There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There’s no rain left in heaven;

I’ve said my “seven times” over and over,

Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always, they know no better—

They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing

And shining so round and low;

You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing,—

You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven,

And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you’re a dusty fellow;

You’ve powdered your legs with gold!

O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow,

Give me your money to hold!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it,—

I will not steal it away;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,—

I am seven times one to-day!

God bless the little stockings all over the land to-night

Hung in the choicest corners, in the glory of crimson light.

The tiny scarlet stockings, with a hole in the heel and toe,

Worn by the wonderful journeys that the darlings have to go.

And Heaven pity the children, wherever their homes may be,

Who wake at the first gray dawning, an empty stocking to see.

What does little birdie say

In her nest at peep of day?

“Let me fly,” says little birdie,

“Mother, let me fly away.”

“Birdie, rest a little longer,

Till the little wings are stronger.”

So she rests a little longer,

Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,

In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie,

“Let me rise and fly away.”

“Baby, sleep a little longer,

Till the little limbs are stronger.

If she sleeps a little longer,

Baby, too, shall fly away.”

Suppose, my little lady,

Your doll should break her head;

Could you make it whole by crying

Till your eyes and nose are red?

And wouldn’t it be pleasanter

To treat it as a joke,

And say you’re glad ’twas Dolly’s,

And not your head, that broke?

Suppose you’re dressed for walking,

And the rain comes pouring down;

Will it clear off any sooner

Because you scold and frown?

And wouldn’t it be nicer

For you to smile than pout,

And so make sunshine in the house

When there is none without?

Suppose your task, my little man,

Is very hard to get;

Will it make it any easier

For you to sit and fret?

And wouldn’t it be wiser,

Than waiting like a dunce,

To go to work in earnest,

And learn the thing at once?

What does the daisy see

In the breezy meadows tossing?

It sees the wide blue fields o’er head

And the little cloud flocks crossing.

What does the daisy see

Round the sunny meadows glancing?

It sees the butterflies’ chase

And the filmy gnats at their dancing.

What does the daisy see

Down in the grassy thickets?

The grasshoppers green and brown,

And the shining, coal-black crickets.

It sees the bobolink’s nest,

That no one else can discover,

And the brooding mother-bird

With the floating grass above her.

Have you ever heard the wind go “Yoooooo”?

’Tis a pitiful sound to hear;

It seems to chill you through and through

With a strange and speechless fear.

’Tis the voice of the wind that broods outside

When folks should be asleep,

And many and many’s the time I’ve cried

To the darkness brooding far and wide

Over the land and the deep:

“Whom do you want, O lonely night,

That you wail the long hours through?”

And the night would say in its ghostly way:

“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”

My mother told me long ago

When I was a little lad

That when the night went wailing so,

Somebody had been bad;

And then when I was snug in bed,

Whither I had been sent,

With the blankets pulled up round my head,

I’d think of what my mother said,

And wonder what boy she meant.

And, “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask

Of the wind that hoarsely blew,

And the voice would say in its meaningful way:

“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”

That this was true, I must allow—

You’ll not believe it though,

Yes, though I’m quite a model now,

I was not always so.

And if you doubt what things I say,

Suppose you make the test;

Suppose that when you’ve been bad some day,

And up to bed you’re sent away

From mother and the rest—

Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?”

And then you’ll hear what’s true;

For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:

“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”

Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise:

Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes:

Sweet little violets hid from the cold,

Put on your mantles of purple and gold.

Daffodils, daffodils, say, do you hear?

Summer is coming and springtime is here.

Suppose the little cowslip

Should hang its golden cup,

And say, “I’m such a tiny flower,

I’d better not grow up;”

How many a weary traveler

Would miss its fragrant smell,

And many a little child would grieve

To lose it from the dell.

Suppose the little breezes,

Upon a summer’s day,

Should think themselves too small

To cool the traveler on his way;

Who would not miss the smallest

And softest ones that blow,

And think they made a great mistake,

If they were talking so?

Suppose the little dewdrop

Upon the grass should say,

“What can a little dewdrop do?

I’d better roll away.”

The blade on which it rested,

Before the day was done,

Without a drop to moisten it,

Would wither in the sun.

How many deeds of kindness

A little child can do,

Although it has but little strength,

And little wisdom, too!

It wants a loving spirit,

Much more than strength, to prove

How many things a child may do

For others by its love.

“Come, little leaves,” said the wind one day;

“Come over the meadows with me, and play,

Put on your dresses of red and gold,

Summer is gone and the days grow cold.”

Soon the leaves heard the wind’s loud call,

Down they fell fluttering, one and all.

Over the brown fields they danced and flew,

Singing the soft little songs they knew.

Dancing and flying, the little leaves went;

Winter had called them, and they were content.

Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds,

The snow laid a white blanket over their heads.

“If I were a sunbeam,

I know what I’d do:

I would seek white lilies

Rainy woodlands through:

I would steal among them,

Softest light I’d shed,

Until every lily

Raised its drooping head.

“If I were a sunbeam,

I know where I’d go:

Into lowliest hovels,

Dark with want and woe:

Till sad hearts looked upward,

I would shine and shine;

Then they’d think of heaven,

Their sweet home and mine.”

Art thou not a sunbeam,

Child whose life is glad

With an inner radiance

Sunshine never had?

Oh, as God has blessed thee,

Scatter rays divine!

For there is no sunbeam

But must die, or shine.

