to eat she said she couldn’t eat just then.
And Amy Robbins heard of it, and brought some leaves and flowers
To scatter over him, because he was a friend of ours;
And I told her I patted him, and when he heard me call
He looked at me and wagged his tail, which died the last of all.

TWO LITTLE MAIDS

LITTLE Miss Nothing-to-do
Is fretful and cross and so blue,
And the light in her eyes
Is all dim when she cries
And her friends, they are few, Oh, so few!
Her dolls, they are nothing but sawdust and clothes,
Whenever she wants to go skating it snows,
And everything’s criss-cross, the world is askew!
I wouldn’t be Little Miss Nothing-to-do
Now, true,
I wouldn’t be Little Miss Nothing-to-do
Would you?

Little Miss Busy-all-day
Is cheerful and happy and gay
And she isn’t a shirk
For she smiles at her work
And she romps when it comes time for play.
Her dolls, they are princesses, blue-eyed and fair,
She makes them a throne from a rickety chair,
And everything happens the jolliest way,
I’d rather be Little Miss Busy-all-day,
Hurray,
I’d rather be Little Miss Busy-all-day,
I say.

A NEW CHRISTMAS CAROL

COME, children, I’ll tell you a wonderful tale,
I learned it one night in a dream;
The snow lay all white and the full moon shone pale,
The housetops about were agleam;
I’d fallen asleep in my big easy chair,
I heard a gruff voice in my ear,
I knew that Saint Nicholas surely was there
And listened to see what I’d hear.

“Come, follow with me,” were the first words he said,
“I’m off for my Palace of Snow;
I’ve emptied my pack of each doll, toy and sled,
It’s time for old Santa to go.
But, Oh, I’ve a treat waiting for me tonight,
I’ve planned it for years in my mind;
Come, follow with me, while the moon is still bright”—
I rose and we sped like the wind.

We flew like a flash to the Palace of Snow,
By hilltop and valley and plain,
Nor ever I will be permitted, I know,
To make such a journey again;
And there in the warmest and cosiest nook
He bade me sit down while he dressed
In robes of rich scarlet and said to me: “Look!
Here come the Child Hosts of the Blest.”

A flash of his eye and my wonderment grew,
A word and a wave of his rod,
Forth came Orphan Annie and Little Boy Blue,
And Wynken and Blynken and Nod.
With Alice from Wonderland, blue-eyed and fair,
Tom Tucker—Jack Horner with him,
And Oh, at the last, can you guess who was there?—
Poor Topsy and Dear Tiny Tim!

He spread out his arms and they passed one by one,
Each laden with treasures and toys,
And never or ever a night of such fun
Was passed by such girls and such boys;
Nor ever will Annie be orphan with him,
He told me, and Little Boy Blue
Came back from the shadows all misty and dim,
So glad that the toy dog was true.

And always and always he’ll keep them with him,
He told me, through all of the years,
Poor Topsy and Alice and Dear Tiny Tim,
And Topsy will know no more tears.
But tales of them all he will bring Christmas night,
The brightest and sweetest and best,
That our boys and girls may know joy and delight
From Santa’s Child Hosts of the Blest!

THE RECONCILIATION OF PA

MY Pa, he’s disappointed tuz I ain’t a boy. ’At is
He ain’t now but he used to was. He likes me tuz I’m his
An’ buys me lots of toys an’ things; but w’en I first begun
Ma said he’s awful fond of boys an’ ’ist wished I was one.
But now he don’t care any more, tuz I’m growed up so nice
He likes me better ’n before, an’ there ain’t any price
’At you could offer him for me an’ he would take it, tuz
I’m so much nicer, don’t you see, ’an my Pa thought I was.

W’en I’m come first my Mamma said ’at he ’ud ruther I
’Ud been a boy the stork ’ud brought; she says she don’t see w’y,
Tuz she ’ist thinks ’at little girls are awful nice, an’ w’en
You wash ’eir face an’ brush ’eir turls, ’ey’re nicer ’n ever ’en.
But he is disappointed tuz at first he didn’t know
How rilly truly nice I was; but w’en I came to grow
He wouldn’t take the world for me, so he told Ma, ’ist tuz
I’m so much nicer, don’t you see, ’an my Pa thought I was.

