Part 10 (1/2)
O love! they die in yon rich sky: They faint on hill, or field or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; And answer, echoes, answer--dying, dying, dying.
--_Tennyson._
LITTLE BOY BLUE.[7]
The little toy dog is covered with dust, But st.u.r.dy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was pa.s.sing fair; And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.
”Now, don't you go till I come,” he said; ”And don't you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreamed of the pretty toys; And as he was dreaming, an angel's song Awakened our Little Boy Blue-- Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true.
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.
--_Eugene Field._
[7] From ”Love Songs of Childhood.” Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Chas. Scribner's Sons.
PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE.[8]
All day long they come and go-- Pittypat and Tippytoe; Footprints up and down the hall; Playthings scattered on the floor, Finger marks along the wall, Tell-tale smudges on the door;-- By these presents you shall know Pittypat and Tippytoe.
How they riot at their play; And a dozen times a day In they troop demanding bread-- Only b.u.t.tered bread will do, And that b.u.t.ter must be spread Inches thick, with sugar, too; And I never can say ”No, Pittypat and Tippytoe.”
Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth, For (I much regret to say) Tippytoe and Pittypat Sometimes interrupt their play With an internecine spat; Fie, for shame; to quarrel so-- Pittypat and Tippytoe.
Oh, the thousand worrying things Every day recurrent brings; Hands to scrub and hair to brush, Search for playthings gone amiss, Many a wee complaint to hush, Many a little b.u.mp to kiss; Life seems one vain fleeting show To Pittypat and Tippytoe.
And when day is at an end There are little duds to mend; Little frocks are strangely torn, Little shoes great holes reveal, Little hose but one day worn, Rudely yawn at toe and heel; Who but _you_ could work such woe, Pittypat and Tippytoe?
But when comes this thought to me ”Some there are who childless be,”
Stealing to their little beds, With a love I cannot speak, Tenderly I stroke their heads-- Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.
G.o.d help those who do not know A Pittypat and Tippytoe.
On the floor and down the hall, Rudely s.m.u.tched upon the wall, There are proofs of every kind Of the havoc they have wrought; And upon my heart you'd find Just such trade marks, if you sought; Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, Pittypat and Tippytoe.
--_Eugene Field._
[8] From ”Love Songs of Childhood.” Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Chas. Scribner's & Sons.
RED RIDING-HOOD.[9]
On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, Ridged o'er with many a drifty heap; The wind that through the pine trees sung The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung; While through the window, frosty-starred, Against the sunset purple barr'd, We saw the somber crow flit by, The hawks gray flock along the sky, The crested blue-jay flitting swift, The squirrel poising on the drift, Erect, alert, his broad gray tail, Set to the north wind like a sail.
It came to pa.s.s, our little la.s.s, With flattened face against the gla.s.s, And eyes in which the tender dew Of pity shone, stood gazing through The narrow s.p.a.ce her rosy lips Had melted from the frost's eclipse.
”Oh, see!” she cried, ”The poor blue-jays!
What is it that the black crow says?