A Little Freckled Person Part 5

DRYAD

Dryad, hidden in this tree!

Break your bonds and talk to me!

No one's watching, only peep From your cave! The town's asleep!

No one knows I stand here, so Come! for they will never know!

Tell me what you think of here When the moon is sharp and clear,

When the clouds are over you, When the ground is wet with dew.

Dryad, are you happy, say!

Do you like to live this way?

I will keep your secrets well, I will never, never tell!

Dryad, hidden in our tree, Come, oh, come and talk to me!

THE DUEL

Once a blotter met a blot In a still, secluded spot.

Here's the blotter, brave to see; But the blot--Oh, where is he?

THE LITTLEST CLOUD

O littlest cloud in all the blue, Don't go so fast, for, see, I'm just about the size of you!

Come down and play with me!

But oh, if that's the only way-- To come in raindrops, why, I'll stay here by myself and play!

I wouldn't have you cry!

PRINCES

Cinderella sitting in her dingy chimney corner, Delving in the ashes, with the smoke upon her eyes, With pots and kettles waiting, all her kinfolk by to scorn her, Longed perhaps to meet a prince, handsome, young, and wise.

Maybe Sleeping Beauty on her couch within the castle, While her golden hair crept down to touch her silent feet, Dreamed about a rider with a scarlet cap and ta.s.sel Who would hack away the hedge and cry, "Awaken, sweet!"

While I'm washing dishes, or sc.r.a.ping out the skillet, Or when I am sprinkling, or folding up the clothes, Sometimes I too dream; it seems foolish-like to tell it...

But their princes came at last and ... ah, who knows?

[Ill.u.s.tration: WHILE I'M WASHING DISHES, OR Sc.r.a.pING OUT THE SKILLET]

OUR SHARE

Babies of Alaska, babies of j.a.pan, Babies born to beads, or silk, or fez, or fur, or fan, None of all the babies that are toddling anywhere Is half so sweet a baby as the baby that's our share!

IF I WERE SANTA'S LITTLE BOY

If I were Santa's little boy (If there's a family Of Santa Clauses in the sky Or where their home may be), If I were Santa's oldest son (I only hope that he _has_ one!) And my papa should say to me, "What Christmas present, son, would be The very thing you'd like to see Within your stocking Christmas Day?"

I wouldn't stop to think, (would you?) But say, "I want to drive the sleigh!"

And then when Christmas Week had come, At nearly dawn on Christmas Day, I'd load the sleigh with doll and drum; And find where the reindeer were tied, And hitch them quickly up, and I'd Shout very loudly, "Clear the way!"

And crack the whip and drive the sleigh Down from the Pole and past the clang Of loud icicles in a row, Blown by the wind, to where the gang Lives, in our street, and then I'd shout, While frightened heads of boys stuck out From opened windows, in surprise, With tousled hair and sleepy eyes, I'd shout out loudly so that they Could hear each single word I'd say,

"Hey, Dasher, Dancer!

Faster, Prancer!

Run as hard now as you can, sir!

Stop your balking When I'm talking!

We must fill each Christmas stocking In a hundred million places!

Dasher, Dancer, mind your paces!

Don't you dare to break the traces!"

Then I'd shake the reins and shout To milkmen that might be about, "Clear the way For Santa's sleigh, Because I'm driving it to-day!"

THE PARTY DRESS

All year long the timid maple has been dressed in prim and sober Little plain utilitarian gowns of quiet tints of green; But Spring is gone, and Summer's past, and now that it's October The modest little maple tree is costumed like a queen.

Just look now, through our window, and I'm sure that you'll agree That her party dress is pretty as a party dress can be!