IC-NRLF 77 BID THE ASCENT AND OTHER POEMS ELIZABETH MILLS CROTHERS sD o GIFT OF THE ASCENT & OTHER POEMS ELIZABETH MILLS CROTHERS Foreword by DAVID STARR JORDAN , SAN FRANCISCO CALIFORNIA SUNSET PRESS 1921 h Copyright Mrs. W. H. MilU 1921 45051.7 FOREWORD THIS volume is a memorial of a short but most happy and beautiful life. It is made up of lyric poems written by a very gifted young woman for her own pleasure and that of her friends. They were as spontaneous as the songs of birds, and were put forth in the security of a happy home and with no thought of publication. Elizabeth Mills Crothers, daughter of William H. Mills, associate and friend of Governor Stanford, and Elizabeth Haswell Mills of Sacramento, was born in Sacramento on January 20, 1882, and died at Stanford University August 18, 1920. She was prepared for college at Miss Sarah D. Ham- lin s school in San Francisco, graduating in 1898, entered Vassar College for a time, soon transferring to the University of California where she took the degree of Bachelor of Arts in December, 1909. On March 23, 1911, she was married to George Edward Crothers of San Francisco, a member of the Pioneer Class (1895) of Stanford University, of which institu tion he was then a trustee and being soon afterward appointed judge of the Superior Court of California. In her youth "Bessie" Mills was a peculiarly alert and happy child. According to the testimony of her friends, "she won pleasure from the beauty her eyes revealed about her." "Sunshine and exquisite joyousness abounded in that sweet spirit of hers." "A rare appealing and heartening personal ity." "She lived all her life in a world of her own creating. In childhood she played with imaginary children, sang im provised songs, sometimes so sad that she shed tears, often so joyous that she would laugh over her own conception." "She was fond of the pencil and often drew faces expressive of all the various emotions, love, fear, hate, and courage, delighting to portray creations of her own imagination." 2^ In Miss Hamlin s school she did excellent work, especially in English, Latin and History. She was always ready with voice or pen in any of the school functions, "her speech always charming, her bearing most gracious." French she had studied almost from childhood and she took pleasure in translations from the poets, showing a fine appreciation both of sentiment and of the social conditions in France. When she graduated her teachers were sure that "her beautiful character, her excellent training, her superior ability and her fine mental acquisitions, as well as her rever ence for learning, foretold a valuable and useful life." Her university record was one of accurate and discrim inating scholarship, notably developed in very different fields under two sympathetic teachers. Of her work in English literature Professor Chauncey W. Wells writes: "Elizabeth Mills was a member of my very first class in English in the University of California, 1901 - 2, she being then, as I recollect, a sophomore. I still think the classes of that year the very finest of all the inspiring groups whom it has been my privilege to teach during these twenty years, and of that one class Miss Mills stands out in my memory, along with two or three others, as the ablest and, in point of responsiveness, the best of them all. I tried an experiment with them. Believing that writing and literary study should go hand-in-hand, I had turned to descriptive and narrative prose as the best basis for awakening interest and forming the taste for literature, and for training the powers of ex pression. I remember that we made a vigorous study of Stevenson s imaginative works, and I recall the eagerness with which the class read them, especially Miss Mills vivid understanding that the author had a definite thing to say and a definite reason for saying it as he did. More than that, I remember how quickly she caught the imaginative stimulus and showed it in her own compositions. One day a professor from the University of Chicago happening to visit the class room when the students were writing an impromptu exercise, I turned over to him the batch of completed papers. He pitched upon Miss Mills paper at once, saying after he had read it, You don t get many like that, I assume. No, the paper was exceptional in sheer application of the principles I had been setting forth, as all her papers were. Blessedly free from the thing called temperament she could put her mind upon a problem of expression as she would upon a