In My Nursery

Laura E. Richards

In My Nursery

To my MotherJULIA WARD HOWESweet! when first my baby earCurled itself and learned to hear,'Twas your silver-singing voiceMade my baby heart rejoice.Hushed upon your tender breast,Soft you sang me to my rest;Waking, when I sought my play,Still your singing led the way.Cradle songs, more soft and lowThan the bird croons on the bough;Olden ballads, grave and gay,Warrior's chant, and lover's lay.So my baby hours wentIn a cadence of content,To the music and the rhymeKeeping tune and keeping time.So you taught me, too, ere long,All our life should be a song, —Should a faltering prelude beTo the heavenly harmony;And with gracious words and high,Bade me look beyond the sky,To the Glory throned above,To th' eternal Light and Love.Many years have blossomed by:Far and far from childhood I;Yet its sunrays on me fall,Here among my children all.So among my babes I go,Singing high and singing low;Striving for the silver toneWhich my memory holds alone.If I chant my little laysTunefully, be yours the praise;If I fail, 'tis I must rueNot t' have closelier followed you.

IN MY NURSERY

In my nursery as I sit,To and fro the children flit:Rosy Alice, eldest born,Rosalind like summer morn,Sturdy Hal, as brown as berry,Little Julia, shy and merry,John the King, who rules us all,And the Baby sweet and small.Flitting, flitting to and fro,Light they come and light they go:And their presence fair and youngStill I weave into my song.Here rings out their merry laughter,Here their speech comes tripping after:Here their pranks, their sportive ways,Flash along the lyric maze,Till I hardly know, in fine,What is theirs and what is mine:Can but say, through wind and weather,They and I have wrought together.

THE BABY'S FUTURE

What will the baby be, Mamma,(With a kick and a crow, and a hushaby-low).What will the baby be, Mamma,When he grows up into a man?Will he always kick, and always crow,And flourish his arms and his legs about so,And make up such horrible faces, you know,As ugly as ever he can?The baby he may be a soldier, my dear,With a fife and a drum, and a rum-tiddy-tum!The baby he may be a soldier, my dear,When he grows up into a man.He will draw up his regiment all in a row,And flourish his sword in the face of the foe,Who will hie them away on a tremulous toe,As quickly as ever they can.The baby he may be a sailor, my dear,With a fore and an aft, and a tight little craftThe baby he may be a sailor, my dear,When he grows up into a man.He will hoist his sails with a "Yo! heave, ho!"And take in his reefs when it comes on to blow,And shiver his timbers and so forth, you know,On a genuine nautical plan.The baby he may be a doctor, my dear,With a powder and pill, and a nice little bill.The baby he may be a doctor, my dear,When he grows up into a man.He will dose you with rhubarb, and calomel too,With draughts that are black and with pills that are blue;And the chances will be, when he's finished with you,You'll be worse off than when he began.The baby he may be a lawyer, my dear,With a bag and a fee, and a legal decree.The baby he may be a lawyer, my dear,When he grows up into a man.But, oh! dear me, should I tell to youThe terrible things that a lawyer can do,You would take to your heels when he came into view,And run from Beersheba to Dan.

BABY'S HAND

Like a little crumpled roseleafIt lies on my bosom now,Like a tiny sunset cloudlet,Like a flake of rose-tinted snow;And the pretty, helpless fingersAre never a moment at rest,But ever are moving and strayingAbout on the mother's breast:Trying to grasp the sunbeamThat streams through the window high;Trying to catch the white garmentsOf the angels hovering by.And as she pats and caressesThe dear little lovely hand,The mother's thoughts go forwardToward the future's shadowy land.And ever her anxious visionStrives to pierce each coming year,With a mother's height of rapture,With a mother's depth of fear,As she thinks, "In the years that are coming,Be they many or be they few,What work is the good God sendingFor this little hand to do?Will it always be open in giving,And always strong for the right?Will it always be ready for labor,Yet always gentle and light?Will it wield the brush or the chiselIn the magical realms of Art?Will it waken the loveliest musicTo gladden the weary heart?Will it smooth the sufferer's pillow,Bring rest to his aching head?Will it proffer the cup of cold water?By it shall the hungry be fed?Oh! in the years that are coming,Be they many or be they few,What now is the good God sendingFor this little hand to do?"Thus the mother's anxious visionStrives to pierce each coming year,With a mother's height of rapture,With a mother's depth of fear.Ah! whatever may be its fortunes,Whatever in life its part,This little wee hand will never looseIts hold on the mother's heart.

