GARDEN SONGS.

Gluck! gluck! From under a log, Squatting and leaping, comes Flucky the Frog. Wide is his mouth, and spreading his toes; Very elastic and shiny his clothes; Though lofty his jumpings and brazen his stare, He sees not the Hummer that flits in the air.

Oh, I'd search the world over For one four-leaved clover! Bend low, pretty grass, bend low! Jump, little crickets! and tumble, you bees! Green little grasshoppers, limber your knees! There's one hidden somewhere, I know.

"Good Mistress Sundial, what's the hour?" "Alack! to tell you I haven't power. It rains; and I only can work, you see, When the sun is casting his light upon me. I'm nothing at all but a senseless block Whenever his beautiful rays depart; But ask my neighbor, the Four-o'clock; She carries the time o' day in her heart."

Some one in the garden murmurs all the day; Some one in the garden moans the night away; Deep in the pine-trees, hidden from our sight, He murmurs all day, and moans all the night.

Wire-locks, Curly-pate, Tangle, and Floss, To make some fine curls they were quite at a loss, Till they found them a field of the bright dandelion, And made the green ringlets with only half trying.

Old Bum of Bumbleby bumped his nose, Trying to light on a damask rose; He bumped his nose, but he didn't care As he pitched about in the dizzy air. Whenever he tried to his love to fly, He would shoot ahead and pass her by; So he tumbled at last on a larkspur near, And buzzed his business into her ear.

Lift up your face, little daisy, pray; I can't stand here in the grass all day. Jamie sent me, and Jamie is sick. He says you are far too sweet to pick, But he gave me something to give to you; So hold up your cheek, little daisy, do.

I know where there's a beautiful shoe, Tiny and sweet, and ready for you; It hides away in the balsam-flower, But I'll find you a pair in less than an hour. "Thank you, my laddie; now this I'll do, I'll pluck a heart-flower just for you; The hearts hang close on a bending spray, And every heart hides a lyre away.

"How shall you find it? I'll tell you true: You gently sunder the heart in two, And under the color, as white as milk, You'll find the lyre with its strings of silk."

Bright little buttercup, now you will show Whether my darling likes butter or no. Buttercup, buttercup, will you begin? Shine me an answer under her chin.

Good Mistress Ant, I pray, what is the matter? Why this commotion without any clatter? "Alack! alack! we're ruined, you see; I've lost my children, and they've lost me! Our houses have fallen, our city is gone, And thousands are murdered or running forlorn. Ah me! who would think that such power to destroy Could lurk in the heel of a bare-footed boy?"

When the sun is sinking low in the skies, The evening primrose opens her eyes. "Come back, dear Sun," she seems to say; "I've been dreaming of you the live-long day."

Ho, Dandelion! my lightsome fellow! What's become of all your yellow? "My bonnie yellow it wouldn't stay, It turned about and it went away, Till nothing at all was left of me But the misty, feathery ball you see; Yet pluck me off, and blow me well, The time o' day I'll surely tell." Whiff! whiff! "Blow again,— Blow with all your might and main." Whiff! whiff! That is four. Now I've but two feathers more. Whiff! How tight the last one sticks! Whiff! It's gone; and that makes six. The sun is getting low, I see, And we must hurry home to tea.

Up in the tree top, down in the ground, High in the blue sky, far, all around,— Near by and everywhere creatures are living, God in his bounty something is giving. Up in the tree top, down in the ground, High in the blue sky, far, all around,— Near by and everywhere creatures are striving, Labor is surely the price of their thriving. Up in the tree top, down in the ground, High in the blue sky, far, all around,— Near by and everywhere, singing and humming, Busily, joyfully, Summer is coming!

The Moon came late to a lonesome bog, And there sat Goggleky Gluck, the frog. "My stars!" she cried, and veiled her face, "What very grand people they have in this place!"

A farmer in Bungleton had a colt That couldn't be taught to moo; And he kept his cow under lock and bolt Till the smith could make her a shoe. His ducks wouldn't gobble, his geese wouldn't quack, His cat couldn't bark at all. "I'm clean discouraged!" he cried; "alack! I'll give up my farm in the fall."

There was a shrewd lad of Cooloo Who thought baby's tooth wasn't through. Says he, "Though I doubt, I'se a-gwine to find out." And he did—that shrewd lad of Cooloo.