problem of knowledge, employing her whole intelligence. "After her graduation she used sometimes to bring me her writings to read and criticize, or would consult me about certain of her projects. I was always aware that though she came quite genuinely for advice she kept her own guidance nor surrendered her opinion at the mere suggestion of her critic. One thing she tried hard to conceal but could not her burning ambition to express herself, to be of some account in the intellectual world. She took her gift of writing for what it was, but she placed her reliance on her mind and her will. If she could not bring thought and interpretation into her pages she considered her labor wasted ; she was unwilling to rest in the achievements of mere talent and literary grace. This spirit, I take it, she carried into all her activities, social and intellectual, and it is the loss of that spirit that makes the loss of Elizabeth Mills Crothers a real loss to this com munity and particularly to that circle of friends who were privileged to know intimately the aspirations and ideals of that fine young mind and heart." Miss Mills deepest interest proved finally to be scientific. Under Dr. John C. Merriam, she took up Vertebrate Paleon tology, with special reference to the early history of man. As to this work, Doctor Merriam writes: "I remember your daughter and her relation to the work of our department in Berkeley with greatest pleasure. It was a great stimulus to me to have in my classes one who expressed such interest in his study and who showed such energy in prosecuting it." On a visit to France in 1903, she made special trips to the localities which have yielded records of primitive man thus ft becoming an appreciated friend and correspondent of leading anthropologists of Paris, notably Emile Cartailhac. At one time, in company with Doctor Merriam and others, Miss Mills went to Carson City, Nevada, to examine the "Giant Footprints" in a quarry near that city, relics which had then attracted considerable attention. Miss Mills sup ported the conclusion of Dr. Joseph LeConte that the "Puzzle Tracks" were by no means human but made by some giant species of sloth, Mylodon or Morotherium, and that they date from the later Pliocene. These footprints have a length of eighteen inches, and were made by some man or other animal, having a stride of two and one-fourth feet and a straddle of eighteen inches. The foot must have been planti grade, but there is no trace of toes. Those who contended that the tracks were human figured a giant wearing wooden sandals of peculiar form. Our young paleontologist compared carefully all records and opinions in regard to these traces and to aid her studies other strata were opened up for further inspection. I have before me her report to Doctor Merriam, in itself a fine piece of scientific work, although as yet unpublished. In her judgment there was no doubt of the genuineness of the tracks which had been made in soft clay on the shallow shores of an extinct lake, the clays becoming afterwards hardened through the presence of hot alkaline silicious springs. Foot prints of elephants (mammoth), horses, deer, wolves and birds, also occur. Ripple marks testify to the shallowness of the water and rain marks to its seasonal recession. The sheet of water was probably part of the extinct Shoshone Lake of Clarence King, separate from Lake Lahontan which then filled the Humboldt Valley. Of this memoir, Doctor Merriam says: "I recall with vividness my journey to Carson City when with your daughter and Mr. Yerington s family we examined the fossil footprints at the Carson Prison Yard. I have often wished that your daughter s paper might have been published as it was at that time the most advanced study in this field that had been made." Under the inspiration of her studies of primitive man. Miss Mills composed a romance dealing with his loves and ambitions which those who have read it pronounce unique in its type of imaginative literature. The poems which compose this volume were found among the papers left by Mrs. Crothers. They are a part of the natural overflow of a joyous but thoughtful nature, a spirit in which the author composed little dramas, and songs both for children and grown ups, original as to words and music. Six of these delightful songs have been published. These were sung by Madame Armand Cailleau, her instructor in vocal music, at a memorial meeting of the Century Club of San Francisco, on which occasion one of her single-act plays, "Fanny