Mother and Child - Verses for Little & Big Folks

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother And Child

 

Verses for Little & Big Folks

 

-              o            -       

 

By Joe Cone

 

 

(Some posted individually, others not)

Mother And Child

Poems.

 

1.              Her Old Rubber Doll.

2.           A Good-Night Song.

3.           Popperty’s Girl.

4.           A Brave Little Soldier.

5.           The Actor’s Child.

6.           A Little Old Woman.

7.            To Sleeptown.

8.           Engine #3.

9.           Peachblow Feet etc.

10.        Them Baby’s Shoes.

11.         “No Children Wanted Here”.

12.       Childless Man’s Song.

13.        A Waif Song.

14.        Mouse + the Farmer.

15.        Day Before Christmas.

16.        Santa Claus.

17.         God’s Eyes.

18.        Little April Lady.

19.        Some Hard Questions.

20.      My Little Lady.

21.       Baby’s Way.

22.      Fate of a Frog

23.      Little Climber.

24.      Little Curly.

25.      The Old Dolly.

26.      “Mousie”.

27.       ”Let Me In”.

28.      Peachblow Feet + Tumbledown.

29.      I Want Somebody’s Love.

30.      Eugene Field.

31.        My Me.

32.      Thid.

33.       Litle Flo’s Xmas Present.

34.       What Thomas Turkey Said.

35.       Santa’s Rapid Transit.

36.      Baby + the Moon.

37.       A Song of Springtime.

38.      When She Grows.

39.      The “I Don’t Want To” Land.

40.      Skidimidrink + Skidimidee.

 

                                         

  Her Old Rubber Doll

 

 

The Rubber Doll whistles, the Rubber Doll squeaks,

The Rubber Doll listens, and mutters and speaks;

It jumps and it tumbles, and oft has a fall,

But nothing can equal that old Rubber Doll.

 

A hundred times a day our Little One kisses it,

A hundred times a day our Little One misses it,

A hundred times a day she makes it squall,

Then she catches it and blesses it,

And smoothes it and caresses it,

     And talks very knowing to her old Rubber Doll.

 

The Rubber Doll scolds, and the Rubber Doll squawks,

The Rubber Doll whimpers and grumbles and talks.

It moans and it cries with a pitiful call,

But baby just worships her old Rubber Doll.

 

A hundred times a day our Little One sighs for it,

A hundred times a day our Little One cries for it,

A hundred times a day she lets it fall

Then she catches it and snugs it up,

And drowsily she hugs it up,

     And drops off to slumber with her old Rubber Doll.

 

     Little Folks.

                                Weekly Bouquet June 22, ‘99

 

 

A Good-Night Song

 

 

                     I.

 

Mother croons a good-night song,

        Close your eyes, my dearie;

a wee one throng,

        Close your eyes, my dearie.

Close your eyes while mother sings,

Hear the dip of fairy wings,

Night a peaceful slumber brings,

        Close your eyes, my dearie.

 

                  CHORUS

 

Close your eyes,

Little dear;

In the skies,

   Stars appear.

Through the light

   Shadows creep;

Dear, good night,

   Go to sleep.

 

                    II.

 

Bylo land in slumber lies,

       Close your eyes, my dearie;

Angels watch you from the skies,

       Close your eyes, my dearie.

Slumber while the night wind sighs,

Slumber ere the twilight flies,

Dream of love and lullabies,

       Close your eyes, my dearie.

 

                       CHORUS

 

Close your eyes,

Little dear;

In the skies,

     Stars appear.

Through the light

     Shadows creep;

Dear good night,

     Go to sleep.

                                                    – Joe Cone

National Magazine, June ‘99

                                                          

Popperty’s Girl

 

 

Popperty’s girl has eyes of brown

     And her cheeks are round and pink;

Her hair is brown,

And soft as down,

     And curly as you can think.

Popperty’s girl can talk, O yes,

     She talks from morning till night;

And so good is she,

she climbs on my knee

     And offers to help me write.

Thus she steals my time day after day,

For Popperty never could send her away.

 

It’s Popperty this, and Popperty that,

     And “Popperty, peet-a-boo”;

And “Popperty here,”

And “Popperty dear,”

     And “Popperty boo-woo-woo!”

And then I toss her high in the air,

     And give her a gentle whirl;

And she laughs and crows,

              And pulls at my nose,

     For she is “Popperty’s girl!”

 

 

(Taken from typed version. Written June 6, ’99)

 

  A Brave Little Soldier.

I’ve just been reading history, all about heroic days,

About our soldiers fighting, and the Injuns wicked ways;

About the British and our men who fought at Bunker Hill,

About how the North and South held ground, as on’y soldiers will.

 

I tell you men was mighty brave, and mighty daring then,

And I just wish ‘at I was big as all the other men;

I’d like to fight ‘ith guns and swords, and be a soldier too,

Right in the thickest of the fight – hurrah! now wouldn’t you?

 

What’s ‘at you say? I didn’t hear. O, yes, I did forget

To shut the chickens up, mamma, but I will do it yet.

Dear suz, it’s dark – my! what was ‘at? It give me such a fright!

I can’t – boo-hoo – shut up the hens, ‘less someone holds a light!

 

(Taken from typed version, but written Oct. 11, ‘96

and published in Sunday World, April 18, ’97)

 

 

The Actors Child

 

The brilliant streets were full of folk,

     All hast’ning up and down;

And everywhere was life and light

     Within the noisy town.

And some were laughing on their way,

     And some were silent, sad;

And some were kind and noble folk,

     And some, mayhap, were bad.

 

But ever, ever, on the move,

     The great throng hurried by;

Each one upon some mission bent,

     None caring where or why.

But in one lately joyous home,

     Behind dark walls and still,

Upon a dainty bed of white,

     An actor’s child lay ill.

 

All day the anxious mother watched,

     The hand of death to stay;

The father, but one hour before,

Rushed from the matinee.

And now the clock had spoken six,

     The doctor shook his head;

“An hour, or two; not more than four,”

     And that was all he said.

 

Seven drew near, the actor’s brain,

     It seemed would drive him wild;

He knew his mighty call to go,

     But could not leave his child.

The parents’ hands were clasped in love,

     But neither moved nor spoke;

And when the timepiece chimed again,

     The little one awoke.

 

She half arose and looked around –

     A heavenly face had she;

And something seemed to whisper that

     She neared eternity.

“Papa,” she said, “it’s seven o’clock.

     I counted every chime;

It’s very late; why don’t you go?

     You won’t–be–there–in–time.”

 

“My child, I cannot go to-night,

     My little one is ill;

I could not leave you, dearest girl,

     Now keep you very still.”

“Not go tonight? O, dear papa,

     You shan’t stay here with me;

You must go out, and make them laugh,

     Why – don’t – why can’t – you – see?

 

“The people would feel awful bad,

     Christmas would be so drear;

What would so many people do

     Without you, papa dear?

Now go; please go; my God is good.

     He doesn’t need you here;

He’s telling me to have you go,

     Please – go – now, papa – dear.”

 

One moment more ’twould be too late,

     The darling slept once more;

The actor, true to art and love,

     In sorrow paced the floor.

“Oh God!” he cried, in silent plea,

     “Give unto me thine ear;

Where lies my duty, guiding one,

     O, be it there, or here?”

 

The loving wife stole to his side,

     And, pointing, he knew where,

She whispered, like a guiding voice,

     “Your duty lieth there.

Go; go my husband; do her will,

     She’s in our Father’s care;”

And almost reeling to her side,

     He kissed the golden hair.

 

“O, God! forgive me, should she die,

     And I be far away;”

And forth he rushed, a burdened man,

     To play the light and gay.

And folk were pleased with him that night,

     “A brilliant star,” they said;

But every call stabbed deep his heart,

     And none knew how it bled.

 

The curtain fell, in costume bold,

     He ran into the street.

And hailed a cabman, whom he knew,

     And home was driven fleet.

And when he saw the mother’s face,

     He knew his flower was dead;

“But God was good,” the mother smiled,

     “She woke no more,” she said.

 

Christmas Dramatic News, Dec. 20, 1895

(Written Oct. 13, 1895. )
 

 

   A Little Old Woman

 

 

Upon the street corner in silence there stood

A little old woman in cloak and in hood.

Her hands were encased in a muff of pure white,

From her neck hung a tippet which reached the ground quite.

But she was so short and so queer and so small,

I never saw anything like it at all.

And so I crossed over the better to see

Who on earth this little old woman could be;

And when I got there she upward did look,

And so great was my mirth that with laughter I shook.

Her eyes were of blue and her hair was of gold,

And she was just growing on three years old!

 

 

(Taken from typed version, but written Dec. 2, ‘91

and published in B. Standard Junior, Jube 19, ’95)

 

 

 

To Sleeptown

                       

 

“How far is it to Sleeptown?”

