Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 59

Prince thou art,--the grown-up man Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,-- Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place.

Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his sh.e.l.l, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's cl.u.s.ters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!-- For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,-- Blessings on the barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.

I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!

Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread,-- Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude!

O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold.

Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can!

Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground, Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it pa.s.ses, barefoot boy!

_John Greenleaf Whittier._

Polonius' Advice to Laertes

(_From "Hamlet"_)

There,--my blessing with you!

And these few precepts in thy memory See thou character.--Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be, For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

_William Shakespeare._

A Fable

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig."

Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half as spry.

I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut."

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

Suppose

Suppose, my little lady, Your doll should break her head, Could you make it whole by crying Till your eyes and nose are red?

And wouldn't it be pleasanter To treat it as a joke, And say you're glad "'Twas Dolly's And not your head that broke"?

Suppose you're dressed for walking, And the rain comes pouring down, Will it clear off any sooner Because you scold and frown?

And wouldn't it be nicer For you to smile than pout, And so make sunshine in the house When there is none without?

Suppose your task, my little man, Is very hard to get, Will it make it any easier For you to sit and fret?

And wouldn't it be wiser Than waiting like a dunce, To go to work in earnest And learn the thing at once?

Suppose that some boys have a horse, And some a coach and pair, Will it tire you less while walking To say, "It isn't fair"?

And wouldn't it be n.o.bler To keep your temper sweet, And in your heart be thankful You can walk upon your feet?

And suppose the world don't please you, Nor the way some people do, Do you think the whole creation Will be altered just for you?

And isn't it, my boy or girl, The wisest, bravest plan, Whatever comes, or doesn't come, To do the best you can?

_Phoebe Cary._

I Like Little p.u.s.s.y

I like little p.u.s.s.y, Her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her She'll do me no harm.

So I'll not pull her tail, Nor drive her away, But p.u.s.s.y and I Very gently will play; She shall sit by my side, And I'll give her some food; And she'll love me because I am gentle and good.

I'll pat little p.u.s.s.y, And then she will purr, And thus show her thanks For my kindness to her; I'll not pinch her ears, Nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her To use her sharp claw; I never will vex her, Nor make her displeased, For p.u.s.s.y don't like To be worried or teased.

_Jane Taylor._

Thanksgiving-Day

Over the river and through the wood, To Grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood,-- Oh, how the wind does blow!