Cole's Funny Picture Book No. 1
Let bygones be bygones--
And somebody knows
It was bliss such a baby
To dance and to dandle,
Your cheeks were so velvet,
So rosy your toes.
Ay, here is your cradle,
And Hope, a bright spirit,
With love now is watching
Beside it, I know.
They guard the small nest
You yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty
Short summers ago.
It is Hope gilds the future--
Love welcomes it smiling;
Thus wags this old world,
Therefore stay not to ask,
"My future bids fair,
Is my future beguiling?"
If masked, still it pleases--
Then raise not the mask.
Is life a poor coil
Some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste
Who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep
From cradle to coffin--
From a spoonful of pap
To a mouthful of dust.
Then smile as your future
Is smiling, my Jenny!
Tho' blossoms of promise
Are lost in the rose,
I still see the face
Of my small picaninny
Unchang'd, for these cheeks
Are as blooming as those.
Ay, here is your cradle!
Much, much to my liking,
Though nineteen or twenty
Long winters have sped;
But, hark! as I'm talking
There's six o'clock striking,
It is time Jennie's baby
Should be in its bed.
Frederick Locker
A Little Goose
The chill November day was done,
The working world home a-faring,
The wind came roaring through the streets,
And set the gas lamps flaring.
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The seared old leaves were flying,
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying,
And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four or over;
No hat nor cloak her small soft arms
Or wind-blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She crushed within her wee, cold hands
A bunch of faded clover.
And one hand round her treasures,
While she slipped in mine the other,
Half-scared, half-confidential, said
"Oh! please, I want my mother."
"Tell me your street name and number, pet;
Don't cry, I'll take you to it,"
Sobbing, she answered, "I forget--
The organ made me do it."
"He came and played at Miller's steps;
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
That monkey was so funny.
I've walked about a _hundred hours_,
From one street to another;
The monkey's gone; I've spoiled my flowers:
Oh! please, I want my mother."
"But what's your mother's name?
And what's the street? now think a minute."
"My mother's name is mamma dear,
The street--I can't begin it."
"But what is strange about the house,
Or new--not like the others?"
I guess you mean my trundle bed--
Mine and my little brother's.
Oh! dear, I ought to be at home,
to help him say his prayers;
He's such a baby, he forgets,
And we are both such players.
"And there's a bar between, to keep
From pitching on each other;
For Harry rolls when he's asleep--
Oh! dear, I want my mother."
The sky grew stormy, people passed,
All muffled, homeward faring;
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
I said at last, despairing.
I spied a ribbon about her neck.
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
"Why, don't you know?" she smiling asked,
And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street, and name!
My eyes astonished, met it.
"For," said the little one, "you see
I might some tome forget it.
And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it;
For mother says she's very sure
I might get lost without it.
Eliza S. Turner
[Page 19--Girl Land]
Girls
There's the pretty girl,
And the witty girl,
And the girl that bangs her hair;
The girl that's a flirt,
And the girl that is pert,
And the girl with the baby stare.
There's the dowdy girl,
And the rowdy girl,
And the girl that's always late;
There's the girl of style,
And the girl of wile,
And the girl with the mincing gaits
There's the tender girl,
And the well-read girl,
And the girl with the sense of duty
There's the dainty girl
And the fainty girl
And the girl that has no beauty.
There's the lazy girl,
And the daisy girl,
And the girl that has two faces;
There's the girl that's shy,
And the girl that's fly
And the girl that bets on races
There are many others,
Oh! men and brothers,
Than are named in this narration.
There are girls _and_ girls,
Yet they're all of them pearls,
Quite the best sorts in creation.
Girl's Names
There is a strange deformity
Combined with countless graces,
As often in the ladies' names,
As in the ladies faces;
Some names fit for every age,
Some only fit for youth;
Some passing sweet and musical,
Some horribly uncouth;
Some fit for dames of loftiest grades,
Some only fit for scullery maids
Ann is too plain and common,
And Nancy sounds but ill;
Yet Anna is endurable,
And Annie better still,
There is a grace in Charlotte,
In Eleanor a state,
An elegance in Isabel,
A haughtiness in Kate;
And Sarah is sedate and neat,
And Ellen innocent and sweet
Matilda has a sickly sound,
Fit for a nurse's trade;
Sophie is effeminate,
And Esther sage and staid;
Elizabeth's a matchless name,
Fit for a queen to wear
In castle, cottage, hut, or hall--
A name beyond compare;
And Bess, and Bessie follow well,
But Betsy is detestable.
Maria is too forward,
And Gertrude is too gruff,
Yet, coupled with a pretty face,
Is pretty name enough'
And Adelaide is fanciful,
And Laura is too fine,
But Emily is beautiful,
And Mary is divine
Maud only suits a high-born dame,
And Fanny is a baby name
Eliza is not very choice,
Jane is too blunt and Bold,
And Martha somewhat sorrowful,
And Lucy proud and cold;
Amelia is too light and gay,
Fit for only a flirt;
And Caroline is vain and shy,
And Flora smart and pert;
Louisa is too soft and sleek
But Alice--gentle, chaste and meek
And Harriet is confiding,
And Clara grave and mild.
