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 [1850-1894]

THE GARDENER

THE gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig,

Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.

He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.

Silly gardener! summer goes,

And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days

O how much wiser you would be

To play at Indian wars with me!

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

MR. NOBODY

I KNOW a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In everybody's house!

The Peddler's Caravan

153

There's no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree

That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.

'Tis he who always tears our books,

Who leaves the door ajar,

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,

And scatters pins afar;

That squeaking door will always squeak
For, prithee, don't you see,

We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.

He puts damp wood upon the fire,
That kettles cannot boil;

His are the feet that bring in mud,
And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid,

Who had them last but he?

There's no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody.

The finger-marks upon the door

By none of us are made;

We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill, the boots

That lying round you see

Are not our boots; they all belong

To Mr. Nobody.

Unknown

THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN

I WISH I lived in a caravan,

With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man!
Where he comes from nobody knows,

Or where he goes to, but on he goes!

His caravan has windows two,

And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through;

He has a wife, with a baby brown,

And they go riding from town to town.

Chairs to mend, and delf to sell!

He clashes the basins like a bell;
Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order,
Plates, with alphabets round the border!

The roads are brown, and the sea is green,
But his house is like a bathing-machine;
The world is round, and he can ride,
Rumble and slash, to the other side!

With the peddler-man I should like to roam,
And write a book when I came home;
All the people would read my book,
Tust like the Travels of Captain Cook!

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]

MY LITTLE DOLL

From "The Water Babies"

I ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,

And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;

And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:

Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,

And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled:

Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,

The prettiest doll in the world.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

"There Was a Jolly Miller"

155

THE JOVIAL BEGGAR

THERE was a jovial beggar, he had a wooden leg,
Lame from his cradle, and forced for to beg.
And a-begging we will go, will go,
And a-begging we will go!

A bag for his oatmeal, another for his salt,
And a pair of crutches, to show that he can halt.

A bag for his wheat, another for his rye,

A little bottle by his side to drink when he's a-dry.

Seven years I begged for my old master Wild,
He taught me to beg when I was but a child.

I begged for my master, and got him store of pelf;
But now, heaven be praised! I'm begging for myself.

In a hollow tree I live and pay no rent-
Providence provides for me, and I am well content.

Of all the occupations, a beggar's life's the best,
For whenever he's a-weary, he'll lay him down and rest.

I fear no plots against me, I live in open cell;
Then who would be a king, when beggars live so well?

THERE was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee;

He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe

as he;

And this the burden of his song forever used to be:

"I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me.

"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife;

I would not change my station for any other in life;
No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor e'er had a groat from me;
I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me."

When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay;

No summer's drought alarms his fear, nor winter's cold decay;

No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and

say,

"Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day."

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing; The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing; This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring; Let heart and voice and all agree to say, "Long live the king." Isaac Bickerstaff [ ? -1812?]

ONE AND ONE

Two little girls are better than one,
Two little boys can double the fun,
Two little birds can build a fine nest,
Two little arms can love mother best.
Two little ponies must go to a span;
Two little pockets has my little man;
Two little eyes to open and close,
Two little ears and one little nose,
Two little elbows, dimpled and sweet,
Two little shoes on two little feet,
Two little lips and one little chin,
Two little cheeks with a rose shut in;
Two little shoulders, chubby and strong,
Two little legs running all day long.
Two little prayers does my darling say,
Twice does he kneel by my side each day,
Two little folded hands, soft and brown,
Two little eyelids cast meekly down,