General Books

The Cat-tail Arrow BY CLARA DOTY BATES ittle Sammie made a bow, Well indeed he loved to whittle, Shaped it like the half of O— How he could I scarcely know, For his fingers were so little. As he whittled came a sigh: "If I only had an arrow; Something light enough to fly To the tree-tops or the sky! Then I'd have such fun tomorrow." Then he thought of all the slim Things that grow—the... more...

THE THREE CHERRY TREESThere were three cherry trees once,Grew in a garden all shady;And there for delight of so gladsome a sight,Walked a most beautiful lady,Dreamed a most beautiful lady.Birds in those branches did sing,Blackbird and throstle and linnet,But she walking there was by far the most fair—Lovelier than all else within it,Blackbird and throstle and linnet.But blossoms to berries do... more...

WHO'S THERE?Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell,Who ys there that syngith so, nowell, nowell, nowell?I am here, syre Christmasse!Well come, my lord syre Christmasse,Welcome to us all, bothe more and lesse,Come nere, nowell!Dieu vous garde, beau syre, tydinges you bryng:A mayd hath born a chylde full yong,The weche causeth yew for to syng,Nowell!Criste is now born of a pure mayde,In an oxe stalle he ys... more...

ACROSS THE SEA. I.—CHILDHOOD. Ah! who can speak that country whence I fled?None but a lover may its beauty know,None but a poet can its rapture sing;And e'en his muse, upborne on Fancy's wing,Will grieve o'er beauties still unnoticed,O'er raptures language is too poor to show. Fore'er remains the land where children dwell,Earth's fairest mem'ry and its... more...

IN MEMORIAM: PAULINE JOHNSON I cannot say how deeply it touched me to learn that Pauline Johnson expressed a wish on her death-bed that I, living here in the mother country all these miles away, should write something about her. I was not altogether surprised, however, for her letters to me had long ago shed a golden light upon her peculiar character. She had made herself believe, quite erroneously,... more...

TO THE READER. Though cooks are often men of pregnant wit,Through niceness of their subject few have writ.’Tis a sage question, if the art of cooksIs lodg’d by nature or attain’d by books?That man will never frame a noble treat,Whose whole dependence lies in some receipt.Then by pure nature everything is spoil’d,—She knows no more than stew’d, bak’d, roast, and boil’d.When art and... more...

Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771, of an ancient Scotch clan numbering in its time many a hard rider and good fighter, and more than one of these petty chieftains, half-shepherd and half-robber, who made good the winter inroads into their stock of beeves by spring forays and cattle drives across the English Border. Scott's great-grandfather was the famous "Beardie" of... more...

Where Bobby lives there is a hill—A hill so steep and high,'Twould fill the bill for Jack and JillTheir famous act to try Once Bobby's Go-cart broke awayAnd down this hill it kited.The careless Nurse screamed in dismayBut Bobby was delighted He clapped his hands, in manner rude,And laughed in high elation—While, close behind, the Nurse pursuedIn hopeless consternation An Officer slid off... more...

A Dream.I stood far off above the haunts of menSomewhere, I know not, when the sky was dimFrom some worn glory, and the morning hymnOf the gay oriole echoed from the glen.Wandering, I felt earth's peace, nor knew I soughtA visioned face, a voice the wind had caught.I passed the waking things that stirred and gazed,Thought-bound, and heeded not; the waking flowersDrank in the morning mist,... more...

This is a book of stories. For that reason I have excluded all purely lyrical poems. But the word "stories" has been stretched to its fullest application. It includes both narrative poems, properly so called; tales divided into scenes; and a few pieces of less obvious story-telling import in which one might say that the dramatis personae are air, clouds, trees, houses, streets, and such like... more...