Childhood

Riding a Two-Wheeled Bike

5/17/2019

Riding a Two-Wheeled Bike

I can’t believe I’m doing this!
     I’m riding on two wheels!
Why, it was only yesterday
     My bike had training wheels!

My parents’ said, “You’re ready now.”
      “OK,” I said, “I’ll try.”
My daddy ran and held the seat
     While mommy said, “Let’s fly!”

I’m peddling really fast now.
     The wind is in my hair.
I feel as if I’m flying high
     Two-wheeling through the air!

by Author Unknown

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Do Your Best

4/1/2019

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Do Your Best

Do your best, your very best,
     And do it every day.
Little boys and little girls,
     That is the wisest way.

Whatever work comes to your hand,
     At home or at your school,
Do your best with right good will;
     It is the golden rule.

For he who always does his best,
     His best will better grow;
But he who shirks or slights his task,
     Lets all the better go.

What if your lesson should be hard?
     You need not yield to sorrow,
For he who bravely works to-day,
     His task grows bright to-morrow.

by Author Unknown

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Every Child Should Know a Hill

3/29/2019

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Every Child Should Know a Hill

Every child should know a hill,
And the clean joy of running down its long slope
With the wind in his hair.
He should know a tree . . .
The comfort of its cool lap of shade,
And the supple strength of its arms
Balancing him between earth and sky
So he is a creature of both.

He should know bits of singing water . . .
The strange mysteries of its depths,
And the long sweet grasses that border it.

Every child should know some scrap
Of uninterrupted sky, to shout against;
And have one star, dependable and bright,
For wishing on.

by Edna Casler Joll (1944)

Edna May Joll was born as Edna May Casler on 1 February 1908 in South Dakota, United States of America. She was married to John Kenneth ‘Kenny’ Joll. She became a children’s poetry writer. Edna May Joll passed on at 55 years of age on 25 September 1963 in Ada County, Idaho, United States of America.

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Two Wheels

3/26/2019

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Two Wheels

I told you I won’t.
     It’s too hard.
I told you I can’t.
     It’s too hard.

Didn’t I tell you?
     My feet, they won’t reach.
My hands, they won’t steer.
     It’s too hard.

Watch out - I’m tipping.
     Don’t let go - I’m falling.
Please; I give up.
     Not so fast, not so fast.

I don’t like this.
     Stop stop stop stop.
Hey, I can’t stop.
     Hey, I’m riding, I’m riding.

Hey hey hey hey hey.
     Did you see me?
What did I tell you?
     It was easy.

by Author Unknown

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Going to Bed

2/28/2019

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Going to Bed

I’m always told to hurry up -
     Which I’d be glad to do,
If there were not so many things
     That need attending to.

But first I have to find my towel
     Which fell behind the rack,
And when a pillow’s thrown at me
     I have to throw it back.

And then I have to get the things
     I need in bed with me.
Like marbles and my birthday train
     And Pete the chimpanzee.

I have to see my polliwog
     Is safely in its pan,
And stand a minute on my head
     To be quite sure I can.

I have to bounce upon my bed
     To see if it will sink,
And then when I am covered up
     I find I need a drink.

by Marchette Chute

Marchette Gaylord Chute was born on 16 August 1909 in Wayzata, Minnesota, United States of America. She became a biographer, a fiction writer, and a poet. Marchette Gaylord Chute passed on at 84 years of age on 6 May 1994 in Montclair, New Jersey, United States of America.

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Me

2/22/2019

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Me

I have 10 little fingers
And 10 little toes,
2 little arms,
And 1 little nose.
1 little mouth,
And 2 little ears,
2 little eyes
For smiles and for tears.
1 little head
And 2 little feet,
1 little chin -
That’s me!
I’m complete.

by Author Unknown

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Never Quite Just Right

1/29/2019

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Never Quite Just Right

They say I’m too young,
     to cross the street to play.
That I’m too old to cry,
     when I don’t get my way.

That I am much to big,
     to swing on the garden gate.
But very much too small,
     to stay up after eight.

I’m young, I’m old,
     I’m big, I’m small -
Do you ever think, in age and height,
     I will ever grow to be just right?

by Author Unknown

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Dress Up

1/27/2019

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Dress Up

Lipstick on my lips
and blush on my cheeks.
This is a game I love to play,
and one I could play for weeks.

