Childhood's Favorites and Fairy Stories Part 41

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing.

And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON * * * * *

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'T was the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,-- When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a l.u.s.tre of midday to objects below; When what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid, on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys,--and St. Nicholas too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf; And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about.

An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,-- So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivers down, he wasn't there at all!

An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubbyhole, an press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!

An' the Gobble-uns git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!

An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they s.n.a.t.c.hed her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!

An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!

An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cl.u.s.ters all about, Er the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

(_From "Riley Child Rhymes," copyright, 1899. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company._)

THE CHATTERBOX

From morning to night 't was Lucy's delight To chatter and talk without stopping; There was not a day but she rattled away, Like water forever a-dropping!

As soon as she rose, while she put on her clothes, 'Twas vain to endeavor to still her; Nor once did she lack to continue her clack, Till again she lay down on her pillow.

You'll think now, perhaps, there would have been gaps, If she hadn't been wonderful clever; That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate That it would be forthcoming forever.

But that's quite absurd; for have you not heard, Much tongue and few brains are connected, That they are supposed to think least who talk most, And their wisdom is always suspected?

While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue With a little good sense and exertion, Who knows but she might have been our delight, Instead of our jest and aversion?

ANN TAYLOR