The Gnu Wooing

"The Gnus Who's Who"

 
The Gnu Wooing 

by Burges Johnson

There was a lovely lady Gnu
Who browsed beneath a spreading yew
Its stately height was her delight;
A truly cooling shade it threw.
Upon it little tendrils grew
Which gave her gentle joy to chew.
Yet oft she sighed, a-gazing wide,
And wished she knew another Gnu
(Some newer Gnu beneath the yew
To tell her tiny troubles to).

She lived the idle moments through,
And days in dull succession flew,
Till one fine eve she ceased to grieve
A manly stranger met her view.
He gave a courtly bow or two;
She coolly looked him through and through:
" I fear you make some slight mistake
Perhaps it is the yew you knew!"
(Its branches blew and seemed to coo,
" Your cue, new Gnu; it's up to you!") 

Said he: "If guests you would eschew,
I'll say adieu without ado;
But, let me add, I knew your dad;
I'm on page two, the Gnus' Who's Who."
"Forgive," she cried," the snub I threw!
I feared you were some parvegnu!
'Tis my regret we've never met
I knew a Gnu who knew of you."
(This wasn't true what's that to you?
The new Gnu knew; she knew he knew.)

"Though there are other trees, 'tis true,"
Said she, "if you're attracted to
The yews I use, and choose to chews
Their yewy dewy tendrils, do!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The end is easily in view:
He wed her in a week or two.
The "Daily Gnus " did quite enthuse;
And now, if all I hear is true,
Beneath that yew the glad day through
There romps a little gnuey new.

The two gnus meet and greet.

Concerning The Slowness of The Sloth

A sloth hangs by the branches of a tree.

 
CONCERNING THE SLOWNESS OF THE SLOTH
by Burges Johnson

MY child, how doth
The gentle Sloth
Improve each hour where'er he go'th?
'Tis true that he,
Unlike the Bee,
Seeks not for honey ceaselessly.

He's not inclined
To slave, I find,
For others, like the faithful hind;
Nor as the ant
To toil and pant
He either won't or else he can't.

Yet there are chaps
Like him, perhaps,
Crushed down 'neath heavy handicaps,
And 'tis our place
The facts to face
And honestly to view his case.

Where'er he goes,
He always knows
He has no full supply of toes;
That's why he's not
Inclined to trot,
Lest he should harm the few he's got.

The very crown
Of his renown
Is walking branches upside down.
It is a ruse
That don't conduce
To hurry. Also, what's the use?

And if you'll look
In any book
You'll find him, if I'm not mistook,
Entitled thus:
Didactylus,
Or A-i Arctopithicus.

That name, I guess,
You will confess,
Would render you ambitionless!
So, goodness knowth,
That's why I'm loath
To cast aspersion on the Sloth.

A sloth dreams of sleep...

Two Illustrated Rhymes from The 1800's

Illustrated rhyme from St. Nicholas Book anthologies.

 "Angelina Titherington

Was not at all too smart.

She bought some cheese

and butter-beans

To make an Apple tart."

Illustrated rhyme from St. Nicholas Book anthologies.

"My little dog's 

quite clever,

When we go 

for a lark,

He's smarter then

than ever,

He'll bark and bark

and bark."

Toys At Night

Putting the toys back in the cupboard.

Toys At Night

by Fred E. Weatherly

Good-night, dear Dolly, do not fear,

For good old Dobbin's watching near,

And now and then he'll give a bray

And that will keep the ghosts away.

Good-night, dear Dobbin, stay awake

And watch o'er Dolly for my sake;

Don't let her fear - you understand,

But keep good watch in Cupboard Land.

Good-night, my dear old buther's shop,

Good-night, dear drum, and flag, and top;

When day returns we'll have such fun,

Good-night, good-night, to every one!

The Proud Miss O'Haggin

Silhouettes used to illustrate the poem.

The Proud Miss O'Haggin

by John Bennett.

The proud Miss O'Haggin

May ride in her wagon,

Her landau, or drag, in

The park all the day;

But she'd give all her leisure

And wealth beyond measure

For one half the pleasure

Down Haggerty's way,

When young Danny Gilligan

Drives Maggie Milligan

Down Murphy's hill ag'in

In his "coopay."

Choosing A Name

Name a doll of your very own!

Choosing A Name

by Charles Lamb

I have got a new-born sister;

I was nigh the first that kissed her.

