CHILDREN'S CRIMSON SERIES
PINAFORE PALACE
BY
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
AND
NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1907, by The McClure Company
PREFACE
TO THE MOTHER
A public not to be bribed,
Not to be entreated,
Not to be overawed."
Such is the audience—in long clothes or short frocks, in pinafores or kilts, or in the brief trousers that bespeak the budding man—such is the crowing, laughing court, the toddling public that awaits these verses.
Every home, large or small, poor or rich, that has a child in it, is a Pinafore Palace, and we have borrowed the phrase from one of childhood's most whimsical and devoted poets-laureate, thinking no other words would so well express our meaning.
If the two main divisions of the book—"The Royal Baby" and "Little Prince and Princess"—should seem to you a trifle sentimental it will be because you forget for the moment the gayety and humor of the title with its delightful assumptions of regal dignity and state. Granted the Palace itself, everything else falls easily into line, and if you cannot readily concede the royal birth and bearing of your neighbor's child you will see nothing strange in thinking of your own nursling as little prince or princess, and so you will be able to accept gracefully the sobriquet of Queen Mother, which is yours by the same invincible logic!
Oh, yes, we allow that instead of being gravely editorial in our attitude, we have played with the title, as well as with all the sub-titles and classifications, feeling that it was the next pleasantest thing to playing with the babies themselves. It was so delightful to re-read the well-loved rhymes of our own childhood and try to find others worthy to put beside them; so delicious to imagine the hundreds of young mothers who would meet their old favorites in these particular pages; and so inspiring to think of the thousands of new babies whose first hearing of nursery classics would be associated with this red-covered volume, that we found ourselves in a joyous mood which we hope will be contagious. Nothing is surer than that a certain gayety of heart and mind constitute the most wholesome climate for young children. "The baby whose mother has not charmed him in his cradle with rhyme and song has no enchanting dreams; he is not gay and he will never be a great musician," so runs the old Swiss saying.
Youthful mothers, beautifully and properly serious about their strange new duties and responsibilities, need not fear that Mother Goose is anything but healthful nonsense. She holds a place all her own, and the years that have rolled over her head (some of the rhymes going back to the sixteenth century) only give her a firmer footing among the immortals. There are no real substitutes for her unique rhymes, neither can they be added to nor imitated; for the world nowadays is seemingly too sophisticated to frame just this sort of merry, light-hearted, irresponsible verse which has mellowed with the years. "These ancient rhymes," says Andrew Lang, "are smooth stones from the brook of time, worn round by constant friction of tongues long silent."
Nor is your use of this "light literature of the infant scholar" in the nursery without purpose or value. You are developing ear, mind, and heart, and laying a foundation for a later love of the best things in poetry. Whatever else we may do or leave undone, if we wish to widen the spiritual horizon of our children let us not close the windows on the emotional and imaginative sides. "There is in every one of us a poet whom the man has outlived." Do not let the poetic instinct die of inanition; keep it alive in the child by feeding his youthful ardor, strengthening his insight, guarding the sensitiveness and delicacy of his early impressions, and cherishing the fancies that are indeed "the trailing clouds of glory" he brings with him "from God who is his home."
The rhythm of verse will charm his senses even in his baby days; later on he will feel the beauty of some exquisite lyric phrase as keenly as you do, for the ear will have been opened and will be satisfied only with what is finest and best.
The second division of the book "Little Prince and Princess" will take the children out of the nursery into the garden, the farmyard, and the world outside the Palace, where they will meet and play with their fellows in an ever-widening circle of social activity. "Baby's Hush-a-byes" in cradle or mother's lap will now give place to the quiet cribside talks called "The Palace Bed Time" and "The Queen Mother's Counsel"; and in the story hour "The Palace Jest-Book" will furnish merriment for the youngsters who laughed the year before over the simpler nonsense of Mother Goose.
When the pinafores themselves are cast aside Pinafore Palace will be outgrown, and you can find something better suited to the developing requirements of the nursery folk in "The Posy Ring." Then the third volume in our series—"Golden Numbers"—will give boys and girls from ten to fifteen a taste of all the best and soundest poetry suitable to their age, and after that they may enter on their full birthright, "the rich deposit of the centuries."
No greater love for a task nor happiness in doing it, no more ardent wish to please a child or meet a mother's need, ever went into a book than have been wrought into this volume and its three predecessors. We hope that it will find its way into the nurseries where wealth has provided every means of ministering to the young child's growth in body, mind, and soul; and if some of the Pinafore Palaces should be neat little kitchens, what joy it would be to think of certain young queen-mothers taking a breath between tasks to sit by the fire and read to their royal babies while the bread is baking, the kettle boiling, or the potatoes bubbling in the pot.
