No matter where we children are
We run in answer to the bell,
And dinner comes in piping hot;
It makes us hungry just to smell.
Poor Father sharpens up his knife,
And carves with all his might and main;
But long before he’s had a bite
Our Willie’s plate comes back again.
We eat our vegetables and meat,
For Mother, who is always right,
Says those who wish to have dessert,
Must show they have an appetite.
And when a Sunday comes around,
So very, very good we seem,
You’d think ’most any one could tell
That for dessert we’d have ice-cream.
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VALOR.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
There isn’t any giant
Within this forest grim,
And if there were, I wouldn’t be
A bit afraid of him!
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A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
My doll, my doll, my Annabel,
She’s really feeling far from well!
Her wig is gone, her eyes are out,
Her legs are left somewhere about,
Her arms were stolen by the pup,
The hens ate all her sawdust up,
So all that’s really left of her
Is just her clothes and character.
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THE CAPITALIST.
I always buy at the lollipop-shop,
On the very first day of spring,
A bag of marbles, a spinning-top,
And a pocketful of string.
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IN MERRY ENGLAND.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
In merry, merry England,
In the merry month of May,
Miss Mary Ella Montague
Went out in best array.
Her wise mama called out to her,
“My darling Mary Ella,
It looks like rain to-day, my dear;
You’d best take your umbrella!”
That silly girl she paid no heed
To her dear mother’s call.
She walked at least six miles that day,
And it never rained at all!
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THE GOOSE GIRL.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
Oh, I’m a goose, and you’re a goose, and we’re all geese together.
We wander over hill and dale, all in the sweet June weather,
While wise folk stay indoors and pore
O’er dusty books for learning lore.
How glad I am—how glad you are—that we’re birds of a feather:
That you’re a goose, and I’m a goose, and we’re all geese together!
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THE PHILOSOPHER
By Lucy Fitch Perkins.
Let me make you acquainted with Mrs. O’Toole,
Though she’s had little learning, she’s nobody’s fool,
She loves her fine geese, but when they are dead
She’ll comfort herself with a new feather bed.
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EVERY-DAY VERSES
BY ALDEN ARTHUR KNIPE
PICTURES BY EMILIE BENSON KNIPE
THIRSTY FLOWERS
I have a little wat’ring-pot,
It holds two quarts I think,
And when the days are very hot
I give the plants a drink.
They lift their heads as flowers should,
And look so green and gay;
I’m sure that if they only could,
“We thank you, Sir,” they’d say.
SHARING WITH OTHERS
Sometimes Mother gives to me
Such a lot of money—See!
But it’s very hard to buy
All the things you’d like to try,
And you always share your penny
With a child who hasn’t any.
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POCKETS
Pockets are fine
For marbles and twine,
For knives and rubber bands;
So, stuff them tight
From morning till night
With anything else but hands!
WAITING FOR DINNER
When one is very hungry,
It’s hard to wait, I know,
For minutes seem like hours
And the clock is always slow.
There isn’t time to play a game,
You just sit down and wait,
While Mother says, “Be patient,
Our cook is never late.”
It’s best when one is hungry,
To think of other things,
For then, before you know it,
The bell for dinner rings.
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THE CRITIC
If only more people would write fewer books
How well pleased I would be!
If all the authors would change into cooks
’T would suit me perfectly.
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DIPLOMACY
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
The Widow Hill has a fine plum-tree!
The Widow Hill is fond o’ me.
I’ll call on her to-day!
The plum-tree grows by her front door.
I’ve been meaning to call for a week or more
To pass the time o’ day!
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IF I WERE QUEEN.
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
If I were Queen of Anywhere,
I’d have a golden crown,
And sit upon a velvet chair,
And wear a satin gown.
A Knight of noble pedigree
Should wait beside my seat,
To serve me upon bended knee
With things I like to eat.
I’d have bonbons and cherry pie,
Ice-cream and birthday cake,
And a page should always stay near by
To have my stomach-ache!
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THOUGHTS IN CHURCH
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
Oh, to be a sailor
And sail to foreign lands—
To Greenland’s icy mountains
And India’s coral strands!
To sail upon the Ganges
And see the crocodile,
Where every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.
I’d love to see the heathen
Bow down to wood and stone,
But his wicked graven image
I’d knock from off its throne!
The heathen-in-his-blindness
Should see a thing or two!
He’d know before I left him
What a Yankee boy can do!