THE FIRST TOOTH

My own little beautiful Baby,You're weeping most bitterly, dear!There'd soon be a lake, if we treasuredEach sweet little silvery tear.A lake? Nay! an ocean of sorrowWould murmur and sigh at your feet,And you would be drowned in your tear-drops,My own little Baby sweet.But, darling, as in the wide oceanThe divers plunge boldly down,And bring up the radiant pearl-dropsTo set in some royal crown,E'en so from the sea of your sorrow,This dolorous "fountain of youth,"Will come, ere a week be over,A little wee pearly tooth.And then the tears will all vanish,Dried up by the sunshine of smiles;And we'll have back our own little Alice,With her merriest frolics and wiles.And whenever you laugh, my Baby,Through all your life's happy years,You'll show us the radiant pearl-dropThat you brought from the ocean of tears.

JOHNNY'S BY-LOW SONG

Here on our rock-away horse we go,Johnny and I, to a land we know, —Far away in the sunset gold,A lovelier land than can be told.Chorus. Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,Nod, nod, niddlety nod!Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,And all the birds sing by-low!Lullaby, lullaby, by-low.The gates are ivory set with pearls,One for the boys, and one for the girls:So shut your bonny two eyes of blue,Or else they never will let you through.Chorus. Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,Nod, nod, niddlety nod!Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,And all the birds sing by-low!Lullaby, lullaby, by-low.But what are the children all about?There's never a laugh and never a shout.Why, they all fell asleep, dear, long ago;For how could they keep awake, you know?Chorus. When all the flowers went niddlety nod,Nod, nod, niddlety nod!When all the flowers went niddlety nod,And all the birds sang by-low!Lullaby, lullaby, by-low.And each little brown or golden headIs pillowed soft in a satin bed, —A satin bed with sheets of silk,As soft as down and as white as milk.Chorus. And all the flowers go niddlety nod,Nod, nod, niddlety nod!And all the flowers go niddlety nod,And all the birds sing by-low!Lullaby, lullaby, by-low.The brook in its sleep goes babbling by,And the fat little clouds are asleep in the sky;And now little Johnny is sleeping too,So open the gates and pass him through.Chorus. Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,Nod, nod, niddlety nod!Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,And all the birds sing by-low!Lullaby, lullaby, by-low.

BABY'S VALENTINE

Valentine, O Valentine,Pretty little Love of mine;Little Love whose yellow hairMakes the daffodils despair;Little Love whose shining eyesFill the stars with sad surprise:Hither turn your ten wee toes,Each a tiny shut-up rose,End most fitting and completeFor the rosy-pinky feet;Toddle, toddle here to me,For I'm waiting, do you see? —Waiting for to call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!Valentine, O Valentine,I will dress you up so fine!Here's a frock of tulip-leaves,Trimmed with lace the spider weaves;Here's a cap of larkspur blue,Just precisely made for you;Here's a mantle scarlet-dyed,Once the tiger-lily's pride,Spotted all with velvet blackLike the fire-beetle's back;Lady-slippers on your feet,Now behold you all complete!Come and let me call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!Valentine, O Valentine,Now a wreath for you I'll twine.I will set you on a throneWhere the damask rose has blown,Dropping all her velvet bloom,Carpeting your leafy room:Here while you shall sit in pride,Butterflies all rainbow-pied,Dandy beetles gold and green,Creeping, flying, shall be seen,Every bird that shakes his wings,Every katydid that sings,Wasp and bee with buzz and hum.Hither, hither see them come,Creeping all before your feet,Rendering their homage meet.But 'tis I that call you mine,Valentine, O Valentine!

