Part 19

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed." The little ones leaped, and shouted and laughed, And all the hills echoed.

W. Blake

[Illustration: Our See-Saw.]

[Illustration: Our Owls See-Sawing.]

[Illustration: Our Pigs See-Sawing.]

[Page 88--Play Land]

Swinging

Here we go on the garden swing, Under the chestnut tree. Up in the branches birdies sing Songs to Baby and me, Baby and Kitty and me. Then up, high up, for the ropes are long, And down, low down, for the branch is strong.

And there's room on the seat for three, Just Baby and Kitty and me Merrily swinging, Merrily singing, Under the chestnut tree.

Up to the clustering leaves we go, Down we sweep to the grass, Touching the daisies there below, Bowing to let us pass, Smiling to us as we pass. Then up, high up, for the ropes are long, And down, low down, for the branch is strong.

And there's room on the seat for three, Just Baby and Kitty and me Merrily swinging, Merrily singing, Under the chestnut tree.

Skating

One day it chanced that Miss Maud did meet The poet's little son, "I'm going skating, Sir," she said; "And so am I," said John.

"If you can skate and I can skate, Why let me skate with you, We'll go the whole world round and round, And skate the whole year through."

They skated left, and skated right, Miss Maud and little John, That is--as long as there was ice For them to skate upon.

And then they did unstrap their skates Like other girls and men, And never used them once--until They put them on again!

The Skipping Rope

Lessons now at last are over, Books and slates are put away; Hymns attentively repeated, Copy without a blot completed, Now's the time for fun and play.

Lessons done with cheerful spirit Bring the sure reward of merit, Smiling face and heart so gay; In this bright and smiling weather, Merrily they all together, With the skipping rope will play;

And if only Tom and Polly Will come too, it will be jolly! Here they are now, foot it lightly, Hand in hand they skip so sprightly, Bees are humming, Summer's coming.

Birds are singing as they're bringing Twigs from many a distant tree; Lined with down, and moss, and feather, Where they'll sit and chirp together, Oh! how snug those homes will be!

O'er the ropes so lightly skipping, O'er the grass so lightly tripping, The children are as glads as they. Lessons are done with cheerful spirit, Bring the sure reward of merit;

And remember, too, that they Who work hardest day by day, Always most enjoy their play.

[Illustration: Our Piggy Swinging.]

[Illustration: Our Kangaroos Jumping.]

[Illustration: Our Kangaroos Skipping.]

[Page 89--Play Land]

The Baby's Debut

My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New Year's day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is, He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang with might and main, It's head against the parlor door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he's to melt, all scalding hot. Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury-lane for you to-day!" And while papa said "Pooh, she may!" Mamma said "No she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While molly mopp'd it with a mop, And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise among the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!--my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

Let the Child Play

He who checks a child with terror, Stops its play and stills its song, Not alone commits an error But a great and grievous wrong.

Give it play, and never fear it;

## Active life is no defect.

Never, never break its spirit; Curb it only to direct.

Would you stop the flowing river, Thinking it would cease to flow? Onward in must flow forever; Better teach it where to go.

[Illustration: Our Pussies' Fan Dance.]

[Illustration: Our Dog Dance.]

[Illustration: Our Round Dance.]

[Page 90--Reading Land]

[Illustration: Our Pussies Reading Childland.]

[Illustration: Our Monkey Learning From Childland.]

Reading

"And so you do not like to spell, Mary, my dear, oh, very well: 'Tis dull and troublesome,' you say, And you had rather be at play.

"Then bring me all your books again; Nay, Mary, why do you complain? For as you do not choose to read, You shall not have your books, indeed.

"So, as you wish to be a dunce, Pray go and fetch me them at once; For if you will not learn to spell, 'Tis vain to think of reading well.

"Do you not think you'll blush to own When you become a woman grown, Without one good excuse to plead, That you have never learnt to read?"

"Oh, dear mamma," said Mary then, "Do let me have my books again; I'll not fret any more indeed, If you will let me learn to read."

Jane Taylor

Mrs Grammar's Ball

Mrs Grammar once gave a fine ball To the nine different parts of our speech; To the short and the tall, To the stout and the small, There were pies, plums and puddings for each.

And first little Articles came, In a hurry to make themselves known-- Fat _A_, _An_, and _The_; But none of the three Could stand for a minute alone.

