The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street
      Comes stealing; comes creeping;
      The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
      And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet—
      She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
      When she findeth you sleeping!

      There is one little dream of a beautiful drum—
      "Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;
      There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,
      And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
      Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
      And a trumpet that bloweth!

      And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams
      With laughter and singing;
      And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
      And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,
      And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,
      The fairies go winging!

      Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?
      They'll come to you sleeping;
      So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
      For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,
      With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
      Comes stealing; comes creeping.

      On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
      And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
      In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,
      And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;
      Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,
      And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh"!

      Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared,
      And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared;
      And then his under lip came out and farther out it came,
      Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame"—
      But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do
      But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!"

      He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then
      In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!"
      And I—of course I do it; for, as his progenitor,
      It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for!
      And it is, oh, such fun I am sure that we shall rue
      The time when we are both too old to play the game "Booh!"

      When our

      Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?
      'T is a pitiful sound to hear!
      It seems to chill you through and through
      With a strange and speechless fear.
      'T is the voice of the night that broods outside
      When folk should be asleep,
      And many and many's the time I've cried
      To the darkness brooding far and wide
      Over the land and the deep:
      "Whom do you want, O lonely night,
      That you wail the long hours through?"
      And the night would say in its ghostly way:
          "Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!"

      My mother told me long ago
      (When I was a little tad)
      That when the night went wailing so,
      Somebody had been bad;
      And then, when I was snug in bed,
      Whither I had been sent,
      With the blankets pulled up round my head,
      I'd think of what my mother'd said,
      And wonder what boy she meant!
      And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask
      Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
      And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
          "Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!"

      That this was true I must allow—
      You'll not believe it, though!
      Yes, though I'm quite a model now,
      I was not always so.
      And if you doubt what things I say,
      Suppose you make the test;
      Suppose, when you've been bad some day
      And up to bed are sent away
      From mother and the rest—
      Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"
      And then you'll hear what's true;
      For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
          "Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!"

      'T is when the lark goes soaring
      And the bee is at the bud,
      When lightly dancing zephyrs
      Sing over field and flood;
      When all sweet things in nature
      Seem joyfully achime—
      'T is then I wake my darling,
      For it is kissing time!

      Go, pretty lark, a-soaring,
      And suck your sweets, O bee;
      Sing, O ye winds of summer,
      Your songs to mine and me;
      For with your song and rapture
      Cometh the moment when
      It's half-past kissing time
      And time to kiss again!

      So—so the days go

      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 bellyache!
      '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 cannibuls that lives 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' cow-boys is good enough for me!
      Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm 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,
      An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes;
      Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men,
      An' when they's company, don't 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!

      I say, as one who never feared
      The wrath of a subscriber's bullet,
      I pity him who has a beard
      But has no little

      In an ocean, 'way out yonder
      (As all sapient people know),
      Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
      Whither children love to go;
      It's their playing, romping, swinging,
      That give great joy to me
      While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
      In the amfalula tree!

      There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
      And taffy's thick as peas—
      Caramels you pick like berries
      When, and where, and how you please;
      Big red sugar-plums are clinging
      To the cliffs beside that sea
      Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

      So when children shout and scamper
      And make merry all the day,
      When there's naught to put a damper
      To the ardor of their play;
      When I hear their laughter ringing,
      Then I'm sure as sure can be
      That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

      For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras
      And staccatos are so sweet—
      His roulades, appoggiaturas,
      And robustos so complete,
      That the youth of every nation—
      Be they near or far away—
      Have especial delectation
      In that gladsome roundelay.

      Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
      Their lungs begin to crow,
      Their hearts get light and lighter,
      And their cheeks are all aglow;
      For an echo cometh bringing
      The news to all and me,
      That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

      I'm sure you like to go there
      To see your feathered friend—
      And so many goodies grow there
      You would like to comprehend!
      Speed, little dreams, your winging
      To that land across the sea
      Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree!

      I'm a beautiful red, red drum,
      And I train with the soldier boys;
      As up the street we come,
      Wonderful is our noise!
      There's Tom, and Jim, and Phil,
      And Dick,

      Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
      In agony I knelt and said:
      "O God! what have I done,
      Or in what wise offended Thee,
      That Thou should'st take away from me
      My little son?

      "Upon the thousand useless lives,
      Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives,
      Thy wrath were better spent!
      Why should'st Thou take my little son—
      Why should'st Thou vent Thy wrath upon
      This innocent?"

      Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
      Before mine eyes the vision spread
      Of things that might have been:
      Licentious riot, cruel strife,
      Forgotten prayers, a wasted life
      Dark red with sin!

      Then, with sweet music in the air,
      I saw another vision there:
      A Shepherd in whose keep
      A little lamb—my little child!
      Of worldly wisdom undefiled,
      Lay fast asleep!

      Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
      In those two messages I read
      A wisdom manifest;
      And though my arms be childless now,
      I am content—to Him I bow
      Who knoweth best.

      It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks,
      That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes;
      Then it's sleep no more for baby, and it's sleep no more for me,
      For, when he wants his dinner, why it's dinner it must be!
      And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado,
        While gran'ma laughs,
        And gran'pa laughs,
        And wife, she

      So, so, rock-a-by so!
      Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;
      And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,
      And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek
      And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies
      In the beautiful garden way up in the skies
      Which you seek.
      Now mind these three kisses wherever you go—
      So, so, rock-a-by so!

      There's one little fumfay who lives there, I know,
      For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;
      I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,
      I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek.
      And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise
      When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies
      Which you seek.
      Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe—
      So, so, rock-a-by so!

      And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,
      Don't forget mother who loveth you so!
      And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,
      And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,
      And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies
      Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies
      Which you seek—
      The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow—
      So, so, rock-a-by so!

      A sunbeam comes a-creeping
      Into my dear one's nest,
      And sings to our babe a-sleeping
      The song that I love the best:
      "'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning—
      'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;
      And all day long
      'T is the same sweet song
      Of that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite,
      Luddy-Dud."

      The bird to the tossing clover,
      The bee to the swaying bud,
      Keep

      The gingham dog and the calico cat
      Side by side on the table sat;
      'T was 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!
      (Now 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 the 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 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.)

      There's a dear little home in Good-Children street—
      My heart turneth fondly to-day
      Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
      Make sweetest of music at play;
      Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
      And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.

      For dear little children go romping about
      With dollies and tin tops and drums,
      And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
      Till bedtime too speedily comes!
      Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
      With little folk living in Good-Children street.

      See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
      And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
      The captain rides gaily and proudly ahead
      On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
      Oh, legions of soldiers you're certain to meet—