The Posy Ring Part 28

Hail! Ho!

Sail! Ho!

Sail far o'er the fabulous main!

And if I were a sailor, I'd sail with you, Though I never sailed back again.

James Whitcomb Riley.

_The Land of Story-Books_[A]

At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "A Child's Garden of Verses," by Robert Louis Stevenson. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._

_The City Child_

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?

Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells?

"Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury bells."

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?

Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours?

"Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

_Going into Breeches_

Joy to Philip! he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Put the manly breeches on.

Officer on gay parade, Red-coat in his first c.o.c.kade, Bridegroom in his wedding-trim, Birthday beau surpa.s.sing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state Or the pride (yet free from sin) Of my little MANIKIN: Never was there pride or bliss Half so rational as his.

Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em, Philip's limbs have got their freedom-- He can run, or he can ride, And do twenty things beside, Which his petticoats forbade; Is he not a happy lad?

Now he's under other banners He must leave his former manners; Bid adieu to female games And forget their very names; Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek, Sports for girls and punies weak!

Baste-the-bear he now may play at; Leap-frog, foot-ball sport away at; Show his skill and strength at cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket; Run about in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow; Climb a tree or scale a wall Without any fear to fall.

If he get a hurt or bruise, To complain he must refuse, Though the anguish and the smart Go unto his little heart; He must have his courage ready, Keep his voice and visage steady; Brace his eyeb.a.l.l.s stiff as drum, That a tear may never come; And his grief must only speak From the colour in his cheek.

This and more he must endure, Hero he in miniature.

This and more must now be done, Now the breeches are put on.

Charles and Mary Lamb.

_Hunting Song_

Up, up! ye dames and la.s.ses gay!

To the meadows trip away.

'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn, Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet.

Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

_Hie Away_

Hie away, hie away!

Over bank and over brae, Where the copsewood is the greenest, Where the fountains glisten sheenest, Where the lady fern grows strongest, Where the morning dew lies longest, Where the blackc.o.c.k sweetest sips it, Where the fairy latest trips it: Hie to haunts right seldom seen, Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, Over bank and over brae, Hie away, hie away!

Sir Walter Scott.

VIII

STORY TIME

_And I made a rural pen; And I stained the water clear And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear._