Kitabı oku: «Graded Memory Selections», sayfa 3

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

 
When I was sick and lay abed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.
 
 
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bedclothes, through the hills;
 
 
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
 
 
I was the giant great and still,
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
 

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

THE BROWN THRUSH

 
There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,
“He’s singing to me! He’s singing to me!”
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
Don’t you hear? Don’t you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,
I’m as happy as happy can be!”
 
 
And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,
And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don’t meddle! Don’t touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I’m glad! Now I’m free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me.”
 
 
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me:
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!
But long it won’t be,
Don’t you know? don’t you see?
Unless we are as good as can be!”
 

—Lucy Larcom.

THE SILVER BOAT

 
There is a boat upon a sea;
It never stops for you or me.
The sea is blue, the boat is white;
It sails through winter and summer night.
 
 
The swarthy child in India land
Points to the prow with eager hand;
The little Lapland babies cry
For the silver boat a-sailing by.
 
 
It fears no gale, it fears no wreck;
It never meets a change or check
Through weather fine or weather wild.
The oldest saw it when a child.
 
 
Upon another sea below
Full many vessels come and go;
Upon the swaying, swinging tide
Into the distant worlds they ride.
 
 
And strange to tell, the sea below,
Where countless vessels come and go,
Obeys the little boat on high
Through all the centuries sailing by.
 

—Anon.

THE DANDELION

 
Bright little dandelion,
Downy, yellow face,
Peeping up among the grass
With such gentle grace;
Minding not the April wind
Blowing rude and cold;
Brave little dandelion,
With a heart of gold.
 
 
Meek little dandelion,
Changing into curls
At the magic touch of these
Merry boys and girls.
When they pinch thy dainty throat,
Strip thy dress of green,
On thy soft and gentle face
Not a cloud is seen.
 
 
Poor little dandelion,
Now all gone to seed,
Scattered roughly by the wind
Like a common weed.
Thou hast lived thy little life
Smiling every day;
Who could do a better thing
In a better way?
 

—Anon.

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY

 
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
 
 
Through clouds like ashes,
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
 
 
The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o’er the plain;
 
 
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.
 
 
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell.
 
 
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.
 

—Longfellow.

NIKOLINA.⁴

 
Oh, tell me, little children, have you seen her—
The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina?
Oh, her eyes are blue as corn-flowers ’mid the corn,
And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn.
 
 
Oh, buy the baby’s blossoms if you meet her,
And stay with gentle looks and words to greet her;
She’ll gaze at you and smile and clasp your hand,
But not one word of yours can understand.
 
 
“Nikolina!” Swift she turns if any call her,
As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller;
Breaking off their flaming scarlet cups for you,
With spikes of slender larkspur, brightly blue.
 
 
In her little garden many a flower is growing—
Red, gold and purple, in the soft wind blowing;
But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay
Is sweeter, quainter, brighter, lovelier even than they.
 
 
Oh, tell me, little children, have you seen her—
This baby girl from Norway, Nikolina?
Slowly she’s learning English words to try
And thank you if her flowers you buy.
 

—Celia Thaxter.

LOST!⁵

 
“Lock the dairy door!” Oh, hark, the cock is crowing proudly!
“Lock the dairy door!” and all the hens are cackling loudly.
“Chickle, chackle, chee!” they cry; “we haven’t got the key,” they cry,
“Chickle, chackle, chee! Oh, dear! wherever can it be?” they cry.
 
 
Up and down the garden walks where all the flowers are blowing,
Out about the golden fields where tall the wheat is growing,
Through the barn and up the road, they cackle and they clatter;
Cry the children, “Hear the hens! Why, what can be the matter?”
 
 
What scraping and what scratching, what bristling and what hustling,
The cock stands on the fence, the wind his ruddy plumage rustling.
Like a soldier grand he stands, and like a trumpet glorious,
Sounds his shout both far and near, imperious and victorious.
 
 
But to the Partlets down below who cannot find the key, they hear,
“Lock the dairy door;” that’s all his challenge says to them, my dear.
Why they had it, how they lost it, must remain a mystery;
I that tell you, never heard the first part of the history.
 
 
But if you listen, dear, next time the cock crows proudly
“Lock the dairy door!” you’ll hear him tell the biddies loudly:
“Chickle, chackle, chee!” they cry; “we haven’t got the key!” they cry;
“Chickle, chackle, chee! Oh, dear! wherever can it be?” they cry.
 

—Celia Thaxter.

ROBIN OR I?⁶

 
Robin comes with early spring,
Dressed up in his very best;
Very pretty is his suit—
Brownish coat and reddish vest.
 
 
Robin takes my cherry tree
For his very, very own;
Never asking if he may—
There he makes his dainty home.
 
 
Robin eats my cherries, too,
In an open, shameless way;
Feeds his wife and babies three—
Giving only songs for pay.
 
 
Bolder thief than robin is
Would be hard, indeed, to find;
But he sings so sweet a tune
That I really do not mind!
 
 
“Cheer up! Cheer up!” Robin sings;
“Cheer up! Cheer up!” all day long;
Shine or shower, all the same,
“Cheer up! Cheer up!” is his song.
 
 
Eating, singing, Robin lives
There within my cherry tree;
When I call him “robber!” “thief!”
Back he flings a song to me!
 