The Adjectives came to announce That their dear friends the Nouns were at hand, _Rough_, _rougher_ and _roughest_, _Tough_, _tougher_ and _toughest_, _Fat_, _merry_, _good-natured_ and _grand_.

The Nouns were indeed on their way, Tens of thousands, and more, I should think; For each name we could utter, _Shop_, _shoulder_, or _shutter_, Is a noun: _lady_, _lion_ or _link_.

The Pronouns were hastening fast To push the Nouns out of their places: _I_, _thou_, _he_, and _she_, _You_, _it_, _they_, and _we_, With their sprightly intelligent faces.

Some cried out, "Make way for the Verbs! A great crowd is coming in view!" To _light_ and to _smile_, To _fight_ and to _bite_, To _be_, and to _have_, and to _do_.

The Adverbs attended on the Verbs, Behind as their footmen they ran; As this, "to fight _badly_," And "run _away gladly_," Shows how fighting and running were done.

Prepositions came _in_, _by_, and _near_; With Conjunctions, a wee little band, As _either_ you _or_ he, But _neither_ I _nor_ she; They held their great friends by the hand.

Then, too, with a _hip_, _hip_, _hurrah_! Rushed in Interjections uproarious; _Dear me!_ _well-a-day!_ When they saw the display, "_Ha! Ha!_" they all shouted out, "glorious!"

But, alas! what misfortunes were nigh! While the fun and the feasting pleased each, Pounced on them at once A monster--a Dunce! And confounded the nine parts of speech!

Help! friends! to the rescue! on you For aid Verb and Article call; Oh! give your protection To poor Interjection, Noun, Pronoun, Conjunction, and all!

Grammar In Rhyme

Three little words we often see, And Article, _a_, _an_, _the_.

Noun's the name of anything, As _school_ or _garden_, _hoop_ or _string_.

Adjective tells the kind of noun, As _great_, _small_, _pretty_, _white_ or _brown_.

Instead of nouns, the Pronoun stand John's head, _his_ face, _my_ arm, _your_ hand.

Verbs tell us of something being done, To _read_, _write_, _count_, _sing_, _jump_, or _run_.

How things are done, the Adverbs tell, As _slowly_, _quickly_, _ill_, or _well_.

A Preposition stands before A noun, as _in_ or _through_ a door.

Conjunctions join the nouns together as men _and_ children, wind _and_ weather.

The Interjection shows surprise, As _Oh_, how pretty! _Ah_, how wise!

The whole are called nine parts of speech, Which reading, writing, speaking teach.

Value of Reading

The poor wretch who digs the mine for bread, Or ploughs so that others may be fed,-- Feels less fatigue, than that decreed To him that cannot think or read!

Hannah More

[Page 91--Reading Land]

[Illustration: Our Dogs Reading Childland.]

[Illustration: Our Rook Reading Childland.]

[Illustration: Our Rabbit Reading Childland.]

[Illustration: Our Storks Reading Childland.]

[Page 92--Writing Land]

[Illustration: Little Flo Writing Letter.]

Little Flo's Letter

A sweet little baby brother Had come to live with Flo, And she wanted it brought to the table, That it might eat and grow. "It must wait a while," said grandma, In answer to her plea, "For a little thing that hasn't teeth Can't eat like you and me."

"Why hasn't it got teeth, grandma?" Asked Flo in great surprise, "O my, but isn't it funny?-- No teeth, but nose and eyes. "I guess," after thinking gravely, They must have been forgot. Can't we buy him some like grandpa's? I'd like to know why not."

That afternoon, to the corner, With paper, and pen, and ink, Went Flo, saying, "Don't talk to me; If you do, it'll 'sturb my think. I'm writing a letter, grandma, To send away to-night, An' 'cause it's very 'portant, I want to get it right."

At last the letter was finished, A wonderful thing to see, And directed to "God, in Heaven." Please read it over to me," Said little Flo to her grandma, "To see if it's right, you know." And here is the letter written To God by little Flo:--

"Dear God: The baby you brought us Is awful nice and sweet, But 'cause you forgot his tooffies The poor little thing can't eat. That's why I'm writing this letter, A purpose to let you know. Please come and finish the baby, That's all--From Little Flo."

Eben. E. Rexford

Exercise Makes Perfect

True ease in writing Comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest Who have learned to dance.