THE RAIN

The rain came down from the sky,And we asked it the reason whyIt would ne'er stay awayOn washing day,To let our poor clothes get dry.The rain came down on the ground,With a clattering, pelting sound,"Indeed, if I stayedTill you called me," it said,"I should not come all the year round!"

The Ballad Of The Fairy Spoon

The little wee baby came trippingAll out of the fairy land,With a nosegay of fairy flowersClasped close in each little wee hand;The flower of baby beauty,The flower of baby health,And all the blossomy sweetnessThat makes up a baby's wealth.But still he kept sighing and sobbing,Sighing and sobbing away,Till I said, "Now what ails my Baby,And why does he cry all day?"And he answered, "Oh! as I came tripping,I spied a rose by the way:And on it the loveliest dewdropI'd seen since I came away."But as I was stooping to sip it,A wind came up from the south;And it blew my little wee spoonieAway from my little wee mouth.""And what was your little wee spoonie?And what does my Baby mean?""Oh! the little wee fairy spoonieThat was given me by the queen."For whenever a baby leaves her,The queen she grants him a boon, —She fills both his hands with flowers,And puts in his mouth a spoon."And some are made of the hazel,And some are made of the horn;And some are made of the silver white,For the good-luck babes that are born.""But what are they for, my Baby?""Nay! that part I cannot tell!But send for the fairy Spoonman,For he knows it all right well."Oh! the little old fairy Spoonman,He lives in the white, white moon.Send a whisper up by a moonbeam,And he will be down here soon."Then I whispered along a moonbeamThat silvered the grass so clear,"Oh! little old fairy Spoonman,Come down and comfort my dear!"Then something came sliding, slidingDown out of the white, white moon.And something came gliding, glidingStraight in at my window soon.And there stood a little old fairy,All bent and withered and black,With a leathern apron about him,And a bundle of spoons at his back.And first he looked at my baby,And then he looked at me;And then he looked at his apron,But never a word spake he."Oh! Spoonman dear," said the baby,"The wind blew my spoon away.So now will you give me another,You little black Spoonman, pray?"For I did not lose my spoonie,Nor drop it carelessly;But a wind came up to my poor little mouth,And blew it away from me.""Now well for you," said the Spoonman,"Little Baby, if this be so.For if you had carelessly lost your spoon,Without it through life you'd go."And well for you, little Baby,If you know your spoon again.For but if you know the very same one,Your asking will be in vain."So say: was it made of the hazel,Or was it made of the horn,Or was it made of the silver white,If a good-luck babe you were born?""Oh! it was nor horn nor hazel,But all of the silver bright;For a good-luck babe I was born indeed,To be my Mammy's delight.""Then take your spoon, little Baby,With the fairies' blessing free,For the south wind blew it around the world,And blew it again to me."With that he gave to my babyThe tiniest silver spoon.Then out he slipped in the moonlight,And we lost him from sight right soon.Now some may think I am foolish,And some may think I am mad;But never once since that very nightHas my baby been cross or sad.And I counsel all anxious mothersWhose babies are crying in pain,To send for the fairy Spoonman,And get them their spoons again.

SONG OF THE LITTLE WINDS

The birdies may sleep, but the winds must wakeEarly and late, for the birdies' sake.Kissing them, fanning them, soft and sweet,E'en till the dark and the dawning meet.The flowers may sleep, but the winds must wakeEarly and late, for the flowers' sake.Rocking the buds on the rose-mother's breast,Swinging the hyacinth-bells to rest.The children may sleep, but the winds must wakeEarly and late, for the children's sake.Singing so sweet in each little one's ear,He thinks his mother's own song to hear.

