Kitabı oku: «Graded Memory Selections», sayfa 2

THE BLUE BIRD’S SONG

 
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.
 

—Anon.

SUPPOSE

 
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.
 

—Anon.

AUTUMN LEAVES

 
“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.
 

—Anon.

IF I WERE A SUNBEAM

 
“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.
 

—Lucy Larcom.

MEADOW TALK

 
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.”
 

—Caroline Leslie.

THE OLD LOVE

 
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.
 

—Charles Kingsley.

BED IN SUMMER

 
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?
 

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

THREE COMPANIONS

 
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.
 

—Dinah Mulock-Craik.

THE WIND

 
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!
 

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

 
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.”
 

—Sel.

THE MINUET.¹

 
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.
 

—Mary Mapes Dodge.

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD.²

 
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.
 

—Eugene Field.

PRETTY IS THAT PRETTY DOES

 
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.
 

—Alice Cary.

LULLABY.³

 
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.”
 

—J. G. Holland.

THIRD GRADE

DISCONTENT

 
Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together,
Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.
A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy,
Was resting near this buttercup who wished she was a daisy.
 
 
For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies’ fashion.
And buttercups must always be the same old tiresome color;
While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.
 
 
“Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying.”
“You silly thing!” the Robin said, “I think you must be crazy;
I’d rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.
 
 
“You’re nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.
Be the best buttercup you can, and think no flower above you.
Though swallows leave me out of sight, we’d better keep our places:
Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.
Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing.”
 

—Sarah Orne Jewett.

OUR FLAG

 
There are many flags in many lands,
There are flags of every hue,
But there is no flag in any land
Like our own Red, White and Blue.
I know where the prettiest colors are,
I’m sure, if I only knew
How to get them here, I could make a flag
Of glorious Red, White and Blue.
 
 
I would cut a piece from the evening sky
Where the stars were shining through,
And use it just as it was on high
For my stars and field of Blue.
Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud
And some red from a rainbow bright,
And I’d put them together, side by side
For my stripes of Red and White.
 
 
Then “Hurrah for the Flag!” our country’s flag,
Its stripes and white stars too;
There is no flag in any land
Like our own “Red, White and Blue.”
 

—Anon.

SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES.”

 
The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world.
 

—Robert Browning.

LITTLE BROWN HANDS

 
They drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,
That are yellow with ripening grain.
They find, in the thick, waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.
They gather the earliest snowdrops,
And the first crimson buds of the rose.
 
 
They toss the new hay in the meadow;
They gather the elder-bloom white;
They find where the dusky grapes purple
In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hang ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest
On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.
 
 
They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea-shells—
Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops
Where the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;
And at night-time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.
 
 
Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman—
The noble and wise of the land—
The sword, and the chisel, and palette,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.
 

—M. H. Krout.

WINTER AND SUMMER

 
Oh, I wish the Winter would go,
And I wish the Summer would come,
Then the big brown farmers will hoe,
And the little brown bee will hum.
 
 
Then the robin his fife will trill,
And the wood-piper beat his drum;
And out of their tents on the hill
The little green troops will come.
 
 
Then around and over the trees
With a flutter and flirt we’ll go,
A rollicking, frolicking breeze,
And away with a frisk ho! ho!
 

—Anon.

THE BROOK

 
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down the valley.
 
 
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
 
 
Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.
 
 
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays;
I babble on the pebbles.
 
 
With many a curve my bank I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
 
 
I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.
 
 
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
 
 
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
 
 
And draw them all along and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.
 
 
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers,
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
 
 
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
 
 
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
 
 
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go
But I go on forever.
 

—Tennyson.

THE WONDERFUL WORLD

 
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water around you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast—
World, you are beautifully dressed.
 
 
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
 
 
You, friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheatfields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
 
 
Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day,
A whisper inside me seemed to say,
“You are more than the earth, though you are such a dot:
You can love and think, and the Earth can not!”
 

—W. B. Rands.

DON’T GIVE UP

 
If you’ve tried and have not won,
Never stop for crying;
All that’s great and good is done
Just by patient trying.
 
 
Though young birds, in flying, fall,
Still their wings grow stronger;
And the next time they can keep
Up a little longer.
 
 
Though the sturdy oak has known
Many a blast that bowed her,
She has risen again, and grown
Loftier and prouder.
 
 
If by easy work you beat,
Who the more will prize you?
Gaining victory from defeat,
That’s the test that tries you!
 

—Phœbe Cary.

WE ARE SEVEN

 
—A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
 
 
I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
 
 
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair—
Her beauty made me glad.
 
 
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.
 
 
“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
 
 
“Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”
 
 
“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”
 
 
Then did the little maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.”
 
 
“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid
Then ye are only five.”
 
 
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.
 
 
“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit
And sing a song to them.
 
 
“And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
 
 
“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
 
 
“So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
 
 
“And when the ground was white with snow
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”
 
 
“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O master! we are seven.”
 
 
“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away: for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”
 

—Wordsworth.