Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text.

(etext transcriber's note)

PETUNIA BLOSSOMS

————

Ballads and Poems

BY

DOROTHEA AUGUSTE GUNHILDE

WIFE OF

WILLIAM F. SCHRAGE

To
My Beloved Husband,
W i l l i a m F. S c h r a g e
to whom I dedicate
this book.

Petunia Blossoms	7
A Tribute to Thirty-Second St.	9
You Greenhorn	11
Baby	13
Jack’s Christmas	14
Is Marriage a Failure	16
A Big Red Apple	19
Little Mischiefs	21
Christmas in Norway	23
Our Flag	26
Love is a Blossom	28
The Three Bears	30
Christmas Eve	32
Young Innocence	33
Good-By, Daddy	35
The Bird of Paradise	36
My Faithful Shoes	38
Not Big Like Me	41
A Fair Young Bride	43
Two Little Red Birds	44
Coming Home	46
Colorado	47
Mrs. O’Day	48
In Memoriam	49
Divorced	50
Mother	54
Ascension Day	56
Your Star	59
A Moth	60
Lonely	61
Playtime	62
My Lillian	63
Swope Park	64
A Letter to a Friend	66
Sweet Sixteen	67
A Soldier’s Son	68
An Old Clock	69
A Wedding Anniversary	71
Sing	72
Kindness	73
Roses	74
There Is a Time	75
Rural Baptizing Years Ago	77
Leaving the Old Home	80

Petunia Blossoms.

Oh, beautiful petunias, how lovely you grow,
Some purple, some crimson and some white as snow;
Your colors are like the rainbow bending o’er,
And your scent comes into my windows and door.

Your seeds were so tiny, I scarce could conceive,
When you came up profusely, one can hardly believe
That blossoms like these, such wee little mites
Could produce in my garden such wonderful sights.

When once you are planted when Spring comes around,
Multiplied by hundreds you’d peep through the ground;
Awaiting the heat, the Sun and the rain
In the sweet early summer to grow lovely again.

You come every year, you make my heart glad
With such beautiful blossoms, how can I be sad?
The humming bird loves you, they come every day
And drink of your nectar, so softly and gay.

Even the bee gets much of his sweetness from you
In the early morning—your petals with dew,
And hover around you; your blossoms they love,
As you hold up your faces to Heaven above.

The Autumn is coming, with its wind and cold;
Again down to earth will you enfold,
That in the Spring your strength may return;
For you, lovely petunias, my heart will still yearn.

A Tribute to Thirty-Second Street.

Just south of the heart of this Great Midwest Town,
Is the dearest little street I ever have known;
The homes are kept up with pride and care,
And the lawns with beautiful flowers rare;
Years have been many for some of us here,
On this little street that we all hold so dear.

Our children were wee things when we came out here,
But now all is changed; some are gone, some are near;
But our children’s children have come to bless;
It’s a gift from Heaven—such love to possess;
Were our children so sweet, so glad and so merry,
With cheeks like rose buds, and lips like the cherry.

The trees were but saplings, when we came out here,
From the Sun have protected us many a year,
And have grown up so high their branches meet,
And form a cathedral nave over the street;
And the birds in the mornings, their anthems to heav’n raise,
’Til you would think their throats would burst in their praise.

This little street lies between Main and McGee,
Out on Thirty-second. Do come, and see.
If I say that I love you, believe me, it’s true,
And so do the neighbors think a great deal of you.
When I have been away and return, then I see
You’re like an old sweetheart welcoming me.

You Greenhorn.

Vacation is over, school opens today;
Pleasures are laid aside, no time for play;
But your happy children, who the language know,
It makes it much easier to school to go.

When I was a child in the first primer class,
I knew not the language—was a shy little lass;
For we had only a few months before
Arrived in this country from cold Bergen’s shore.

I remember so well, the first day my ma took me
To school; how I trembled and blushed I still see.
The sweet lady teacher took me by the hand,
And said in a short time I would understand.