Wearing mother’s big black shoes
and necklace of white pearl,
which comes complete with a dress
that flows as I twirl.
A special purse that I have filled with
so many treasures it’s hard for me to hold.
And I must not forget a big
fuzzy coat, just in case it’s cold.

My dress-up would not be through
without a set of keys,
and with this my wardrobe is complete
and I am very pleased.

by Wendy Silva

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Babies Have so Much to Do

1/26/2019

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Babies Have so Much to Do

In a world that’s all brand-new,
Babies have so much to do!

Laughing, making funny faces,
Finding out those ticklish places . . .

Cuddling up and wiggling toes,
Looking cute in tiny clothes . . .

Tasting, touching, reaching high,
Crawling under, scooting by . . .

Learning words and having fun . . .
Making memories one by one.

by Author Unknown

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At the Playground

1/25/2019

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At the Playground

Away down deep and away up high,
     a swing drops you into the sky.
Back, it draws you away down deep,
     forth, it flings you in a sweep
All the way to the stars and back -
     goodbye, Jill; goodbye, Jack;
Shuddering climb wild and steep,
     away up high, away down deep.

by William Stafford

William Edgar Stafford was born on 17 January 1914 in Hutchinson, Kansas, United States of America. He became a poet. William Edgar Stafford passed on at 79 years of age on 28 August 1993 in Lake Oswego, Oregon, United States of America.

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A Good Boy

12/22/2018

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A Good Boy

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
     I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.

And now at last the Sun is going down behind the wood,
     And I am very happy, for I know that I’ve been good.

My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,
     And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,
     No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn,
     And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He became an essayist, a novelist, a travel writer, a poet, and a lyricist. He is known as the author of the adventure novels “Treasure Island” (1883) and “Kidnapped” (1886), the science fiction novel, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (1886), and the poetry collection, “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885), all of which remain popular even now with readers of all ages. Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson passed on at 44 years of age on 3 December 1894 in Vailima, Samoan Islands.

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I Like to Play Dress-Up

12/12/2018

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I Like to Play Dress-Up

I like to play dress-up,
     It’s my favorite thing,
A pocketbook, a high heel,
     A fanciful ring.
It may be a date, a party, or prom,
     or maybe I want to pretend that I’m mom.
Whoever I am it’s very plain to see,
     I like to play dress-up and I like being me.

by Kerrie Wade

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My Teddy Bear

12/11/2018

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My Teddy Bear

I have a little teddy bear
     He’s old as he can be.
Though I squash him when I sleep at night
     I think he’s fond of me.

His eyes are hanging by a thread
     His stuffing’s coming out,
But still he sits upon my bed
     And never seems to pout.

He comforts me when I am sad
     He gives me good advice.
I think my little teddy bear
     Is awfully awfully nice.

by Author Unknown

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Good Night and Good Morning

11/28/2018

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Good Night and Good Morning

A fair little girl sat under a tree,
     Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right,
     And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”

Such a number of rooks came over her head,
     Crying “Caw, caw!” on their way to bed.
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
      “Little black things, good night, good night!”

The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,
     The sheep’s “bleat, bleat!” came over the road;
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,
      “Good little girl, good night, good night!”

She did not say to the sun, “Good night!”
     Though she saw him there like a ball of light,
For she knew he had God’s time to keep
     All over the world, and never could sleep.

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;
     The violets curtsied and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
     And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.

And while on her pillow she softly lay,
     She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
      “Good morning, good morning! our work is begun.”

by Lord Houghton

Richard Monckton Milnes, also known as 1st Baron Houghton or Lord Houghton, was born on 19 June 1809 in London, England. He became a poet, a patron of literature, and a politician. Richard Monckton Milnes passed on at 76 years of age on 11 August 1885 in Vichy, France.

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My Shadow

11/27/2018

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My Shadow

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
     And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
     And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest things about him is the way he likes to grow-
     Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India rubber ball,
     And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
     And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see;
     I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
     I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,
     Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

by Robert Louis Stevenson: “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885)

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He became an essayist, a novelist, a travel writer, a poet, and a lyricist. He is known as the author of the adventure novels “Treasure Island” (1883) and “Kidnapped” (1886), the science fiction novel, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (1886), and the poetry collection, “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885), all of which remain popular even now with readers of all ages. Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson passed on at 44 years of age on 3 December 1894 in Vailima, Samoan Islands.

