Whenever a little child is born, All night a soft wind rocks the corn, One more butter-cup wakes to the morn, Somewhere. One more rose-bud shy will unfold, One more grass-blade push through the mould, One more bird’s song the air will hold, Somewhere.

—Agnes L. Carter.

SWEET AND LOW

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

—Alfred Tennyson.

THE FERRY FOR SHADOWTOWN

Sway to and fro in the twilight gray; This is the ferry for Shadowtown; It always sails at the end of the day, Just as the darkness closes down. Rest little head, on my shoulder, so; A sleepy kiss is the only fare; Drifting away from the world, we go, Baby and I in the rocking-chair. See where the fire-logs glow and spark, Glitter the lights of the shadowland, The raining drops on the window, hark! Are ripples lapping upon its strand. There, where the mirror is glancing dim, A lake lies shimmering, cool and still. Blossoms are waving above its brim, Those over there on the window-sill. Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light, Silently lower the anchor down: Dear little passenger, say “Good-night.” We’ve reached the harbor of Shadowtown.

—Anon.

MY SHADOW

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all. He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward, you can see; I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

QUITE LIKE A STOCKING

Just as morn was fading amid her misty rings, And every stocking was stuffed with childhood’s precious things, Old Kris Kringle looked round and saw on the elm tree bough High hung, an oriole’s nest, lonely and empty now. “Quite like a stocking,” he laughed, “hung up there in the tree, I didn’t suppose the birds expected a visit from me.” Then old Kris Kringle who loves a joke as well as the best, Dropped a handful of snowflakes into the oriole’s empty nest.

—Anon.

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat; They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the moon above, And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! What a beautiful Pussy you are— You are, What a beautiful Pussy you are!” Pussy said to the owl, “You elegant fowl! How wonderfully sweet you sing! Oh, let us be married—too long we have tarried— But what shall we do for a ring?” They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the Bong-tree grows, And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood With a ring in the end of his nose— His nose, With a ring in the end of his nose. “Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?” Said the piggy, “I will.” So they took it away, and were married next day By the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined upon mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon, And hand in hand on the edge of the sand They danced by the light of the moon— The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

—Edward Lear.

FORGET-ME-NOT

When to the flowers so beautiful the Father gave a name Back came a little blue-eyed one, all timidly it came; And, standing at the Father’s feet and gazing in His face It said, in low and trembling tones and with a modest grace, “Dear God, the name Thou gavest me, alas, I have forgot.” The Father kindly looked Him down and said, “Forget-me-not.”

—Anon.

WHO STOLE THE BIRD’S NEST

“To-whit! To-whit! To-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?” “Not I,” said the cow, “moo-oo! Such a thing I’d never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, But I did not take your nest away: Not I,” said the cow, “moo-oo! Such a thing I’d never do.” “Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link! Now, what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum tree to-day?” “Not I,” said the dog, “bow-wow! I wouldn’t be so mean, I vow. I gave some hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I,” said the dog, “bow-wow! I wouldn’t be so mean, I vow.” “Coo-oo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word or two: Who stole that pretty nest, From little Yellow-breast?” “Not I,” said the sheep; “oh, no, I would not treat a poor bird so; I gave wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! Baa!” said the sheep; “oh no; I wouldn’t treat a poor bird so.” “Caw! Caw!” cried the crow, “I should like to know What thief took away A bird’s nest to-day.” “Cluck! Cluck!” said the hen, “Don’t ask me again; Why, I haven’t a chick Would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together. I’d scorn to intrude On her and her brood. Cluck! Cluck!” said the hen, “Don’t ask me again.” “Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr! All the birds make a stir. Let us find out his name, And all cry, ‘For shame!’” “I would not rob a bird!” Said little Mary Green, “I think I never heard Of anything so mean!” “It’s very cruel, too,” Said little Alice Neal, “I wonder if he knew How sad the bird would feel.” A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed: For he stole that pretty nest From little Yellow-Breast; And he felt so full of shame He did not like to tell his name.

—Anon.

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Graded Memory Selections

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