Kitobni o'qish: «Graded Memory Selections»

PREFACE

It is unfortunately true that the terms education and culture are not synonymous. Too often we find that the children in our public schools, while possessed of the one, are signally lacking in the other. This is a state of things that cannot be remedied by teaching mere facts. The Greeks, many years ago, found the true method of imparting the latter grace and we shall probably not be able to discover a better one to-day. Their youths learned Homer and the other great poets as a part of their daily tasks, and by thus constantly dwelling upon and storing in their minds the noblest and most beautifully expressed thought in their literature, their own mental life became at once refined and strong.

The basis of all culture lies in a pure and elevated moral nature, and so noted an authority as President Eliot, of Harvard University, has said that the short memory gems which he learned as a boy in school, have done him more good in the hour of temptation than all the sermons he ever heard preached. A fine thought or beautiful image, once stored in the mind, even if at first it is received indifferently and with little understanding, is bound to recur again and again, and its companionship will have a sure, if unconscious, influence. The mind that has been filled in youth with many such thoughts and images will surely bear fruit in fine and gracious actions.

To the teachers who are persuaded of this truth, the present collection of poems has much to recommend it. The selections have been chosen both for their moral influence and for their permanent value as literature. They have been carefully graded to suit the needs of every class from the primary to the high school. Either the whole poem or a sufficiently long quotation has been inserted to give the child a complete mental picture.

The teacher will thus escape the difficulty of choosing among a too great abundance of riches, or the still greater one of finding for herself, with few resources, what serves her purpose. This volume has a further advantage over other books of selections. It is so moderate in price that it will be possible to place it in the hands of the children themselves.

The compilers desire to thank Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Charles Scribner’s Sons, Bowen, Merrill & Co., Whittaker & Ray Co., and Doubleday & McClure Co., for their kindness in permitting the use of copyrighted material.

S. D. WATERMAN.

FIRST GRADE

THE BABY

 
Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into the here.
Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.
 
 
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.
Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.
 
 
What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose?
I saw something better than any one know.
 
 
Whence that three-corner’d smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.
 
 
Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherubs’ wings.
 
 
How did they all come just to be you?
God thought of me and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought of you, and so I am here.
 

—George Macdonald.

THE LITTLE PLANT

 
In the heart of a seed, buried deep, so deep,
A dear little plant lay fast asleep.
“Wake,” said the sunshine, “and creep to the light.”
“Wake,” said the voice of the rain-drops bright.
The little plant heard and rose to see
What the wonderful outside world might be.
 

—Anon.

SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!

 
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father watches his sheep;
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree,
And down comes a little dream on thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
 
 
Sleep, baby, sleep!
The large stars are the sheep;
The little stars are the lambs, I guess;
And the gentle moon is the shepherdess.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
 
 
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Our Saviour loves His sheep;
He is the Lamb of God on high,
Who for our sakes came down to die.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
 

—E. Prentiss (from the German).

ONE, TWO, THREE

 
One, two, three, a bonny boat I see,
A silver boat and all afloat upon a rosy sea.
One, two, three, the riddle tell to me.
The moon afloat is the bonny boat, the sunset is the sea.
 

—Margaret Johnson.

THREE LITTLE BUGS IN A BASKET

 
Three little bugs in a basket,
And hardly room for two;
And one was yellow, and one was black,
And one like me or you;
The space was small, no doubt, for all,
So what should the three bugs do?
 
 
Three little bugs in a basket,
And hardly crumbs for two;
And all were selfish in their hearts,
The same as I or you.
So the strong one said, “We will eat the bread,
And that’s what we will do!”
 
 
Three little bugs in a basket,
And the beds but two could hold;
And so they fell to quarreling—
The white, the black, and the gold—
And two of the bugs got under the rugs,
And one was out in the cold.
 
 
He that was left in the basket,
Without a crumb to chew,
Or a thread to wrap himself withal,
When the wind across him blew,
Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs,
And so the quarrel grew.
 
 
So there was war in the basket;
Ah! pity ’tis, ’tis true!
But he that was frozen and starved, at last
A strength from his weakness drew,
And pulled the rugs from both the bugs,
And killed and ate them, too!
 
 
Now when bugs live in a basket,
Though more than it well can hold,
It seems to me they had better agree—
The black, the white, and the gold—
And share what comes of beds and crumbs,
And leave no bug in the cold.
 

—Alice Cary.

WHENEVER A LITTLE CHILD IS BORN

 
Whenever a little child is born,
All night a soft wind rocks the corn,
One more butter-cup wakes to the morn,
Somewhere.
One more rose-bud shy will unfold,
One more grass-blade push through the mould,
One more bird’s song the air will hold,
Somewhere.
 

