FUNNYLAND

There’s an island ’way off in the seas Where the babies all grow upon trees. It’s the jolliest fun To swing in the sun; But they have to look out how they sneeze, O, I tell you they’d better not sneeze! They might break themselves off With a sneeze or a cough And tumble down flop on their knees. When the clouds darken mountain and dale, When the breeze freshens up to a gale, There is screaming and dropping And laughing and hopping;— In fact little babies just hail. They all lie on the ground in a pile, And when people come, after a while, They quickly pass by The babies that cry, And they pick up the babies that smile;— O, they even take twins if they smile! There’s a tree where the kitty-cats grow. They hang by their tails in a row; If they happen to fall, They don’t mind it at all, For they fall on their feet as you know. There once was a puppy-dog tree That people came miles just to see. But the bark was so loud That it scattered the crowd And rattled the isles of the sea; It frightened the King, And the troublesome thing Was cut down by a royal decree. Whenever dogs grow now at all, They are puggy and snarly and small; They grow on a vine Like a squash, and they whine Although they can’t possibly fall. Wherever an elephant grows, He’s always hitched on by his nose; And he just has to wait Till his weight is so great That his nose is stretched out to a hose;— That accounts for his rubbery nose. And sometimes, when something is wrong, The elephant hitch is so strong That he fails to get free From the elephant tree Till his nose is a hundred feet long. So he buys a hose-cart To trundle a part Of his nose as he lumbers along. Any sensible person should know How giraffes are hitched on when they grow. Their necks elongate With increase of their weight Till their feet touch the ground and they go. When first a young donkey appears, He hangs from the limb by his ears; And he hangs till the day When he first tries to bray— O, the tree shakes him off when it hears! And he runs away wagging his ears. The birdies swim ’round in the sea, With the wasp and the bungleing bee. If you dangle a worm, With a wiggley squirm, You might catch a chick-a-dee-dee. The fishes swim ’round in the sky, With pollywogs woggleing by, While frogs hop around On the clouds to the sound Of the song of the lobsters that fly. A wonderful Funnyland sight Is a mountain of very great height; But you never could guess What happens unless You should be there on Saturday night. When the sun in the west is aglow The whole mountain rumbles, and lo, It pours out a stream Of assorted ice-cream By the banks where the macaroons grow. Then from city and country and town, The children, of king and of clown, All run with their spoons And they pick macaroons And they eat till they have to lie down. But the thing that the children adore, Is a mountain that stands by the shore, With a cratery pot Where molasses keeps hot With trickles of taffy galore. Sometimes it rains pop-corn at night; And all of the kernels that light On the mountain-top, pop, And they hop, and they drop, Till the top of the mountain is white; And corn balls roll down To the edge of the town, While the children dance ’round with delight. There’s a spring hidden deep in a glade, Of most excellent pink lemonade. It falls in a pool All bubbly cool From a babbling and brawling cascade; And the children, each summery day When they’re thirsty with rollicking play, Go there and dip up Lemonade in a cup And drink till their buttons give ’way. When Funnyland children have chills And fever, or colicky ills, They are not put to bed To be poulticed and fed On gruel and puckery pills. When the Doctor comes in to advise, He says, as he scowls and looks wise: “You’ve been eating brown bread And potatoes instead Of good wholesome candies and pies. I can tell by the look in your eye That you’ve kept your feet constantly dry. For a lassie or lad It is best to be bad, Don’t even be good on the sly.” The Funnyland clerk of the weather Doesn’t waste his time finding out whether Tomorrow’ll be blowy Or sunny or snowy;— O, he’s wiser than that altogether. He carefully studies the past And runs up a flag on a mast, So that people can see If there’s going to be A thunder storm week before last. The hunters go forth to the lair Of the Tiger with crimps in his hair. And peppery snuff Is the terrible stuff That they shoot at the blundering Bear. For lo, when they happen to spy The bears that go wandering by, They shoot off their gun And, although the bears run, They sneeze off their heads and they die. But they never go hunting this way For the Tiboons that live in the bay; When they sneeze, O, the sound Cracks the air, and the ground Wabbles ’round in a terrible way. So the King’s Grenadiers, With wool in their ears, Stand always in warlike array On the edge of the sand With a fan in each hand To keep tickley dust from the bay; So the Tiboons won’t sneeze Shaking surf from the seas And rattling the islands away. The King goes forth daily at noon, To parade with the knights of the moon; And he’s grandly arrayed In clothes that are made From the skin of a raging Tiboon; A roaring and ramping Tiboon. There was only one man in the isles Who was wily enough with his wiles To capture this beast, So that people could feast And the King could keep up with the styles. He stealthily crept to the bay While the little Tiboons were at play, And their parents were drowsing Or quietly browsing. (They can’t rage the whole of the day!) The man waded quietly near To the biggest Tiboon, from the rear, And he tied a tin pail To the end of his tail; O, the Tiboon went crazy with fear; His raging was awful to hear. But he finally died Of a twisted inside,— Thus ended his ramping career. The soldiers are never afraid To march in a long cavalcade To His Majesty’s park To shoot at a mark Or take part in a deadly parade;— A boom-ta-rah-rahing parade. When the band blows a blare To crack open the air, O, the soldiers are never afraid. For years, through the King’s oversight, They had never been called out to fight; And they thirsted for gore, (Other people’s) and swore That they