Jest 'Fore Christmas

FATHER calls me William, sister calls me Will,

Mother calls me Willie but the fellers call me Bill!

Mighty glad I ain't a girl---ruther be a boy,

Without them sashes curls an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy!

Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake--

Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache!

'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me,

But jest'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat.

First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at!

Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide,

'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride!

But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,

He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,

An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!"

But jest'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,

I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,

As was et up by the cannibals that live in Ceylon's Isle,

Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!

But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show,

Nor read the life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know

That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good enough for me!

Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm as good as I kin be!

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still,

His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"

The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become

Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!

But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz,

That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"

But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me

When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes an' toys,

Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys;

So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's,

And don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes;

Say "Yessum" to the ladies, and "Yessur" to the men,

An' when they's company, don'a pass yer plate for pie again;

But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree,

Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

Eugene Field

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

A Dutch Lullaby.

WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"

The old moon asked the three.

"We have come to fish for the herring fish

That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we!"

       Said Wynken,

       Blynken,

       and Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew.

The little stars were the herring fish

That lived in the beautiful sea--

"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--

Never afeared are we!"

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

       Wynken,

       Blynken,

       And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,--

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home:

'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea;

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

       Wynken,

       Blynken,

       And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one's trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock in the misty sea

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--

       Wynken,

       Blynken,

       And Nod.

Eugene Field

The Sugar-Plum Tree

HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?

'Tis a marvel of great renown!

It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop Sea

In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;

The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet

(As those who have tasted it say)

That good little children have only to eat

Of that fruit to be happy next day.

When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time

To capture the fruit which I sing;

The tree is so tall that no person could climb

To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!

But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,

And a ginger bread dog prowls below-

And this is the way you contrive to get at

Those sugar-plums tempting you so:

You say but the word to that gingerbread dog

And he barks with such a terrible zest

That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,

As her swelling proportions attest.

And the chocolate cat goes covorting around

From this leafy limb unto that,

And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground-

Hurray for that chocolate cat!

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes

With striping of scarlet and gold,

And you carry away of the treasure that rains,

As much as your apron can hold!

So come, little child, cuddle closer to me

In your dainty white nightcap and gown,

And I'll rock you away to the Sugar-Plum Tree

In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

Eugene Field

The Duel

THE gingham dog and the calico cat

Side by side on the table sat;

'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)

Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!

The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate

Appeared to know as sure as fate

There was going to be a terrible spat.

       (I wasn't there; I simply state

       What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"

And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!"

The air was littered, an hour or so,

With bits of gingham and calico,

While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place

Up with its hands before its face,

For it always dreaded a family row!

       (Never mind: I'm only telling you

       What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,

And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"

But the gingham dog and calico cat

Wallowed this way and tumbled that,

Employing every tooth and claw

In the awfullest way you ever saw-

And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

       (Don't fancy I exaggerate-

       I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning where the two had sat

They found no trace of the dog or cat;

And some folks think unto this day

That burglars stole that pair away!

But the truth about the cat and pup

Is this: they ate each other up!

Now what do you really think of that!

       (The old Dutch clock it told me so,

       And that is how I came to know.)

Eugene Field

Little Boy Blue

THE little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and stanch he stands;

The little toy sholder is covered with rust,

And his musket molds in the hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,

"And don't you make any noise!"

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

He dremt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue--

Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are true!

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place--

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face;

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through

In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue,

Since he kissed them and put them there.

Eugene Field

Little Homer's Slate

AFTER dear old grandma died,

Hunting through an oaken chest

In the attic, we espied

What repaid our childish quest;

'Twas a homely little slate,

Seemingly of ancient date.

On its quaint and battered face

Was the picture of a cart,

Drawn with all that awkward grace

Which betokens childish art;

But what meant this legend, pray:

"Homer drew this yesterday?"

Mother recollected then

What the years were fain to hide--

She was but a baby when

Little Homer lived and died;

Forty years, so mother said,

Little Homer had been dead.

This one secret through those years

Grandma kept from all apart,

Hallowed by her lonely tears

And the breaking of her heart;

While each year that sped away

Seemed to her but yesterday.

So the homely little slate

Grandma's baby's fingers pressed,

To a memory consecrate,

Lieth in the oaken chest,

Where, unwilling we should know,

Grandma put it, years ago.

Eugene Field

In the Firelight

THE fire upon the hearth is low,

And there is stillness everywhere,

And, like wing'd spirits everywhere,

The firelight shadows fluttering go.

And as the shadows round me creep,

A childish trebble breaks the gloom,

And softly from a further room

Comes: "Now I lay me down to sleep."

And, somehow with that little pray'r

And that sweet trebble in my ears,

My thought goes back to distant years,

And lingers with a dear one there;

And as I hear my child's amen,

My mother's faith comes back to me--

Crouched at her side I seem to be,

And mother holds my hands again.