She patted my cheek; oh, how happy was I
To have found a friend—I wanted to cry
For happiness, only the world seemed so cold,
Although I was less than seven years old.

A boy of my own age, across the aisle,
Ev’ry now and then would look at me and smile;
Then after school, he came to my side;
“You Greenhorn; you Greenhorn,” loudly he cried.

I ran home like a deer—for I felt such shame,
This, the first day in school, and be called a bad name.
I tip-toed quietly and whispered in mother’s ear,
For I didn’t want little sister such naughty words to hear.

But after this day, I had never a fear,
For she said little fairies are always near
To protect little children from danger they keep,
Even at night when they are asleep.

Baby.

I’m just a little baby, I pray you let me sleep;
Please let me have my own way, for I don’t want to weep.
I love to lay and stretch, of Heav’n I love to think,
That sunny home I came from; just one more little wink.

Don’t take me in your arms, and keep on rocking me;
That I should be a good child, no reason I can see;
Don’t sing so loud, my pink ears are tender little things,
But like a little goldfinch a-flopping of its wings.

Don’t kiss me on my lips, do kiss me on my hair;
And, if you’ll turn my head around you’ll find a bald spot there;
And when folks come to call, then please don’t dress me up
In that long white dress, that’s starched from the bottom up to the top.

And use a soft cloth on my face;
It need not be of finest lace.
And don’t come near my nose or eyes,
Dat’s why little folks like me cries;
But lay me tenderly in my crib to rest,
To grow, and coo—I love that best.

Jack’s Christmas.

Santa is coming, now Jack, go to bed;
It’s freezing outdoors, so cover your head.
The wind is howling, the ground is all white,
’Twill be a real Christmas, it may snow all night.
Poor Santa will come, with a bound and a hop,
For he has great stores in his big Christmas shop.
He has rocking horses, balls and tops galore;
The better the boy, so much the more
Will he get, for Santa loves good boys—none that are bad.

Dear mamma, I fink I’ve been a good boy,
Yes, precious, you are your mother’s great joy;
So now go to sleep, my darling, my Jack,
I just heard a noise; oh, Santa, go back,
And come in the morning, for sleep he needs more
Than all the fine toys in Santa’s great store;
And she tells of the Christ Child, so humble, so sweet,
That was born in a manger, Hail Thee, we greet.

In the morning, Jack woke up and rubbed his blue eyes;
I fink this is surely a great big surprise,
I never ’spected a tree, with lights red and blue,
A sled and some mittens, nuts, and candy, too;
I dest love old Santa; but I dreamed I had found
A dear little playmate, wif cheeks red and round,
All bundled up in your old blue shawl,
Without any hair, dest like a big doll;
Wish I could see Santa; oh, please, call him back,
And say he forgot a playmate for Jack.

Is Marriage a Failure?

Marriage is a problem, at least, so I have heard,
I hope you’ll kindly listen, for I, too, have a word;
But it was God’s own making; He ne’er can do a wrong;
He deals with us so gently, we know not He is among
Us when we are merely thinking; His Hand is not far away
To guide us to His wishes; though all seems bright as day.

Before you take the leap, think carefully and well;
Don’t be in any hurry, it may mean quite a spell.
Then, if you think a partner would to your blessings add,
A home and little children to love and to make glad;
Then make your resolutions, to stand while life shall last,
’Tis but human to err, forgive all that is past.

Though times be turbulent at first, forget it with a smile,
And say softly to yourself, ’twill be better after while;
Should either of you argue about a pretty face
At home, all sanctified with love, is wholly out of place.
What care I if the Sun is gray or blue or red,
All desires for argument, for love of you has fled.

If you are not blest with worldly goods, you may be blest with health,
For this I deem far greater than all your pompous wealth.
Your home should be your palace, if it be great or small,
And have sweet flowers blooming in the spring and in the fall;
A little trelliced nook, with creeping vines around,
Where the heart is ever glad to come, and where true love is found.

A man loves his home, a smile his path to cheer,
A few sweet spoken words, how easy and how clear;
And little arms a-twining around his great big heart,
To kiss and caress him—this is your happy part.
To love and to be loved, what greater happiness is there,
And all these will be yours, if you’ll see it right and square.