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The Swing

11/25/2018

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The Swing

How do you like to go up in a swing,
     Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
     Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
     Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
     Over the countryside -

Till I look down on the garden green,
     Down on the roof so brown -
Up in the air I go flying again,
     Up in the air and down!

Come and swing and play with me.
     For youth is innocence,
And we are both free
     To live and dream and be.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He became an essayist, a novelist, a travel writer, a poet, and a lyricist. He is known as the author of the adventure novels “Treasure Island” (1883) and “Kidnapped” (1886), the science fiction novel, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (1886), and the poetry collection, “A Child’s Garden of Verses” (1885), all of which remain popular even now with readers of all ages. Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson passed on at 44 years of age on 3 December 1894 in Vailima, Samoan Islands.

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Now We Are Six

11/24/2018

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Now We Are Six

When I was One,
     I had just begun.
When I was Two,
     I was nearly new.
When I was Three
     I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
     I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
     But now I am Six,
I’m as clever as clever,
     So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.

by A. A. Milne

Alan Alexander Milne, also known as A. A. Milne, was born on 18 January 1882 in Kilburn, London, England. He became a novelist, a playwright, a poet, and a children’s book author. He is known as the author of “Winnie the Pooh” (1926). Alan Alexander Milne passed on at 74 years of age on 31 January 1956 in Hartfield, Sussex, England.

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Every Time I Climb a Tree

11/5/2018

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Every Time I Climb a Tree

Every time I climb a tree
Every time I climb a tree
Every time I climb a tree
I scrape a leg
Or skin a knee
And every time I climb a tree
I find some ants
Or dodge a bee
And get the ants
All over me.

And every time I clime a tree
Where have you been?
They say to me
But don’t they know that I am free?

I like it best
To spot a nest
That has an egg
Or maybe three.

And then I skin
The other leg
But every time I climb a tree
I see a lot of things to see
Swallows, rooftops, and TV

And all the fields and farms there be
Every time I climb a tree
Though climbing may be good for ants
It isn’t awfully good for pants
But still it’s pretty good for me
Every time I climb a tree.

by David McCord: “Every Time I Climb a Tree” (June 1967); type of work: collected poems by a single author in book form

David Thompson Watson McCord was born on 15 December 1897 in New York City, New York, United States of America. He was a poet, and a college fundraiser as the executive director for the Harvard College Fund. Two of his collections of poems in book form are “The Star in the Pail” (1976) and “One at a Time” (1978). David Thompson Watson McCord passed on at 99 years of age on 13 April 1997 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.

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Little Fred

10/31/2018

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Little Fred

When little Fred
     Was called to bed,
He always acted right;
     He kissed Mama,
And then Papa,
     And wished them all good-night.

He made no noise,
     Like naughty boys,
But gently up the stairs
     Directly went,
When he was sent,
     And always said his prayers.

by Author Unknown

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Perseverance

10/14/2018

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Perseverance

Dear Polly, these are joyful days!
     Your feet can choose their own sweet ways;
You have no care of anything.
     Free as a swallow on the wing,
You hunt the hay-field over
     To find a four-leaved clover.

But this I tell you, Polly dear,
     One thing in life you need not fear:
Bad luck, I’m certain, never haunts
     A child who works for what she wants,
And hunts a hay-field over
     To find a four-leaved clover!

The little leaf is not so wise
     As it may seem in foolish eyes;
But then, dear Polly, don’t you see,
     Since you were willing carefully
To hunt the hay-field over,
     You found your four-leaved clover!

Your patience may have long to wait,
     Whether in little things or great,
But all good luck, you soon will learn,
     Must come to those who nobly earn.
Who hunts the hay-field over
     Will find the four-leaved clover.

by Sarah Orne Jewett: as published in “St. Nicholas Magazine” (September 1883), page 840

Sarah Orne Jewett was born on 3 September 1849 in South Berwick, Maine, United States of America. She became a novelist, a short story writer, and a poet. Sarah Orne Jewett passed on at 59 years of age on 24 June 1909 in South Berwick, Maine, United States of America.