languished to fight for the right. One day the King happened to spy A ship sailing by in the sky; And, I grieve to relate, Made a face at the Mate, And the Mate was insulted thereby; In fact “he had blood in his eye.” So he signalled the Chief Engineer To check the ship’s raging career, And the anchor dropped down And caught on the Town, While the children all trembled with fear,— A lovely, blood-curdling fear! Then the best parachute was prepared, And the Mate, while the people all stared, Came zigzagging down In the midst of the town; But the King didn’t look a bit scared. (Though I think that he would if he’d dared.) The face of the furious Mate Was covered with whiskers and hate; “The people,” said he, “Who make faces at me All meet with a horrible fate,— A midnighty, church-yardy fate.” “Surrender your Funnyland isle! Surrender your treasury pile! Surrender to me!” But the King said, said he, “Excuse me dear Sir, if I smile!” (O, his smile could be seen for a mile!) When the speaking and smiling were done The army came up at a run. O, the Mate was alarmed, For each soldier was armed With a kind of sky-rocketty gun. They drew up in battle array All loaded and primed for the fray. O, the racket was dire At the order to fire, And the Mate—why he fainted away. (’Twas the one way of getting away.) Then there came a most terrible crash, Such as big things make, going to smash; For the ship struck the ground, And the air all around Was filled up with splinters and trash, Dust, kindling-wood, oakum and hash. (The Captain and crew were the hash.) The Mate knew his chances were slim, But he never suspected how grim Was his oncoming fate. He was destined to wait On the King who’d made faces at him,— Disrespectful, wry faces at him! If you ever should sail in the air As mate of a ship, O, beware! If a King in full view Should make faces at you, Don’t suffer your anger to flare;— Remember this tragic affair! The Funnyland chimneys are all So large and exceedingly tall, That Santa Claus shook In his shoes when he took A look at the distance to fall; Then he altered his plan Like a wise little man And didn’t climb chimneys at all. But in dooryards of every degree He planted a curious tree; And now every year When Christmas is near The fruit is a wonder to see. There are dollies and trolleys and rows Of silky and satiny clothes; And candles and strings Of tinsel, and rings For the fingers and bells for the toes. There are serpents and sugary hearts; Tin soldiers and cinnamon tarts; While bicycles grow On the branches below With wagons and wabbly carts. There are ducks that you squeeze and they squawk; And green polly-parrots that talk; And filberts and figs, And cottony pigs That you pull by a string and they walk. On Christmas Eve children go out To the Santa Claus tree with a shout, And put baskets below The things that they know That they couldn’t be happy without. Then Santa Claus comes in the night When there isn’t a person in sight; And he chuckles with glee As he climbs every tree And shakes it with all of his might. Things rustle and rattle and flop, And loosen and tumble and drop, Till the children awake With the noise that they make And the baskets are full to the top. Just think of the wide-open eyes Of children awaiting surprise! They tumble and twist And sit up and insist That the sun has forgotten to rise. Then all, when the windows grow gray, Run out in their bedtime array, And the frolic begins;— They would like to be twins To double the joy of the day. When slanting moonbeams touch the hills, And shadows fill the glen; When people all are fast asleep, The little maids and men From Fairyland come sliding down The moonbeams in a row, With tuneful laugh and merry jest And faces all aglow; As children in the winter lands Toboggan on the snow. The moonlight gleams on gauzy wings And glints from precious stones; And caps are crowned with little bells With silvery tinkling tones, Each Fairy wears a cob-web dress, And through this filmy guise The mischief shows in every move And sparkles in their eyes. And some with bags of happy dreams Go softly stealing where The island children lie asleep, And while they’re unaware Untie the bags, and lo, the doors Of wonderland stand wide! I hope, my child, you’ve been sometimes Where dream-bags were untied. The crooked gnomes, with peaked hats And faces ill to see, Come swiftly riding night-mares too, And with an elfish glee They gallop over children who Ate fruitcake after tea. I hope, my child, you do not know About the things they see. One fairy stole a pepper-box And flew above the bay, And scattered clouds of pepper where The sleeping Tiboons lay. The Tiboons sneezed, the islands shook, And chimneys tumbled down. The people thought a foe had come To cannonade the town. The King got up and trembled so He joggled off his crown. My child, if Tiboons chance to live In any neighboring bay, You’d better lock the pepper up Whenever you’re away. One night with fairy mandolins They played such ’witching strains, A kind of dancing madness ran Through every hearer’s veins; The players passed the Palace Gate; The King and Queen and all The people of the household came A-dancing through the hall. They hadn’t time to don their dress Who heard the music’s call. They danced the streets, and all who heard The music lilt along, Came tripping lightly at the sound To join the merry throng; Till all the people in the isle, In sleeping clothes arrayed, Were dancing in the moonlight night In motley masquerade. They danced and whirled beside the bay Where Tiboons by the score, Who’d heard the merry mandolins, Were skipping on the shore. One Tiboon gave his flipper to His Majesty the King, And there together on the sand They “cut a pigeon-wing.” The Fairies laughed until they cried, ’Twas such a funny thing! At dawn the Fairies flew away; The dancing stopped—ah me! The weariness and burning shame Were very sad to see. A sort of Sunday quiet filled The isle from shore to shore; But Fairyland resounded with A most hilarious roar. My child, when slanting moonbeams fall Around your house, beware, Lest Fairies with their mandolins Should catch you unaware.