s Bright Idea" was charmingly presented. In her final illness, her active mind was "never weary of work" and she rejoiced that as one after another of her powers were taken from her, she was still able to think and write. Death she did not fear, though she persistently clung to life because as she said there was so much for her to do. That her memory may be kept green by her many friends, this little book has been compiled and set forth by a loving mother. DAVID STARR JORDAN. CONTENTS The Ascent In the Night On the Windy Shore Things That Count Armistice Day in London Mattinata In the Dark The Holiday Summer Day Noon-tide Serenade The Opera The Radical A Love Song A Summer Love Song Over the Hills CONTENTS Through Woodland Straying Wake, Little Flowers A Little Bird Oh, Where s the Cottage on the Hill Under the Bridge The Old Attic Stair Sing Chong Pigeon English If I Could Fly A Good Little Boy Don t Forget Mother Sleep, Dollie Sleep Bye-Low, Bye-Low When I m Grown Up THE ASCENT THE ASCENT Youth is like a pleasant valley, Blossom-strewn and orchard planted, Where by sound of bird and river, Scent of flower and sight of color, All our senses are enchanted While we tarry, while we dally. Tis like looking from the valley, Sunlight-bathed and soft wind blowing, To the rocky steeps that glower Dark beneath the storm clouds shower. Tis a yearning to be going, Though we tarry, though we dally. But where closer thunders rumble, In the mountains steep and darkling, From the trail we may not loiter Though our weary feet must falter. Glimpse the plain in sunlight sparkling, As we clamber, as we stumble! There it lies far, far below us, With white burgeonings all starry! Quick! Let us return together! Closed the path. Tis lost forever. In that vale where strangers tarry None would greet us, none would know us. U ON THE WINDY SHORE The white-walled town And the little grey church on the windy shore Stand lonely but firm by the sea. A mile inland and high on the crown Of the rolling, grassy, sand-strewn down, The smiling streets of the white- walled town Lie far from the dark and threatening frown And the pitiless sweep of the sea. When the ceaseless toil of the tidal flow Has shattered and crumpled the sandstone foe, The church on the rock will stand to the blow While the weakened town in ruins will go To the maw of the clamouring sea. When the sun goes down and the long, long night Of infinite time has followed the light, The man who dared to suffer and fight And die for the creeds he holds to be right Will live in the heart of the sea. THINGS THAT COUNT Our hearts were growing faint, Oh Lord, With quest of treasured hoard. The beggar with a bitter heart Was driven from our board. And some were tried, And others died, Because of strife for things; And there was talk of things that count, Of power, and wealth and Kings. And those who were of silver tongue Yet of a sodden soul, Called charity a fantasy And riches man s best goal. And blood was spilled, And men were killed, That centered power might thrive, And there was talk of things that count, In prison, street and dive. The granite piles with gilt were spread, My Lady opened purse For costly gems and Venice lace, And shuddered at the hearse. And some were jeered, And others cheered, The cheered were knave and sleuth; And there was talk of things that count, And cynic s word was truth. Oh, headlong enterprise of man, Oh, stores of busy ants, Dread fiends to which man sells his soul, For which the coward recants! For you man lied, And vaunting pride Was all you gave them back. And there was talk of things that count, Trusts, Loans and Prison-rack. The lofty towers that vied with clouds Are shattered to the dust; My Lady, torn and starving, gives The starving her last crust. The golden crown That girt the town Is trampled to the sod. Yet, there is talk of things that count, Of Mercy, Love and God. \ ARMISTICE DAY IN LONDON (November 11, 1918) And the bells pealed, And all at once a silence fell Upon the land, half human, half divine, As if some magic bird, or fairy child With magic wand, had passed from line to line And stopped the hurrying feet and bowed in prayer the head, For, as the last long dying echoes of the bell Rolled out and then grew slowly dim, A mighty nation to its Maker came, And for a while in silence prayed of Him To keep forever bright within their hearts the name And memory of Britain s glorious dead. MATTINATA Awake, awake, the darkened lake Now bursts aflame from Phoebus shaft! Awake, awake, the