 
“May I have some cherries, please?”
Robin never thinks to say;
Yet, who has the heart—have you?
Saucy Rob to drive away?
 

—Sarah E. Sprague.

FOURTH GRADE

PSALM XXIII

1. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

3. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

4. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

5. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

—Bible.

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL

 
The Mountain and the Squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”
 
 
Bun replied:
“You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year,
And a sphere;
 
 
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You’re not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
 
 
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track.
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put:
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
 

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

ABOU BEN ADHEM

 
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.”
 
 
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest;
And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
 

—James Henry Leigh Hunt.

BUGLE SONG

 
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes—dying, dying, dying!
 
 
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes—dying, dying, dying!
 
 
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 sturdy 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 passing 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.

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 buttered bread will do,
And that butter 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 bump 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.
God help those who do not know
A Pittypat and Tippytoe.
 
 
On the floor and down the hall,
Rudely smutched 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.

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 pass, our little lass,
With flattened face against the glass,
And eyes in which the tender dew
Of pity shone, stood gazing through
The narrow space 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?
The squirrel lifts his little legs
Because he has no hands, and begs;
He’s asking for nuts, I know;
May I not feed them on the snow?”
 
 
Half lost within her boots, her head
Warm-sheltered in her hood of red,
Her plaid skirt close about her drawn,
She floundered down the wintry lawn;
Now struggling through the misty veil
Blown round her by the shrieking gale;
Now sinking in a drift so low
Her scarlet hood could scarcely show
Its dash of color on the snow.
 
 
She dropped for bird and beast forlorn
Her little store of nuts and corn,
And thus her timid guests bespoke:
“Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak—
Come, black old crow; come, poor blue-jay,
Before your supper’s blown away!
Don’t be afraid, we all are good!
And I’m mamma’s Red Riding-Hood!”
 
 
O Thou whose care is over all,
Who heedest even the sparrow’s fall,
Keep in the little maiden’s breast
The pity, which is now its guest!
Let not her cultured years make less
The childhood charm of tenderness.
But let her feel as well as know,
Nor harder with her polish grow!
Unmoved by sentimental grief
That wails along some printed leaf,
But, prompt with kindly word and deed
To own the claims of all who need,
Let the grown woman’s self make good
The promise of Red Riding-Hood!
 

—Whittier.

THE SANDPIPER AND I.¹⁰

 
Across the lonely beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.
 
 
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
Nor flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong,
He scans me with a fearless eye;
Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
 
 
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter can’st thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God’s children, both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
 

—Celia Thaxter.

IN SCHOOL DAYS.¹¹

 
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow
And blackberry vines are creeping.
 
 
Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial.
 
 
The charcoal frescoes on the wall,
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing.
 
 
Long years ago a winter’s sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.
 
 
It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving
Of one who still her steps delayed,
When all the school were leaving.
 
 
For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon his face
Where pride and shame were mingled.
 
 
Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right, to left, he lingered—
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.
 
 
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.
 
 
“I’m sorry that I spelt the word,
I hate to go above you,
Because”—the brown eyes lower fell—
“Because, you see, I love you.”
 
 
Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing.
 
 
He lives to learn in life’s hard school
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her—because they love him.
 

—Whittier.

TAKE CARE

 
Little children, you must seek
Rather to be good than wise,
For the thoughts you do not speak
Shine out in your cheeks and eyes.
 
 
If you think that you can be
Cross and cruel and look fair,
Let me tell you how to see
You are quite mistaken there.
 
 
Go and stand before the glass,
And some ugly thought contrive,
And my word will come to pass
Just as sure as you’re alive!
 
 
What you have and what you lack,
All the same as what you wear,
You will see reflected back;
So, my little folks, take care!
 
 
And not only in the glass
Will your secrets come to view;
All beholders, as they pass,
Will perceive and know them, too.
 
 
Goodness shows in blushes bright,
Or in eyelids dropping down,
Like a violet from the light;
Badness in a sneer or frown.
 
 
Out of sight, my boys and girls,
Every root of beauty starts;
So think less about your curls,
More about your minds and hearts.
 
 
Cherish what is good, and drive
Evil thoughts and feelings far;
For, as sure as you’re alive,
You will show for what you are.
 

—Alice Cary.

A LIFE LESSON.¹²

 
There! little girl; don’t cry!
They have broken your doll, I know;
And your tea-set blue,
And your play-house, too,
Are things of the long ago;
But childish troubles will soon pass by.
There! little girl; don’t cry!
 
 
There! little girl; don’t cry!
They have broken your slate, I know;
And the glad wild ways
Of your school-girl days
Are things of the long ago;
But life and love will soon come by.
There! little girl; don’t cry!
 
 
There! little girl; don’t cry!
They have broken your heart, I know;
And the rainbow gleams
Of your youthful dreams
Are things of the long ago;
But heaven holds all for which you sigh.
There! little girl; don’t cry!
 

—James Whitcomb Riley.

FIFTH GRADE

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

 
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
 
 
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
 
 
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.
 
 
And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
 
 
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
 
 
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more—
How in the grave she lies;
And, with his hard, rough hand, he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
 
 
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
 
 
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life,
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
 

—Longfellow.