Part 30

Nay, do not scold your little cat, She does not know what 'tis you're saying; And every time you give a pat, She thinks you mean it all for playing.

But if your pussy understood The lesson that you want to teach her, And did not choose to be so good, She'd be, indeed, a naughty creature.

Putting Kitty to Bed

Kitty, Kitty, go to sleep, Shut your eyes, and don't you peep. Sing with me your little song, We will not make it very long.

Hurry Kitty for to see Mamma soon will come for me, And I must see you safe in bed All covered up except your head.

And while I rock you in my chair, You must purr your little prayer, Altho' you say it soft an low, 'Twill all be just the same you know.

Mamma makes me bend my knee, But Kitty dear, you can't, you see, For you're too little yet to try-- See! I'm so big, and tall, and high.

And then you can't say any words, No more than chicks, or little birds. But I've heard the Bible tell That even birds are cared for well.

M. E. S.

[Illustration: Our Puss and her Shoe Coach.]

[Illustration: Our Doggy and Pussy Growling at each other.]

[Illustration: Our Pussies' Party.]

[Page 162--Doggy Land]

Old Mother Hubbard and Her Dog

Old Mother Hubbard Went to the cupboard To get her poor Dog a bone; But when she got there The cupboard was bare, And so the poor Dog had none.

She went to the baker's To buy him some bread, And when she came back The poor Dog looked dead.

She went to the joiner's To buy him a coffin, But when she came back The poor Dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish To get him some tripe, But when she came back He was smoking a pipe.

She went to the ale-house To get him some beer, But when she came back The Dog sat on a chair.

She went to the hatter's To buy him a hat, But when she came back He was feeding the cat.

She went to the barber's To buy him a wig, But when she came back He was dancing a jig.

She went to the fruiterer's To buy him some fruit, But when she came back He was playing the flute.

She went to the tailor's, To buy him a coat, But when she came back He was riding a goat.

She went to the seamstress To buy him some linen, But when she came back The Dog was a-spinning.

She went to the hosier's To buy him some hose, But when she came back He was dressed in his clothes.

She went to the cobbler's To buy him some shoes, But when she came back He was reading the news.

She went to the hotel To get him some ale, But when she came back, He was wagging his tail.

[Illustration: Dog standing on head.]

She went to the tavern For white wine and red, But when she came back The Dog stood on his head.

The dame made a curtsey, The Dog made a bow; The dame said "Your servant," The Dog said "Bow-wow."

This wonderful Dog Was Dame Hubbard's delight; He could sing, he could dance, He could read, he could write.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him a book, And when she came back He at once took a look.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book two, And when she came back He was tying his shoe.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book three, And when she came back He getting his tea.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book four, And when she came back He sat at the door.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book five, And when she came back He was out for a drive.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book six And when she came back He was picking up sticks.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book seven, And when she came back He was brewing some leaven.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book eight, And when she came back He was baking a cake.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book nine, And when she came back He said it was fine.

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book ten, And when she came back He took it an then

She went to Cole's Book Arcade To buy him book eleven, And when she came back He had gone up to heaven.

To Parents And Schoolmasters

I have been blamed for printing and distributing "Mother Hubbard." My answer is:--"Old Mother Hubbard" has done more towards the education of young children than perhaps any piece of reading in existence. Amongst the hundreds of millions of English speaking people in all parts of the earth, there are very few but can repeat a part or the whole of "Mother Hubbard," and I have seen it somewhat asserted that it is to be found in almost every home in the civilised world. Its rude style of poetry tells nothing against it. The child knows nothing of correct metre: as long as there is a jingling rhyme it is satisfied. The dog is the domestic animal in millions of families, and in numberless cases is actually a more loved companion then brothers and sisters. A simple rhyme, therefore, about this attached, playful, and constant companion is sure to fascinate the young, and it has fascinated more than a thousand millions of the little dears. I firmly believe that it would produce grand results if a pretty illustrated edition of the principal nursery rhymes were made a text-book in infant schools. You may try, and try, and try again, to drive an ordinary dry school-book lesson into the infant mind, and make very little progress--it is up-hill work. But take an illustrated edition of a nursery rhyme, say the "Death of Cock Robin," or "Mother Hubbard," and call the little one to you, begin to teach it--how eagerly, how intently does it begin to learn now! What animation in its little eyes! What music in its little, joyous, interested voice! It learns this lesson ten times as fast as the other one, and gives you ten times the pleasure in teaching it, and this kind of teaching gradually and insensibly leads the child into a love of learning: it interests and sets the young inquiring mind at work. We all know how much easier it is to do a work we are interested in than a work we are not. It is just so with the child, and for that reason I would commence to teach the infant mind with that which pleased it best, and so gradually create a love for reading. For years I have allowed numbers of little children, of their own accord, to stand and read nursery rhymes to themselves, and to teach other youths to read interesting and instructive fiction, gratis, in the Book Arcade; and I hold that, by its enticingly creating a love for reading, which will lead to something higher, time is one of the best and most effective schools in the country.

