Phoebe Cary

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 would n’t it be pleasanter To treat it as a joke; And say you ’re glad “’T was 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 would n’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 would n’t it be wiser Than waiting like a dunce, To go to work in earnest And learn the thing at once? Suppose that some boys have a horse, And some a coach and pair, Will it tire you less while walking To say, “It is n’t fair?” And would n’t it be nobler To keep your temper sweet, And in your heart be thankful You can walk upon your feet? And suppose the world don’t please you, Nor the way some people do, Do you think the whole creation Will be altered just for you? And is n’t it, my boy or girl, The wisest, bravest plan, Whatever comes, or does n’t come, To do the best you can?

Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where, To be a cold obstruction and to groan! This sensible, warm woman to become A prudish clod; and the delighted spirit To live and die alone, or to reside With married sisters, and to have the care Of half a dozen children, not your own; And driven, for no one wants you, Round the pendant world; or worse than worse Of those that disappointment and pure spite Have driven to madness: ’Tis too horrible! The weariest and most troubled married life That age, ache, penury, or jealousy Can lay on nature, is a paradise To being an old maid. That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,) Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free. My father had a daughter got a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I good-looking, I should, your lordship. And what’s her residence? A hut my lord, she never owned a house, But let her husband, like a graceless scamp, Spend all her little means,—she thought she ought,— And in a wretched chamber, on an alley, She worked like masons on a monument, Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed?

A Story of Holland The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day, And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play: “Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see, To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me; And take these cakes I made for him— They are hot and smoking yet; You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set.” Then the good-wife turned to her labor, Humming a simple song, And thought of her husband, working hard At the sluices all day long; And set the turf a-blazing, And brought the coarse black bread; That he might find a fire at night, And find the table spread. And Peter left the brother, With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow’s tender shade; And told them they ’d see him back before They saw a star in sight, Though he would n’t be afraid to go In the very darkest night! For he was a brave, bright fellow, With eye and conscience clear; He could do whatever a boy might do, And he had not learned to fear. Why, he would n’t have robbed a bird’s nest, Nor brought a stork to harm, Though never a law in Holland Had stood to stay his arm! And now, with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle Made glad a lonesome place— Alas! if only the blind old man Could have seen that happy face! Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent; And he felt the sunshine come and go As Peter came and went. And now, as the day was sinking, And the winds began to rise, The mother looked from her door again, Shading her anxious eyes; And saw the shadows deepen And birds to their homes come back, But never a sign of Peter Along the level track. But she said: “He will come at morning, So I need not fret or grieve— Though it is n’t like my boy at all To stay without my leave.” But where was the child delaying? On the homeward way was he, And across the dike while the sun was up An hour above the sea. He was stopping now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound, As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound. “Ah! well for us,” said Peter, “That the gates are good and strong, And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long! You ’re a wicked sea,” said Peter; “I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes; But our sluices keep you safe!” But hark! Through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child’s face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment, And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand. ’T is a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means. A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear. For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night; And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might. And the boy! He has seen the danger, And, shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm! He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep passing nigh; And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry. And he hears the rough winds blowing, And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him, Save the echo of his call. He sees no hope, no succor, His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post! So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea; Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company; He thinks of his brother and sister, Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother, Of himself as dying—and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last: But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast. The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all night. And now she watches the pathway, As yester eve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun? Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door; Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before! “He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!” And the startled father hears, And comes and looks the way she looks, And fears the thing she fears: Till a glad shout from the bearers Thrills the stricken man and wife— “Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, And God has saved his life!” So, there in the morning sunshine They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy. ’T is many a year since then; but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good. For every man in that country Takes his son by the hand, And tells him of little Peter, Whose courage saved the land. They have many a valiant hero, Remembered through the years: But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears. And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, And told to the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea!

He dwelt among “apartments let,” About five stories high; A man I thought that none would get, And very few would try. A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood. He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife,—and O! The difference to me!

The last days of the summer: bright and clear Shines the warm sun down on the quiet land, Where corn-fields, thick and heavy in the ear, Are slowly ripening for the laborer’s hand; Seed-time and harvest — since the bow was set, Not vainly has man hoped your coming yet! To the quick rush of sickles, joyously The reapers in the yellow wheat-fields sung, And bound the pale sheaves of the ripened rye, When the first tassels of the maize were hung; That precious seed into the furrow cast Earliest in spring-time, crowns the harvest last. Ever, when summer’s sun burns faint and dim, And rare and few the pleasant days are given, When the sweet praise of our thankgiving hymn Makes beautiful music in the ear of Heaven, I think of other harvests whence the sound Of singing comes not as the sheaves are bound. Not where the rice-fields whiten in the sun, And the warm South casts down her yellow fruit, Shout they the labors of the autumn done — For there Oppression casts her deadly root, And they, who sow and gather in that clime Share not the treasures of the harvest-time. God of the seasons! thou who didst ordain Bread for the eater who shall plant the soil, How have they heard thee, who have forged the chain And built the dungeon for the sons of toil? Burdening their hearts, not with the voice of prayer, But the dull cries of almost dumb despair. They who would see that growth of wickedness Planted where now the peaceful prairie waves, And make the green paths of our wilderness Red with the torn and bleeding feet of slaves — Forbid it, Heaven! and let the sharp axe be Laid at the root of that most poison tree! Let us behold its deadly leaves begin A fainter shadow o’er the world to cast, And the long day that nursed its growth of sin Wane to a sunset that shall be its last; So that the day-star, rising from the sea, Shall light a land whose children will be free!