Kitobni o'qish: «Five Minute Stories»
TO
JOHN AND BETTY
BETTY
When I sit and hold her little hand,
My Betty,
Then all the little troubles seem to shrink,
Grow small and petty.
It does not matter any more
That ink is spilt on parlor floor,
That gown is caught upon the latch,
And not the smallest bit to match,
That cook is going, housemaid gone,
And coming guests to meet alone;
It matters not at all, you see,
For I have Betty, and Betty has me.
When I sit and hold her little hand,
My Betty,
Then all the simple, foolish baby talk
Grows wise and witty.
I’m glad to know that Pussy Mow
Was frightened at the wooden cow,
I weep for Dolly’s broken head,
And for the sawdust she has shed;
I take with joy the cups of tea
From wooden teapot poured for me,
And all goes well, because, you see,
I play with Betty, and Betty with me.
When I walk and hold her little hand,
My Betty,
Then every humble weed beside the way
Grows proud and pretty.
The clover never was so red,
Their purest white the daisies spread,
The buttercups begin to dance,
The reeds salute with lifted lance,
The very tallest trees we pass
Bend down to greet my little lass;
And these things make my joy, you see,
For I love Betty, and Betty loves me!
TWO CALLS
Beau Philip and Beau Bobby stood side by side on the doorstep of their father’s house. They were brothers, though you would hardly have thought it, for one was very big and one was very little.
Beau Philip was tall and slender, with handsome dark eyes, and a silky brown moustache which he was fond of curling at the ends. He wore a well-fitting overcoat, and a tall hat and pearl-gray kid gloves.
Beau Bobby was short and chubby, and ten years old, with blue eyes and yellow curls (not long ones, but funny little croppy locks that would curl, no matter how short he kept them). He wore a pea-jacket, and red leggings and red mittens.
There was one thing, however, about the two brothers that was just the same. Each carried in his hand a great red rose, lovely and fragrant, with crimson leaves and a golden heart.
“Where are you going with your rose, Beau Bobby?” asked Beau Philip.
“I am going to make a New Year’s call,” replied Beau Bobby.
“So am I,” said Beau Philip, laughing. “We may meet again. Good-by, little Beau!”
“Good-by, big Beau!” said Bobby, seriously, and they walked off in different directions.
Beau Philip went to call on a beautiful young lady, to whom he wished to give his rose; but so many other people were calling on her at the same time that he could only say “good-morning!” to her, and then stand in a corner, pulling his moustache and wishing that the others would go. There were so many roses in the room, bowls and vases and jars of them, that he thought she would not care for his single blossom, so he put it in his buttonhole; but it gave him no pleasure whatever.
Beau Bobby trotted away on his short legs till he came to a poor street, full of tumble-down cottages.
He stopped before one of them and knocked at the door. It was opened by a motherly looking Irish woman, who looked as if she had just left the washtub, as, indeed, she had.
“Save us!” she cried, “is it yersilf, Master Bobby? Come in, me jewel, and warm yersilf by the fire! It’s mortal cowld the day.”
“Oh, I’m not cold, thank you!” said Bobby. “But I will come in. Would you – would you like a rose, Mrs. Flanagan? I have brought this rose for you. And I wish you a Happy New Year. And thank you for washing my shirts so nicely.”
This was a long speech for Beau Bobby, who was apt to be rather silent; but it had a wonderful effect on Mrs. Flanagan. She grew very red as she took the rose, and the tears came into her eyes.
“Ye little angil!” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. “Look at the lovely rose! For me, is it? And who sint ye wid it, honey?”
“Nobody!” said Bobby. “I brought it myself. It was my rose. You see,” he said, drawing his stool up to the little stove, “I heard you say, yesterday, Mrs. Flanagan, when you brought my shirts home, that you had never had a New Year’s call in your life; so I thought I would make you one to-day, you see. Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year to yersilf, me sweet jewel!” cried good Mrs. Flanagan. “And blessings go wid every day of it, for your kind heart and your sweet face. I had a sore spot in my heart this day, Master Bobby, bein’ so far from my own people; but it’s you have taken it away this minute, wid yer sweet rose and yer bright smile. See now, till I put it in my best chiny taypot. Ain’t that lovely, now?”
“Isn’t it!” cried Beau Bobby. “And it makes the whole room sweet. I am enjoying my call very much, Mrs. Flanagan; aren’t you?”
“That I am!” said Mrs. Flanagan. “With all my heart!”
A NEW YEAR SONG
When the year is new, my dear,
When the year is new,
Let us make a promise here,
Little I and you,
Not to fall a-quarrelling
Over every tiny thing,
But sing and smile, smile and sing,
All the glad year through.
As the year goes by, my dear,
As the year goes by,
Let us keep our sky swept clear,
Little you and I.
Sweep up every cloudy scowl,
Every little thunder-growl,
And live and laugh, laugh and live,
’Neath a cloudless sky.
When the year is old, my dear,
When the year is old,
Let us never doubt or fear,
Though the days grow cold.
Loving thoughts are always warm;
Merry hearts know ne’er a storm.
Come ice and snow, so love’s dear glow
Turn all our gray to gold.
NEW YEAR
The little sweet Child tied on her hood, and put on her warm cloak and mittens. “I am going to the wood,” she said, “to tell the creatures all about it. They cannot understand about Christmas, mamma says, and of course she knows, but I do think they ought to know about New Year!”
Out in the wood the snow lay light and powdery on the branches, but under foot it made a firm, smooth floor, over which the Child could walk lightly without sinking in. She saw other footprints beside her own, tiny bird-tracks, little hopping marks, which showed where a rabbit had taken his way, traces of mice and squirrels and other little wild-wood beasts.
The Child stood under a great hemlock-tree, and looked up toward the clear blue sky, which shone far away beyond the dark tree-tops. She spread her hands abroad and called, “Happy New Year! Happy New Year to everybody in the wood, and all over the world!”
A rustling was heard in the hemlock branches, and a striped squirrel peeped down at her. “What do you mean by that, little Child?” he asked. And then from all around came other squirrels, came little field-mice, and hares swiftly leaping, and all the winter birds, titmouse and snow-bird, and many another; and they all wanted to know what the Child meant by her greeting, for they had never heard the words before.
“It means that God is giving us another year!” said the Child. “Four more seasons, each lovelier than the last, just as it was last year. Flowers will bud, and then they will blossom, and then the fruit will hang all red and golden on the branches, for birds and men and little children to eat.” “And squirrels, too!” cried the chipmunk, eagerly.
“Of course!” said the Child. “Squirrels, too, and every creature that lives in the good green wood. And this is not all! We can do over again the things that we tried to do last year, and perhaps failed in doing. We have another chance to be good and kind, to do little loving things that help, and to cure ourselves of doing naughty things. Our hearts can have lovely new seasons, like the flowers and trees and all the sweet things that grow and bear leaves and fruit. I thought I would come and tell you all this, because sometimes one does not think of things till one hears them from another’s lips. Are you glad I came? If you are glad, say Happy New Year! each in his own way! I say it to you all now in my way. Happy New Year! Happy New Year!”
Such a noise as broke out then had never been heard in the wood since the oldest hemlock was a baby, and that was a long time ago. Chirping, twittering, squeaking, chattering! The wood-doves lit on the Child’s shoulder and cooed in her ear, and she knew just what they said. The squirrels made a long speech, and meant every word of it, which is more than people always do; the field-mouse said that she was going to turn over a new leaf, the very biggest cabbage-leaf she could find; while the titmouse invited the whole company to dine with him, a thing he had never done in his life before.
When the Child turned to leave the wood, the joyful chorus followed her, and she went, smiling, home and told her mother all about it. “And, mother,” she said, “I should not be surprised if they had got a little bit of Christmas, after all, along with their New Year!”
A LESSON SONG
Oranges and apples,
And baby’s ball, are round;
And my pretty picture-book,
That is square, I’ve found;
And an egg is oval,
And the corners all,
When you take them by themselves,
Triangles they call.