     I asked of baby Flo,

As sleepily she looked at me

     Beneath the lamp’s dim glow.

 

Then, with a dreamy, far off look

     Se shook her curls of tow,

And answered in doubtful tones:

     “Do’ know mama, do’ know.”

 

“Where is the land of Sleeptown?”

     I asked, inclining low;

The while I held her soft, white hand,

     Fair as the apple blow.

 

Then, with one finger raised aloft,

     (A half an inch or so)

She lisped between her lengthening breaths:

     “Dus’ over– o–ver–o’.”

 

 

(Taken from typed version, but written Feb. 7, ‘93

and published in Cambridge Press, June 2, ’94. This version has a number of edits, including a switching of gender.)

 

 

 

        

 

   Engine Number (3)

 

 

O little Ella she doesn’t know much,

     For a wee, wee one is she;

But when night comes round she knows the sound

     Of Engine Number “3”.

 

For her papa is the engineer,

     And a fearless man is he;

And he holds quite still or drives at will

     The monster Number “3”.

 

And when the six o’clock express

     Screams forth its signal, she

Will laugh “ha, ha,” and say papa

     Will soon be in to tea.

 

No, little Ella she doesn’t know much,

     For a wee, wee one is she;

But I’ll be bound she knows the sound

     Of Engine Number “3”.

 

 

(Taken from largely edited, typed version, but written July 26, ’93 and published in Boston Standard Jr., May 17, 1895.)

 

Them Baby’s Shues

 

 

No, no, not them, ’tain’t come to that;

     Jest put  ’em back ag’in;

Hard times hev pinched us purty tight,

     An’ nuthin’s comin’ in.

But, mother, let all else be sold,

     Things ez we need an’ use,

But we will keep, let come what will,

     Them little baby shues.

 

God knows they ain’t but little left,

     An’ that is goin’ fast;

You’ve sold your gowns, an’ me my suit,

     An’ rent is two weeks past.

This man here wants tfiveen dollars with –

     Step up here sir, an’ chuse;

Take what yew will, but keep yewr han’s

     Off frum them baby shues.

 

Them little shues?” No, not ef I

     Go ragged, naked, sir!

Them baby shues?” Why, don’t yew know?

     Thet’s all we hev uv her.

Good stuff in ’em? I know it, sir,

     The best my wife could use;

But God is good, I know he’ll let

     Me keep them baby shoes.

 

 

(Taken from edited, typed version, but written March 29, 1894 and published in B. Traveler, June 13, 1896.)

 

 

No Children Wanted Here

 

 

Maree an’ I closed up the farm an’ took the cars fur town;

We left the children, Dick an’ Nell, with Gramp’ an’ Gramma Brown.

Got tired uv country life had we, Maree ez well ez me,

An’ we wuz goin’ to live at last where we could hear an’ see.

I had a thousand in the bank, a half uv which we drew,

An’ ez we rode along we talked uv what we’d better do.

I thought we’d better hire a house, Maree she thought the same,

(Yew see we’d alluz ’greed like tha e’ert sence she’d took my name)

So up an’ down the streets we tramped, a-lookin’ out fur rents,

An’ found at last a cosy one without too much expense.

But when we spoke uv Dick an’ Nell they looked a bit severe,

An’ said, “We’d like tew let yew in, but want no children here.”

 

An’ after we had tramped around an’ heerd the same reply

From more’n a dozen heartless souls Maree got mad, an’ I,

I says, “if this here city is too good fer Nell an’ Dick,

Be hanged if I will settle here in these ol’ walls uv brick.

Them children ain’t a bit to blame for bein’ born I guessed,

An’ they are jest ez good ez yew an’ all the rest.

I see yew’ve got some here, yewrself, but that is different;

Yewr children’s better’n mine, I s’pose, soo keep yewr tenerment!”

An’ when the evenin’ shadders played acrost the fields an’ wood,

We walked with joy up to our farm an’ settled there fer good.

 

 

(Taken from edited, typed version, but written April 26, ’94 and published in Boston Courier, Sept. 29, 1895.)

 

 

 

 

 

  The Childless Man’s Song

 

 

Dear little toddler come sit on my lap;

Mamma she is weary and needeth a nap.

Papa he is busy for one little while,

Come to me toddler, we’ll frolic and smile.

You know that at home I’ve no toddler like you,

No baby to fondle or listen unto;

So come to me toddler and my baby be,

I’ve stories to tell you and wonders to see.