An’ my Ma says ’at if I grow up ’ist so nice an’ sweet
As I am now, my Pa ’ll know ’at stork was hard to beat;
An’ he won’t never wish again ’at I’m a boy, ’ist tuz
He’ll know how sweet I am, an’ ’en he’s glad I’m w’at I was;
Tuz boys are awful nice at first, ’at is, you think they are,
An’ w’en they’re big they’re ’ist the worst! An’ girls is better far,
An’ Ma says if you want ’em sweet, ’ist sweet as sweet can be,
You’ll find it awful hard to beat a little girl like me.

A WORLD WITHOUT CARE

THERE’S a song that is sweet
And a whistle that’s clear;
There’s a dog at his feet
And another one near;
There’s a fish in the brook
And a line that is whirled,
There’s a worm on a hook—
All is well with the world.

There’s a rock that has slipped
From the bank to the brink,
There’s a hat that is dipped
In the brook for a drink;
There’s a line that is cast
Where an eddy is swirled,
There’s a fat perch caught fast—
All is well with the world.

There’s a heartful of joy
And a handful of fish,
There’s a satisfied boy
Glad as gladness could wish;
There are leaves green and cool
Where the fat perch is curled,
There are more in the pool—
All is well with the world.

There’s an angler come home
At the close of the day,
There’s a chirp in the gloam
Of a whistle so gay,
There’s a monster near-caught
Where the foam danced and curled,
There’s a meal piping hot—
All is well with the world.

RIGHT AFTER SCHOOL

I KNOW where’s the happiest Kingdom in all of the world I have seen,
No bigger than Grandfather’s orchard, and all of it’s grassy and green,
It has but a few dozen people, the happiest youngsters alive,
’Tis ruled by a Princess of seven, and one little soldier of five;
There’s one little crown made of daisies and one little sword made of tin,
And one little drum that goes rolling betimes with a terrible din;
You’d think that a war was beginning by all of the noise that is made,
When, really, it’s only the army declaring itself on parade.

In all of the bounds of the Kingdom there isn’t a book or a chore;
The reign of the Princess begins when the schoolday is over at four;
Her castle with turrets and towers is right near a big apple tree.
It isn’t a visible castle, but if you were there you could see;
And if you should chance to be looking that way when the proud Princess comes,
You’d see a bold soldier go marching and hear a fierce rattle of drums,
You’d see loyal subjects and happy, with no thought of table or rule,
You’d want to belong to the Kingdom—the Kingdom of Right-After-School!

It’s really a well-behaved people—they put by their slates and their books
And have little use for an army except as a matter of looks;
But nobody dares say addition, division, subtraction—if you
Should mention a one of these subjects the tin sword would run you right through!
But you can say swinging or jumping or follow-my-leader, nor fear
You break any law of the country—and if from your window you hear
A chorus of voices or laughter, when evening grows twilit and cool,
You’ll know ’tis the music they make in the Kingdom of Right-After-School!

There’s not a sad heart in the Kingdom, nor ever or ever a tear,
And all of the sorrows of schooldays are lost or forgotten in here;
The make-believe fairies go singing with songs that are wondrously sweet;
The green turf is flecked with white dresses and patters with fast-flying feet;
It’s just between School’s-Out and Teatime—an hour or so of the day,
And often I see them there crowning with daisies the Princess of Play;
Then some one calls: “Supper-time, children!”—when evening grows twilit and cool.
It fades from my sight till tomorrow—the Kingdom of Right-After-School!

A PLEA FOR OLD FRIENDS

I WAS fond, indeed, of Paul Revere,
In the days of my earlier age,
And the picture of him stands out clear
From the old school reader page;
And I’ve seen the light in the belfry tower,
I’ve heard the hoof beats, too,
But, alas! alas! in an evil hour,
They say it’s all untrue!

And Barbara Frietchie—all these years,
From guileless boyhood down,
I’ve seen the flag and heard the cheers
In far off Fredericktown;
And I’ve seen Jackson lift his hat
And bid his troops march on,
But now, alas! they tell me that
Is a dreamer’s tale, and gone!