There was a fine youth of Pike's Peak Who raised a moustache in a week. When they called it "like down," Ah, how he would frown!— This hairy young man of Pike's Peak.

Come, ho! sing, ho! ye chimney sprites, Come and a riddle unravel: Tell us true, by the dancing lights, Where does Saint Nicholas travel? In the twinkling of an eye, Hither, thither, doth he hie,— North and south and east and west; Not a moment doth he rest. Speeding here and speeding there, In an instant everywhere. Valleys, hills, and mountain passes, Sunny fields and drear morasses, Silent plains and busy towns, Yankee meadows, English downs,— Whether crowded, lone or wild, So it holds one little child,— Every spot, he knows by heart; What if half the world apart? In the twinkling of an eye Hither, thither, doth he hie. Prythee, this riddle unravel: How does Saint Nicholas travel? How does he travel? This is the way: Sun or storm or blue or gray, Soon as he gathers his stock of toys, Laughing and nodding, but never a noise, Laughing and nodding, shaking his sides, This is the way Saint Nicholas rides: Not over mountains, not over streams, But gliding swift through the children's dreams. Soon as their eyelids in slumber close, Hither and thither Saint Nicholas goes. But how do the little ones go to him? Sing, ho! When the winter waxeth dim, And, Christmas over, the children say, "Good Saint Nick! he has gone away," Oho! he strokes his jolly old nose, And lays him down for a quiet doze. "Ha, ha! the snow is a capital bed!" And he pulls his nightcap over his head. Asleep and resting, O good Saint Nick! Now do the children play him a trick; For, bright and rosy and lithe of limb, They travel quick in his dreams, to him. From every nook and possible place There peeps a beautiful baby-face. With joyous murmur and laughing hum, From every quarter the children come. Rosy, tender, and snow-flake soft, They throng about him or float aloft; Closer they nestle, a hundred thick, And whisper, "We thank you, dear Saint Nick; We've come to tell you we love you, dear." And Nicholas laughs in his sleep to hear. Oho! sing, ho! and now you know: As soon as the Christmas lights are dim, And the saint no more his rounds doth go, The children flock, in his dreams, to him.

My little one came, and brought me a flower, Never a sweeter one grew; But it faded and faded in one short hour, And lost all its pretty blue. My little one stayed in the room and played; And so my flower bloomed bright,— My beautiful blossom that did not fade, But slept in my arms all night.

Now, Dolly, dear, I'm going away, And want you to be good all day. Don't lose your shoes nor soil your dress, Nor get your hair all in a mess; But lie quite still, and up I'll come To kiss you, soon as I get home. I'd take you, dear, but then, you know, It's wax Sabina's turn to go. She's sick, I'm 'fraid. Her eyes don't work; They open worse, the more I jerk; She used to be so straight and stout, But now her sawdust's running out. Her kid is out of order, dear. My papa says she's out of gear. That's dreadful, isn't it? But then The air may make her well again. So, Dolly, won't you stay alone, And be real good while I am gone? Good-by, my precious! Yes, I'll come And kiss you, soon as I get home.

The awfulest times that ever could be They had with a bad little girl of Dundee, Who never would finish her crust. In vain they besought her, And patiently taught her, And told her she must. Her grandma would coax, And so would the folks, And tell her the sinning Of such a beginning. But no, she wouldn't, She couldn't, she shouldn't, She'd have them to know— So they might as well go. Now what do you think soon came to pass? This little girl of Dundee, alas! Who wouldn't take crusts in the regular way, Sat down to a feast one summer's day; And what did the people that little girl give, But a dish of bread pudding—as sure as I live!

One little black duck, one little gray, Six little white ducks, running out to play; One white lady-duck, motherly and trim, Eight little baby ducks, bound for a swim! One little white duck, holding up its wings, One little bobbing duck, making water-rings, One little black duck, turning round its head, One big black duck—guess he's gone to bed. One little white duck, running from the water, One very fat duck—pretty little daughter! One very brave duck, swimming off alone, One little white duck, standing on a stone. One little white duck, walking by its mother; Look among the water-reeds, maybe there's another. Not another anywhere? surely you are blind. Push away the grass, dear; ducks are hard to find. Bright little brown eyes! o'er the picture linger; Point me all the ducks out, chubby little finger! Make the picture musical, merry little shout! Now, where's that other duck? What is he about? I think the other duck's the nicest duck of all; He hasn't any feathers, and his mouth is sweet and small; He runs with a light step, and jumps upon my knee, And though he cannot swim, he is very dear to me. One white lady-duck, motherly and trim; Eight little baby-ducks, bound for a swim; One lazy black duck, taking quite a nap; One little precious duck, here on mamma's lap!