woodland brake Bends neath the weight of fairy craft! Before the note of lark or thrush, I crossed the somber forest s lawn And felt the soft, expectant hush Which just precedes the crash of dawn. The lark has throbbed his glad "Good morn," But, ah, for me it is not day. The poppies ope, still I, forlorn, Watch for the gold in twilight grey. So wake, awake, and to my night Bear swift the radiance of thine eyes. See, love, the fields are clothed with light, Yet I await till thou shalt rise. Awake, my love, the sun has flung His million darts of spirit gold To goad the earth s dull heart, now stung To new endeavors manifold. Whilst thou wert sleeping in thy bower, I watched until the sun should rise; . But, though the dew gleams on each flower, I wait my morning from thine eyes. ( \\ IN THE DARK It s dark, and misty forms are creeping, Creeping round my bed. I hear the clank of a ghostly tread, Right overhead. I hear the clank of ghostly chains, Right overhead. Why do things change so in the dark? Why, oh, why does the watch dog bark? What are the things that creak and creep? Why, oh, why can t I go to sleep Till morning comes again? The sun will put them all to flight, The ghosts will flee with darkest night, And chairs will be chairs Not crouching bears When morning comes again. It s morning, the clock has just struck six, The floor is streaked with pink, And the ghosts are gone in a wink, And the birds in throng begin their song. We are just at the daytime s brink. Lovely light, I missed you so. Why did you go away? Why must there ever be the dark? Why can t it all be day? Why do I have to sleep at all? Why can t I always play? Lovely light, the night was drear, Lovely light, I m glad you are here, For it s morning, it is morning, And the day, the day is here. THE HOLIDAY The fields are aflame with the flowers of May, The year s in its spring, it s the dawn of the day. Come to the woods where the pansies grow, Come to the fields where the bluebells blow, Come with me wherever I go, Over the country high and low! It s gladdest weather, Sing together, Sing a roundelay, For it s spring and a holiday. Yesterday s clouds are now all gone, dear, Leaving their diamonds on the lawn, dear, For it s springtime, Yes, it s springtime, For it s spring and a holiday! Let s go down where the tasseled corn Is growing tall in the early morn. They told us that we mustn t go there, But half of the fun it is to dare, So when I come home well, I don t care What they do to me, So long as I ve been free, In the sun and the springtime air, For it s spring and a holiday ! So hasten away to the fields and the woods, And banish straight off all your indolent moods. There s more than enough to be done to-day, dear, The world is eager for us to play, dear, For it s springtime, Yes, it s springtime, For it s spring and a holiday! SUMMER DAY The sun s in the sky, My sweet meadow posies, Woodpecker at his hewing, Elves are at their brewing Of rainbow dew To shower on you, And wake you up for me. The field-lily s cap Is studded with dew, The tall morning glories Are mantled in blue, And the buttercup s scrubbed By a good bumblebee. The sun s in the sky So high, My sweet meadow posies; On guard Master Clover The snowdrops watching over, And, dropped from the skies, Are smiling up at me, Baby blue eyes. NOON-TIDE SERENADE Roses red hang overhead Where she is sleeping. Burdened bees fly on the breeze, Their harvest reaping. Eglantine and fairy vine Throw lacy shade above her. And butterflies no longer rise, But o er her hover. They hover where my dearest lies a-sleeping. Poppies encircle her brow, A curl o er her soft cheek is straying, Her finger-tips touching the strings Of the tortoise lute she was playing. And on the quivering breath of the garden, Dream-distilled scent of the roses Is borne with the song of the fountain To the bower where my lady reposes. Oh, dear love, oh, fairest love, A watch I m keeping, While warm noon-tide the country-side, In light is steeping. And silver note of linnet s throat Comes softly from the cover. He woos his mate while here I wait, Your anxious lover. Your lover, who still guards you While you are sleeping. THE OPERA The Misses Summer, Sun and Shower Announce an operatic season In gardenland, twixt hedge and bower, Commencing May the first. (The reason We cannot now announce the date Our operatic season closes, Is that Miss Autumn, sometime late In August, comes in "Gone the Roses" A melodrama in one act.) So, come you foxgloves, come, sweet gilly, And