Pope

Hurrah for the Postman

Hurrah for the postman Who brings us the news! What a lot it must take To pay for his shoes.

For he walks many miles Each day of the week, And though he would like to, Must not stay to speak.

Red stripes round his blue cap, With clothing to match it; If he lost any letters, Oh, wouldn't he catch it!

Two Letters

FIRST

Dear Grandmamma--I write to say (And you'll be glad, I know,) That I am coming, Saturday, To spend a week or so.

I'm coming, too, without mamma, You know I'm eight years old! And you shall see how good I'll be, To do as I am told.

I'll help you lots about your word-- There's so much I can do-- I'll weed the garden, hunt for eggs, And feed the chickens, too.

And maybe I will be so good You'll keep me there till fall; Or, better still, perhaps you'll say I can't go home at all!

Now grandmamma, please don't forget To meet me at the train, For I'll be sure to come--unless It should cloud up and rain!

SECOND

Dear Mamma--Please put on your things, And take the next express; I want to go back home again-- I'm very sick, I guess!

My grandma's very good to me, But grandma isn't you; And I forgot, when I came here, I'd got to sleep here, too!

Last night I cried myself to sleep, I wanted you so bad! To day, I cannot play or eat, I feel so very sad.

Please, mamma, come, for I don't see How I can bear to wait! You'll find me, with my hat and sack Out by the garden gate.

And grandma will not care a bit If you should come, I know; Because I am your own little girl, And I do love you so.

Nell's Letter

Dear Grandmamma, I will try to write A very little letter; If I don't spell the words all right, Why next time I'll do better.

My little rabbit is alive, And likes his milk and clover, He likes to se me very much, But is afraid of Rover.

I have a dove as white as snow, I hall her "Polly Feather"; She flies and hops about the yard, In every kind of weather.

The hens are picking off the grass, And singing very loudly; While our old peacock struts about, And shows his feathers proudly.

I think I'll close my letter now, I've nothing more to tell; Please answer soon, and come to see Your loving, little Nell.

Baby's Letter to Uncle

Dear Old Uncle--I dot oor letter; My dear mamma, she ditten better; She every day a little bit stronger, Don't mean to be sick very much longer.

Dear little baby had a bad colic; Had to take three drops of nassy palagolic. Toot a dose of tatnip--felt worse as ever; Shan't tate no mors tytnip, never!

Wind on tomit, felt pooty bad; Worse fit of sickness ever I had! Ever had stomit ate, ole uncle Bill? Ain't no fun, now, say what oo will.

I used to sleep all day, and cry all night; Don't do it now, 'cause it ain't yite. Got a head of hair jess as black as night And big boo eyes, yat look very bright.

My mamma say, never did see Any ozzer baby half as sweet as me. Grandma come often, aunt Sarah, too; Baby loves zem, baby loves oo.

Baby sends a pooty kiss to his uncles all, Aunties and cousins, big folks and small. Can't say any more, so dood by-- Bully old uncle wiz a glass eye!

The First Letter

"Did you ever get a letter? I did the other day. It was in a real envelope, And it came a long, long way.

A stamp was in the corner And some printing when it came, And the one that wrote the letter Had put 'Miss' before my name.

Then there came a lot more written, I forget now what it read, But it told the office people Where I lived, mamma said.

Don't you s'pose those letter-persons, If they hadn't just been told, Would have thought 'twas for a lady Who was awful, awful old?

For it looked real big and heavy, The outside was stuck with glue, So they couldn't know I'm little, I don't think they could. Do you?"

Youth's Companion

[Page 93--Writing Land]

I'm Going to Write to Papa

I'm going to write to papa, I guess he'd like to hear What his little girl is doing, The same as when he is near;

I'll tell him how I miss him, And how I'd wish he'd come, And never, never, leave us, But always stay at home.

I'll tell him 'bout my dolly, She's sleeping on the floor, I fear that noise will wake her, Oh! please don't slam the door.

For I must not be bothered, That's just what ma would say, When she begins a letter, And sends me off to play.

I'll send him lots of kisses, And one bright shining curl, I'll ask him to remember His lonely little girl;

I want so much to see him, But I won't cry a wink, Cause when I write my letter, The tears would blot my ink.

I'm going to write to papa, And oh! how glad he'll be. To get a little letter That was written all by me.