 

 

Up he goes, up he goes,

     High in the air;

Loud he crows, loud he crows,

Chubby and fair.

Down he comes, down he comes

     Ruffles and all;

Cling to me toddler, I’ll not let you fall.

 

Stay with me toddler, ah, go not away!

I long for your prattle, I’m lonely today;

Your face is a picture of beauty to see,

Your laugh is a pleasure and comfort to me.

Yes come to me toddler, there now I have you!

You cannot escape me nor shall you want to;

Now dear little toddler just listen to me,

I’ve stories to tell you and wonders to see.

 

Up he goes, up he goes,

     High in the air;

Loud he crows, loud he crows,

Chubby and fair.

Down he comes, down he comes

     Ruffles and all;

Cling to me toddler, I’ll not let you fall.

 

 

   B. Courier, Dec. 4, ‘98

 

The Mouse and The Farmer

 

 

A farmer ploughing in the field espied a downy nest,

Which had three tiny sleeping mice together closely pressed;

He stopped his gentle oxen while he looked the babies o’er,

Then turned his cattle out around and went to plough some more.

 

And when the mother mouse came home and saw the mellow soil,

She feared her babies were destroyed and all her springtime toil.

But when she found her little nest safe in the furrowed loam

She thanked the kind old farmer who had spared her little home.

 

(Taken from typed version, but written May 9, 1895 and published in Boston Standard Jr., May 18, 1895.)

 

 

The Day Before Christmas

 

 

A boy behind the window sat,

     And watched the wagons come and go;

Wagons that carried from the street

     Big loads of lately fallen snow.

“I fink it’s mean!” he cried, at length,

     “To carry all that snow away;

Those men are doing it, I know,

     So Santa can’t use his sleigh.”

 

 

(Written Aug. 20, ’95 and published in the Cambridge Press. No alternative version included in this set.)

 

Santa Claus

 

 

Course they is a Santa Claus,

Jest the same as ever was.

Billy Buzzy sez they warn’t

Never one, an’ hain’t now. Can’t

Fool me in any sech way,

‘Cuz I’ve seen him, plain ez day.

Course they is a Santa Claus,

An' I’ll tell yew how it was.

 

Auntie she hed tucked me in,

Slick an’ snuggy ez a pin;

Uncle he hed gone tur bed,

(Leastways so my Auntie said,)

Nen she most turned out the light,

An’ says, “good night, dear, good night”.

Nen I laid ‘ere on my sleeve,

Thinkin’ over Christmas Eve.

 

“Now,” sez I, “Ef I kin keep

Wide erwake, an’ make b’leave sleep,

Bet I’ll see ol’ Santa Claus,

Nen tell Bill Buzzy how it was.

Nen I lied, an’ watched the light

Growin’ dim an’ dimmer, n’ right

‘Fored I knowed it Santa Claus

‘Uz in the room where I was.

 

Couldn’t see his face, but I

Knowed twas him, an’ tell yew why.

He hed lef’ his great big cut,

Down berlow, all over sut,

An’ hed stoled my uncle’s gown,

When he come the chimney down,

An' put it on, jest neat an’ trim,

So’s tur make b’leave ‘twasn’t him!

Course they is a Santa Claus,

Jest the same ez ever was.

 

(Written Aug. 20, ’95 and accepted by Truth. No alternative version included in this set.)

 

 

 

   God’s Eyes

 

 

Two bright little eyes look up at the skies,

And gaze at the stars in mute surprise –

Then, turning to mother, small Isabel cries,

“No wonder Dod sees us, wiv all of his eyes.”

 

Little Folks, March ’98.

(Taken from typed version.)

 

 

   Our Little April Lady

 

 

Our darling’s eyes

Are like the skies

In funny April weather;

So changeful they

The livelong day

We’re never certain whether

A smile will show

Or a tear will flow,

They come so close together.

 

B. Courier, Aug 29, ’99.

 

 

 

Some Hard Questions

 

 

           

     The feller on my knee,

          Says he,

“What is the war about?

What makes they shoot each other down,

An’ blow up ships an’ all get drown’?

     Why can’t they do without?”

          Says he

       To me.

 

 

The feller on my knee

            Says he,

“An’ has you got to go?

An’ is you goin’ to leave mamma

An’ me, an’ march away so far?

You’ll sorry be, I know,”

            Says he

To me.

 

 

The feller on my knee,

            Says he,

“Will you come back again?”