--E. W. Cole

[Page 163--Doggy Land]

Tom Tinker's Dog

Bow, wow, wow, whose dog art tho? I'm Tom Tinker's dog, and I'll bite you.

Puppy

There was an Old Man of Leghorn, The smallest as ever was born; But quickly snapt up he Was once by a puppy, Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn.

Doggy

The cat sat asleep by the side of the fire, The mistress snored loud as a pig; Jack took up his fiddle by doggy's desire, And struck up a bit of a jig.

Hark, the Dogs bark

Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, Beggars are coming to town; Some in jags, some in rags, And some in velvet gown.

Poor Dog Bright

Poor dog Bright Ran off with all his might, Because the cat was after him: Poor dog Bright.

Dog Blue Bell

I had a little dog, and his name was Blue Bell, I gave him some work, and he did it very well; I sent him up stairs to pick up a pin, He stepped into the coal-scuttle up to the chin; I sent him to the garden to pick some sage, He tumbled down and fell in a rage; I sent him to the cellar to draw a pot of beer, He came up again and said there was none there.

Little Dog Buff

I had a little Dog, and they called him buff, I sent him to the shop for a hap'orth of snuff; But he lost the bag and spilled the snuff. So take that cuff, and that's enough.

Dog Burnt his Tail

Ding, dong, darrow, The cat and the sparrow; The little dog has burnt his tail, And he shall be hang'd to-morrow.

Thievish dog Fan

Thievish dog Fan, to yell aloud began, She burnt her mouth through stealing tripe: Thievish dog Fan.

The Quarrelsome Dogs

Old Tray and rough Growler are having a fight, So let us get out of their way; They snarl, and they growl, and they bite, Oh dear, what a terrible fray!

Good Little Dog

I will not hurt my little dog, But stroke and pat his head; I like to see him wag his tail, I like to see him fed.

Poor little thing, how very good, And very useful too. For don't you know that he will mind What he is bid to do?

Then I will never hurt my dog, Nor ever give him pain; But treat him kindly every day, And he'll love me again.

[Illustration: Puss on Rover's Back.]

Puss And Rover

Our Pussy she is white, Our Rover he is black, And yet he licks Pussy's face While she stands on his back.

Our Pussy she is little, Our Rover he is big, And yet he likes the Pussy Much better than the pig.

Our Pussy she is young, And Rover he is old, And yet he likes the Pussy More than tons of gold.

Our Pussy she is good, And so is Rover too, So Pussy says, "Ta, ta." "Good-bye," And Rover says "Adieu."

Don't Tease Dogs

Foolish Edward runs away, From the large dog with the bone; If we do not tease or chide, Dogs will leave us quite alone.

No Breakfast for Growler

No, naughty Growler, get away, You shall not have a bit; Now when I speak, how dare you stay? I can't spare any, Sir, I say, And so you need not sit.

Poor Growler! do not make him go, But recollect, before, That he has never served you so, For you have given him many a blow, That patiently he bore.

Poor growler! if he could but speak, He'd tell (as well as he might) How he would bear with many a freak, And wag his tail, and look so meek, And neither bark nor bite.

Upon his back he lets you ride, All round and round the yard; And now, while sitting by your side, To have a bit of bread denied, Is really very hard.

And all your little tricks he'll bear, And never seem to mind; And yet you say you cannot spare One bit of breakfast for his share, Although he is so kind.

Good Dog Tray

Good Dog Tray Watched Tommy t'other day, In the garden fast asleep: Good Dog Tray.

Poor Old Tray

See, here is poor old Tray; Good dog to run so fast, To meet my sister May and me, Now school is o'er at last.

Oh! how I love you, Tray, You are so kind to me; You run beside me in my walks, You sit by me at tea.

'Tis true that I give you bits Of cake and bread and meat; But I'm sure you'd love as well If you had nought to eat.

For faithful, true, and kind Is our old darling Tray; He guards our dwelling all the night, And plays with us by day.

Doggy minds the House

"Come hither, little puppy dog, I'll give you a nice new collar, If you will learn to read your book And be a clever scholar."

"No, no!" replied the puppy dog, "I've other fish to fry, "For I must learn to guard your house, And bark when thieves come nigh."

[Page 164--Goat Land]

[Illustration: Goat Writing on Pad of Paper.]