Were you ever heavy-hearted, little May? She tossed her pretty head, As right merrily she said, "Heavy hearted? No, not I; Yet a little makes me cry, And a little less than half Makes me laugh— My mother often calls me 'April Day.'" Were you ever very happy, little May? Again she shook her head. "I do not know," she said. "Very happy? Who is so? Not a single soul, you know; Mother often tells me this, With a kiss; Our life, she says, is like an April day." Were you ever very naughty, little May? She flushed a rosy red, As, right saucily, she said, "Very naughty? Let me see: Why, I have been bad—for me; I have trod on, Pussy's toes, And I've torn my Sunday clo'es; And, oh!—now, don't you tell!— I mean to—well, Fool every one I know on April-day."

There was an old lady all dressed in silk, Who lived upon lemons and buttermilk; And, thinking this world was a sour old place, She carried its acid all over her face;

Another old lady, all dressed in patches, Lived upon nothing but Lucifer matches; So the world, it made her strangle and cough, And sure as you rubbed her you set her off. Another old lady, all sunny and neat, Who lived upon sugar, and every thing sweet; Declared, when she heard of their troubles, she "never!" For the world was so nice she could live on forever.

Now, children take your choice Of the food your hearts shall eat; There are sourish thoughts, and brimstone thoughts, And thoughts all good and sweet; And whatever the heart feeds on, Dear children, trust to me, Is precisely what this queer old world Will seem to you to be.

Oh! Shepherd John is good and kind, Oh! Shepherd John is brave; He loves the weakest of his flock, His arm is quick to save. But Shepherd John to little John Says: "Learn, my laddie, learn! In grassy nooks still read your books, And aye for knowledge burn. Read while you tend the grazing flock: Had I but loved my book, I'd not be still in shepherd's frock, Nor bearing shepherd's crook. The world is wide, the world is fair, There's muckle work to do. I'll rest content a shepherd still, But grander fields for you!"

On Monday I wash my dollies' clothes, On Tuesday smoothly press 'em; On Wednesday mend their little hose, On Thursday neatly dress 'em.

On Friday I play they're taken ill, On Saturday something or other;

But when Sunday comes, I say, "Lie still: I'm going to church with mother."

Lulu's Birthday—very queer! Comes to her but once a year; Comes when Winter snows are falling, Comes when Ocean winds are squalling, Comes when Nature's quite appalling,— Every thing so cold and drear. Lulu's Birthday—stranger still! Has to climb to her up hill; For the maiden is so knowing, That she spends her time in growing, Every year some change is showing,— Growing head, and heart, and will. Lulu's Birthday—it is clear— Likes to meet her every year; Likes to follow Lulu's scorning. So, with fairest flowers adorning All the home, we give it cheer. And with prayer and watchful loving, Though the little maid keep moving, And the time be cold and drear, Sure as comes the Birthday morning, We shall try to have her here.

The Moon came late to the twinkling sky, To see what the stars were about: "Fair Night," quoth she, "are the family in?" "Oh! no, they are, every one, out."

Two little froggies they sighed to one another: "Our puddle is all liquor and no meat.

Let us sit upon the bank, where the lovely mud is shining, And maybe we'll see something good to eat." Forty little ants said gayly to their mother: "O mother! we are going to the bogs;" But the forty little ants never dreamed they were going Just to make a dainty dinner for the frogs.