And Emma is affectionate,
And Janet arch and wild!
And Patience is expressive,
And Grace is cold and rare,
And Hannah warm and dutiful,
And Margaret frank and fair
And Faith, and Hope and Charity
Are heavenly names for sisters three.
Sarah
Oh, Sarah mine, hark to my song
Your slumbers soft invading.
For here beneath your window-sill
I come a-Sarah-nading.
You know my fond heart beats for you
In tenderest adoration,
And then, you know, I long to have
You be my own Sal-vation.
The day's not far when you'll be mine--
The thought makes my soul merry;
You'll be the pride of all my life,
But not my adver-Sarey.
The tender fates shall crown your lot,
And sweet contentment parcel;
And while you're just the world to me,
Love will be univer-Sal.
With bridal altar draped with flowers
And everything so tony,
In crowded church we will be wed
With lots of Sarah-money.
There's nothing I'll not do for you
Till life comes to an end, dear.
I'd brave the battles of the world
And fight a Sara-cen, dear.
I must to sleep, Sal, soda you,
For here I must not dally,
For that bull-dog I hear, like me,
Is bound to have a Sally.
Several Kinds of Girls
A good girl to have--Sal Vation.
A disagreeable girl--Anna Mosity.
A fighting girl--Hittie Magginn.
Not a Christian girl--Hettie Rodoxy.
A sweet girl--Carrie Mel.
A pleasant girl--Jennie Rosity.
A sick girl--Sallie Vate.
A smooth girl--Amelia Ration.
A seedy girl--Cora Ander.
One of the best girls--Ella Gant.
A clear case of girl--E. Lucy Date.
A geometrical girl--Rhoda Dendron.
A musical girl--Sarah Nade.
A profound girl--Mettie Physics.
A star girl--Meta Oric.
A clinging girl--Jessie Mine.
A nervous girl--Hester Ical.
A muscular girl--Callie Sthenici.
A lively girl--Anna Mation.
An uncertain girl--Eva Nescent.
A sad girl--Ella G.
A serene girl--Molly Fy.
A great big girl--Ella Phant.
A warlike girl--Millie Tary.
The best girl of all--Your Own.
[Page 20--Girl Land]
Jumping-Jennie
Jennie has a jumping-rope
As slender as a whip.
And all about the street and house
She'd skip, and skip, and skip.
She knocked the vases from the shelf,
Upset the stools and chairs,
And one unlucky day, alas!
Went headlong down the stairs.
Against the wall, against the door
Her head she often bumped,
And stumbled here, and stumbled there,
Yet still she jumped, and jumped.
She jumped so high, she jumped so hard,
That--so the story goes--
She wore her shoes and stockings out,
Likewise her heels and toes.
I Don't Care
Matilda was a pretty girl,
And she had flaxen hair;
And yet she used those naughty words
"I'm sure I do not care."
She once her lessons would not learn,
But talk'd about the fair,
And lost her tickets, but she said,
"I'm sure I do not care."
As she advanced to riper years,
I'm sorry to declare,
She still preserved those naughty words,
"I'm sure I do not care."
She grew a woman, and for life
'Twas time she should prepare,
But still she said "there's time enough,
If not, I do not care."
Duties neglected, warnings spurn'd,
Her mother in despair;
And though she saw the evil done,
She said, "I do not care."
Still on she went from bad to worse,
She spurned her father's prayer;
Who feared she'd find an awful end,
Because she would not care.
Afflictions came, and death in view,
Which filled her with despair;
Her God neglected, and she feared
For her He would not care.
Could you have then Matilda seen,
Or heard her broken prayer,
She urged her friends never to use
Those awful words--Don't Care.
Little Miss Meddlesome
Little Miss Meddlesome
Scattering crumbs,
Into the library
Noisily comes--
Twirls off her apron,
Tilts open some books,
And into a work-basket
Rummaging, looks.
Out goes the spools spinning
Over the floor,
Beeswax and needle-case
Stepped out before;
She tosses the tape-rule
And plays with the floss,
And says to herself,
"Now won't mamma be cross!"
Little Miss Meddlesome
Climbs to the shelf,
Since no-one is looking,
And mischievous elf,
Pulls down the fine vases,
The cuckoo-clock stops,
And sprinkles the carpet
With damaging drops.
She turns over the ottoman,
Frightens the bird,
And sees that the chairs
In a medley are stirred;
Then creeps on the sofa,
And, all in a heap,
Drops out of her
Frolicsome mischief asleep.
But here comes the nurse,
Who is shaking her head,
And frowns at the mischief
Asleep on her bed.
But let's hope when Miss Meddlesome's
Slumber is o'er,
She may wake from good dreams
And do mischief no more.
Careless Matilda
"Again, Matilda,
Is your work astray,
Your thimble is gone!
Your scissors, where are they?
Your needles, pins, your thread,
And tapes all lost--
Your housewife here,
And there your work-bag tost.
Fie, fie, my child!
Indeed this will not do,