O'Grady's Goat

O'Grady lived in shanty row, The neighbours often said They wished that Tim would move away Or that his goat was dead. He kept the neighbourhood in fear, And the children always vexed; They couldn't tell jist whin or where The goat would pop up nexht.

Ould Missis Casey stood wan day The dirty clothes to rub Upon the washboard, when she dived Head foremost o'er the tub; She lit upon her back an' yelled, As she was lying flat: "Go git your goon an' kill the bashte." O'Grady's goat did that.

Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash, Upon the line to dry. She wint to take it in at night, But stopped to have a cry. The sleeves av two red flannel shirts, Tat once was worn by Pat, Were chewed off almost to the neck. O'Grady's goat doon that.

They had a party at McCune's, And they were having foon, Whin suddinly there was a crash An' ivrybody roon. The iseter soup fell on the floor An' nearly drowned the cat; The stove was knocked to smithereens. O'Grady's goat doon that.

O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg Ave dannymite wan day To blow a cistern in his yard An' hid the stuff away. But suddinly an airthquake coom, O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat, And ivrything in sight wint up, O'Grady's goat doon that.

Will S. Hays

[Illustration: Goat Attacking a Swing.]

The Goat and the Swing

A little story with a moral For the young folks who are prone to quarrel. Old folks are wise, and do not need it, Of course they, therefore, will not read it.

A vicious goat, one day, had found His way into forbidden ground When coming to the garden-swing, He spied a most prodigious thing,-- A ram, a monster, to his mind, With head before and head behind!

Its shape was odd--no hoofs were seen, But, without legs, it stood between Two uprights, lofty posts of oak, With forehead ready for a stroke.

Though but a harmless ornament Carved of the seat, it seemed intent On barring the intruder's way; While he, advancing, seemed to say, "Who is this surly fellow here, Two heads, no tail--it's mighty queer! A most insulting countenance!"

With stamp of foot and angry glance He curbed he threatening neck and stood Before the passive thing of wood. "You winked as I was going by! You did not? What! tell me I lie? Take that!" And at the swing he sprung.

A sounding thump! It backward swung, And set in motion by the blow, Swayed menacingly to and fro. "Ha! you will fight! A quarrelsome chap, I knew you were! You'll get a rap! I'll crack your skull!" A headlong jump; Another and a louder bump!

The swing, as with kindling wrath, Came rushing back along the path. The goat, astonished, shook his head, Winked hard, turned round, grew mad, and said, "Villain! I'll teach you who I am!" (Or seemed to say,)--"you rascal ram, To pick a fight with me, when I So quietly am passing by! Your head or mine!" A thundering stroke-- The cracking horns met crashing oak!

Then came a dull and muffled sound, And something rolled along the ground, Got up, looked sad--appeared to say, "Your head's too hard!"--and limped away Quite humbly, in a rumpled coat-- A dustier and a wiser goat!

J. T. Throwbridge

[Illustration: Swing Returning The Blow.]

[Page 165--Monkey Land]

[Illustration: Meddlesome Jacko.]

The Adventures of Meddlesome "Jacko"

These pictures we hope Will our little folks please, And also to each one This moral convey: "Be contented and happy, Whatever your lot, And don't try, as some do, To have your own way."

Master Jacko, you see, Had a very snug home, With plenty to eat That was wholesome and good; But still he did not, We are sorry to say, Behave in a way That a pet monkey should.

For one day he said, "Come, I don't like at all The life that I lead, And I cannot see why I should not live just As my own master does; This chain is not strong, Can I break it? I'll try."

After some little time Jacko snapped it in two; Said he to himself, "Well, now where shall I go? To the larder, I think; For my appetite's good, And I'm sure to find Something to eat there, I know."

He entered, and as he Was looking about A lobster just brought From the shop seized his tail, And pinched him, and nipped him, Until our young friend Jumped about, and set up A most piteous wail.

Next he went to the kitchen, And there he espied A bottle of something-- "Ha, ha, I must taste!" But he found it was curry, Which burnt his poor throat, So he let drop the bottle, And he ran off in haste.

To the dining-room the He repaired, and he said, "Into master's tea-pot The hot water I'll pour;" But he upset the kettle, And scalded himself, And loudly screamed out As he rolled on the floor.

Quoth Jacko, "the house Doesn't suit me at all, I had better go back To the garden again, And gather some peaches, Or grapes, or some plums, And try to forget All my trouble and pain."

In the corner the rogue Saw a bee-hive--"Why, here Must be honey! Delicious!" Said he; "Just the thing!" So he put in his hand, But he brought out the bees, And they punished poor Jacko With many a sting.