GOOD-NIGHT SONG

Good-night, Sun! go to bed!Take your crown from your shining head.Now put on your gray night-cap,And shut your eyes for a good long nap.Good-night, Sky, bright and blue!Not a wink of sleep for you.You must watch us all the night,With your twinkling eyes so bright.Good-night, flowers! now shut upEvery swinging bell and cup.Take your sleeping-draught of dew:Pleasant dreams to all of you!Good-night, birds, that sweetly sing!Little head 'neath little wing!Every leaf upon the treeSoft shall sing your lullaby.Last to you, little child,Sleep is coming soft and mild.Now he shuts your blue eyes bright:Little Baby dear, good-night!

ANOTHER "GOOD-NIGHT."

Birds, birds, in the linden-tree,Low, low let your music be!Bees, bees, in the garden bloom,Hushed, hushed be your drowsy hum!Wind, wind, through the lattice waftStill, still, thy breathing soft!Flowers, sweet be the breath you shed:Two little children are going to bed.Eyes, eyes, 'neath your curtains white,Veiled, veiled be the sunny light!Lips, lips, like the roses red,Soft, soft be your sweet prayers said!Feet, feet, that have danced all day,Now, now must your dancing stay.Low, low lay each golden head!Two little children are going to bed.

"A Bee Came Tumbling"

A bee came tumbling into my ear,And what do you think he remarked, my dear?He said that two tens make up a score,And really and truly I knew that before.

JINGLE

I jumped on the back of a dragon-fly,And flew and flew till I reached the sky.I pulled down a cloud that was hiding the blue,And all the wee stars came tumbling through.They tumbled down and they tumbled round,And turned into flowers as they touched the ground.So come with me, little children, come,And down in the meadow I'll pick you some.

LITTLE OLD BABY

Little old baby, pretty old baby,Screams and cries at his little old bath,Pours on the head of his little old motherAll the full vials of baby wrath.Little old baby, pretty old baby,If you could see just how queer you look, —Arms and legs in a knot together,Face twisted up in a terrible crook, —How you would straighten out every feature,Masculine vanity all aflame!Fie! what a noise from a little wee creature!Did they abuse him! and was it a shame!Little old baby, pretty old baby,Curls himself over and goes to sleep.Ah! such is life, my little old baby,Sleep and forget it, or wake and weep!

BABY'S JOURNEY

Hoppety hoppety ho!Where shall the baby go?Over dale and down,To Limerick town,And there shall the baby go.Hoppety hoppety ho!How shall the baby go?In a coach-and-seven,With grooms eleven,And so shall the baby go.Hoppety hoppety ho!When shall the baby go?In the afternoon,By the light of the moon,And then shall the baby go.Hoppety hoppety ho!Why shall the baby go?To dance a new jig,And to buy a new wig,And that's why the baby shall go.

THE BUMBLEBEE

The bumblebee, the bumblebee,He flew to the top of the tulip-tree.He flew to the top, but he could not stop,For he had to get home to his early tea.The bumblebee, the bumblebee,He flew away from the tulip-tree;But he made a mistake, and flew into the lake,And he never got home to his early tea.

THE OWL AND THE EEL AND THE WARMING-PAN

The owl and the eel and the warming-pan,They went to call on the soap-fat man.The soap-fat man he was not within:He'd gone for a ride on his rolling-pin.So they all came back by the way of the town,And turned the meeting-house upside down.

YOUNG (ONE)'S NIGHT THOUGHTS

"Hi!" said the baby."Ho!" said the baby."Ha!" said the baby,"I won't go to sleep!Naughty old mother,You make such a pother,Just for to botherYou, awake I will keep."Dance!" said the baby."Prance!" said the baby."Perchance," said the baby,"You think I'm a goose.Vainly you're dreamingOf rest, and your schemingTo silence my screamingIs all of no use."Sing!" said the baby."Ring!" said the baby."Bring," said the baby,"My rattles and toys.Still I will weep, oh!Awake I will keep, oh!Won't go to sleep, oh!Will make a noise!"Walk!" said the baby."Talk!" said the baby."I'll balk," said the baby,"Your efforts, one and all.Still I'll be scorning,When, towards the morning,Without any warningAsleep I will fall."