When the nursing woman brought her

To papa, his infant daughter,

How papa's dear eyes did glisten!

She will shortly be to christen:

And papa has made the offer,

I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her,

Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa.

Ann and Mary, they're too common;

Joan's too formal for a woman;

Jane's a prettier name beside;

But we had a Jane that died.

They would say, if 'twas Rebecca,

That she was a little Quaker.

Edith's pretty, but that looks

Better in old English books;

Ellen's left off long ago;

Blanche is out of fashion

now.

None that I have named as yet

Are as good as Margaret.

Emily is neat and fine.

What do you think of Caroline?

How I am puzzled and perplexed

What to choose or think of next!

I am in a little fever.

Lest the name that I shall give her

Should disgrace her or defame her
I will leave papa to name her. 

The Cloud House

The Cloud House

by Adrian Mott

A little old man lived up in a cloud,
And he was as poor as he was proud.

When the sun came out, and the day was bright,
His dear little house was all shining white.

When evening came, and the sun went to bed,
His dear little house turned a lovely red.

When the stars came out, and they winked at him,
His dear little house was all grey and dim.

When the moon came out, shining soft and clear,
His dear little house looked ever so dear!

But the sun was so hot one very fine day
That the cloud and the little man melted away!
And where they melted to - no one can say!

The Hedgehog

The Hedgehog

by Edith King

The hedgehog is a little beast
Who likes a quiet wood,
Where he can feed his family
On proper hedgehog food.

He has a funny little snout
That's rather like a pig's,
With which he smells, like us, of course,
But also runts and digs. 

He wears the queerest prickle coat,
Instead of hair or fur,
And only has to curl himself
To bristle like a burr.

He does not need to battle with
Or run away from foes,
His coat does all the work for him,
It pricks them on the nose.

The Fowls

THE FOWLS 

by M. Nightingale

Black hens, white hens, speckled hens and

brown.

Clucking in the sunshine, strutting up and

down;

Very vain and happy they for were the truth but

known

Each thinks the loudest cackle in the farm-yard is her

own,

And each declares the egg she's left behind her in the nest

Is bigger and much better than the eggs of all the rest.

"Cackle-cackle! Cluck-a-club!

Cock-a-doodle-do!

The cock is king of Farm-yard Land,

But I am queen there, too."

White hens, brown hens, speckled hens and black,

With lots of little yellow chicks a-toddling at their

Back;

Father cock must come and look, his red comb on his head;

"Cheep at him, my pretties! Sir, be careful how

you tread!

Now are they not a lovely brood? Just see them peck

and run;

And see how my two soft warm wings will cover

every one.

Cackle-cackle! Cheepie-cheep!

Ah, Cock-a-doodle-do,

Although you're king of Farm-yard Land

I'm prouder far than you!"

Acorns

Acorns by Edith King

Oh, when the ripe acorns,
So smooth and so brown,
Get loose from their cups
And come pattering down,

What work is in store
For the girls and the boys,
First of all to collect them,
And then to make toys.

For they can make thimbles,
And tiny dolls' cradles,
And thorn-handled saucepans,
And egg-cups and ladles,

Extinguishers, flower-pots,
Baskets and rings,
And barrels and buckets,
And all kinds of things.

They can Stock a whole shop,
If they have any brains,
And use a small penknife,
And plenty of pains.

The Mole

The Mole by Edith King

The burrowing mole lives under the ground
Day in and day out, all the changing year round;
Like a train in a tunnel, in darkness he goes,
And makes his own track with his feet and his nose.

He lives upon worms as content as can be
For breakfast and supper, for dinner and tea,
Yes, just as they are, as a matter of course,
He gobbles them up, without cooking or sauce.

If you lived where he does, in a very short time
I fear you'd be covered completely with grime;
But though he works hard all day long for his meat
And has but one coat, he is perfectly neat.

It's not very often he visits the light,
Except when he's angry and anxious to fight;
Then he and his enemy leave their dark holes,
And in warfare there's nothing more savage than moles.

Their virtues are great, but their tempers are bad,
Biting and scratching, they scuffle like mad,
And over and over they roll in the ditch,
Until it's a puzzle to see which is which. 

But if they discover you watching the fray,
They leave off at once to get out of the way,
And burrow so quickly, scarce making a sound,
That before you count ten they're gone into the ground.

Silhouette Paper Cuts by Baroness Maydell

The two sisters by Baroness Maydell

A lady or a bride by Baroness Maydell