And oft at night, as though ’t were real,
I’ve heard the flame’s wild roar,
I’ve seen Jim Bludso hold the wheel
Till the last galoot’s ashore;
I thought the better of men for it,
And of duty to die or do,
But some wise men, of little wit,
Say none of the tale is true.

Oh, leave me the ride of Paul Revere
And the story of Fredericktown!
The nozzle agin’ th’ bank—so clear
From guileless boyhood down!
Leave me the curfew that was not rung,
Leave them for me and you;
And let more songs like these be sung,
Though none of the tales be true!

THE BOYVILLE CADETS

HARK! What is that clatter and patter of feet?
The Boyville Cadets are half-way up the street!
They march two by two, a most bloodthirsty horde,
Led by Captain Tom Jones, with a big wooden sword.
They’re mostly barelegged and coatless and brown,
A make-believe army from all parts of town,
With guns on their shoulders all whittled from lath,
And woe to the foeman who crosses their path.

Bob Brown has a fife and Bill Blake has a drum.
See now in what martial procession they come;
Jim Dobbs waves the flag with victorious flirt,
A long willow pole with a red woolen shirt.
And Corporal Brownlegs, he squints down the line:
“Attention! Right shoulder! Guide right!” Oh, it’s fine
To know you’ve no troubles, no worries, no debts,
And march down the street with the Boyville Cadets!

Now Sergeant Big Freckles cries, “Hep! Hep!” and “Hep!”
To see that the army keeps right perfect step.
And General Red Hair reins up with great force,
To shout some command from his make-believe horse.
Then Captain Tom Jones gives a formal salute,
And rests his big sword on the toe of his boot,
For woe to the foe that harasses or frets
The solid platoon of the Boyville Cadets!

Then Corporal Barefoot is ordered to scout
For bloodthirsty redskins, and look all about.
They march, single file, through the thick-growing trees,
For favorite haunts of the red men are these.
Far off in the woods, is an ear-splitting shout.
Alas! ’Tis the death-cry of Barefoot, the scout!
And now all the air rings with war-whoops and cries;
Bang! bang! go the laths, and the red savage dies!

A hand-to-hand fight, and the battle is done;
In the orchard the redskins lie dead, every one.
But, oh, woe is me! For all gory and red
Lies Barefoot, the scout, by the red men struck dead!
The Boyville Cadets lift him out of the dirt;
They wrap him about with the old woolen shirt;
And then, with drums muffled and heads sadly bowed,
They bear him back home, with the flag for a shroud.

Then General Red Hair, in orders, gives thanks
To all of his soldiers, and bids them break ranks.
For out of the distance he hears a shrill call:
“Tom! Joe! Bill! Jim! Children! Why, where are you all?”
Then Barefoot, the scout, to his life is restored,
And Captain Tom Jones hides his big wooden sword;
For there’s wood to be split and there’s water to get
In the dull private life of the Boyville Cadet.

A LITTLE BOY I KNOW

A LITTLE boy I used to know, from whom I’ve been away,
Oh, very many years, took me upon a trip today.
It seemed so ood to be with him, and he was glad to be
Companion, guide, and friend until the journey’s end with me.
I quite forgot my cares with him, nor could I well be sad,
As long as he was at my side, for he was blithe and glad,
And oh, the merry songs he sang, the tunes he whistled clear
That I had half forgotten till he sang and whistled here!

By many a winding stream we went, and many a limpid brook,
Where oft he bade me stop and cast a line and fishing hook
Until we drew a struggling fish from out some eddy deep,
And once upon the bank we lay and both fell fast asleep.
By clover meadows sweet we strayed, where cow bells tinkled far,
Deep in the woods where hollow logs and darting squirrels are,
And here and there he bade me stop till he would climb a tree
To shake a limb and rattle down some nuts for him and me.

Down many a shady lane we walked, through some familiar land,
Where dreams of faces long forgot arose on every hand;
We saw a cottage by the road, and in the kitchen door
A woman with the sweetest face—a glimpse and nothing more.
And as she vanished from our sight I saw the teardrops shine
In both his eyes, and I could feel the tears well up in mine;
He plucked his shabby sleeve to brush the teardrops from his eye
And whispered, “I saw Mother there!” and I said, “So did I!”