phlox and mignonette. In fact Come violet and rose and lily! Quick! Take your seats! The show commences Sharp at sunrise. The hollyhocks Will have to stand up near the fences. Now, woodpecker! Give three loud knocks! Hush! The orchestra is tuning. The winged musicians take their places. Bees on violins are crooning, And bumblebees draw bows on basses, The wasps make up the other strings With humming-birds and rusty hornets, The tympani are cricket-wings, And blackbirds play the cornets. And now the curtain is uprolled, ( Tis made of spider thread.) The chorus Of linnets, robins, larks. Behold! The prima donna is before us Dame Meadow Lark! (Now, Mr. Phlox, Pray do sit down the little Zinnias Can t see at all. Look! In that box Miss Orchid and the two Gardenias!) And now the ballet butterflies And dragon-flies and moths are dancing They leap up to the very "flies," Their grace and costumes are entrancing. The book s by Puck the score s by Pan. Do come again. Each day at seven. (A violet s fainted! Bring a fan Or woodland dew!) The rosy Heaven Of Eventide! The crickets beat A grand finale. The opera s done. The flowers nod thanks "A splendid treat Dear Misses Summer, Shower and Sun." THE RADICAL A bat once in a lonely tower Bemoaned the happier fate of bees. Would I might plunder honeyed flower And sail the sunlit summer breeze." He sighed, then swiftly sweeping down To where the prowlers of the night, In marshy meadows far from town, Held congress neath the pale moon s light, Dear friends," he cried, "it s hardly fair That we should be condemned to rove In darkling night and chilling air The dreary field, the silent grove, While day s bright winged flocks rejoice In blushing flower and sparkling dew. To deepest discontent give voice These joys should be denied to you! So let us vote the garden dry Impose a fine on any bee Caught sipping honey. (Butterflies And humming-bird mark this decree!) Do you agree?" "It is a vote!" The prowlers answered. So next day When robins woke and from each throat Sweet cadence poured and roundelay, When poppies spread their golden sails, And bees rubbed pollen from their eyes, Were the grey clouds not made For the red of your mouth; The ages for flight Of the butterfly years; The sweet of the peach For the pale lips of drouth ; The sunlight of smiles For the shadow of tears? Love, love is the thread That has pierced them with bliss! All their hues are but notes In one world- wide tune. Lips, willows and waves, We are one as we kiss, And your face and the flowers Faint away in the moon. A SUMMER LOVE SONG The woodbine never loved the summer show r As I love you; The robin never loved the opening flower. Or grass the dew; The ivy never loved the spreading trees Or sun the rue; Storm wind never loved the billow, Breezes never loved the willow, Heather never loved the breeze As I love you. So what if showers forsake the sweet woodbine, Still I love you; And fickle robins leave the flower to pine, Soaring high in blue. My love wanes not with seasons But abides forever true. OVER THE HILLS Over the hills my lass went straying, Garlands to gather for her Maying. O where the daisies, O where the rose, O where the lily s first flower blows. She knew a spot where should be unfurling The earliest flags of petals curling. So swiftly she ran and breathless she knelt To gather the blossoms for her belt. But the breezes were around her playing, Clouds the springtime skies were greying, In the valleys that she knew Never a flag or a buttercup grew. So I found her sad and weeping, Down among the lilies sleeping. Why weep for a daisy/ I cried, "or a rose, When you are the sweetest flower that blows." THROUGH WOODLAND STRAYING (A Song) Ah, if to-day through woodland straying, You and I again were rnaying, Space, and all our love has fettered, Vanished as oft in my fancy s playing. Then, if one day we were to borrow From Life s full count of longing and sorrow, To meet at last, in peace, hands clasping, Life would be death to us, dear, to-morrow To-morrow. WAKE, LITTLE FLOWERS Wake, little flowers, Open your eyes, The beautiful dawn draws near. Spread your petals to rosy skies; Dawn is fleeting, Nod your greeting, Awake, for the dawn is here. Wake, awake, awake. Wake, little flowers, Joy to impart, Wake, for the day s begun. Pansies sweet for the sad of heart, Violets blue all steeped in dew, Lilies and roses, Dear little posies, Awake to greet the sun; Wake, awake, awake. vf \\ A LITTLE BIRD A little bird in yonder tree Is singing with one eye on