Pinched, scalded, and stung, To his home he returned. Reasoned he, "My past folly I shall not regret; For I'm sure the misfortunes I've gone through to-day Have taught me a lesson I ne'er shall forget."

A Fruitless Sorrow

A little monkey, Dusky, ugly, sad, Sat hopeless, curled Within his narrow cage; Dark was the stifling room, No joy he had; The sick air rang With tones of pain and rage.

From many a prisoned Creature held for sale, Stolen from the happy Freedom of its life: Dull drooping birds, That uttered shriek and wail, And beast and reptile Full of woe and strife.

Into the place A cheerful presence came, And kind eyes lighted On the monkey small; Straightway the weary World was not the same Such fortune did The little thing befall.

Safe in a basket Fastened, he was sent Across the city, Trembling and afraid. But once he saw his new home, What sweet content Was his, while petted And caressed, he played.

A week of bliss, Alas! that it should end! He had forgotten Darkness, pain, and all; But there were monkeys Finer than our friend, His master's eyes On such a one must fall!

So fate had ordered, And the frisky sprite, Dun-coloured, grey, And streaked with cinnamon, Born in far bright Brazil, Was bought at sight, And all the first Poor pet's fortune won.

They brought into The bright and cheerful room The basket small In which he had been borne To such a happy life. He saw his doom At once, the misery Of his lot forlorn.

The moment that The basket met his sight, He dropped his head, And hid his sorrowing eyes Against his arm, Nor looked to left nor right, As any thinking Human creature wise.

They took him back Into his noisome den, His tiny face Concealed as if he wept, So helpless to resist. Heroic men Might such despairing Patient calm have kept.

Poor little thing! And if he lingers yet, Or death has ended Life so hard to bear I know not; But I never can forget His brief rejoicing And his mute despair.

[Illustration: Our Own Jacko.]

[Page 166--Gee Gee Land]

[Illustration: Girl on Horse-Drawn Cart.]

The Horse

The horse, the brave. The gallant Horse-- Fit theme for the minstrel's song! He hath good claim To praise and fame; As the fleet, the kind, the strong.

Behold him free In his native strength, Looking fit for the sun-god's car; With a skin as sleek As a maiden's cheek, And an eye like a Polar star.

Who wonders not Such limbs can deign To brook the fettering firth; As we see him fly The ringing plain, And paw the crumbling earth?

His nostrils are wide With snorting pride, His fiery veins expand; And yet he'll be led With s silken thread, Or soothed by and infant's hand.

He owns the lion's Spirit and might, But the voice he has learnt to love Needs only be heard, And he'll turn to the word, As gentle as a dove.

The Arab is wise Who learns to prize His barb before all gold; But us his barb More fair than ours, More generous, fast or bold?

A song for the steed, The gallant steed-- Oh! grant him a leaf of bay; For we owe much more To his strength and speed, Than man can ever repay.

Whatever his place-- The yoke, the chase, The war-field, road, or course, One of Creation's Brightest and best Is the Horse, the noble Horse!

Eliza Cook

The Wonderful Horse

I've a tale to relate. Such a wonderful tale That really I fear My description must fail; 'Tis about a fine horse Who had powers so amazing. He lived without eating, Or drinking, or grazing; In fact this fine horse Was so "awfully" clever. That left to himself He'd have lived on forever.

He stood in a room, With his nose in the air, And his wide staring eyes Looking no one knows where. His tail undisturbed By the sting of a fly One foot slightly raised As if kicking he'd try, This wonderful horse Never slept or yet dozed, At least if he did so, His eyes never closed.

"Come, gee up, old Dobbin. Look sharp, don't you see I want to be there And get back before tea?" But this obstinate horse Never offered to prance, Or made an attempt At the slightest advance; Harry slashed him so hard. That he slashed off one ear, Then his mane tumbled off, And poor Dobbin looked queer.

With spur, and with whip, And with terrible blows, He soon was deprived Of one eye, and his nose, While his slightly-raised foot Found a place on the floor. The tail once so handsome Was handsome no more, And Harry, the tears Raining down as he stood, Cried, "Bother the horse, It is nothing but wood!"

The Pony

Oh, Brownie, our pony, A gallant young steed, Will carry us gaily O'er hill, dale, and mead.

So sure is his foot, And so steady his eye. That even our baby To mount him might try.

We haste to his stable To see him each day, And feed him with oats And the sweetest of hay.

We pat his rough coat, And we deck him with flowers, Oh, never was seen Such a pony as ours.

The Horse

No one deserves to have a horse Who takes delight to beat him: The wise will choose a better course, And very kindly treat him.

If ever it should be my lot-- To have, for use or pleasure, One who could safely walk or trot The horse would be a treasure.