The days of bleak December, with its hoary white and gray,
A blessed little grandchild, do come with me and play;
To you the name of mother is given from above,
With little arms a-twining, sweet innocents of love.
No, marriage is not a failure. I’m simply here to prove
A home so full of sweetness is sanctified by love.

But it was God’s own making, He ne’er has done a wrong,
He deals with us so gently, we know not He is among
Us when we’re merely thinking, His hand is not far away
To guide us to His wishes though all is bright as day.

A Big Red Apple.

There is a great big apple in the top of the tree;
Oh, do come down and be sweet to me;
You have hung there so long, and have tempted my taste
And hope that the birds won’t come near you to waste.

When you were aglow with your blossom so white,
I could see from my window in the dead of the night;
The rose blush began, when snow lay around,
And was mixed with your petals all over the ground.

Your tree is so full, but none seems more fair,
Than this one that swings in the morning’s pure air;
I have touched the ones I could reach with my arm,
And fear for the storm that is coming to harm.

So come down, my love, your cheeks are so red;
It’s you that I want, none other instead;
Come to your sweetheart—I’ll wipe off the dust;
Fall down in my lap, for have you I must.

I believe you are flirting, so high in the air,
The humming bird and butterfly can fly ’round you there.
I don’t want to harm you; believe, me, I could;
I can shake you, and make you, if only I would.

One day shortly after, I saw on the ground
The apple I had worshipped, with others around;
But none was more fair to my mind, I knew,
And none was more rosy and sweeter than you.

Little Mischiefs.

Grandpa’s darlings see him coming
Up the hill, they come a running,
Till at length they stop to rest;
Then he thinks how he is blest.
Wholesome love such kisses sweet,
What care they whom they may meet,
For doesn’t grandpa always bring
His pockets full of some good thing?

And a story he can tell,
Of the pussy cat that fell in the well,
And of the children that were lost in the wood,
That ran from their home and never were good.
He can tell of the apple tree that grew so tall,
Laden with fruit, that leaned on the wall;
Then of the circus, oh, happy we,
For we are sure we will everything see.

And many more things, I tell you, ’tis so—
For he knows more’n anybody, and ’ats true.
I fink I’ll marry grandpa, he pleases me so fine.
The best ain’t ever good enough for me to dine.
Our own way we can have, when he comes to stay
To look after us and spend the day.

If our toys lay around on our very best floor,
And we pin pictures up on the walls and the door;
The noise that we make—we jump up and down,
On our beautiful sofa, in our parlor of brown.
He didn’t say one teentsy bit a word,
For he had a nap, and never has heard.
He looks for his glasses—they are on his nose;
Now this is a fine time for me to propose.
But mother came home, not one word did she say,
Except, you have had a good time today.

When grandpa was gone, we could see by her looks,
Something that’s not often written in books.
We got scared as could be—we hustled around,
To put things back in the place we had found;
Now, mammy, don’t please say one word to dad,
For this was the best day we ever have had;
We wish you’d have grandpa come every day,
Never to leave us, but come here to stay.
We love you and daddy as much as we can,
But we also love grandpa, he’s such a fine man.

Christmas in Norway.

Good Shepherd, I pray Thee, let Santa come
And bring us the things we have asked for so long;
There’s Gerald needs shoes, his old ones are too bad,
And an overcoat, a warm one, for the very best dad;
There’s Peer, need’s a cap, to keep out the cold,
We have looked at one longingly—but it was sold.
And a big bisque doll, for our golden haired sister;
Now please don’t forget us, I pray you, Kind Mister,
And don’t forget mother; now what does she need;
It seems to take all dad can make, us to feed,
To keep out the cold, the snow is so deep;
Amen, Kind Shepherd, I lay me to sleep.