Right in the middle of Lilliput Land."
And Lilliput Land is (or ought to be) the freeest country in the universe. Its shining gates open wide at dawn, closing only at sunset, and toddling pilgrims with eager faces enter and wander about at will. Decked in velvet or clad in rags the friendly porter pays no heed, for the pinafores hide all class distinctions.
They say to the smiling gatekeeper.
"Do we need, if you please, an entrance ticket
Before we pass through your magic wicket?"
"Oh, no, little Prince and Princess dear,
All pinafores freely enter here!"
Kate Douglas Wiggin.
CKNOWLEDGMENTS are herewith made to the following publishers for permission to include in this volume selections from their copyrighted publications:
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.: "A Dewdrop" and "Bees," from Little Folk Lyrics, by Frank Dempster Sherman; "The Brown Thrush," from Childhood Songs, by Lucy Larcom; "Bossy and Daisy," from The Old Garden, by Margaret Deland; "Lost," from Poems for Children, by Celia Thaxter; "Clothes," "A Music Box," and "Learning to Play," from A Pocketful of Posies, by Abbie Farwell Brown.
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard: "How they Sleep" and "The Darling Birds," from Babyland; "Follow Me," "Annie's Garden," "Good Mooly Cow," "The New Moon," "Do You Guess it is I," and "Baby's Birthday," from Little Songs, by Eliza Lee Follen; "Who Likes the Rain" and "Spring Questions," by Clara Doty Bates; and five poems by Emilie Poulsson as follows: "Chickens in Trouble" (Translated from the Norwegian) and "A Puppy's Problem," from Through the Farmyard Gate; "The Story of Baby's Blanket," "The Story of Baby's Pillow," and "Baby's Breakfast," from Child Stories and Rhymes.
Little, Brown & Company: "The Owl, the Eel and the Warming Pan" and "The Difference," from Sundown Songs, by Laura E. Richards.
Milton Bradley Company: "The Five Little Fairies," "The Pigeons," "The Barnyard," from Rhymes for Little Hands, by Maud Burnham.
New England Publishing Company: "Our Mother," from the American Primary Teacher.
Small, Maynard & Company: "Hospitality," "The Child's Star," "Foot Soldiers," from Child Verse, by John B. Tabb.
The Outlook: "Baby's Journey," by Mary F. Butts.
And our thanks and tribute to the shade of "Mother Goose," beloved nurse of all who lisp the English tongue.
CONTENTS
PART I THE ROYAL BABY PAGE I. BABY'S PLAYS 3 II. BABY'S HUSH-A-BYES 15 III. BABY'S JOURNEYS 21 IV. BABY'S FRIENDS 29 V. NURSERY HEROES AND HEROINES 39 VI. NURSERY NONSENSE 47 VII. NURSERY NOVELS 67 VIII. GUESS-ME-QUICKS 93 IX. GRANDMOTHER'S WISDOM 101 PART II LITTLE PRINCE AND PRINCESS I. THE PALACE PLAYTIME 111 II. THE PALACE GARDEN 125 III.PUBLIC NOTICE.—This is to state,
That these are the specimens left at the gate
Of Pinafore Palace, exact to date,
In the hands of the porter, Curlypate,
Who sits in his plush on a chair of state,
By somebody who is a candidate
For the Office of Lilliput Laureate.
William Brighty Rands.
PART I
THE ROYAL BABY
I
BABY'S PLAYS
Eye peeper,
Nose smeller,
Mouth eater,
Chin chopper.
Knock at the door—peep in,
Lift up the latch—walk in.
Tom Tinker,
Nose smeller,
Mouth eater,
Chin chopper,
Chin chopper.
Here sit his two men,
Here sits the cock,
And here sits the hen;
Here sit the chickens,
And here they go in,
Chippety, chippety, chippety chin.
Knock at the door!
Lift up the latch!
Walk in!
So I do, master, as fast as I can:
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
Put it in the oven for Tommy and me.
Pease porridge cold,
Pease porridge in the pot,
Nine days old.
Some like it hot,
Some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot,
Nine days old.
Stroke it, bless it;
Three days' sunshine, three days' rain,
Little hand all well again.
If you want to warm hands, warm hands now.
Mammie's wee, wee ain;
Clap, clap handies,
Daddie's comin' hame;
Hame till his bonny wee bit laddie;
Clap, clap handies,
My wee, wee ain.
This little pig stayed at home;
This little pig had roast beef;
This little pig had none;
This little pig said, "Wee, wee!
I can't find my way home."
But let the little colt go bare.
Foot Soldiers
Beyond the Knee-high hill,
That Baby has to travel down
To see the soldiers drill.
