Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 17

Some boys are mad when comp'ny comes to stay for meals. They hate To have the other people eat while boys must wait and wait, But I've about made up my mind I'm different from the rest, For as for me, I b'lieve I like the second table best.

To eat along with comp'ny is so trying, for it's tough To sit and watch the victuals when you da.s.sent touch the stuff.

You see your father serving out the dark meat and the light Until a boy is sure he'll starve before he gets a bite.

And when, he asks you what you'll have,--you've heard it all before,-- You know you'll get just what you get and won't get nothing more; For, when you want another piece, your mother winks her eye, And so you say, "I've plenty, thanks!" and tell a whopping lie.

When comp'ny is a-watching you, you've got to be polite, And eat your victuals with a fork and take a little bite.

You can't have nothing till you're asked and, 'cause a boy is small, Folks think he isn't hungry, and he's never asked at all.

Since I can first remember I've been told that when the cake Is pa.s.sed around, the proper thing is for a boy to take The piece that's nearest to him, and so all I ever got, When comp'ny's been to our house, was the smallest in the lot.

It worries boys like everything to have the comp'ny stay A-setting round the table, like they couldn't get away.

But when they've gone, and left the whole big shooting match to me, Say! ain't it fun to just wade in and help myself? Oh, gee!

With no one round to notice what you're doing--bet your life!-- Boys don't use forks to eat with when they'd rather use a knife, Nor take such little bites as when they're eating with the rest And so, for lots of things, I like the second table best

_Nixon Waterman._

The Children

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last; Of love that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin,-- When the glory of G.o.d was about me, And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows weak as a woman's And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households; They are angels of G.o.d in disguise; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still gleams in their eyes; Oh, these truants from home and from heaven,-- They have made me more manly and mild; And I know now how Jesus could liken The kingdom of G.o.d to a child!

I ask not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray G.o.d to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of G.o.d.

My heart is the dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction; My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more; Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door!

I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee.

The group on its green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even, Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet.

When the lessons of life are all ended, And death says, "The school is dismissed!"

May the little ones gather around me To bid me good night and be kissed!

_Charles M. d.i.c.kinson._

A Visit from St. Nicholas

'Twas 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.ter 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! now 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 sway, 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 peddler 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 spake 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 they drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

_Clement C. Moore._

Your Mission

If you cannot on the ocean Sail among the swiftest fleet, Rocking on the highest billows, Laughing at the storms you meet, You can stand among the sailors, Anch.o.r.ed yet within the bay, You can lend a hand to help them, As they launch their boats away.

If you are too weak to journey Up the mountain steep and high, You can stand within the valley, While the mult.i.tudes go by; You can chant in happy measure, As they slowly pa.s.s along; Though they may forget the singer, They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver Ever ready to command, If you cannot towards the needy Reach an ever-open hand, You can visit the afflicted, O'er the erring you can weep, You can be a true disciple, Sitting at the Savior's feet.

If you cannot in the conflict, Prove yourself a soldier true, If where fire and smoke are thickest, There's no work for you to do, When the battle-field is silent, You can go with careful tread, You can bear away the wounded, You can cover up the dead.

Do not then stand idly waiting For some greater work to do, Fortune is a lazy G.o.ddess, She will never come to you.

Go and toil in any vineyard, Do not fear to do or dare, If you want a field of labor, You can find it anywhere.

_Ellen H. Gates._

The House by the Side of the Road