Two little boys, named Willie, Live in the house with me. One is as good a darling As ever I wish to see; His eyes are glad, his smile is sweet, His voice is kind, his dress is neat, And he is the boy for me. This Willie says, "Good morning!" Happy as any bird; A merrier laugh, a lighter step, No mortal ever heard. "Thank you," he says, and "If you please?" He will not pout, he will not tease— Oh! he is the boy for me! The other Willie, sad to say, Is very, very bad; I think he is as cross a child As ever a mother had. "Go 'way!" he shrieks. He squalls and cries, The angry tears oft fill his eyes— He is not the boy for me. He lingers round my Willie, And whispers evil things— Oh! how we dread him! for we know The sin and grief he brings! Who keeps him, then? Why, Willie's self; He keeps this wicked Willie-elf Who is not the boy for me. If I were you, my Willie, I'd make him stay away,— This boy who grieves your mother And spoils your brightest day,— For he lives in you where he doesn't belong; So oust him, Willie! Send him along! "Clear out!" I'd say, "old Fume and Fret! This heart of mine is not to let,— You're not the boy for me."

Four little piggies, bound for a frolic, Ate green apples till one got the colic. One was so greedy he stuffed his maw; One munched so hard that he cracked his jaw. One had the toothache and couldn't chew a bit, So he swallowed them whole and died in a fit.

Good-morning, mamma! Good-morning, bright sun! Good-morning, papa! The day is begun. Good-morning to every one, pussy as well: Does he sleep like the rest, till he hears the first bell? Good-morning it is, for the sky is all blue, The grass is just shining and sparkling with dew; The birdies are singing their merriest song, And the air through the window comes sunny and strong. Good-morning it is, for dark was the night, And chilly and still; but the morning is bright. If God did not watch us and bring us the day, We'd never be able to get up and play. Good-morning, new day! I'm glad we're awake, Your work and your sunshine and frolic to take; And I'm glad we are able so gayly to call Good-morning! good-morning! Good-morning to all!

I wouldn't be a growler, I wouldn't be a bear; I wouldn't be an owlet, always on a stare;

I wouldn't be a monkey, doing foolish tricks; I wouldn't be a donkey, full of sullen kicks.

I wouldn't be a goose, Nor a peacock full of pride, But I would be a big boy, With a pocket on each side.

There was an old weather-vane high on a shed, The wind came a courting and turned his head; And all it could utter for lack of mouth Was—East, and West, and North, and South.

"Have you heard the news, good neighbor?" "No. What is the news, I pray?" "Why the cat went down to a concert And frightened the music away."

Three-year-old Nell by the window-pane stood, A good little girl, and as pretty as good, Watching the snow come down— Falling so lightly, So swiftly and brightly, It whitened all the town. "See, Aunty!" she cried, in a joyous strain, "Oh, Aunty, look out! and see the popped rain! The air is as full as can be; And it never stops, But it jumps and hops, Like the corn that you pop for me." Winter passed on; and Spring-time was here— Spring with its flowers, its brightness and cheer, And the birds were wild with song. Ah, sweet was the note From each tiny throat! Nell listened the whole day long. "Tell me, dear Aunty, what do they eat, These dear little birds, that they sing so sweet?" Nell asked, in her wonder and glee. "Oh, Aunty, I think They have sky to drink, And flowers for their breakfast and tea." The quick, green-winged katydids filled her with awe, Such wonderful creatures she'd ne'er seen before; For hours she would question and tease, Till, "They're leaves!" she said, "With legs and a head, And they're huntin' about for their trees. "Why, Aunty, hold still! there's a girl in your eyes!" And queer little Nell fairly screamed with surprise. "Why, Aunty, it's Nell in there! I can see it as plain— There! I see it again! Why, you're full of me everywhere!"