I laid him down, I could not speak,

A tear fell on his upturned cheek –

“I hate ol’ cruel Spain,”

            Says he

To me.

 

Truth, July 20, ’98.

 

 

  My Little Lady

 

 

Come and give papa a kiss,

     Heigho my little lady;

Hurry ere the chance you miss,

     Heigho my little lady.

Kiss papa now, “one,” “two,” “three,”

Hurry ere mama can see,

Be as spry as you can be,

     Heigho my little lady.

 

Spend your kisses free today,

     Heigho my little lady;

Hug and kiss whome’er you may,

     Heigho my little lady.

For you soon will older be,

When papa will have to see

That you kiss no man but “he,”

     Heigho my little lady!

 

 

B. Courier, Aug 27, ’99.

 

 

 

   Baby’s Way

 

 

Everything’s in the baby’s way

Whenever she wants to run and play;

It’s either a chair, a table or door,

Or clutter all over the playroom floor.

When she starts to run she gets a bump

And we have to kiss her forehead plump,

And start her off with a smile to play,

And clear things out of the baby’s way.

 

Everything’s in the baby’s way,

She wants her do and she wants her say;

She wants to do the things which are wrong,

And her will, each day it grows more strong,

And we try so gently to guide her right,

And ask the Father of all for light;

But to her who wants her do and say

Everything seems in the baby’s way.

 

Everything’s in the baby’s way,

From morning till night, so babies say;

And so they are cross and fretful too,

And do the things they oughtn’t to do,

And their ways are not our ways at all,

And so they must cry and scold and fall;

But we turn a hundred times a day

And smile because it is baby’s “way”.

 

National Magazine, Dec. 1899.

 

 

 

 

The Fate of a Frog

 

A frog sat on a lily pad,

     A shiner lay beneath;

The frog sang loud his “jug-o-rum”,

     And showed his new false teeth.

 

“Come sit beside me,” said the frog,

     “It’s warm and dry up here;”

“Nay, nay,” the shiner said to him,

     “You’re hungry, so I fear.”

 

A boy close by heard what was said,

     And dropped his hook in there;

And soon the shiner on the bank

     Lay gasping in despair.

 

“Ha, ha!” the frog cried gleefully,

     “A foolish fish, ho, ho!

If you had sat beside of me,

     You would not suffer so.”

 

The boy then threw the shiner back,

     It was too small to fry,

Then whirled his hook and caught the frog

     And quickly home did fly.

 

 

(Taken from typed version, but written c. Oct. 1, 1899. Originally titled ‘Boy and the Frog.)

 

 

Little Climber

 

 

Little Climber climbs all day,

Climbs and climbs and climbs away;

Climbs the tables and the chairs,

Climbs the settees and the stairs;

Climbs where’er she oughtn’t to,

Climbs and climbs the whole day through.

 

Little Climber, out of doors,

Climbs and faithfully explores;

Climbs the trees to catch the birds,

Climbs in spite of warning words,

Climbs the fences and the walls,

Climbs and climbs and never falls.

 

Little Climber, comes the night,

When the fairies fade from sight,

Climbs upon her mother’s knee,

Just the place she ought to be,

Then is Little Climber done

Till the morrow morning’s sun.

 

 

National Mag. March 1900.

 

  Little Curly

 

 

Little Curly she is fair,

Brown and curly is her hair,

This in saucy fashion lies

Nearly hiding two brown eyes.

 

Little Curly let them stay,

Do not brush your curls away.

 

Little Curly’s face, I ween,

Has the fairness of a queen;

And her cheeks are tinted red

Like the roses overhead.

 

Little Curly keep them so,

Do not let the roses go.

 

Little Curly’s mouth is small,

Made for kissing, that is all,

And to speak kind words and true,

While she journeys her life through.

 

Little Curly promise me

You will ever truthful be.

 

Little Curly’s heart is light,

Blithe she sings from morn till night.

Dancing, laughing, free from care,

Shedding sunshine everywhere.

 

Little Curly, happy heart,

May your sunshine ne’er depart!

 

(Taken from typed version, but written May 9, 1895 and published in Boston Standard Jr., May 18, 1895.)

 

 

 

 

  The Old Dolly

 

 

Don’t throw the old dolly away, my dear,

     Don’t throw the old dolly away;

I know that the new one is gay, my dear,

     I know that the new one is gay;

But the old one is true, she has nestled to you,

She has been a good friend the whole year through,

     Don’t throw the old dolly away.