me. He looks so cute that I am typing An ode to his melifluous piping. His name? I cannot jot it down, I left my bird-books all in town. So what the name of bird or tree Can never proven be by me. But I can vouch without digression They both create a good impression. Of nightingales and larks and thrushes The bona-fide poet gushes. I am no poet, Heaven knows, So I suspect he s none of those. His wings are black, his breast is yellow, Perhaps you recognize the fellow. It may not be the proper thing, In poems, thus his praise to sing. This is no poem (as you say) So I can praise him anyway. I only know the song he sings Can make me dream the nicest things. OH, WHERE S THE COTTAGE ON THE HILL Oh, where s the cottage on the hill, The path that ran through clover, The mossy stones across the rill, The mill-pond running over? The moon that shone on almond trees. And snowy petals falling, Your voice that carried down the breeze A last "good night" still calling? Alas, the cottage on the hill, The path that ran through clover Are gone. And journey where I will There s none the whole world over. My heart beneath the petals lies, Where almond bloom is falling; I only have to close my eyes To hear your voice still calling. UNDER THE BRIDGE CHILD S SONG Oh, Heigh-O, come under, come under, Under the bridge am I ! With the sands of the bank, A fortress dank I ve builded with walls so high. Heigh-O, come under, come under, The world in my fort I defy The pussy-willows make forest naves, The rushing river s the ocean waves, And there s life and strife and a battle cry. When under the bridge am I ! But if you don t like war and fights, My nooket offers rare delights, The fortress now no more defies It s only dough for making pies, And you can wade here in the shade, And catch the pretty dragon-flies! Heigh-O, come under, come under, A warrior Greek am I. On Attic strand Full-armored I stand And sing to the Gods on high. Heigh-O, the thunder, the thunder, Of the wagons as they pass by, Is the thunder of Jove and the dust you see Is the God in love with Danae, And life is rife and joy runs high, When under the bridge am I ! THE OLD ATTIC STAIR The spiders weave their webs about the attic, The dust lies thick upon the ancient floor. Alone I sit on the top step of the stairway, Mid grim old things of a time that is no more. Scabbards rusty, garments musty, Speak of a race gone long before. On the old attic stair, On the old attic stair! Ah, Time forgets to hasten When I m sitting, dreaming there, On the old attic stair! There s a doll of wax with a funny sawdust body, And the pin-pricks tell of the dresses that she wore, There s a broken drum and a real old army sabre, And an old blue coat behind the closet door. Kin departed, kin strong-hearted! Men of my race who are no more! On the old attic stair, On the old attic stair! Ah, Time forgets to hasten When I m sitting, dreaming, there. On the old attic stair! rag SING CHONG Oh, you should know our cook, Sing Chong! He works an sings the whole day long He doesn t find me in the way; He never scolds, but lets me play With dough-ends from the biscuit rings, An* laughs, an laughs, an sings an sings! There s really no one like Sing Chong, Though Dad says his religion s wrong; What do I care, so long as he Leaves batter in the pan for me? Dad says his tunes are on one string. But I really like to hear Chong sing. Somehow, life isn t hard for Chong He s happy an* well an big an strong; He s not tempted by sugar an spice, But just sits down to a bowl of rice. He doesn t have to wear collars an things, His clothes are loose, so no wonder he sings. Sometimes a boy comes to see our Chong ; He s about my size, an his name is Wong; His folks are dead, so Chong gives him food Now don t you think that he is good? When I know that, it sorter stings, When folks make fun of the way he sings. So what do I care if they say that Chong s A "peril" a heathen an* belongs to tongs? When it s rainin outside an nobody s in, He lets me play with the flour in the bin. Some cooks get cross if a little boy swings On the pantry door, but Chong he just sings! PIGEON ENGLISH Where the beeches shade the pasture gate, When nights grow short and days grow long, The wood-dove woos his modest mate, And this is all his wooing song: "Curr-a-hoo, curr-a-hoo! You love me and I love you." But wedded love is full of care. Through all the sunny afternoon They vainly strive, that shiftless pair, To build a nest, while thus they croon: Coo-pe-coo ! Coo-pe-coo ! Two sticks