Poor little Bessie! She tossed back her curls, And, though she is often the sweetest of girls, This was something she couldn't and wouldn't endure; 'Twas the meanest, most impolite act, she was sure, And a thing, she declared, that she never would do: To go to a church where one didn't belong, Then walk down the aisle like the best in the throng, And seat one's self plump in another one's pew. Humph! Didn't her father own his out and out, And didn't they fill it up full, just about, When Mamma and Papa, and herself and the boys, Were seated? And didn't their boots make a noise In moving along to make room for a stranger? And wasn't it cool, with the brazenest face, To expect at each hymn Pa would find out the place (If Ben didn't, or Bob, but there wasn't much danger)? With such feelings at heart, and their print on her face, Last Sunday our Bessie hitched out of her "place" To make room for a girl, very shabby and thin, Who had stood in the aisle till mamma asked her in. The poor little thing tried her best not to crowd And Bessie, forgetting, soon had the mishap To slip from her drowsiness into a nap, From which she soon wakened by crying aloud. Poor Bessie sat upright, with cheeks all a-flame At sleeping in church, and trembled with shame; But 'twas strange at the close of the service to see Our Bessie, now gentle as gentle could be, Take the hand of the shabby young girl in the pew, And walk with her out of the church with a smile That shone through the tears in her eyes all the while, And brightened her face with a radiance new. "Good-by," whispered Bessie at parting, "and mind Our pew's forty-five, with a pillar behind." Then she stole to her mother: "Oh, Mother, I dreamed Such a curious dream! 'Twas no wonder I screamed. I thought I was sitting in church in this dress, With a girl like a beggar-girl right in our pew— We were sitting alone on the seat, just we two— And I felt more ashamed than you ever could guess; "When, all in a moment, the music grew loud, And on it came floating a beautiful crowd; They were angels, I knew, for they joined in the song, And all of them seemed in the church to belong. Slowly and brightly they sailed through the air; The rays from the window streamed crimson and blue, And lit them in turn as their forms glided through;— I could feel their soft robes passing over my hair. "One came to my side. Very sadly she said, 'There's a stranger in here.' I lifted my head, And looked at the poor shabby girl with disdain. 'Tis not she,' said the angel; 'the haughty and vain Are the strangers at church. She is humble and true.' Then I cried out aloud, and the minister spoke, And just as they floated away I awoke, And there sat that dear little girl in our pew!"

"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.

A little mote lived in a sunbeam, And danced in its light all day; But she jumped with surprise one morning, At hearing the housemaid say:— "Oh, the dust! How it keeps one a-working! It settles all over the room— And the air is so full, it is folly To labor with duster and broom!" "Poor thing!" sighed the mote, "well, I'm sorry. I think I'll go hide in her hair— I'm such a wee speck of a dustlet She never will know I am there."

Early to bed and early to rise: If that would make me wealthy and wise I'd rise at daybreak, cold or hot, And go back to bed at once. Why not?

A real apple-pudding for Mammy and me! A-boiling as hard as I ever did see! O Mammy! I'm going to jump up and look, And tell the old pudding to hurry and cook. Is it looking in, Mammy, that hinders the boil? Well, I'd feel very bad for my pudding to spoil; So I'll cover it up, like a good little son, And play on the floor till you tell me it's done. There's the chil'ren up-stairs—they're dressed up so fine, But their pudding's no better than Mammy's and mine. Oh! isn't it nice when your Mammy's the cook, And whenever you want you can climb up and look!

Hurrah for the bouncer, exactly fourteen; The blithest old schoolboy that ever was seen, Hurrah for the Harry who went by, this way, Last Valentine's eve, thirteen and a day! There was Harry, aged twelve, I remember him well A hawk from a hernshaw he always could tell; And Harry, eleven—ah! how he would fiddle And scrape with his bow from the end to the middle. Then the bold boy of ten that my Harry appeared, A few years ago, when the war-mists were cleared; A chubby young fellow he flourished at nine, A right chubby fellow, this Harry of mine. At eight he was slender; at seven, quite fat; At six he was saucy—depend upon that! At five he put on his first trowsers and jacket; At four who could match him for making a racket? At three the young rascal was always in trouble; At two he was teething (his front teeth, and double); At one he was precious and something to carry, And the year before that there was never a Harry!

What does the drum say? "Rub-a-dub-dub! Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub! Pound away, bub! Make as much racket as ever you can. Rub-a-dub! rub-a-dub! Go it, my man!" What does the trumpet say? "Toot-a-toot-too! Toot-a-toot, toot-a-toot! Hurrah for you! Blow in this end, sir, and hold me out, so. Toot-a-toot! toot-a-toot! Why don't you blow?" What does the whip say? "Snaperty-snap! Call that a crack, sir—flipperty flap! Up with the handle, and down with the lash. Snaperty! snaperty! Done in a flash." What does the gun say? "Put in my stick, I'm a real pop-gun. Fire me quick! See that you fire in nobody's eye. Steady! my manikin. Now let it fly!" What does the sword say? "Swishy-an-swish! Flash in the sunlight, and give me a wish. Wish I was real, sir—cut 'em in bits! Wouldn't I scare all the world into fits!" What do they all say, trumpet and gun, Whip, sword, and drum-stick? "Hurrah for fun! Babies no longer, but stout little men, Racket forever! and racket again!"