 

I know that she hasn’t fine clothes, my dear,

     I know that she hasn’t fine clothes;

I know that she has broken her nose, my dear,

     I know she has broken her nose;

But her heart is as true as it was when new,

She has been an obedient child to you,

     So what of her nose or her clothes?

 

Don’t throw the old dolly away, my dear,

     Don’t throw the old dolly away;

I know you will want her some day, my dear,

     I know you will want her some day.

So comb out her hair and lay her with care

Close side of the one that is new and fair, –

     Don’t throw the old dolly away.

 

(Taken from typed version, but written Jan. 2, 1900 and accepted by Little Folks.)

 

 

 

  “Mousie”

 

 

There’s a mousie in mama’s big pantry,

     Mischievous and cunning is he;

He nibbles and eats from pastry and sweets,

     And capers about in his glee.

He gets in the jam and the sugar,

     And oftimes a cookie does take;

He’s there every day, if mama’s away,

     But never a sound does he make.

 

But mousie doesn’t live in the pantry,

     He can open the door himself;

Can walk on two feet, and reach very neat,

     With a chair the uppermost shelf.

He lives with his papa and mama,

     His name you don’t want me to speak?

O’ then very well, his name I won’t tell,

     But – goodness, there’s jam on your cheek!

 

(Written Feb. 1, 1900. No alternative version included in this set.)

 

 

 

     “Let Me In”

 

 

I hear her feet pat on the floor,

     Adown the darkened hall;

A hand knocks on my study door,

     Then pipes a wee voice small:

“P’ease poppy, let me in,” it says,

     I won’t touch anyfin;”

A pause, and then more anxiously,

     “P’ease poppy, let me in.”

 

My mind is made up to refuse,

     To send her straight away;

Besides I’ve told her not to come

     So early in the day.

And so I turn to desk and book,

     My writing to begin,

When once again that wee voice pleads,

     “P’ease poppy, let me in.”

 

I know just who is waiting there,

     A dark-eyed tot of three,

With sunny curls and dimples fair,

     Who’s all the world to me.

Two hands that love to stroke my face,

     And smooth my wrinkled brow –

A loneliness steals o’er the place,

     I cannot write just now.

 

And so I steal up to the door,

     And turn the knob, and then

With quick and noiseless step I sink

Into my chair again.

The door swings open, there she stands

     Arrayed in smiles to win;

And this is what she says to me:

     “See, poppy, me dot in!”

 

 

(Taken from typed version. Written June 20, 1900.)

 

 

Peachblow Feet and Tumbledown

 

 

Peachblow Feet and Tumbledown

Knoweth neither fib nor frown;

Life is like a full blown rose,

Just the color of her toes.

 

Peachblow Feet and Tumbledown

Liveth here in our town;

And her dimpled, laughing face

Knoweth all the populace;

Knoweth everyone in town,

Peachblow Feet and Tumbledown.

 

Toddler o’er the carpet brown

Peachblow Feet and Tumbledown;

Vainly doth she try to walk,

Vainly doth she try to talk;

On her head love plants a crown.

Peachblow Feet and Tumbledown.

 

Ruleth she with iron hand,

All who in her presence stand;

Queen is she of cot and town,

Peachblow Feet and Tumbledown.

 

(Taken from typed version. Written March 18, 1894, edited and published in Cambridge Chronicle, Jan. 7, 1898.)

 

 

 

  I Want Somebody's Love

            A Waif Song

 

                     I

I want somebody’s love tonight,

     My heart is full of woe;

I hear but harsh and careless words,

     Wherever I may go.

No friends have I in all the world,

     They all have passed above;

Tonight I’m sad and all alone,

     I want somebody’s love.

 

              Chorus

Somebody’s love somebody’s love,

     I care not whose it be;

If only it be pure and true,

     With one small share for me.

Somebody’s love, somebody’s love,

     Oh, send it, God above!

Somebody’s love for me tonight,

     I want somebody’s love.

 

                 II

The great world rushes on so fast,

     It never stops to see;

It never listens to the cry

     Of lonesome souls like me;

But out of all this countless throng,

     That rudely past me shove,

There must be one heart tuned to mine,

     There must be one to love.

 

(Written in a West End cable car on Jan. 26, 1895 and published in B. Traveler, Aug. 2 1895 and Hartford Times July 17, 1895.)