across and a bit of moss, And that will have to do, to do!" When last I wandered down the lane, The little mother, all intent To feed her greedy nestlings twain, Was pouring forth this sad lament: "Coo-a-roo! What shall I do? I cannot feed my hungry two, Though the little red wren Can bring up ten And rear them all like gentlemen!" IF I COULD FLY If I could, like the swallows, fly, Over the trees, Over the seas, Down the breeze, Hi, tra la, la, la, tra la, la, la! I d fly! On snowy wings I d sweep the sky, And maybe, too, Right over you, In the great, big blue, Hi, tra la, la, la, tra la, la, la! I ll fly! But when I fly on the tempest s gale I would no shipwrecks see, And when I fly o er the city s roofs, I hope there won t be People quarreling and people starved, Mothers grave and sad, But I suppose that ll never be Long as us girls are bad. So if I e er like the swallows fly; Guess it will be by-and-by. A GOOD LITTLE BOY Good little boys wear stockings and shoes Even when they play in the sands And good little boys come in at five, To wash their faces and hands. A good little boy never teases the cat Or finds out what s in his toy, And never puts salt in Grandmamma s tea, So I guess I m a bad little boy. j> f DON T FORGET MOTHER (Lullaby) Sleep, sleep, while the moonbeams Show you the way to the land of dreams. Sleep, oh sleep, for the star fairy s come To carry you off to her woodland home, Way up in the sky so high and so far, You shall go sailing up on a star. Sleep, oh sleep, dearest, sleep; But oh, my dearest, wherever you roam Don t forget Mother, who s waiting at home. Sleep, sleep, greatest of joys ; You will find alive there your dearest of toys, And mother-goose children, oh, look, dearest, look! Will come dancing down from the leaves of the book To help you put all the stars to sleep, And wake up the flowers at dawn s first peep. Sleep, oh sleep, dearest, sleep; But oh, my dearest, wherever you roam Don t forget Mother, who s waiting at home. A, B, C AND X, Y, Z Oh,A,B,CtoX,Y,Z; Upon my word It is absurd That you should so perplex us, With spelling lessons vex us. Oh, D, F, G and R, S, T, It is my firm belief The words you make, The words we break, Cause much of human grief. Oh, would that all our tasks could be Easy as A, B, C, A, B, C, But sad to say most of them are Hard as X, Y, Z. SLEEP, DOLLIE DEAR Sleep, sleep, my dollie dear, See, mother s watching near. If in the night You take a fright, Just call to me, love, Mother s always here. Dollie, dollie, the winds are storming, So sleep, love, and deep, love, Till the break of morning. Dollie, dollie, the fire is dying, Close your waxen peepers, love, And don t you fear! The nursery walls are aglow, As the fire on the hearth burns low, But when it is out And darkness about, I ll be here Just the same, dollie dear! Dollie, dollie, the winds are storming, So sleep, love, and deep, love, Till the break of morning. Dollie, dollie, the fire is dying, Close your waxen peepers, love, And don t you fear! BYE-LOW, BYE-LOW (Lullaby) Bye-low, bye-low, the boat is on the tide, Bye-low, bye-low, sails are spreading wide, Baby mine all tucked in tight Is drifting out to sea. Dark the sky and dark the waves, Dark the silent lea. Drifting out on mirrored stars To lands beyond our ken, Drifting till the star sea fades To the blue again. Bye-low, bye-low, the boat is bearing down, Bye-low, bye-low, on the shores of dreaming town, The mead is spread with poppy-cups And dew-drops flashing fire; Butterflies of blue and gold On wings that never tire, Poise, then rise to where in light The meadow lark adores Straying babe in sleepy land On fragrant sunlit shores. Bye-low, bye-low, in the land of rainbow dreams, Bye-low, bye-low, till rosy morning gleams; Then, baby mine, come o er the sea To harbor safe at home, Sailing while the mirrored stars Fade in the azure dome. Bye-low, bye-low, bye-low, bye. Oat WHEN I M GROWN UP When I m grown up, my dollie, I ll love you, you just see. Big folks say They used to play With dollies just like me; But I could never leave you, And Puss, and Spot, and Gay What would be left for me If I put you away? I don t believe my elders Loved dollies as I do; But maybe I, Bye-and-bye, Will be an elder, too; But if grown up or not, dear, I know I ll never change That, sweetheart, we could part, Seems to me quite strange! Ah, where is the border to childhood land And how shall I know when it s passed ? And will they let me come back again Back to you dear at last? YC 67736 UNIVERS.TY OF UBRARy