Willy lay by the dimpling brook, Where the sun had lain before; And, strange to say, when its place he took, The spot just brightened the more. The birds were singing in the blue, A song that was like a hymn; While the baby ducklings, two by two, Strayed into the water to swim. "Heigho!" sighed Willy, "I cannot fly, Nor even so much as float; And as for singing like robins, why, I never could raise a note. "But I can play on my pipe," said he; And soon the music came— So clear and sweet, so blithesome free, That it put the birds to shame. The baby ducklings softly splashed, The robins yet harder tried, The sprinkled grass in sunlight flashed, As it nodded by Willy's side. And, before he knew, he was floating free On a sparkling river of thought; While the birds in the air came down to see What wonder the pipe had wrought. And still the music softly rose, Still Willy was floating free; And the little ducks with their funny toes, Were happy as happy could be.

UP in the morning early— Hi for my baby sweet! Here's a gown for his body, Here are shoes for his feet. And here is his snowy tucker Tied with ribbons fair, And here is his little mammy To curl his bonny hair. Here is his little bath-tub, And here is his little sponge, Before the gown and the curling My baby shall have a plunge.

Pins in the carpet, tacks in the floor, Needles in the drugget, wind through the door, Fire in the fender! Oh, it beats all! There isn't a place where our baby can crawl.

"Ho! plowman Kelly! How does it feel To get in a wagon by climbing the wheel?" "Nay, nay, little master, don't try it, I beg, For that is the way that I broke my leg." "Kelly, Kelly! Come, show me the way They turn this machine when they cut the hay!" "No, no, little master, just let it be— That hay-cutter cut off my thumb for me." "Ho, Kelly! The well-curb is rimmed with moss. Now look at me while I jump across!" "Hold, hold, young master! 'T would be a sin! I tried it once, and I tumbled in." "Kelly, Kelly! Send me to jail, But I'll pluck a hair from yon pony's tail." "Oh, master, master! Come back! Don't try— That's the very way that I lost my eye." "Why, Kelly, man, how under the sun Can you be so frisky and full of fun?— With all your mishaps, you are never a spoon— You're as brave as a lion and wise as a coon." "Well, well, young master, maybe it's so, And maybe it isn't. But this I know: It just brings trouble and mischief and slaughter, To be fussin' around where one hadn't ought ter."

Tinker, come bring your solder, And mend this watch for me. Haymaker, get some fodder, And give my cat his tea. Cobbler, my horse is limping, He'll have to be shod anew; While the smith brings forge and hammer To make my daughter a shoe. Bestir yourselves, my lazies! I give you all fair warning: You must do your work 'twixt twelve at night, And an hour before one in the morning.

"Mamma! mamma!" two eaglets cried, "To let us fly you've never tried. We want to go outside and play; We'll promise not to go away." The mother wisely shook her head: "No, no, my dears. Not yet," she said. "But, mother dear," they called again, "We want to see those things called men, And all the world so grand and gay, Papa described the other day. And—don't you know?—he told you then About a little tiny wren, That flew about so brave and bold, When it was scarcely four weeks old?" But still the mother shook her head; "No, no, my dears, not yet," she said. "Before you see the world below, Far bigger you will have to grow. There's time enough to look for men; And as for wrens—a wren's a wren. What if your freedom does come late? An eaglet can afford to wait."

"Och, save us!" cried Betty, "I'm 'most driven wild; Would you shtep here a moment, ma'am, please? For the sowl of me, ma'am, I can't ready the child While he keeps up such doin's as these. "I might better be curlin' a porkerpine quill, Or washin' the face of a eel, Than be dressin' of him—for he never keeps still 'Less I howld him by neck an' by heel. "It's three blissed times since I put on his clothes That he's wriggled stret off o' the chair; Not a moment ago he attack-ted me nose, And it's twice he's been into me hair. "If ye'll credit me, ma'am, wid his cryin' an' kickin', He's brought tears to my eyes, ma'am, like rain— If he wasn't so bad, ma'am, I wouldn't be speakin', For I niver was one to complain." Thus summoned, I went to the nursery-door, There sat master Johnny, a-pout. And I said, as I lifted him up from the floor, "Why, Johnny, what's all this about?" A scream was his answer. His flushed little face Looked angrily up into mine; "Oo hurt!" "Do I, Johnny? Where?—show me the place!" But his cry only changed to a whine. In a moment, I found out the cause of the trouble— 'Twas a pin, pricking deep in his side; And she, in her roughness, had bent the thing double— No wonder my darling had cried! Poor Johnny! He sobbed on my shoulder awhile, Then held up his face to be kissed; (If Betty went back to the Emerald Isle, I know where she wouldn't be missed.) Soon, meek as a lamb when the tempest is whirling, And the shepherd is deaf to his bleat, Our Johnny submitted to washing and curling, Till Betty proclaimed him "complete."

Ye gentlemen far, and gentlemen near, And ladies fair, and children dear, Come, list to the mournful tale—heigho!— Of the frog who wouldn't a-wooing go.

Once on a time, when nations were few, And whether the world stood still or flew, Nobody cared and nobody knew, A respectable pair, By name of Gluck, Lived in a pool On the Isle of Muck. Oh! very blest were this pair of frogs, Their lot was cast in the softest of bogs. Mrs. Gluck had an exquisite voice, Their sky was serenest, Their puddle the greenest That ever bade heart of a froggy rejoice.

But of all the blessings that came to this pair, Most precious of all was a son and heir, With the widest of mouths and the loveliest stare— Their brisk little polliwog, Hearty and hale; Their own little frisky one, All head and tail! Ah! never were parents so happy as these, Though their child, to be sure, wouldn't sit on their knees. And this, let me say, was a very bad sign, Though they didn't perceive it And couldn't conceive it, For it proved that he didn't to duty incline.

Well, the days flew along, and their child grew apace, Till at last a fine form came to balance his face; And his legs grew so fast they seemed running a race. Completed at last, With his garment of green, Just the handsomest froggy That ever was seen, He said to his mother: "Now, madam, I'm blown If—ahem! I should say, I am perfectly grown; So in future I'd wish my own master to be, Though I thank you most kindly For loving me blindly." (Such airs in a youngster were dreadful to see!)

"O son," quoth his mother, "you fill me with pain!" And she sobbed and she sighed with her whole might and main, And called to her husband in desperate strain. "Pooh, pooh!" said old Gluck, "The youngster is right, So let him alone, ma'am, Or you and I'll fight. And, hark ye, my son, I have noticed of late Yon puddle attracts you. Tis well. Find your mate. The Gungs, as a family, seem to adore you. Select your own waters, Take one of the daughters, And leap into life like your father before you."

Alas for young puddledum! Proudly he scouted The sire's good advice. He sulked and he pouted, And the Gung girls, in turn, every one of them, flouted. "What, choose me a wife! Does he think I'm a fool? No, my motto for life Is: one frog to a pool. Shall I yield up my freedom—be tied to a log? Not I, by my jumps!" quoth this prig of a frog. "Miss Gung, sir, for all I'll prevent, gug-a-loo! May sing till they carry me, 'No one will marry me, Nobody, nobody's coming to woo!'"

I must tell you; old Gluck, with his puddle so fair, Was known by the banks as mud-millionaire. So, young Gluck (who you know, was his first son and heir),

Soon set up a team Of sleek water-rats, And covered his head With the brightest of hats; Then, with a phaeton and footman or two, He drove forth to dazzle, to awe and subdue. Oh! glum was his face, his heart icy cold! And the seat of his car, Though too wide by far For one single frog, not another would hold.

But when did the heartless, disdainful, and flat Live on, unrebuked by this world's tit for tat? And why did our frog trust his fate to a rat? One day, as he drove, There came forth to stare— Kingfisher and Duck— A most comical pair. The first was the proudest that ever was seen, For the rod in his hand was the gift of his queen; But the other—ah! never did duck so expand; Yet strut as he could, And strain as he would, Poor Quack, for the life of him, couldn't look grand.

Yet he took it amiss that his efforts were lost To thaw with his splendor that armor of frost (For our frog quite disdained any duck to accost), And loudly he shouted, "Come back, sir, come back! You're spoiling our road With your zig-zagging track, Come back, or yon man, with his cat-o'-nine tails, Will be after your team, till you whistle like quails— Great Neptune! If there ain't the mischief to pay! Just as sure as I waddle, Or swim, dive, or paddle, Those rats of young Gluck's are a-running away!"