A bumble bee, yellow as gold

Sat perched on a red-clover top,

When a grasshopper, wiry and old,

Came along with a skip and a hop.

“Good morrow” cried he, “Mr. Bumble Bee,

You seem to have come to stop.”

“We people that work,” said the bee with a jerk,

“Find a benefit sometimes in stopping,

Only insects like you, who have nothing to do

Can keep perpetually hopping.”

The grasshopper paused on his way

And thoughtfully hunched up his knees:

“Why trouble this sunshiny day,”

Quoth he, “with reflections like these?

I follow the trade for which I was made

We all can’t be wise bumble-bees;

There’s a time to be sad and a time to be glad,

A time for both working and stopping,

For men to make money, for you to make honey,

And for me to keep constantly hopping.”

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,

The prettiest doll in the world;

Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,

And her hair was so charmingly curled:

But I lost my poor little doll, dears,

As I played on the heath one day,

And I cried for her more than a week, dears,

And I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,

As I played on the heath one day;

Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,

For her paint is all washed away;

And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,

And her hair not the least bit curled:

Yet for old time’s sake, she is still to me

The prettiest doll in the world.

In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer, quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree,Or hear the grown-up people’s feet

Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the sky is clear and blue,

And I should like so much to play,

To have to go to bed by day?

We go on our walk together—

Baby and dog and I—

Three little merry companions,

’Neath any sort of sky:

Blue as our baby’s eyes are,

Gray like our old dog’s tail;

Be it windy or cloudy or stormy,

Our courage will never fail.

Baby’s a little lady;

Dog is a gentleman brave;

If he had two legs as you have,

He’d kneel to her like a slave;

As it is, he loves and protects her,

As dog and gentleman can.

I’d rather be a kind doggie,

I think, than a cruel man.

I saw you toss the kites on high,

And blow the birds about the sky;

And all around I heard you pass

Like ladies’ skirts across the grass—

O wind, a-blowing all day long,

O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,

But always you yourself you hid.

I felt you push, I heard you call,

I could not see yourself at all—

O wind, a-blowing all day long,

O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you, that are so strong and cold,

O blower, are you young or old?

Are you a beast of field and tree,

Or just a stronger child than me?

O wind, a-blowing all day long,

O wind, that sings so loud a song!

Hearts like doors can open with ease

To very, very little keys;

And ne’er forget that they are these:

“I thank you, sir,” and “If you please.”

Grandma told me all about it,

Told me so I couldn’t doubt it,

How she danced, my grandma danced; long ago—

How she held her pretty head,

How her dainty skirt she spread,

How she slowly leaned and rose—long ago.

Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,

Dimpled cheeks, too, oh, how funny!

Really quite a pretty girl—long ago.

Bless her! why, she wears a cap,

Grandma does and takes a nap

Every single day: and yet

Grandma danced the minuet—long ago.

“Modern ways are quite alarming,”

Grandma says, “but boys were charming”

(Girls and boys she means of course) “long ago.”

Brave but modest, grandly shy;

She would like to have us try

Just to feel like those who met

In the graceful minuet—long ago.

Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.

“Where are you going?” “What do you wish?”

The old Moon asked the three.

“We come to fish for the herring fish

That live in the beautiful sea,

Nets of silver and gold have we,”

Said Wynken, Blynken and Nod.

The old Moon laughed and sang a song

As they rocked in the wooden shoe,

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew.

The little stars were the herring fish

That lived in that beautiful sea,—

“Now cast your nets whenever you wish,

Never afeard are we!”

So cried the stars to the fishermen three—

Wynken, Blynken and Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam.

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe

Bringing the fishermen home.

’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed

As if it could not be,

And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea.

But I can name you the fishermen three—

Wynken, Blynken and Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one’s trundle bed.

So shut your eyes while mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock on the misty sea,—

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—

Wynken, Blynken and Nod.

The spider wears a plain brown dress,

And she is a steady spinner;

To see her, quiet as a mouse,

Going about her silver house,

You would never, never, never guess

The way she gets her dinner.

She looks as if no thought of ill

In all her life had stirred her;

But while she moves with careful tread,

And while she spins her silken thread,

She is planning, planning, planning still

The way to do some murder.

My child, who reads this simple lay,

With eyes down-dropt and tender,

Remember the old proverb says

That pretty is which pretty does,

And that worth does not go nor stay

For poverty nor splendor.

’Tis not the house, and not the dress,

That makes the saint or sinner.

To see the spider sit and spin,

Shut with her walls of silver in,

You would never, never, never guess

The way she gets her dinner.

Over the cradle the mother hung,

Softly crooning a slumber song:

And these were the simple words she sung

All the evening long.

“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee

Where shall the baby’s dimple be?

Where shall the angel’s finger rest

When he comes down to the baby’s nest?

Where shall the angel’s touch remain

When he awakens my babe again?”

Still as she bent and sang so low,

A murmur into her music broke:

And she paused to hear, for she could but know

The baby’s angel spoke.

“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,

Where shall the baby’s dimple be?

Where shall my finger fall and rest

When I come down to the baby’s nest?

Where shall my finger touch remain

When I awaken your babe again?”

Silent the mother sat and dwelt

Long in the sweet delay of choice,

And then by her baby’s side she knelt,

And sang with a pleasant voice:

“Not on the limb, O angel dear!

For the charm with its youth will disappear;

Not on the cheek shall the dimple be,

For the harboring smile will fade and flee;

But touch thou the chin with an impress deep,

And my baby the angel’s seal shall keep.”