Graded Memory Selections Part 10

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 st.u.r.dy 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 pa.s.sing fair; And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed 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-bed He dreamed of the pretty toys; And as he was dreaming, an angel's song Awakened 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 Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.

--_Eugene Field._

[7] From "Love Songs of Childhood." Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Chas. Scribner's Sons.

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 know Pittypat and Tippytoe.

How they riot at their play; And a dozen times a day In they troop demanding bread-- Only b.u.t.tered bread will do, And that b.u.t.ter must be spread Inches 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 Pittypat Sometimes interrupt their play With an internecine spat; Fie, for shame; to quarrel so-- Pittypat and Tippytoe.

Oh, the thousand worrying things Every day recurrent brings; Hands to scrub and hair to brush, Search for playthings gone amiss, Many a wee complaint to hush, Many a little b.u.mp to kiss; Life seems one vain fleeting show To Pittypat and Tippytoe.

And when day is at an end There 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.

G.o.d help those who do not know A Pittypat and Tippytoe.

On the floor and down the hall, Rudely s.m.u.tched upon the wall, There are proofs of every kind Of the havoc they have wrought; And upon my heart you'd find Just such trade marks, if you sought; Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, Pittypat and Tippytoe.

--_Eugene Field._

[8] From "Love Songs of Childhood." Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Chas. Scribner's & Sons.

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 sung The 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 pa.s.s, our little la.s.s, With flattened face against the gla.s.s, And eyes in which the tender dew Of pity shone, stood gazing through The narrow s.p.a.ce her rosy lips Had 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 legs Because 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 head Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, She floundered down the wintry lawn; Now struggling through the misty veil Blown round her by the shrieking gale; Now sinking in a drift so low Her scarlet hood could scarcely show Its dash of color on the snow.

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn Her 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 breast The pity, which is now its guest!

Let not her cultured years make less The childhood charm of tenderness.

But let her feel as well as know, Nor harder with her polish grow!

Unmoved by sentimental grief That wails along some printed leaf, But, prompt with kindly word and deed To own the claims of all who need, Let the grown woman's self make good The promise of Red Riding-Hood!

--_Whittier._

[9] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

THE SANDPIPER AND I.[10]

Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter can'st thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not G.o.d's children, both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

--_Celia Thaxter._

[10] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

IN SCHOOL DAYS.[11]

Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow And blackberry vines are creeping.

Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep-scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial.

The charcoal frescoes on the wall, Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing.

Long years ago a winter's sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving Of one who still her steps delayed, When all the school were leaving.