Graded Memory Selections

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD.2

Wynken, Blynken and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe,Sailed on a river of crystal lightInto a sea of dew.“Where are you going?” “What do you wish?”The old Moon asked the three.“We come to fish for the herring fishThat live in the beautiful sea,Nets of silver and gold have we,”Said Wynken, Blynken and Nod.The old Moon laughed and sang a songAs they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea,—“Now cast your nets whenever you wish,Never afeard are we!”So cried the stars to the fishermen three—Wynken, Blynken and Nod.All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam.Then down from the skies came the wooden shoeBringing the fishermen home.’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea.But I can name you the fishermen three—Wynken, Blynken and Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyesAnd Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one’s trundle bed.So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock on the misty sea,—Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—Wynken, Blynken and Nod.—Eugene Field.

PRETTY IS THAT PRETTY DOES

The spider wears a plain brown dress,And she is a steady spinner;To see her, quiet as a mouse,Going about her silver house,You would never, never, never guessThe way she gets her dinner.She looks as if no thought of illIn all her life had stirred her;But while she moves with careful tread,And while she spins her silken thread,She is planning, planning, planning stillThe way to do some murder.My child, who reads this simple lay,With eyes down-dropt and tender,Remember the old proverb saysThat pretty is which pretty does,And that worth does not go nor stayFor poverty nor splendor.’Tis not the house, and not the dress,That makes the saint or sinner.To see the spider sit and spin,Shut with her walls of silver in,You would never, never, never guessThe way she gets her dinner.—Alice Cary.

LULLABY.3

Over the cradle the mother hung,Softly crooning a slumber song:And these were the simple words she sungAll the evening long.“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or kneeWhere shall the baby’s dimple be?Where shall the angel’s finger restWhen he comes down to the baby’s nest?Where shall the angel’s touch remainWhen he awakens my babe again?”Still as she bent and sang so low,A murmur into her music broke:And she paused to hear, for she could but knowThe baby’s angel spoke.“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,Where shall the baby’s dimple be?Where shall my finger fall and restWhen I come down to the baby’s nest?Where shall my finger touch remainWhen I awaken your babe again?”Silent the mother sat and dweltLong in the sweet delay of choice,And then by her baby’s side she knelt,And sang with a pleasant voice:“Not on the limb, O angel dear!For the charm with its youth will disappear;Not on the cheek shall the dimple be,For the harboring smile will fade and flee;But touch thou the chin with an impress deep,And my baby the angel’s seal shall keep.”—J. G. Holland.

THIRD GRADE

DISCONTENT

Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together,Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy,Was resting near this buttercup who wished she was a daisy.For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passionFor wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies’ fashion.And buttercups must always be the same old tiresome color;While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.“Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind tryingTo find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying.”“You silly thing!” the Robin said, “I think you must be crazy;I’d rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.“You’re nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.Be the best buttercup you can, and think no flower above you.Though swallows leave me out of sight, we’d better keep our places:Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowingThat God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing.”—Sarah Orne Jewett.

OUR FLAG

There are many flags in many lands,There are flags of every hue,But there is no flag in any landLike our own Red, White and Blue.I know where the prettiest colors are,I’m sure, if I only knewHow to get them here, I could make a flagOf glorious Red, White and Blue.I would cut a piece from the evening skyWhere the stars were shining through,And use it just as it was on highFor my stars and field of Blue.Then I want a part of a fleecy cloudAnd some red from a rainbow bright,And I’d put them together, side by sideFor my stripes of Red and White.Then “Hurrah for the Flag!” our country’s flag,Its stripes and white stars too;There is no flag in any landLike our own “Red, White and Blue.”—Anon.

SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES.”

The year’s at the spring,And day’s at the morn;Morning’s at seven;The hill-side’s dew-pearled;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn:God’s in his heaven—All’s right with the world.—Robert Browning.

LITTLE BROWN HANDS

They drive home the cows from the pasture,Up through the long shady lane,Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,That are yellow with ripening grain.They find, in the thick, waving grasses,Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.They gather the earliest snowdrops,And the first crimson buds of the rose.They toss the new hay in the meadow;They gather the elder-bloom white;They find where the dusky grapes purpleIn the soft-tinted October light.They know where the apples hang ripest,And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;They know where the fruit hangs the thickestOn the long, thorny blackberry-vines.They gather the delicate sea-weeds,And build tiny castles of sand;They pick up the beautiful sea-shells—Fairy barks that have drifted to land.They wave from the tall, rocking tree-topsWhere the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;And at night-time are folded in slumberBy a song that a fond mother sings.Those who toil bravely are strongest;The humble and poor become great;And so from these brown-handed childrenShall grow mighty rulers of state.The pen of the author and statesman—The noble and wise of the land—The sword, and the chisel, and palette,Shall be held in the little brown hand.—M. H. Krout.

WINTER AND SUMMER

Oh, I wish the Winter would go,And I wish the Summer would come,Then the big brown farmers will hoe,And the little brown bee will hum.Then the robin his fife will trill,And the wood-piper beat his drum;And out of their tents on the hillThe little green troops will come.Then around and over the treesWith a flutter and flirt we’ll go,A rollicking, frolicking breeze,And away with a frisk ho! ho!—Anon.

THE BROOK

I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down the valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles;I bubble into eddying bays;I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my bank I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers,I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may goBut I go on forever.—Tennyson.