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My Footprints

10/10/2018

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My Footprints

Someday I’ll jump through puddles,
     take a stroll or run a race.
Someday I’ll walk across the street
     or maybe walk in space.
Someday I’ll scale a mountain
     or I’ll join a ballet corps.
Someday I’ll walk a tightrope
     or explore the ocean floor.
Someday these feet will do some things
     that only Heaven knows,
but for today they’re happy,
     just to wiggle all their toes!

by Author Unknown

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Coasting Down the Hill

9/14/2018

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Coasting Down the Hill

Frosty is the morning;
     But the sun is bright,
Flooding all the landscape
     With its golden light.
Hark the sounds of laughter
     And the voices shrill!
See the happy children
     Coasting down the hill.

There are Tom and Charley,
     And their sister Nell;
There are John and Willie,
     Kate and Isabel, -
Eyes with pleasure beaming,
     Cheeks with health aglow;
Bless the merry children,
     Trudging through the snow!

Now I hear them shouting,
     “Ready! Clear the track!”
Down the slope they’re rushing,
     Now they’re trotting back.

Full of fun and frolic,
     Thus they come and go.
Coating down the hillside,
     Trudging through the snow.

by Author Unknown

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Nothing to Worry About

9/12/2018

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Nothing to Worry About

Confessions of a child entering school for the first time - who according to adults, “has nothing to worry about.”

My name is Donald and I don’t know anything.

I have new underwear, a new sweater, a loose tooth and I didn’t sleep last night. I am worried.

What if the school bus jerks after I get on and I lose my balance and my pants rip and everyone laughs?

What if I have to go to the bathroom before we get to school?

What if a bell rings and everyone goes into a door and a man yells, “Where do you belong?” and I don’t know?

What if my shoestring comes untied and someone says, “Your shoestring is untied. We’ll all watch while you tie it”?

What if the trays in the cafeteria are too tall for me to reach?

What if the thermos lid on my soup is on too tight and when I try to open it, it breaks?

What if my loose tooth wants to come out when we’re supposed to have our heads down and be quiet?

What if the teacher tells the class to go to the bathroom and I can’t go?

What if I get hot and want to take my sweater off and someone steals it?

What if I splash water on my name tag and my name disappears and no one will know who I am?

What if they send us out to play and all the swings are taken? What do I do?

What if the wind blows all the important papers out of my hands that I’m supposed to take home?

What if they mispronounce my last name and everyone laughs?

What if my teacher doesn’t make her D’s like Mom taught me?

What if I spend the whole day without a friend?

What if the teacher gives a seat to everyone and I’m left over?

What if the windows in the bus steam over and I won’t be able to tell when I get to my stop?

I’m just a little kid but maybe I’m smarter than I think I am. At least I know better than to tell a five-year-old with a loose tooth who has never been out of the yard by himself before that he has “nothing to worry about.”

by Erma Bombeck

Erma Louise Bombeck was born as Erma Louise Fiste on 21 February 1927 in Bellbrook, Ohio, United States of America. She became the beloved American humorist whose newspaper column, “At Wit’s End” grew to such popularity that it became nationally syndicated in 1965, and eventually became a regular feature in 800 different newspapers. From 1965 to 1996, she wrote more than 4,000 newspaper columns. Erma Louise Bombeck passed on at 69 years of age on 22 April 1996 in San Francisco, California, United States of America. Her 15 published books are available from your favorite booksellers.

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The Land of Counterpane

9/7/2018

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The Land of Counterpane

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
     I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
     To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
     I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
     Among the bedclothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
     All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
     And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
     That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
     The pleasant land of counterpane.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

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Best

8/21/2018

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Best

I like to wear my party frock
That Auntie bought in town,
My patent shoes with shiny toes,
My Sunday hat with little bows,
And ribbons hanging down.
I like to hear the people say:
“How pretty Nancy looks to-day!”

But Daddy shakes his head and says:
“You’ll make her very vain.”
And Granny says: “She should be dressed
In everything that’s of the best
But rather neat and plain.”
And Mother says: “My goodness me!
Who can this lovely lady be?”

by Rose Fyleman

Rose Amy Fyleman was born on 6 March 1877 in Nottingham, England. She became a writer and a poet. She is known for her works for children, about fairies. Rose Amy Fyleman passed on at 80 years of age on 1 August 1957 in Saint Albans, Hertfordshire, England.

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