Childhood

Never Quite Just Right

1/29/2019

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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Little Raindrops

8/20/2018

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Little Raindrops

Oh, where do you come from,
     You little drops of rain,
Pitter patter, pitter patter,
     Down the window pane?

They won’t let me walk,
     And they won’t let me play,
And they won’t let me go
     Out of doors at all today.

They put away my playthings.
     Because I broke them all,
And then they locked up all my bricks,
     And took away my ball.

Tell me, little raindrops,
     Is that the way you play,
Pitter patter, pitter patter,
     All the rainy day?

They say I’m very naughty,
     But I’ve nothing else to do
But sit here at the window;
     I should like to play with you.

The little raindrops cannot speak,
     But ‘pitter patter pat’
Means, “We can play on this side,
     Why can’t you play on that?”

by Aunt Effie

Jane Euphemia Saxby, also known by the pseudonym Aunt Effie, was born as Jane Euphemia Browne on 27 January 1811 in Bridekirk, Cumberland, England. She was married to Stephen Henry Saxby in 1862. She became a hymn writer and a poet. Her published works include, “The Dove on the Cross” (1849), “Aunt Effie’s Rhymes for Little Children” (1852), “The Voice of the Bird” (1875), and “Aunt Effie’s Gift to the Nursery” (1876). Jane Euphemia Saxby passed on at 87 years of age on 25 March 1898 in Bedminster, Somerset, England.

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Foreign Lands

8/18/2018

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Foreign Lands

Up into the cherry tree
     Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands
     And looked abroad on foreign lands.

I saw the next door garden lie,
     Adorned with flowers, before my eye,
And many pleasant places more
     That I had never seen before.

I saw the dimpling river pass
     And be the sky’s blue looking-glass;
The dusty roads go up and down
     With people tramping in to town.

If I could find a higher tree,
     Farther and farther I should see,
To where the grown-up river slips
     Into the sea among the ships;

To where the roads on either hand
     Lead onward into fairy land,
Where all the children dine at five,
     And all the playthings come alive.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He was 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 New Kid

8/11/2018

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The New Kid

Our baseball team never did very much,
     We had me and PeeWee and Earl and Dutch.
And the Oak Street Tigers always got beat
     Until the new kid moved in on our street.

The kid moved in with a mitt and a bat
     And an official New York Yankee hat.
The new kid plays shortstop or second base
     And can outrun us all in any place.

The kid never muffs a grounder or fly
     No matter how hard it’s hit or how high.
And the new kid always acts quite polite,
     Never yelling or spitting or starting a fight.

We were playing the league champs just last week;
     They were trying to break our winning streak.
In the last inning the score was one-one,
     When the new kid swung and hit a home run.

A few of the kids and their parents say
     They don’t believe that the new kid should play.
But she’s good as me, Dutch, PeeWee, or Earl,
     So we don’t care that the new kid’s a girl.

by Mike Makley (1975)

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My Shoelace Blues

8/5/2018

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My Shoelace Blues

I’ve tried and tried to tie you, shoe.
     I’ve never done it yet.
A loop that flip-flops on the floor
     Is as close as I can get.
I’ve practiced on spaghetti.
     I’ve practiced on the mop.
I’ve practiced on my sister
     Until she made me stop.
So here’s the loop again, shoe.
     I’ll hold it with my thumb.
I’ll wrap the other end around
     And yank it into bows . . .

. . . it’s done!

by Author Unknown

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Why God Made Little Boys

8/4/2018

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Why God Made Little Boys

God made a world out of His dreams,
     Of magic mountains, oceans and streams,
Prairies and plains and wooded land.
     Then paused and thought
I need someone to stand on top of the mountains,
     To conquer the seas, explore the plains and climb the trees.
Someone to start out small and grow,
     Sturdy and strong like a tree and so
He created boys, full of spirit and fun
     To explore and conquer, to romp and run
With dirty faces, and banged up chins
     With courageous hearts and boyish grins.
And when He had completed the task He’d begun,
     He surely said, “That’s a job well done.”

by Henry Alfred Dixon

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Why God Made Little Girls

8/4/2018

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Why God Made Little Girls

God made the world with its towering trees,
     Majestic mountains and restless seas.
Then stopped and said, “It needs one more thing,
     Someone to laugh and dance and sing.
To walk in the woods and gather flowers,
     To commune with nature in quiet hours.”
So God created little girls.
     With laughing eyes and bouncing curls.
With joyful hearts and infectious smiles,
     Enchanting ways and feminine wiles.
And when He’d completed the task He’d begun,
     He was pleased and proud of the job He’d done.
For the world when seen through a little girl’s eyes,
     Greatly resembles His own paradise.

by Henry Alfred Dixon

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