Santa (Yulenissen) had heard the prayers that he said;
At six Christmas Eve great bundles on the sofa were spread,
First the feasting begins, on roast goose and almond rice,
Even those not as fortunate have everything nice.
Then the candles are lit on the pine tree so bright;
It is indeed a most beautiful sight,
Everyone joins hands and dance ’round the tree,
Singing old songs and laughing—such glee.
Then when the colored lights are burning low
The gifts are distributed with many an Oh!

Gifts were substantial, for fathers and mothers,
And more than they prayed for these little brothers,
Some skis and some skates, three pairs of glad eyes,
So full of happiness and full of surprise,
And a golden haired doll, with soft eyes of blue,
Its new little mother lisped, prayers do come true.

This was Christmas Eve in Norway, not a great while ago;
The land of glaciers, ice and snow;
Where reindeers pull Santa over mountains high.
Click, click through the ice covered fjords they fly,
To visit the homes of the Norsemen, so hardy.
They understand, not one minute tardy,

In furs he is wrapped, from his head to his feet,
To protect him from cold, the sharp wind and the sleet.
Sometimes folks ask Santa to come in and dine,
A warm bowl of soup, or some red sparkling wine.

The peasants he visits; there is rarely a year
That he ever misses these children so dear.
He loves them because they are human and kind,
And a more honest people, he knows, hard to find;
The unfortunate are the ones he always loves best,
For the rich, he knows, are already blest.

Should a tourist over the great mountains get lost,
The Norseman is always a genial host;
The great yulelog in the neat fireplace,
Is lighting the bonde’s red, rugged face;
He is rubbing his hands, how cold the weather,
It is time we must go to kirke together;
The bell in the church tower, over the hill,
Is ringing, Peace on Earth, to men good will,
Good Will,
Good Will.

Our Flag.

Father in heaven above,
We offer prayers and love,
For this great land;
Help us to understand
Thy will on ev’ry hand,
This grand and beauteous land
We love so well.

Our banners float on high,
Far in the eastern sky,
Far in the west;
We thank thee for our clime,
Lovely and grand, sublime;
For men of olden time,
Peaceful at rest.

Red, white and blue, my pride,
Furl it on every side;
My love for thee
Stand for the right always,
Stand for the truth, we say;
Honored and blessed, we pray,
Lov’d blessed land.

Our valleys and our hills,
Our land with products fills
Our grateful hearts;
Long may this love abide
With us from side to side.
Red, white and blue, my pride
God bless our land.

Love Is a Blossom.

Love is a blossom that blooms in the heart;
The least little jar, it may fall apart.

This blossom is blue, like the heavens above,
Truly the world is full of love.

One naughty word the heart doth sear,
These are the things that one should fear.

Blossom and glow and bloom and bloom,
The time may come—the years of gloom.

Mother love can never die,
Her love has little wings that fly.

The sun by day, the moon by night,
God has created love and light.

And heat and cold, gentle rains and snow,
That blades of green again may grow.

Be glad for the day, dear heart of mine,
And the hands that clasp, and eyes that shine.

There is love in the heart for the birds that fly,
And even a leaf that falls down to die.

So keep your heart blooming full of love
In thankfulness, to heaven above.

The dear forget-me-not, modest and blue,
Is the flower that blooms in my heart for you.

The Three Bears.

I’ll tell you a story, children dear,
Of father and mother and baby bear;
They lived on a hill, in the hollow of a tree,
And were as happy as three could well be.

It was autumn, in beautiful October time,
When nuts and persimmons were in their prime;
The leaves were falling—how well they could hear,
If wicked hunters should happen near.

One day the baby bear was left alone,
Asleep in his bed, on leaves of brown;
In his little nest, so cozy and warm,
Dreaming of birds that could never harm.

He woke up suddenly, and screamed aloud,
A rustle in the path—what’s this noise about;
In came old bruin, his eyes wet with tears,
They had lived unmolested for many years.

He ran for his life, he wanted to do his part,
Old mother bear had been shot, straight through the heart;
He had hurried away, his own life to save,
The bullets flew fast—you horrible knave;
And thought of his baby, alone in his bed,
How could he tell him his mammy bear was dead?