I found the old book two days ago. For many years it rested in a trunk in the attic. The leather binding is tattered and the gilt edging is worn away from the pages. It is nothing remarkable to look at, one might easily pass it by, not give it a second glance . . . but not me. When I spied it there among the papers my heart began to beat faster. This is a treasure long lost to me -- a book from my childhood. These were the poems my mother read to me when I was just a babe. Won't you join me while I read them again? I'll just sit here in the old rocker by the lamp. There now . . . you find a spot and make yourself comfortable . . while I turn the pages. . . .
"Why The Dog's Nose Is Always Cold"
"What makes the dog's nose always cold?"
I'll try to tell you, curls of gold,
If you will good and quiet be,
And come and stand by mamma's knee,
Well, years, and years, and years ago--
How many I don't really know--
There came a rain on sea and shore;
Its like was never seen before
Or since. It fell unceasing down
Till all the world began to drown.
But just before it began to pour,
An old, old man--his name was Noah--
Built him an ark, that he might save
His family from the watery grave;
And in it also he designed
To shelter two of every kind
Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done.
And heavy clouds obscured the sun,
The Noah folks to it quickly ran,
And then the animals began
To gravely march along in pairs;
The leopards, tigers, wolves, and bears,
The deer, the hippopotamuses,
The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walrusses,
The camels, goats, cats and donkeys,
The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys,
The rats, the big rhinoceroses,
The dromedaries and the horses,
The sheep, the mice, and kangaroos,
Hyenas, elephants, and koodoos,
And hundreds more--'twould take all day,
My dear, so many names to say--
And at the very, very end
Of the procession, by his friend
And master, faithful dog was seen;
The livelong time he'd helping been
To drive the crowd of creatures in,
And now with loud, exultant bark,
He gaily sprang aboard the Ark.
Alas! So crowded was the space
He could not in it find a place;
So patiently he tured about--
Stood half way in and half way out.
And those extremely heavy show'rs
Descended through nine hundred hours
And more; and darling, at the close,
Most frozen was his honest nose;
And never could it lose again
The dampness of that dreadful rain,
And that is what, my curls of gold,
Made all the doggies' noses cold!
Anonymous
Somebody's Mother
The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day.
The street was wet with the recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance in her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out!"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meeek, so timid, afraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop--
The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so without hurt or harm,
He guides her trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went
His young heart happy and well content."She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother you understand,
If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."
And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was, "God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"
Anonymous
The Two Mysteries
In the middle of the room, in it's white coffin, lay the dead child, a nephew of the poet. Near it in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl in his lap. The child looked curiously at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into the old man's face. "You don't know what it is, do you my dear?" said he, adding, "We don't either."
We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still,
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call
The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.
We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart pain;
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go
Nor why we're left to wonder still; nor why we do not know.
But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day--
Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say.
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be;
Yet oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we live and see!
Then might they say--these vanished ones--and blessed is the thought!
"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may tell ye naught;
We may not tell it to the quick--this mystery of death--
Ye may not tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath."
The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent
So those who enter death must go as little children sent,
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.
M. P. Dodge
Little Meg and I
You asked me mates to spin a yarn, before we go below;
Well, as the night is calm and fair, and no chance for a blow,
I'll give you one--a story true as ever yet was told--
For, mates, I wouldn't lie about the dead; no not for gold.
The story's of a maid and lad, who loved in days gone by:
The maiden was Meg Anderson, the lad, messmates, was I.
A neater, trimmer craft than Meg was very hard to find;
Why she could climb a hill and make five knots agin the wind;
And as for larnin,' hulks and spars! I've often heard it said
That she could give the scholars points and then come out ahead.
The old schoolmaster used to say, and mates, it made me cry,
That the smartest there was little Meg; the greatest dunce was I.
But what cared I for learnin' then, while she was by my side;
For, though a lad, I loved her, mates, and for her would have died;
And she loved me, the little lass, and often have I smiled
When she said, "I'll be your little wife," 'twas the prattle of a child.
For there lay a gulf between us, mates, with the waters running high;
On one side stood Meg Anderson, on the other side stood I.
Meg's fortune was twelve ships at sea and houses on the land;
While mine--why mates, you might have held my fortune in your hand.
Her father owned a vast domain for miles along the shore;
My father owned a fishing smack, a hut, and nothing more;
I knew that Meg I ne'er could win, no matter how I'd try,
For on a couch of down lay she, on a bed of straw lay I.
I never thought of leaving Meg, or Meg of leaving me,
For we were young and never dreamed that I should go to sea;
Till one bright morning father said: "There's a whale-ship in the bay;
I want you Bill, to make a cruise--you go aboard today."
