Boys and Girls Bookshelf; a Practical Plan of Character Building, Volume I (of 17) Fun and Thought for Little Folk

Three Companions

Dinah Maria Mulock-Craik wrote of a walk together—baby, dog, and she—three merry companions ’neath any sky, blue as baby’s eyes or gray as the old dog’s tail. “Baby’s a little lady; Dog is a gentleman brave… I’d rather be a kind doggie, I think, than a cruel man.”

’Fraid Cat!

Frank Munro joked that when the movies came to Pussy-town, the cats rushed to the show, leaving the mice to their cheese. Onscreen a dog in blue appeared, and the foolish cats dashed out in alarm without asking refunds. A dog policeman has no charm when close behind—and so the pussies must hear grown folks cry, “’Fraid cat! ’Fraid cat!”

The Spider and the Fly

Mary Howitt’s famous poem unfolded in the spider’s winding-stair parlor, the fly refusing each invitation: the pretty parlor, the snug bed, the pantry’s good store, the looking-glass. She thanked him and said she’d call another day. But the spider wove a subtle web and flattered her—“Your robes are green and purple, there’s a crest upon your head; / Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.” Alas, she came slowly flitting by, and the spider leapt, held her fast, and dragged her up the stair into his dismal den, where she ne’er came out again.

Everyday Verses

Alden Arthur Knipe and Lucy Fitch Perkins offered small rhymes: a little gentleman who picks up dropped things for Mother and earns a kiss; the times for running, walking, silence, talk, work, play, and sleep; umbrellas and rubbers never forgotten; whispering in school; romping boys and quiet girls at recess; the glad rush home; Monday’s lessons best studied Friday; the piping-hot dinner with Father carving and Willie finishing first; a fearless child declaring there’s no giant in the forest; doll Annabel, who lost her wig, eyes, legs, and sawdust but kept her clothes and character; a capitalist buying marbles, a top, and string at the lollipop-shop on the first day of spring; Mary Ella Montague in merry England who walked six miles without her umbrella and found no rain; the goose girl wandering over hill and dale while wise folk pore over books; Mrs. O’Toole, the philosopher who comforts herself with a new feather bed when her geese are gone; and a thirsty two-quart watering-pot that gives the flowers a drink on hot days.

Note: The missing topic “Opening fairy-tale about Cock-alu the rooster and his wife Hen-alie who has a bean stuck in her throat” could not be added because no source material covering this story was provided.

VIII

This part of the chapter opens with a tumble of short, lively verses, the kind a child might chant while skipping or before bedtime. First comes a glimpse of tulips lifting their bright heads as if to say “thank you” to the gardener, followed by a child’s cheerful complaint that money, no matter how plentiful, is never quite enough to buy everything—and so a penny is shared with a child who has none. Pockets, the verse declares, are made for marbles, twine, knives, and rubber bands—anything, in fact, but idle hands. A hungry child waiting for dinner is told to be patient: the cook is never late, and thinking of other things will make the bell ring sooner. A saucy little critic declares that if authors would turn into cooks, fewer books and better meals would result.

Then comes a small, charming verse by Lucy Fitch Perkins called “Diplomacy,” in which a young schemer resolves to visit the Widow Hill, not for kindness but for the sake of the fine plum-tree at her front door. In “If I Were Queen,” also by Perkins, an imaginative child dreams of a velvet throne, a satin gown, a knight on bended knee, and an endless supply of bonbons, cherry pie, ice-cream, and birthday cake—though, sensibly, she keeps a page nearby to handle the resulting stomach-ache. Her “Thoughts in Church” reveal a daydreaming boy who would rather sail to Greenland and the Ganges, knock down heathen idols, and teach a certain blinded folk what a Yankee boy can do.

The next cluster of poems dances through the days of the week. “This Is the Way” sets each day to a familiar tune, marching from Monday’s washing through Tuesday’s ironing, Wednesday’s shoe-mending, Thursday’s visiting, Friday’s sweeping, Saturday’s baking, and finally Sunday’s churchgoing. “Days of Birth” assigns each weekday a virtue: Monday’s child is fair of face, Wednesday’s is brave and glad, and the Sunday-born is fair, wise, good, and gay. “The Washing” warns that those who delay their laundry until Saturday are positively lazy, while Solomon Grundy lives, is christened, married, taken ill, and buried in a single week-long round. “Baby’s Play Days” simply counts them off: Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and so on. “Which Do You Choose?” poses a question about a row of little girls named Betty, Lou, Dolly, Polly, Sallie, and Sue. Stella George Stern’s “Seven Little Mice” follows a hungry family from Sunday’s great bun down to Saturday’s begging and squeaking, ending with all seven deciding that what they have will last the week. The short rhyme “Visiting” is a chain of polite greetings among the days themselves. Tudor Jenks’s long and witty “Little Tommy’s Monday Morning” tells the story of a boy who, after a breakfast of wheat-cakes and honey, is suddenly seized by a strange “Weakness” on Monday morning—aches in his leg, an itching ear, a sleepiness—convenient enough to let him escape his unlearned lessons. He blames his father’s wisdom (“Ask your father”) and recovers his courage at the door, then races to find his missing books under the sofa. The poem names his malady: the dreaded “Idon’twantto,” a common ailment of the lazy tribe, and the cure that follows is the great charm “Butyou’vegotto,” which every boy should keep about him. Henry Johnstone’s “St. Saturday” then raises a comic hymn to a saint of leisure who, legend says, loved nothing so much as his elbow-chair and the laughter of village children, and was rewarded by being made patron of weekly holidays.