Old Letters

I gaze upon ye, once again, Old records of the past, And o'er the dim and faded lines My tears are falling fast;

I deem'd not there was a power yet, In these few simple words, To stir within my quiet heart Such old familiar chords.

Ye bring me back mine early dreams-- Oh, but to dream them now, With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart, And pure unsadden'd brow!

The loved--the lost--the changed-- The dead--all these we conjure up, And mingled in the draught That lies in memory's magic cup.

Old letters--sad mementoes ye, Of friendship's shatter'd chain, Oh! that the hand these pages traced, My own might clasp again.

They tell me yet of early love, Of feelings glad and gay, Of childhood's April hopes and fears-- The writers, where are they?

Time's changes are for deeper things Than folly's vain pursuit, Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place For autumn's ripen'd fruit.

Look back upon the buried past, But not with vain regret, Be grateful for the many joys That bloom around thee yet.

Bend heavenward thine onward course, That years of coming age May leave an impress in life's book, Pure as its opening page!

Papa's Letter

I was sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard: "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me That you mustn't be disturbed.

But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer thing to do. Writing letters is 'ou mamma? Tan't I write a letter, too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty now." "No--no mamma; me wite letter, Ten you will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait, As his sweet eyes searched my face-- Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said: "I'll make a letter, Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted, 'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said: "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news," And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee: "Mamma's witting lots of letters; I'se a letter, Mary, see."

No one heard the little prattler, As once more he climbed the stair. Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the table there.

No one heard the front door open, No one saw the golden hair, As it floated o'er his shoulders On the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened, Till he reached the office door: "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman, Is there room for any more?

'Cause this letter's going to papa; Papa lives with God, 'ou know: Mamma sent me for a letter; Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"

But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man;" "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must go if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, And the little feet were hastening, By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left and right, As a pair of maddened horses At that moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure, No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air.

'Twas too late: a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there: Then the little face lay lifeless Covered o'er with golden hair.

Rev'rently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Saw the stamp upon the forehead Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark left the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod; But the little life was ended-- "Papa's letter" was with God.

Bessie's Letter

I have got a letter, A letter of my own, It has my name upon it, Miss Bessie L. Stone.

My papa sent it to me, He's away from home--you see I guess the postman wondered Who Bessie Stone could be.

I'd like to send an answer, But I don't know how to spell; I'll get mamma to do it, And that will do as well.

A Little Boy's Valentine

Little girl across the way, You are so very sweet, I shouldn't be a bit surprised If you were good to eat.

Now what I'd like if you would too, Would be to go and play-- Well, all the time, and all my life, On your side of the way.

I don't know anybody yet On your side of the street, But often I look over there And watch you--you're so sweet.

When I am big, I tell you what, I don't care what they say, I'll go across--and stay there, too, On your side of the way.

Letter Writing

Heaven first taught letters For some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, Or some captive maid.

They live, they speak, They breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, And faithful to its fires;

The virgin's wish Without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, And pour out all the heart--

Speed the soft intercourse From soul to soul, And waft a sigh From Indus to the pole.

Boil it Down

Whatever you have to say my friend, Whether witty, grave, or gay, Condense as much as ever you can, And that is the readiest way; And whether you write of rural affairs, Or particular things in town, Just take a word of friendly advice-- "Boil it down."

Letters from Home

Letters from home! How musical to the ear Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main, When, from the friendly vessel drawing near, Across the billow floats the gentle strain, The words the tear-drops of his memory move; They tell a mother's or a sister's love; And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home. How warmly there the tender home-light shines! What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

[Page 94--Writing Land]

Polly's Letter to Brother Ben

Dear Brother Ben, I take my pen To tell you where, And how, and when, I found the nest Of our speckled hen. She would never lay, In a sensible way, Like other hens, In the barn or the hay;

But here and there And everywhere, On the stable floor, And the wood-house stair, And once on the ground Her eggs I found. But yesterday I ran away, With mother's leave, In the barn to play.

The sun shone bright On the seedy floor, And the doves so white Were a pretty sight As they walked in and out Of the open door, With their little red feet And their features neat, Cooing and cooing More and more.

Well, I went out To look about On the platform wide, Where side by side I could see the pig-pens In their pride; And beyond them both, On a narrow shelf, I saw the speckled hen Hide herself