Well, mates, in two weeks from that time I bade them all good-bye.
While on the dock stood little Meg, and on the deck stood I.
I saw her oft before we sailed, whene're I came on shore.
And she would say: "Bill, when you're gone, I'll love you more and more;
And I promise to be true to you through all the coming years."
But while she spoke her bright blue eyes were filled with pearly tears.
Then as I whispered words of hope and kissed her eyelids dry,
Her last words were, "God speed you, Bill!" so parted Meg and I.
Well, mates, we cruised for four long years, till at last one summer's day
Our good ship, the Minerva, cast anchor in the bay,
Oh, how my heart beat high with hope, as I saw her home once more,
And on the pier stood hundreds, to welcome us ashore;
But my heart sank within me as I gazed with anxious eye--
No little Meg stood on the dock, as on the deck stood I.
Why mates, it nearly broke my heart when I went ashore that day,
For they told me little Meg had wed, while I was far away.
They told me too, they'd forced her to't--and wrecked her fair young life--
Just think, messmates, a child in years, to be an old man's wife.
But her father said it must be so, and what could she reply?
For she was only just sixteen--just twenty-one was I.
Well, mates, a few short years from then--perhaps it might be four--
One blustering night Jack Glinn and I were rowing to the shore,
When right ahead we saw a sight that made us hold our breath--
There floating in the pale moonlight was a woman cold in death.
I raised her up, oh God, messmates, that I had passed her by!
For in the bay lay little Meg and over her stood I.
C. T. Murphy
Not One Child to Spare
"Which shall it be? Which shall it be?"
I looked at John--John looked at me,
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet,
As well as though my locks were jet,)
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak;
"Tell me again what Robert said!"
And then I, listening, bent my head
"This is the letter: -- I will give
A house and land while you shall live,
If in return from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given."
I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had bourne
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this: -- "Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep; so, walking hand in hand--
Dear John and I surveyed our band--
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lillian, the baby slept,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white;
Softly the father stopped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her, not her."
We stooped beside the trundle bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep pitiful and fair;
I saw on James' rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby, too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Bobbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him,"
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! Bad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent reckless, idle one--
Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave
Bid us befriend him to his grave;
Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he;
"And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above
And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite Silently
He lifted up a curl that lay
Across her cheek in wilful way,
And shook his head, "Nay, love, not thee."
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad--
So like his father. "No, John, no--
I cannot, will not, let him go."
And so we wrote in curteous way,
We could not drive one child away;
And aferward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed.
Happy in truth that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in heaven.Anonymous
"My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you please,
And says I might stay till she came if I'd promise her never to tease,
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that's nonsense, for how would you know
What she told me to say if I didn't? Don't you really and truly think so?
"And then you'd feel strange here alone! And you wouldn't know just where to sit;
For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit.
We keep it to match with the sofa. But Jack says it would be like you
To flop yourself right down upon it and knock out the very last screw.
"S'pose you try! I won't tell. You're afraid they would think it was mean?
Well, then there's the album--that's pretty, if you're sure that your fingers are clean.
For sister says sometimes I daub it, but she only says that when she's cross.
There's her picture. You know it! It's like her; but she aint as good-looking, of course.
"This is me. It's the best of 'm all. Now, tell me, you'd never have thought
That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be bought--
For that was the message to pa from the photograph man where I sat--
That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got the money for that.
"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting? Why, often she's longer than this;
There's all her back hair to do up, and all of her front hair to friz.
But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me;
Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee.
"Tom Lee? Her last beau. Why, my goodness! He used to be here day and night,
Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright.
You won't run away then, as he did? For you're not a rich man, they say,
Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. Now are you? And how poor are they?
"Aren't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn't red;
But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said,
But there! I must go. Sister's coming. But I wish I could wait, just to see,
If she ran up to you and she kissed you in the way that she used to kiss Lee."
Brete Harte
L'Envoi
When Earth's last picture is painted and the
tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the
youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie
down for an eon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us
to work anew!And those who were good shall be happy: they
shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with
brushes of comet's hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from--
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never
be tired at all!And only the Master shall praise us, and only
the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one
shall work for fame;
But each to the joy of the working, and each,
in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of
Things as They Are!Rudyard Kipling
"A child cannot help but begin life with a love of
poetry if you consider that the first sound he hears is
a poem: the rhythmic beat of his mother's heart."Jim Trelease
"The Read-Aloud Handbook"
Penguin, 4th edition, 1995