I am perpendicular
When I stand up straight,
I am horizontal
When in bed I wait;
And from sitting quite erect,
If I chance to swerve,
Then my rounded shoulders make
What is called a curve.
See! a sheet of paper
I roll together neat,
Straight and smooth, and then I have
A cylinder complete;
But if thus I widen out
Either end alone,
Look! it makes a different thing, —
That is called a cone.
Points there are, a many,
On my pencil one,
Two on mother’s scissors,
Five a star has on;
And our doggie has one
Right upon his nose,
And my dancing-master says,
“Children, point your toes!”
Oh! the world of wonders
Is so very full,
How can little children learn
Half enough in school?
I must look about me
Everywhere I go,
Keep my eyes awake and wise,
There’s such a lot to know.
THE RUBBER BABY
The ascent of the Rubber Baby took place in the back yard on the afternoon of last Fourth of July. It was an occasion of great interest.
We were all in the yard, – Mamma, Papa, Tubby, Toots, Posy, Bunny, Bay and Mr. Bagabave. (This boy has another name, but he prefers Mr. Bagabave because he made it himself.)
There was also the best cousin, who is nine feet tall, more or less, and a kind gentleman who was a friend of the best cousin, and came to see that he did not hurt himself with the firecrackers.
Well, there we all were, and we fired crackers and torpedoes the whole afternoon without stopping. The best cousin and the kind gentleman did it to amuse the children, and the rest of us did it to amuse ourselves.
We had cannon-crackers a foot long; we had double-headers, which papa threw up in the air, oh, ever so far, so that they exploded long before they reached the ground. Then there were dear little crackers, very small and slender, just made for Bay, though it is quite strange that the Chinese people should have known about her, when she is so very young.
Now we fired off single crackers, great and small, with a bang and a bang and a bang-bang; then we put a whole bunch under a barrel, and they went snap, crack, crickety, crackety. Yes, it was delightful.
But Papa, who has lived long and fired many crackers, began to pine for something new, and he said, “Let us have an ascension!”
Then we took counsel, and Mr. Bagabave said, “We will send up the Rubber Baby.” Now the Rubber Baby belonged to Bay, and she loved him; but when Bunny and Mr. Bagabave told her what a fine thing it was to get up in the world, and how many people would like to go up farther than the Rubber Baby would go, Bay consented, and went and brought the Rubber Baby, who smiled and thought little of the matter.
Then Papa brought the biggest cannon-cracker of all, and made a long fuse for it, and set it up in the ground; and over it he put a tomato can, and on the tomato can he set the Rubber Baby.
Now all was ready, and we all stood waiting for the final moment. I do not know what were the thoughts of the Rubber Baby at this moment, but we were all in a state of great excitement.
“Get out of the way, children!” cried Papa. “Run away, Bay! Get behind the maple-tree, Mr. Bagabave! She’s going. Now, then! One, two, three, and away!” and Papa touched off the fuse.
A moment of great suspense, a tremendous report, a dense cloud of smoke. Up soared the Rubber Baby, higher than the top of the big maple-tree, almost to the very clouds (or so Bay thought).
We watched in silent rapture; then, as the intrepid air-traveller came down, still smiling, a loud cheer broke from the whole crowd.
No, not from the whole crowd; there was one exception. The kind gentleman who came to keep the best cousin from hurting himself gave a howl so loud and clear that we all started, and ran to see what was the matter.
The poor gentleman had been holding a cannon-cracker, which he was going to fire just when Papa gave the signal for sending off the Rubber Baby. In the excitement of the moment he forgot the cannon-cracker, and it went off in his hand, and burnt him quite badly.
We were all very sorry, not only for the poor gentleman’s own sake, but because now there was no one to see that the best cousin did not hurt himself.
A pretty young lady came, and tied up the poor gentleman’s hand so nicely with her soft handkerchief that he said he was glad the cracker had gone off in it.
The Rubber Baby said nothing, but sat still in the middle of the gravel walk. Perhaps it was waiting to see if some lovely young lady would come to cheer and comfort it; but no one came till little Bay took it up, wiped off the dust and powder, kissed it, and put it to bed.
THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE
Dorothy was all dressed to see the Fourth of July procession. She had on her white dress, her blue sash, and her red shoes. Her cheeks were red, too, and her eyes were blue, and when she pushed up her full muslin sleeves, she saw how white her fat little arms were as soon as you got past the sunburn. “I’se red, white and blue mine-self!” said Dorothy.
She went and stood on the top doorstep, which was very near the street. Pretty soon the trumpets began to sound and the drums to beat, first far away, then nearer and nearer. At last the procession came round the corner. First the drum-major, with his huge bearskin cap, tossing his great gilded stick about; then came the musicians, puffing away with might and main at their great brass horns and trumpets, and banging away at their drums and kettle-drums. It was a splendid noise; but they were really playing a tune, the “Red, White and Blue.”
The standard-bearer dipped his flag as he passed Dorothy’s house, for there was a great flag draped over the doorway, and red, white and blue streamers running up to the windows, and Dorothy waved a little flag as she stood on the top doorstep. “Three cheers for the red, white and blue!” sang the soldiers as they marched by.
“Sank you!” said Dorothy, spreading out her frock and patting her sash. “I’se the red, white and blue! See mine sash!”
The soldiers laughed and cheered.
Then came a soldier who looked straight up at Dorothy, and held out his arms, though without stopping. And it was Dorothy’s own Papa!
In less than half a minute Dorothy was in his arms, and he had caught her up, and put her on his shoulder.
Dorothy waved her flag, and jumped up and down on Papa’s shoulder, and cried, “Three cheers for the red, white and blue! three cheers for me!” and all the soldiers shouted and cheered and laughed, and so Dorothy and the procession went on their way all through the village.
TOTTY’S CHRISTMAS
They call me Totty, because I am small. I had a funny Christmas, and Mamma said I might tell about it.
I have the scarlet fever, and I live all alone with my Mamma in her room. Nobody comes in ’cept the doctor, and he says he sha’n’t come any more to see a girl who feels as well as I do.
Mamma wears a cap and an apron, and we have our own dishes, just like play, and she washes them in a bright tin pan, and then I have the pan for a drum, and beat on it till she says she shall fly.
I always stop then, for I do think I should be frightened to see Mamma fly. Besides, she might fly away.
Well, yesterday was Christmas, and I could get out of bed and sit up in a chair; it was the first time.
So I sat up to dinner, and it was a partridge, but we played it was a turkey. There was jelly and macaroni, and for desert we had grapes and oranges. Mamma made it all look pretty, and Papa gave her roses through the door, and she put them all over the table.
When she had washed the dishes, she turned the big chair round so that I could look out of the window, and Hal and John came out on the lawn and made a snow-man for me to look at.
It was a fine man, with two legs and two arms, and they kept playing he was the British, and knocking his head off.
Mamma told me I mustn’t turn round till she said I might, but I didn’t want to, anyhow, the man was so funny.
I heard Papa whispering at the door, and I did want to see him, but I knew I couldn’t, ’cause the other children haven’t had the fever: and then I heard things rustle, paper and something soft, like brushing clothes.
They went on rustling, oh, a long time! and there was jingling, too, and I began to want to turn round very much indeed; but I didn’t, of course, ’cause I said I wouldn’t.
At last Mamma came up softly and tied something over my eyes, and told me to wait just a minute; and it really did not seem as if I could.
Then she turned the chair round, and took the thing off my eyes, and —what do you think was there?
A Christmas tree! A dear little ducky tree, just about as big as I am, and all lighted with red and blue candles, and silver stuff hanging like fringe from the branches, and real icicles. (No! Mamma says they are glass, but they look real. They are in a box now, and I can play with them.)
And everything on the tree was for me. That makes a rhyme. I often make them.
There was a lovely doll, all china, with clothes to take off and put on, and buttons and buttonholes in everything. I have named her Christine, because that is the most like Christmas of any name I know.