—Agnes L. Carter.

SWEET AND LOW

 
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
 
 
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west,
Under the silver moon;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
 

—Alfred Tennyson.

THE FERRY FOR SHADOWTOWN

 
Sway to and fro in the twilight gray;
This is the ferry for Shadowtown;
It always sails at the end of the day,
Just as the darkness closes down.
 
 
Rest little head, on my shoulder, so;
A sleepy kiss is the only fare;
Drifting away from the world, we go,
Baby and I in the rocking-chair.
 
 
See where the fire-logs glow and spark,
Glitter the lights of the shadowland,
The raining drops on the window, hark!
Are ripples lapping upon its strand.
 
 
There, where the mirror is glancing dim,
A lake lies shimmering, cool and still.
Blossoms are waving above its brim,
Those over there on the window-sill.
 
 
Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light,
Silently lower the anchor down:
Dear little passenger, say “Good-night.”
We’ve reached the harbor of Shadowtown.
 

—Anon.

MY SHADOW

 
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.
 
 
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.
 
 
He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward, you can see;
I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
 
 
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
 

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

QUITE LIKE A STOCKING

 
Just as morn was fading amid her misty rings,
And every stocking was stuffed with childhood’s precious things,
Old Kris Kringle looked round and saw on the elm tree bough
High hung, an oriole’s nest, lonely and empty now.
 
 
“Quite like a stocking,” he laughed, “hung up there in the tree,
I didn’t suppose the birds expected a visit from me.”
Then old Kris Kringle who loves a joke as well as the best,
Dropped a handful of snowflakes into the oriole’s empty nest.
 

—Anon.

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT

 
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat;
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the moon above,
And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love!
What a beautiful Pussy you are—
You are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
 
 
Pussy said to the owl, “You elegant fowl!
How wonderfully sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married—too long we have tarried—
But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood
With a ring in the end of his nose—
His nose,
With a ring in the end of his nose.
 
 
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?” Said the piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined upon mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon,
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon—
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
 

—Edward Lear.

FORGET-ME-NOT

 
When to the flowers so beautiful the Father gave a name
Back came a little blue-eyed one, all timidly it came;
And, standing at the Father’s feet and gazing in His face
It said, in low and trembling tones and with a modest grace,
“Dear God, the name Thou gavest me, alas, I have forgot.”
The Father kindly looked Him down and said, “Forget-me-not.”
 

—Anon.

WHO STOLE THE BIRD’S NEST

 
“To-whit! To-whit! To-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?”
 
 
“Not I,” said the cow, “moo-oo!
Such a thing I’d never do.
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But I did not take your nest away:
Not I,” said the cow, “moo-oo!
Such a thing I’d never do.”
 
 
“Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link!
Now, what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum tree to-day?”
 
 
“Not I,” said the dog, “bow-wow!
I wouldn’t be so mean, I vow.
I gave some hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I,” said the dog, “bow-wow!
I wouldn’t be so mean, I vow.”
 
 
“Coo-oo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word or two:
Who stole that pretty nest,
From little Yellow-breast?”
 
 
“Not I,” said the sheep; “oh, no,
I would not treat a poor bird so;
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! Baa!” said the sheep; “oh no;
I wouldn’t treat a poor bird so.”
 
 
“Caw! Caw!” cried the crow,
“I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird’s nest to-day.”
 
 
“Cluck! Cluck!” said the hen,
“Don’t ask me again;
Why, I haven’t a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together.
I’d scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Cluck! Cluck!” said the hen,
“Don’t ask me again.”
 
 
“Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
All the birds make a stir.
Let us find out his name,
And all cry, ‘For shame!’”
 
 
“I would not rob a bird!”
Said little Mary Green,
“I think I never heard
Of anything so mean!”
 
 
“It’s very cruel, too,”
Said little Alice Neal,
“I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel.”
 
 
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed:
For he stole that pretty nest
From little Yellow-Breast;
And he felt so full of shame
He did not like to tell his name.
 

—Anon.

TWO LITTLE HANDS

 
Two little hands so soft and white,
This is the left—this is the right.
Five little fingers stand on each,
So I can hold a plum or a peach.
But if I should grow as old as you
Lots of little things these hands can do.
 

—Anon.

THE DANDELION

 
O dandelion yellow as gold,
What do you do all day?
I just wait here in the tall green grass
Till the children come to play.
O dandelion yellow as gold,
What do you do all night?
I wait and wait till the cool dews fall
And my hair grows long and white.
 