 

 

 

 

 

   Eugene Field

 

 

The little folks’ friend has passed away,

     And his pen is covered with rust;

For the Lord is good, and he taketh his own,

     For a higher and nobler Trust.

“Oh, the years are many, the years are long,”

     And our hearts are tried and sore;

But we wait, Eugene, till the last great scene,

     To listen and laugh once more.

 

The trumpet and drum shall beat and call,

     Tho’ its champion’s voice is stilled;

And Wynken and Blynken asleep shall fall,

     Of thy fancies their visions filled.

“Oh, the years are many, the years are long,”

     But in the far-off days to be,

Thy sweet, sweet rhymes of childhood times,

     Shall be sung at the mother’s knee.

 

And Little Boy Blue shall lisp thy name,

     In his mother’s arms at eve;

And she shall tell of the poet king,

     And thy mystic tales shall weave.

“Oh, the years are many, the years are long,”

     And one fain would learn what they screen;

But we know thy songs shall light the throngs,

     Forever and ever, Eugene.

 

 

 

 

    My Ma

 

 

Thought my ma was awful mean

W’en she uster stan’ between

Me an’ runnin’ up the street,

Where we young’uns uster meet

Arfter supper, thire to play

Tag or hi-spy every day.

W’en I’d slide down from my cheer,

Ma would say, “now looky here,

Fill the wood box ’fore you go,

An’ the water pail,” an’ so

Arfter ’at was done she’d say

“I am awful tired to-day;

He’p me with the dishes, then

You kin go an’ play ergen.”

 

Thought ’twas mean an’ wasn’t fair

W’en she wanted me to pare

Pertaters, or tend the cakes

So they wouldn’ burn. My sakes!

How I uster pucker ’n squall

’Cause I had to help at all.

’Nen my ma ’ud up an’ say

It would do me good some day!

Now I think my ma was wise,

An' I praise her to the skies.

W’en the baby’s cross an’ she,

She who works so hard for me,

Hez so many things to do,

An' is tired an’ nervous too,

I kin take a-hold an’ set

On the table stuff an’ get

Supper, ef it need be, now;

’Cause my ma she teached me how!

 

Advertiser, Dec. 17, ’99.

 

 

Thid

 

 

I geth you never thee me, sir, I geth you never did;

I’m papath’s boy and mammath’s girl and drammath’s little Thid.

Tham Thidney ith my quistian name, they thay juth Thid, you thee,

Becauth my papath’s name ith Tham, tho thister Thue told me.

 

Now thister Thue ith bigger’n me, and things and playths, you thee,

But juth the thame she lispths, ma sayths, juth twice ath much ath me;

Tho if folkths askth what ith my name you muthn’t call me kid;

I’m papath’s boy and mammath’s girl and drammath’s little Thid.

 

 

(Written Aug. 7, 1894. Pub. in B. Courier, Sept. 2, ‘94. ‘Pencilings’ column #33.)

 

 

  Little Flo’s Christmas

 

 

The room was furnished poorly and the fire was burning low,

While a mother pale and tearful was undressing little Flo.

‘Twas the eve before glad Christmas, yet the father lingered still,

And they knew that he would stay there till he drank his usual fill.

Then the sweet child hung her stocking and the mother checks her tears,

Yet she knew that Christmas presents was a thing of bygone years.

Then upstairs crept they softly to the chamber cold and bare,

Where the little girl seemed backward to say her nightly prayer.

Then, turning to her mother, in a sweet and earnest tone:

Said she wished to pray for papa, and she’d rather be alone.

So the woman bent and kissed her, then partly closed the door,

And descended to the kitchen to watch and wait once more.

But e’er she’d long been seated her husband stumbled in,

And demanded supper quickly, as he was going back again.

“Supper?” said the woman, “why we scarcely have a crumb;

I thought as it was pay-night you’d bring it when you come.”

“Then off I am without it, but I guess before I go,

I’ll steal up to the chamber and kiss my little Flo.”

“God grant her prayer’s unfinished!” the mother’s heart cried out;

Then she tip-toed on behind him, with trembling, fear and doubt.

“Why bless me ‘f she ain’t talkin’, said he with a drunken leer;

“I s’pose it’s to ol’ Santa, guess I’ll wait a bit to hear.”

Then a voice of angel sweetness, although shaking with the chill,

Reached the ear of him that listened, and stood his pulses still.

“Dear Lord,” it said, “before I finish,” then far more touching grew,

“If my father isn’t better, please take us up to you;

I would like one little present just to make tomorrow bright,”

Then into the bed she hastened and bade the Lord good night.