Too true. They had heard the duck's dreadful appeal— A cat with nine tails! why, the thought made them squeal. And they ran for their holes, with poor Gluck, neck and heel. But whether he lived, Or whether he died, Or whether the rats Managed safely to hide, Or whether his parents e'er saw him again, Or whether Miss Gung always waited in vain, 'Neath her lily-pads green, for a lover, or no, Are things that belong To the rest of my song Of the frog who wouldn't a-wooing go.

Oh! moan, ye winds, by the green pool's brink! And quickly, ye Glucks, in the deep mud sink; Prepare all the dregs of affliction to drink! The pride of the puddle, Breath of thy breath, Lies low in the marshes, Fainting to death. Oh! weep, poor Miss Gung! for there never shall be In thy home of the lilies a lover for thee. Thy sun goeth down with never a glow, He hath frowned on thy fate, On thy maiden estate, And the one whom thou lovest is lying all low!

Ha! what is this coming? what wreck do they spy? What driverless rat-steeds are these rushing by? "Our child!" cried the mother; "oh! fly to him, fly!" These words to old Gluck, And that mother fell dead; She had burst with her grief, And the vital spark fled. Then madly in search leaped that father bereft, And wildly those goggle-eyes peered right and left; Till at last, where the bank lay a little aslant, He saw his son lying, Apparently dying, For all he could do was to quiver and pant.

"Oh! leap, little Eng" (this, Gluck said to his latest, A froggy half-grown), "bring of doctors the greatest, And look to thy speed, that thou never abatest. Bring Tightskin, or Squatt, Or my cousin Paff-Puff; But don't bring them all— One doctor's enough. O horror! he fails! Be quick, Eng, be quick! His eye-balls are sinking! his breath's growing thick. Either Tightskin or Squatt will be better than Paff—" But Eng never heard, He had left at the word, Bound, of course, for the third of that medical staff.

"Oh! look at me, son! Oh! lift up your head! And don't lie so limp, for you fill me with dread For pity's sake, hear me. Your mother is dead!" "Dead!" gasped Master Gluck, "And I lying here? Oh! why will these mothers Step out of their sphere? If ever I needed good nursing 'tis now, And your masculine paw, sir, it scratches my brow. I need some one gentle—more gentle than air— O father! I fear I am injured in here." And our frog pressed his heart in the deepest despair.

"Now, bear up, my son," cried the sorrowing Gluck. "See! the doctor is coming. He'll bring us good luck. By my croak! but it's Paff, the conceited old buck." Then, quick to the doctor, "My child! Is he killed? Oh! save me my son From the phaeton spilled. Haste! give me the lotion! I'll pour it on here." "No, no," moaned the patient, "I can't have him near, His rubbing is torture. I'd rather be hung. Dear doctor, he's rough— He's nursed me enough— Oh! send little Eng for that oldest Miss Gung."

Then outspake the uncle, with wrath in his face, And a grunt of denial that filled all the place, "No, no, Master Gluck, I'll attend to your case, Humph! nursing indeed! You've called me too late. In less than an hour, sir, We'll lay you out straight. No Miss Gung shall you have. Her father's my friend. If you'd done as you ought—Never mind. I intend To have all my sons, cousin Gluck, marry early. Had my patient seen fit To wed, I'll admit He might have been saved," said this doctor so surly.

And then, while our hero lay moaning with pain, And his father kept rubbing and fussing in vain, The doctor continued, in furious strain, "This accident—humph! Cousin Gluck, on my word, With a family team, sir, Would not have occurred. This thinking and plotting for self all the while, And frisking about, sir, in bachelor style, With no one to nurse you when hurt, sir, don't pay." "Good doctor," moaned froggy, "It isn't too late, Even now she'd consent To soften my fate. Oh Eng! dear, run off for Miss Gung, right away."

These words were his last. He never moved more, But lay through the starlight, all fainting and sore (And those weary night-watchers, how rasping their snore)! In the morning they found him Stretched out stiff and stark— He had died all alone In the cold and the dark. The chord of existence had snapt, they averred, In trying to utter one sweet little word. And, as over his body his weeping sire hung, 'Twas plain to be seen, From that mouth's very mien, That the last mournful sound of his life had been—Gung! Oh! gentlemen far, and gentlemen near, And striplings fair, and children dear, Be warned by the mournful tale, heigho! Of the frog who wouldn't a-wooing go.