LITTLE SUNBEAM

Little yellow Sunbeam,Waking up one day,Down into the gardenTook her shining way;Merrily went dancingDown the morning air,Shaking out the sparklesFrom her golden hair.Little yellow SunbeamTwinkled all about,Down among the green leavesFlitting in and out.Waking up the daisiesFrom their morning doze,Ringing up the lily-bells,Knocking up the rose.Little yellow Sunbeam,Climbing up the wall,On the baby's windowHappened for to fall.In the little chamberAs she took a peep,There she saw the Lovely OneLying fast asleep.Little yellow SunbeamTripped into the room,Sweeping out the darknessWith her golden broom.All the little shadows,Glimmering and gray,Gathered up their dusky skirts,Softly slid away.Little yellow Sunbeam,Flitting to the bed,Merrily went dancingRound the baby's head.Suddenly there flashed out,To her great surprise,Other little sunbeamsFrom the baby's eyes.Little yellow SunbeamSaid, "How can this be?Whence these little sparklersSo unlike to me?Scarce I think they can beSunbeams real and true,For we all are yellow;These are lovely blue."Little yellow SunbeamFlew back to the sky.Running to her father,She began to cry:"Father, you must vanish!Run and hide your head!There's a brighter sun than youIn the baby's bed."

BABY'S BELONGINGS

Here are the baby's bonny blue eyes.What shall we give her to see?A calico doll and a parrotty poll,As funny as funny can be.Here are the baby's little pink ears.What shall we give her to hear?A bell that will ring, and a bird that will sing,And a brook that goes tinkling clear.Here is the baby's little wee nose.What shall we give her to smell?A hyacinth blue and a violet too,And roses and lilies as well.Here is the baby's pretty red mouth.What shall we give her to eat?A sugary heart and a raspberry tart,And everything else that is sweet.And here are the baby's little fat hands.What shall we give her to hold?A sunbeam? That's right! and a rainbow bright,And plenty of silver and gold.

INFANTRY TACTICS

Present arms! There they are,Both stretched out to me.Strong and sturdy, smooth and white,Fair as arms may be.Ground arms! on the floor,Picking up his toys:Breaking all within his reach,Busiest of boys.Right wheel! off his cart,Left wheel too is gone.Horsey's head is broken off,Horsey's tail is torn.Quick step, forward march!Crying, too, he comes.Had a battle with the cat."Scratched off bofe my fums!"Shoulder arms! Here at last,Round my neck they close.Poor little soldier boyOff to quarters goes.

BABY BO

Fly away, fly away, Birdie oh!Bring something home to my Baby Bo!Bring him a feather and bring him a song,And sing to him sweetly all the day long.Hoppety, kickety, Grasshopper oh!Bring something home to my Baby Bo!Bring him a thistle and bring him a thorn,Hop over his head and then be gone.Howlibus, gowlibus, Doggibus oh!Bring something home to my Baby Bo!Bring him a snarl and bring him a snap,And bring him a posy to put in his cap.Twinkily, winkily, Firefly oh!Bring something home to my Baby Bo!Bring him a moonbeam and bring him a star,Then twinkily, winkily, fly away far.

THE DIFFERENCE

Eight fingers,Ten toes,Two eyes,And one nose.Baby saidWhen she smelt the rose,"Oh! what a pityI've only one nose!"Ten teethIn even rows,Three dimples,And one nose.Baby saidWhen she smelt the snuff,"Deary me!One nose is enough."