Then the shame-faced man retreated, crying to his wife forlorn:

“These cursed lips will never touch her, till the stench of rum is gone.

I’ve no money for a present, but her stocking will contain

A written pledge that I, her father, will never drink one drop again.

Ah, wife, the demon’s left me; little Flora’s prayer is heard;

And – yes, we’ll kneel together, He will help me keep my word.”

 

Christmas morn burst forth in splendor

     But the sunshine in that home,

As the father read the promise,

     Rivalled that from Heaven’s dome.

 

East Cambridge, Mass. For the Cambridge Press,

Dec. 19, 1891

(Written Dec. 12, ’90, Pub. in Ct. Valley Ad., Dec. 20, ‘90 )

 

  What Thomas Turkey Said

 

 

“I have no mind for Christmas day,

     I hate its very sound;

And if I only had my way

     It never would come round.

 

I do not like your pumpkin pies,

     Your cranberry sauce so red;

Your turkey dinner I despise,

     So Thomas Turkey said.

 

(Taken from typed version. The original, with ‘Thanksgiving’ rather than ‘Christmas’, was titled ‘Rebellious Thomas’, written on Oct. 11, ’96 and published in Sunday World, April 18, ’97)

 

 

 

 

  Santa’s Rapid Transit

 

 

Old Santa Claus is coming this way,

     And happy the little folks feel;

He will bring more presents than ever before,

He drives his little reindeers no more

     But is coming around in his automobile.

 

(Originally titled ‘Up to Date Chris’. Written Nov. 19, ’99.)

 

 

 

  The Baby and The Moon

 

A little girl looks at the sky,

     She is a wee, wee daughter;

She sees the moon with anxious eye,

     And it is hardly quarter.

 

“O mamma come and look says she,

     Her wonderment increases,

Quick, mamma, mamma, come and see,

     The moon is b’oke to pieces!

 

(Written March 4, 1900. No alternative version included in this set.)

 

 

 

    A Song of Springtime

 

 

Sing a song of springtime,

     Johnnie wants to play;

Ask the pelting rain-drops

     All to stay away.

Kites and tops and marbles,

     Must go out today.

 

Sing a song of springtime,

     Mary wants to play.

Ask the cheerful sunshine,

     Now to shed its ray.

Dollies and their mamas,

     Must go out today.

 

(Written April 13, 1895 and Pub. in the B. Standard Jr. May 9, ‘95 )

 

 

 

   When She Grows

 

 

“I’ve heard that little girls by night

     Grow faster than by day,”

A little maiden said to me

     In half inquiring way.

 

“O yes, they do,” I said to her,

     Who anxious glances cast,

“That babies, when they are asleep,

     Grow very, very fast.”

 

“Then some night when I am asleep

     I’m going to lie, you know,

Awake the longest time,” said she,

     To see me when I grow.”

 

‘For The Weekly Bouquet.’

 

(Written Aug. 12, 1900.)

 

 

The “I Don’t Want To” Land

 

 

A little girl was out of sorts,

     And so one day she planned

To leave mamma and go into

     The “I-don’t-want-to” land.

She thought ‘twould be so easy there

     To live with naught to do;

She would not have to mind at all

     You see, the whole day through.

 

And so she went, and for a while

     ‘Twas bright and happy there;

But by and by the lights went out,

     And chill was in the air.

And horrid noises smote her ears,

     And it began to rain;

She fled from “I-don’t want-to” land,

     And came back home again.

 

 

(Written Sept. 13, 1900. No alternative version included in this set.)

 

 

 

Skidimidink And Skidimidee

 

 

Skidimidink and Skidimidee

Are just as funny as they can be;

They live together close under the hill

Way off in the woods where all is still.

 

Skidimidink and Skidimidee

Are two little brothers of high degree;

And wonderful brothers are they, I think,

Both Skidimidee and Skidimidink.

 

Skidimidink and Skidimidee

Quarreled one day and couldn’t agree,

So Skidimidee he went far away

And lived by himself for many a day.

 

Now Skidimidee quite lonesome grew,

And Skidimidink felt lonesome too;

So Skidimidee came home one day

And said he was sorry he ran away.

 

Now Skidimidink and Skidimidee

Are just as happy as they can be;

And that is all I’ll tell, I think,

Of Skidimidee and Skidimidink.

 

(Written Oct. 12, 1900.  No alternative version included in this set.)

 

 

 

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