THE WONDERFUL WORLD

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,With the wonderful water around you curled,And the wonderful grass upon your breast—World, you are beautifully dressed.The wonderful air is over me,And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.You, friendly Earth, how far do you go,With the wheatfields that nod and the rivers that flow,With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,And people upon you for thousands of miles?Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,I tremble to think of you, World, at all;And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day,A whisper inside me seemed to say,“You are more than the earth, though you are such a dot:You can love and think, and the Earth can not!”—W. B. Rands.

DON’T GIVE UP

If you’ve tried and have not won,Never stop for crying;All that’s great and good is doneJust by patient trying.Though young birds, in flying, fall,Still their wings grow stronger;And the next time they can keepUp a little longer.Though the sturdy oak has knownMany a blast that bowed her,She has risen again, and grownLoftier and prouder.If by easy work you beat,Who the more will prize you?Gaining victory from defeat,That’s the test that tries you!—Phœbe Cary.

WE ARE SEVEN

—A simple child,That lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?I met a little cottage girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad:Her eyes were fair, and very fair—Her beauty made me glad.“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,How many may you be?”“How many? Seven in all,” she said,And wondering looked at me.“And where are they? I pray you tell.”She answered, “Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.“Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And in the churchyard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother.”“You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet Maid, how this may be.”Then did the little maid reply,“Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree.”“You run about, my little Maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laidThen ye are only five.”“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”The little Maid replied,“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,And they are side by side.“My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sitAnd sing a song to them.“And often after sunset, sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.“The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain;And then she went away.“So in the churchyard she was laid;And when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.“And when the ground was white with snowAnd I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.”“How many are you, then,” said I,“If they two are in heaven?”Quick was the little Maid’s reply,“O master! we are seven.”“But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!”’Twas throwing words away: for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, “Nay, we are seven!”—Wordsworth.

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

When I was sick and lay abed,I had two pillows at my head,And all my toys beside me layTo keep me happy all the day.And sometimes for an hour or soI watched my leaden soldiers go,With different uniforms and drills,Among the bedclothes, through the hills;And sometimes sent my ships in fleetsAll 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 landPoints to the prow with eager hand;The little Lapland babies cryFor the silver boat a-sailing by.It fears no gale, it fears no wreck;It never meets a change or checkThrough weather fine or weather wild.The oldest saw it when a child.Upon another sea belowFull many vessels come and go;Upon the swaying, swinging tideInto the distant worlds they ride.And strange to tell, the sea below,Where countless vessels come and go,Obeys the little boat on highThrough all the centuries sailing by.—Anon.

THE DANDELION

Bright little dandelion,Downy, yellow face,Peeping up among the grassWith such gentle grace;Minding not the April windBlowing rude and cold;Brave little dandelion,With a heart of gold.Meek little dandelion,Changing into curlsAt the magic touch of theseMerry boys and girls.When they pinch thy dainty throat,Strip thy dress of green,On thy soft and gentle faceNot a cloud is seen.Poor little dandelion,Now all gone to seed,Scattered roughly by the windLike a common weed.Thou hast lived thy little lifeSmiling every day;Who could do a better thingIn 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 flashesOn village windowsThat glimmer red.The snow recommences;The buried fencesMark no longerThe road o’er the plain;While through the meadows,Like fearful shadows,Slowly passesA funeral train.The bell is pealing,And every feelingWithin me respondsTo the dismal knell.Shadows are trailing,My heart is bewailingAnd tolling withinLike 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 gayIs 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 tryAnd 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 treeFor 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 isWould be hard, indeed, to find;But he sings so sweet a tuneThat 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 livesThere 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 SquirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”Bun replied:“You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in together,To make up a year,And a sphere;And I think it no disgraceTo 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 makeA 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 nightIt 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 wallsAnd 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 BlueKissed 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-bedHe dreamed of the pretty toys;And as he was dreaming, an angel’s songAwakened 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 BlueSince 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 knowPittypat and Tippytoe.How they riot at their play;And a dozen times a dayIn they troop demanding bread—Only buttered bread will do,And that butter must be spreadInches 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 PittypatSometimes interrupt their playWith an internecine spat;Fie, for shame; to quarrel so—Pittypat and Tippytoe.Oh, the thousand worrying thingsEvery 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 showTo Pittypat and Tippytoe.And when day is at an endThere 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 knowA Pittypat and Tippytoe.On the floor and down the hall,Rudely smutched upon the wall,There are proofs of every kindOf the havoc they have wrought;And upon my heart you’d findJust 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 sungThe 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 dewOf pity shone, stood gazing throughThe narrow space her rosy lipsHad 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 legsBecause 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 headWarm-sheltered in her hood of red,Her plaid skirt close about her drawn,She floundered down the wintry lawn;Now struggling through the misty veilBlown round her by the shrieking gale;Now sinking in a drift so lowHer scarlet hood could scarcely showIts dash of color on the snow.She dropped for bird and beast forlornHer 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 breastThe pity, which is now its guest!Let not her cultured years make lessThe childhood charm of tenderness.But let her feel as well as know,Nor harder with her polish grow!Unmoved by sentimental griefThat wails along some printed leaf,But, prompt with kindly word and deedTo own the claims of all who need,Let the grown woman’s self make goodThe promise of Red Riding-Hood!—Whittier.