And a tin horse and cart, and a box of blocks, and a lovely white china slate to draw on, and a box of beasts, not painted, all carved, just like real beasts, and a magnet-box, with three ducks and two swans and four goldfish and a little boat, all made of tin, and lots of oranges and a lovely china box full of cream candy (the doctor said I might have it if Aunt May made it, and she did), and a box of guava jelly, and a little angel at the top, flying, all of white china.
And everything will wash except the things to eat, ’cause everything I play with has to be burned up, unless it can be washed, so they all gave me washing things.
Even Christine has china hair, and all her clothes are white, so they can be boiled, and so can she, and Mamma says it won’t hurt her at all.
So I never had a nicer Christmas, though, of course, I wanted the other children; but then, I had Mamma, and of course they wanted her, poor dears!
And nobody need be afraid to read this story, ’cause it is going to be baked in the oven before it is printed.
A CERTAIN BOY
I know a little bright-eyed boy
Who lives not far away,
And though he is his mother’s joy,
He plagues her, too, they say.
For when his task he’s bid to do,
He sits him down and cries, “Boo-hoo!
I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”
Yes! whether he’s to practise well,
Or do his horrid sums,
Or “Hippopotamus” to spell,
Or clean to wash his thumbs:
It matters not, for with a frown
The corners of his mouth go down, —
“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”
Oh! what a joyful day ’twill be
For mother and for son,
When smiling looks they both shall see
Beneath the smiling sun.
For in his heart he knows ’tis stuff,
And knows that if he tries enough,
He can! he can! he can! he can! he can!
THE NEW SISTER
“Look carefully!” said the kind Nurse, turning down a corner of the flannel blanket. “Don’t touch her, dears, but just look.”
The children stood on tiptoe and peeped into the tiny red face. They were frightened at first, the baby was so very small, but Johnny took courage in a moment.
“Hasn’t she got any eyes?” he asked. “Or is she like kittens?”
“Yes; she has eyes, and very bright ones, but she is fast asleep now.”
“Look at her little hands!” whispered Lily. “Aren’t they lovely? Oh, I do wish I could give her a hug!”
“Not yet,” said Nurse. “She is too tender to be hugged. But Mamma sends word that you may give her something, – a name. She wants you and Johnny to choose the baby’s name, only it must not be either Jemima, Keziah or Keren-Happuch.”
The Nurse went back into Mamma’s room, and left Johnny and Lily staring at each other, too proud and happy to speak at first.
“Let’s sit right down on the floor and think!” said John. So down they sat.
“I think Claribel is a lovely name!” said Lily, after a pause. “Don’t you?”
“No!” replied Johnny, “it’s too girly.”
“But baby is a girl!”
“I don’t care. She needn’t have such a very girly name. How do you like Ellen?”
“Oh, Johnny! why, everybody’s named Ellen. We don’t want her to be just like everybody. Now Seraphina is not common.”
“I should hope not. I should need a mouth a yard wide to say it. What do you think of Bessie?”
“Oh, Bessie is very well, only – well, I should be always thinking of Bessie Jones, and you know she isn’t very nice. I’ll tell you what, Johnny! suppose we call her Vesta Geneva, after the girl Papa told us about yesterday.”
“Lily, you are a perfect silly! Why, I wouldn’t be seen with a sister called that! I think Polly is a nice, jolly kind of name.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“You needn’t get mad if you don’t. Cross-patch!”
“You’re perfectly horrid, John Brown; I sha’n’t play with you any more.”
“Much I care, silly Lily!”
“Well!” said Nurse, coming in again, “what is the name to be, dears? Mamma is anxious to know.”
Two heads hung very low, and two pairs of eyes sought the floor and stayed there. “Shall I tell you,” the good Nurse went on, taking no notice, “what I thought would be a very good name for baby?”
“Oh yes! yes! do tell us, ’cause we can’t get the right one.”
“Well, I thought your mother’s name, Mary, would be the very best name in the world. What do you think?”
“Why, of course it would! We never thought of that. Oh, thank you, Nurse!” cried both voices, joyously. “Dear Nurse! will you tell Mamma, please?”
Nurse nodded, and went away smiling, and Lily and John looked sheepishly at each other.
“I – I will play with you, if you like, Johnny, dear.”
“All right, Lil.”