 
And what do you do when your hair is white
And the children come to play?
They take me up in their dimpled hands
And blow my hair away.
 

—Anon.

A MILLION LITTLE DIAMONDS

 
A million little diamonds
Twinkled on the trees;
And all the little maidens said,
“A jewel, if you please!”
 
 
But while they held their hands outstretched
To catch the diamonds gay,
A million little sunbeams came
And stole them all away.
 

—M. T. Butts.

DAISY NURSES

 
The daisies white are nursery maids with frills upon their caps;
And daisy buds are little babes they tend upon their laps.
Sing “Heigh-ho!” while the winds sweep low,
Both nurses and babies are nodding JUST SO.
 
 
The daisy babies never cry, the nurses never scold;
They never crush the dainty frills about their cheeks of gold;
But pure and white, in gay sunlight
They’re nid-nodding—pretty sight.
 
 
The daisies love the golden sun, upon the clear blue sky,
He gazes kindly down on them and winks his jolly eye;
While soft and low, all in a row,
Both nurses and babies are nodding JUST SO.
 

—Anon.

DANDELIONS

 
There surely is a gold mine somewhere underneath the grass,
For dandelions are popping out in every place you pass.
But if you want to gather some you’d better not delay,
For the gold will turn to silver soon and all will blow away.
 

—Anon.

AT LITTLE VIRGIL’S WINDOW

 
There are three green eggs in a small brown pocket,
And the breeze will swing and the gale will rock it,
Till three little birds on the thin edge teeter,
And our God be glad and our world be sweeter.
 

—Edwin Markham.

MEMORY GEMS

 
Do thy duty, that is best,
Leave unto the Lord the rest.
 
 
Whene’er a task is set for you,
Don’t idly sit and view it—
Nor be content to wish it done;
Begin at once and do it.
 
 
Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest, brave and true,
Moment by moment, the long day through.
 

—Sel.

SECOND GRADE

SEVEN TIMES ONE

 
There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There’s no rain left in heaven;
I’ve said my “seven times” over and over,
Seven times one are seven.
 
 
I am old, so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better—
They are only one times one.
 
 
O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing,—
You are nothing now but a bow.
 
 
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,
That God has hidden your face?
I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.
 
 
O velvet bee, you’re a dusty fellow;
You’ve powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!
 
 
And show me your nest with the young ones in it,—
I will not steal it away;
I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,—
I am seven times one to-day!
 

—Jean Ingelow.

CHRISTMAS EVE

 
God bless the little stockings all over the land to-night
Hung in the choicest corners, in the glory of crimson light.
The tiny scarlet stockings, with a hole in the heel and toe,
Worn by the wonderful journeys that the darlings have to go.
And Heaven pity the children, wherever their homes may be,
Who wake at the first gray dawning, an empty stocking to see.
 

—Anon.

MORNING SONG

 
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
“Let me fly,” says little birdie,
“Mother, let me fly away.”
 
 
“Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.”
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
 
 
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
“Let me rise and fly away.”
 
 
“Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.”
 

—Alfred Tennyson.

SUPPOSE, MY LITTLE LADY

 
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?
 

—Phœbe Cory.

THE DAY’S EYE

 
What does the daisy see
In the breezy meadows tossing?
It sees the wide blue fields o’er head
And the little cloud flocks crossing.
 
 
What does the daisy see
Round the sunny meadows glancing?
It sees the butterflies’ chase
And the filmy gnats at their dancing.
 
 
What does the daisy see
Down in the grassy thickets?
The grasshoppers green and brown,
And the shining, coal-black crickets.
 
 
It sees the bobolink’s nest,
That no one else can discover,
And the brooding mother-bird
With the floating grass above her.
 

—Anon.

THE NIGHT WIND

 
Have you ever heard the wind go “Yoooooo”?
’Tis a pitiful sound to hear;
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.
’Tis the voice of the wind that broods outside
When folks should be asleep,
And many and many’s the time I’ve cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide
Over the land and the deep:
“Whom do you want, O lonely night,
That you wail the long hours through?”
And the night would say in its ghostly way:
“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”
 
 
My mother told me long ago
When I was a little lad
That when the night went wailing so,
Somebody had been bad;
And then when I was snug in bed,
Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I’d think of what my mother said,
And wonder what boy she meant.
And, “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask
Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”
 
 
That this was true, I must allow—
You’ll not believe it though,
Yes, though I’m quite a model now,
I was not always so.
And if you doubt what things I say,
Suppose you make the test;
Suppose that when you’ve been bad some day,
And up to bed you’re sent away
From mother and the rest—
Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?”
And then you’ll hear what’s true;
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
“Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”
 

—Eugene Field.