A captain and his men—
And on the other side, you know,
Are six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
John B. Tabb.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday, Monday.
My little babby;
Dance to your daddy,
My little lamb.
In a little dishy;
You shall have a fishy
When the boat comes in.
One, Two
Buckle my shoe;
Knock at the door;
Pick up sticks;
Lay them straight;
A good fat hen;
Let them delve;
Maids a-courting;
Maids in the kitchen;
Maids a-waiting;
My plate's empty.
Merry was myself, and merry could I sing;
With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free,
And a merry sing-song, happy let us be!
Merry let us part, and merry meet again;
With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free,
And a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!
Whose dog art thou?
Little Tom Tinker's dog,
Bow-wow-wow!
That the miller may grind his corn;
That the baker may take it,
And into rolls make it,
And send us some hot in the morn.
The Difference
Ten toes,
Two eyes,
And one nose.
Baby said
When she smelt the rose,
"Oh! what a pity
I've only one nose!"
In even rows,
Three dimples,
And one nose.
Baby said
When she smelt the snuff,
"Deary me!
One nose is enough."
Laura E. Richards.
The Five Little Fairies
Finger-Play
"I'm as thirsty as can be!"
"I'm hungry, too! dear me!"
"Who'll tell us where to go?"
"I'm sure that I don't know!"
"Let's brew some Dew-drop Tea!"
So they sipped it and ate honey
Beneath the maple tree.
Maud Burnham.
The Pigeons
On the roof of the barn in the warm sunshine.
To eat of the grain that is thrown all around.
And sit in a line on the ridge of the roof.
If you listen, you hear their gentle "Coo-roo!"
Maud Burnham.
The Barnyard
In the barnyard, ev'ry one,
Beast and bird politely say,
"Thank you for my food to-day."
The pigeon, "Coo!"
The sheep
The lamb says, "Maa!"
The hen, "Cluck! Cluck!"
"Quack!" says the duck;
The cat, "Meow!"
The horse says, "Neigh!
I love sweet hay!"
The pig near by,
Grunts in his sty.
Then the Farmer says, "Good-night!"
Thanks his animals, ev'ry one,
For the work that has been done.
Maud Burnham.
II
BABY'S HUSH-A-BYES
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all.
Father's a nobleman, mother's a Queen;
Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring;
And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the King.
Daddy's gone a-hunting,
To get a little rabbit-skin,
To wrap his baby bunting in.
Lie still with thy daddy,
Thy mammy has gone to the mill,
To grind thee some wheat
To make thee some meat,
And so, my dear babby, lie still.
Thy father watches the sheep;
Thy mother is shaking the dream-land tree,
And down falls a little dream on thee:
Sleep, baby, sleep!
The large stars are the sheep,
The wee stars are the lambs, I guess,
The fair moon is the shepherdess:
Sleep, baby, sleep!
From the German.
Quiet as mice in churches,
He puts his head where no-one knows,
On one leg he perches.
On Mother's arm reposing,
Soon he lies beneath the clothes,
Safe in the cradle dozing.
Tail and nose together,
Then little mice around her creep,
Lightly as a feather.
And he is very near us,
Then on tip-toe softly creep,
That Babie may not hear us.
Lullaby! Lullaby! Lulla, Lulla, Lullaby!
Unknown.
III
BABY'S JOURNEYS
To see an old lady upon a white horse,
Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes.
She shall have music wherever she goes.
Tri, tre, tre, tree,
Tri, tre, tre, tree!
This is the way the ladies ride,
Tri, tre, tre, tre, tri-tre-tre-tree!
Gallop-a-trot,
Gallop-a-trot!
This is the way the gentlemen ride,
Gallop-a-gallop-a-trot!
Hobbledy-hoy,
Hobbledy-hoy!
This is the way the farmers ride,
Hobbledy, hobbledy-hoy!
Pretty baby shall ride,
And have a little puppy-dog tied to her side,
And a little pussy-cat tied to the other,
And away she shall ride
To see her grandmother,
To see her grandmother,
To see her grandmother in London town.
Which is the way to London town?
One foot up, the other foot down,
That
To buy a plum bun;
Home again, home again,
Market is done.
Never mind, baby, mother is by;
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go;
Backwards and forwards, round and round;
Dance, little baby, and mother will sing,
With the merry chorus, ding, ding, ding!
Upon his gray mare;
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
With his daughter behind him,
So rosy and fair;
Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
And they all tumbled down;
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
The mare broke her knees,
And the farmer his crown;
Lumpety, lumpety, lump.
Flew laughing away;
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
And vowed he would serve them
The same the next day;
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!