by
Mary Mapes Dodge

Elfin Jack, the Giant-Killer

             Do not think the story
             Of the giant-killer’s glory
Is known and cherished only by yourselves,
             O, my dears;

            For his deeds so daring,
            And his trick of scaring
All his foes, are quite familiar to the elves,
                      It appears.

              In the starlight, tender —
              In the moonlight’s splendor
Do they gather and recount every deed,
                            It is said;
              How he met a hornet,
              Who was playing on a cornet,
Out of tune; and he slew him with a reed, —
                            Slew him dead!

              How, growing ever bolder,
              With his reed upon his shoulder,
And an acorn-shield upon his little arm
                            Well equipped —
              He sought a mighty giant,
              Who was known as “Worm, the pliant,”
And after giving battle, fierce and warm,
                           Left him whipped.

              How he saw a spider
              With her victim, dead, inside her,
Told her, in a voice of fury, to begone
                           From his sight;
             How he killed her when she'd risen
             To her cruel, fatal prison,
And nobly freed her captives, so forlorn,—
                            Gallant knight!

              Ah, but the elves are proudest,
              And ring his praises loudest,
When telling of a snail, grim and hoary,
                           In his mail.

              With those fearful horns before him,
              Jack gallantly upbore him,
And killed him with a thrust (to his glory)
                           In the tail!

             List in the starlight, tender, —
             List in the moonlight’s splendor, —
For a whirring, like hurrahing, in the glen,
                            Far and near.
’Tis the elves who, looking back
             To their giant-killer, Jack,
Tell his story to each other, funny men!
                            With a cheer.

The Mayor of Scuttleton

The Mayor of Scuttleton burned his nose
Trying to warm his copper toes;
He lost his money and spoiled his will
By signing his name with an icicle-quill;
He went bare-headed, and held his breath,
And frightened his grandame most to death;
He loaded a shovel, and tried to shoot,
And killed the calf in the leg of his boot;
He melted a snow-bird, and formed the habit
Of dancing jigs with a sad Welsh rabbit;
He lived on taffy, and taxed the town;
And read his newspaper upside down;
Then he sighed, and hung his hat on a feather,
And bade the townspeople come together;
But the worst of it all was, nobody knew
What the Mayor of Scuttleton next would do.

Fire in the Window

Fire in the window! flashes in the pane!
Fire on the roof-top! blazing weather-vane!
Turn about, weather-vane! put the fire out!
The sun’s going down, sir, I haven’t a doubt.

Cousin Jeremy

He came behind me, and covered my eyes,
    “Who is this?” growled he, so sly,
“Why, Cousin Jeremy, how can I tell,
    When my eyes are shut?” said I.

Thinking Aloud

Little Jenny with a pail
   Tripping to the spring;
Little Jack astride a rail
   Laughed to hear her sing.

Little Jenny softly said,
    “I’m tired as I can be.”
But Jack was sure that the little maid
     Said, “Carry my pail for me.”

“Bye, Baby, Night Is Come”

Bye, baby, night is come,
And the sun is going home
    Bye, baby, bye!
All the flowers have shut their eyes;
On the grass a shadow lies;
    Bye, baby, bye!

Bye, baby, birds are sleeping;
One by one the stars are peeping;
    Bye, baby, bye!
In the far-off sky they twinkle,
While the cows come tinkle, tinkle;
    Bye, baby, bye!

Bye, baby, mother holds thee;
Loving, tender care infolds thee;
    Bye, baby, bye!
Angels in thy dreams caress thee;
Through the darkness guard and bless thee;
    Bye, baby, bye!

Snow

Little white feathers, filling the air —
Little white feathers! how came ye there?
“We came from the cloud-birds sailing so high;
They’re shaking their white wings up in the sky.”

Little white feathers, how swift you go!
Little white feathers, I love you so!
“We are swift because we have work to do;
But hold up your face, and we’ll kiss you true.”

Oh, Where Are All The Good Little Girls?

Oh, where are all the good little girls, —
    Where are they all to-day?
And where are all the good little boys?
    Tell me, somebody, pray.
Safe in their fathers’ and mothers’ hearts
    The girls are stowed away;
And where the girls are, look for the boys, —
    Or so I’ve heard folk say.

Christmas Bells

One Christmas Eve a little maid
Into a fire-lit parlor strayed;
And there on a chair lay the pretty song
Her sister had sung her, — Dingle-dong!
         That rang like Christmas bells.
         Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
So sweet and clear, so warm and strong
         Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
         Merry Christmas bells.

“I’ll play it!” said the little maid;
“The blaze is bright, I’m not afraid!
I’ll play it on the chair, and sing.”
So down she sat, and dingle, ting,
         The ready Christmas bells,
         Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
Sounded forth so sweet and long, —
         Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
         Happy Christmas bells.

“It’s darker!” thought the little maid;
“But never mind, I’m not afraid!
For Jesus once, in Galilee,
Was just a little child like me.
         He loves the Christmas bells.”
         Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
O baby voice! so sweet and strong!
         Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
         Holy Christmas bells!

“‘I’LL PLAY IT!’ SAID THE LITTLE MAID.”

My Laddie

Oh! have you seen my laddie?
    His heart is true and kind;
His cheeks are fresh and rosy,
    His hair floats on the wind.

He’s a brave and lightsome laddie,
    On honest toil intent.
Oh! we had some words this morning,
    And I don’t know where he went.

You’ll know if he’s my laddie
    By the twinkle in his ee
When you whisper to him softly
    That he may come to me.

March

In the snowing and the blowing,
    In the cruel sleet,
Little flowers begin their growing
    Far beneath our feet.
Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly, —
    “Darlings, are you here?”
Till they answer, “We are nearly,
    Nearly ready, dear.”

“Where is Winter, with his snowing?
    Tell us, Spring,” they say.
Then she answers, “He is going,
    Going on his way.
Poor old Winter does not love you;
    But his time is past;
Soon my birds shall sing above you, —
    Set you free at last.”