Oh, for an hour in that dear place--

Oh, for that childish trust sublime--

Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face!

Yet, as the shadows round me creep,

I do not seem to be alone--

Sweet magic of that treble tone

And "Now I lay me down to sleep!"

Eugene Field

Inscription for My Little Son's Silver Plate

WHEN thou dost eat from off this plate,

I charge thee be thou temperate;

Unto thine elders at the board

Do thou sweet reverence accord;

And, though to dignity inclined,

Unto the serving-folk be kind;

Be ever mindful of the poor,

Nor turn them hungry from the door;

And unto God, for health and food

And all that in thy life is good,

Give thou thy heart in gratitude.

Eugene Field

Over the Hills and Far Away

Over the hills and far away,

A little boy steals from his morning play,

And under the blossoming apple-tree

He lies and dreams of the things to be:

Of battles fought and of victories won,

Of wrongs o'erthrown and of great deeds done--

Of the valor that he shall prove some day,

Over the hills and far away--

Over the hills and far away!

Over the hills and far away

It's, oh, for the toil of the livelong day!

But it mattereth not to the soul aflame

With a love for riches and power and fame!

On, O man! while the sun is high--

On to the certain joys that lie

Yonder where blazeth the noon of day.

Over the hills and far away--

Over the hills and far away!

Over the hills and far away

An old man lingers at close of day;

Now that his journey is almost done,

His battles fought and his victories won--

The old-time honesty and truth,

The trustfulness and the friends of youth,

Home and mother--where are they?

Over the hills and far away--

Over the hills and far away!

Eugene Field

The Naughty Doll

MY dolly is a dreadful care,--

Her name is Miss Amandy;

I dress her up and curl her hair,

And feed her taffy candy.

Yet heedless of the pleading voice

Of her devoted mother,

She will not wed her mother's choice,

But says she'll wed another.

I'd have her wed the china vase,--

There is no Dresden rarer;

You might go searching every place

And never find a fairer.

He is a gentle, pinkish youth,--

Of that there's no denying;

Yet when I think of him forsooth,

Amandy falls to crying!

She loves the drum--that's very plain--

And scorns the case so clever;

And weeping, vows she will remain

A spinster doll forever!

The protestations of the Drum

I am convinced are hollow;

When once distressing times should come,

How soon would ruin follow!

Yet all in vain the Dresden boy

From yonder mantel woos her;

A mania for that vulgar toy,

The noisy drum, imbues her!

In vain I wheel her to and fro,

And reason with her moldly,--

Her waxen tears in torrents flow,

Her sawdust heart beats wildly.

I'm sure that when I'm big and tall,

And wear long trailing dresses,

I sha'n't encourage beaux at all

Till mama acquiesces;

Our choice will be a suitor then

As pretty as this vase is,--

Oh, how we'll hate the noisy men

With whiskers on their faces!

Eugene Field

The Hawthorne Children

THE Hawthorne children--seven in all--

      Are famous friends of mine,

And with what pleasure I recall

How, years ago, one gloomy fall,

      I took a tedious railway line

And journeyed by slow stages down

Unto that sleepy seaport town

      (Albeit one worth seeing),

    Were Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred,

And Beatrix and Gwendolen

And she that was the baby then--

    These famous seven, as aforesaid,

      Lived, moved, and had their being.

The Hawthorne children gave me such

      A welcome by the sea,

That the eight of us were soon in touch,

And though their mother marveled much,

      Happy as larks were we!

Egad I was a boy again

With Henry, John, and Gwendolen!

      And, oh! the funny capers

    I cut with Hildegarde and Fred!

The pranks we heedless children played,

The deafening, awful noise we made--

    'Twould shock my family, if they read

      About it in the papers.

The Hawthorne children all were smart;

      The girls, as I recall,

Had comprehended every art

Appealing to the head and heart,

      The boys were gifted, all;

'Twas Hildegard that showed me how

To hitch the horse and milk a cow

      And cook the best of suppers;

    With Beatrix upon the sands

I sprinted daily, and was beat,

While Henry stumped me to the feat

    Of walking round upon my hands

      Instead of on my "uppers."

The Hawthorne children liked me best

      Of evenings, after tea;

For then, by general request,

I spun them yarns about the west--

      And all involving Me!

I represented hw I'd slain

The bison on the gore-smeared plain,

      And divers tales of wonder

    I'd told of how I'd fought and bled

In injun scrimages galore,

Til Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more!"

    And packed her darlings off to bed

      To dream of blood and thunder!"

They must have changed a deal since then:

      The misses tall and fair,

And those three lusty, handsome men,

Would they be girls and boys again

      Were I to happen there,

Down in that spot beside the sea

Where we had such tumultuous glee

      In dull autumnal weather?

    Ah me! the years go swiftly by,

And yet how fondly I recall

The week when we were children all--

    Dear Hawthorne children, you and I--

      Just eight of us together!

Eugene Field