LITTLE JOHN BOTTLEJOHN

Little John Bottlejohn lived on the hill,And a blithe little man was he.And he won the heart of a pretty mermaidWho lived in the deep blue sea.And every evening she used to sitAnd sing on the rocks by the sea,"Oh! little John Bottlejohn, pretty John Bottlejohn,Won't you come out to me?"Little John Bottlejohn heard her song,And he opened his little door.And he hopped and he skipped, and he skipped and he hopped,Until he came down to the shore.And there on the rocks sat the little mermaid,And still she was singing so free,"Oh! little John Bottlejohn, pretty John Bottlejohn,Won't you come out to me?"Little John Bottlejohn made a bow,And the mermaid, she made one too,And she said, "Oh! I never saw any one halfSo perfectly sweet as you!In my lovely home 'neath the ocean foam,How happy we both might be!Oh! little John Bottlejohn, pretty John Bottlejohn,Won't you come down with me?"Little John Bottlejohn said, "Oh yes!I'll willingly go with you.And I never shall quail at the sight of your tail,For perhaps I may grow one too."So he took her hand, and he left the land,And plunged in the foaming main.And little John Bottlejohn, pretty John Bottlejohn,Never was seen again.

JEMIMA BROWN

IBring her here, my little Alice,Poor Jemima Brown!Make the little cradle ready!Softly lay her down!Once she lived in ease and comfort,Slept on couch of down;Now upon the floor she's lying,Poor Jemima Brown!IIOnce she was a lovely dolly,Rosy-cheeked and fair,With her eyes of brightest azureAnd her golden hair;Now, alas! no hair's remainingOn her poor old crown;And the crown itself is broken,Poor Jemima Brown!IIIOnce her legs were smooth and comely,And her nose was straight;And that arm, now hanging lonely,Had, methinks, a mate.And she was as finely dressed asAny doll in town.Now she's old, forlorn, and ragged,Poor Jemima Brown!IVYet be kind to her, my Alice;'Tis no fault of hersIf her wilful little mistressOther dolls prefers.Did she pull her pretty hair out?Did she break her crown?Did she pull her arms and legs off,Poor Jemima Brown?VLittle hands that did the mischief,You must do your bestNow to give the poor old dollyComfortable rest.So we'll make the cradle ready,And we'll lay her down;And we'll ask Papa to mend her,Poor Jemima Brown!

ALICE'S SUPPER

Far down in the meadow the wheat grows green,And the reapers are whetting their sickles so keen;And this is the song that I hear them sing,While cheery and loud their voices ring:"'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow!And it is for Alice's supper, ho! ho!"Far down in the valley the old mill stands,And the miller is rubbing his dusty white hands;And these are the words of the miller's lay,As he watches the millstones a-grinding away:"'Tis the finest flour that money can buy,And it is for Alice's supper, hi! hi!"Downstairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow,And Maggie is kneading the soft white dough,And this is the song that she's singing to-day,While merry and busy she's working away:"'Tis the finest dough, by near or by far,And it is for Alice's supper, ha! ha!"And now to the nursery comes Nannie at last,And what in her hand is she bringing so fast?'Tis a plate full of something all yellow and white,And she sings as she comes with her smile so bright:"'Tis the best bread-and-butter I ever did see!And it is for Alice's supper, he! he!"

TODDLEKINS

Butterfly,Flutter by,Through the summer air;Roses bloom,Sweet perfumeShedding everywhere;Robins sing,Bluebells ringGreeting to my dear,When her sweetTiny feetBring her toddling here.Pitapat!Little fatFunny baby toes!Do not stumble,Or she'll tumbleOn her baby nose.Closer cling,Little thing,To your mother's side,Baby mine,Fair and fine,Mother's joy and pride.

BOBBILY BOO AND WOLLYPOTUMP

Bobbily Boo, the king so free,He used to drink the Mango tea.Mango tea and coffee, too,He drank them both till his nose turned blue.Wollypotump, the queen so high,She used to eat the Gumbo pie.Gumbo pie and Gumbo cake,She ate them both till her teeth did break.Bobbily Boo and Wollypotump,Each called the other a greedy frump.And when these terrible words were said,They sat and cried till they both were dead.