And there were spreading apple trees where oft he bade me lie
Upon the grass and watch the clouds that swept across the sky.
He lent me many a dream to dream—of fame and love and truth,
Such dreams as Fancy stores within the Treasureheart of Youth!
Ofttimes we found a sparkling spring and lay upon the brink
Our lips laved with its bubbling stream, to drink and drink and drink;
And oh, the joys we two renewed, and oh, the hum of bees,
The songs of birds, the violets and treasures such as these!

A little boy I used to know, a lad of nine or ten,
Took me a journey glad today—I hope he’ll come again
To take my hand and walk with me where golden sunshine gleams,
To lead me by familiar ways and lend me all his dreams!
To keep me near the hopes we had, to whistle merry tunes,
To find me dawns like those we knew and sunny afternoons;
A little boy his Mother loved!—a lad of nine or ten;
Perhaps you’ve known and walked with him—I hope he comes again!

ASLEEP AT THE CIRCUS

NOW the last roasted peanut is swallowed,
The last clown has gone on parade;
The last sugared popcorn been followed
By sips of the last lemonade.
His eyes, once so big, that shone brightly
Through all of the glad afternoon,
Are shut, and his fingers close tightly
And cling to his gaudy balloon.

The last acrobat’s been applauded,
And shuffled his way from the mat;
The last bareback rider’s been lauded;
The clown, with his sugar-loaf hat,
Has gone with his powder and spangles;
The diver has made his last leap;
And here in my arms are brown tangles
Of curls, and a boy fast asleep.

One sticky hand rests on my shoulder,
One holds fast the gaudy balloon,
That shrinks, and before it’s much older
Will fade like the glad afternoon.
His dreams, it may be, of the maddest
Of somersaults, recklessly hurled;
The tiredest, sleepiest, gladdest
And stickiest lad in the world!

And oh, but the spangles were splendid!
And oh, but the music was grand!
The side-splitting clown laughter blended
With soul-stirring airs by the band,
Till naught of the glad marvel lingers
Save what in his dreams he may keep,
As he clasps his balloon with close fingers
And rests in my arms, fast asleep.

And so from these joys without number,
Ere aught of the glitter was gone,
He went to his dream-laden slumber,
Where on plays the music, and on.
For him all the revel is maddest,
For him not a flag has been furled,
The tiredest, sleepiest, gladdest
And stickiest lad in the world!

THE BARRIERS

SCRUB out his freckles, ’twas Nature who gave ’em;
Silence his whistle and comb out his hair,
Muffle his footsteps, for People—Lord save ’em em—
Want something noiseless and soulless and fair;
Bleach out the spots where the Summer sun kissed him,
Still all the tunes and the bird calls he knew,
Then, when he’s boy no more, who could resist him?
Sun and the Wind, here’s a lesson for you.

Sun and the Wind and the freshness of showers,
How could you tempt him to revel and roam
Past the long hedges and through the wild flowers?
Did you not know it would cost him a home?
Did you not know when the gay bluebird glistened
Up on the bough and with wonder he rose,
Rose with his heart beating glad, as he listened,
Did you not know it would freckle his nose?

Hide your heads, Daisies, that wave over yonder,
Gleam in the sunlight and dance by the creek,
You bade him leave the pale shadow and wander—
Did you not know he might freckle his cheek?
You, too, the larks through the green meadows winging,
Did you not tempt him with glad song and free?
Why did you not let him learn through your singing
He would be outcast through following thee?

Heartless blackberries, you led him from shelter;
Nuts, without shame, you did bid him to climb;
Butterflies bright, that he chased helter-skelter,
Have you no shame for the depths of your crime?
What if the heart of him beats but the truer,
What if the soul of him still sweeter grows,
What if the eyes of him sparkle the truer,
Do you not see you have freckled his nose?

Scrub out the freckles—oh, well, doesn’t matter;
Maybe they’ll wash out with plentiful tears;
Muffle his footsteps, that no boyish patter
Rise to offend supersensitive ears;
Bid him not whistle the songs the fields taught him,
Let him be pale, still, anaemic, and thin,
Teach him and bleach him, and when you have got him
Thoroughly colorless, let him come in!