Ada M. Skinner - A Childs Own Book of Verse, Book Three

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher. This edition, first published in 2010 by Yesterday's Classics, an imprint of Yesterday's Classics, LLC, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by The Macmillan Company in 1917. This title is available in a print edition (ISBN 978-1-59915-053-6).
Yesterday's Classics republishes classic books for children from the golden age of children's literature, the era from 1880 to 1920. Many of our titles are offered in high-quality paperback editions, with text cast in modern easy-to-read type for today's readers.

The illustrations from the original volumes are included except in those few cases where the quality of the original images is too low to make their reproduction feasible. Unless specified otherwise, color illustrations in the original volumes are rendered in black and white in our print editions.

T HANKS are due to Mr. Bliss Carman for permission to use two of his poems, "The Daisies" and "The Dustman," from "Poems from Vagabondia," published by Small, Maynard Company; to Mr. Richard Le Gallienne and the Century Company for permission to use the poem "The Pine Lady"; to Laura E. P. P.

Putnam & Sons for permission to use "White Horses," by Hamish Hendry; and to The Macmillan Company for permission to use "The Owlet" and "The Song of the Elf" by Madison Cawein. The selection from Frank Dempster Sherman is used by permission of, and special arrangement with, the Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of his works.

I saw them plunging through the foam, I saw them prancing up the shore A thousand horses, row on row, And then a thousand more!
In joy they leaped upon the land, In joy they fled before the wind, Prancing and plunging on they raced, The huntsman raced behind.
When this old huntsman goes to sleep, The horses live beneath the waves; They live at peace, and rest in peace, Deep in their sea green caves.
But when they hear the huntsman's shout Urging his hounds across the sea, Out from their caves in frenzied fear The great white horses flee!
To-day they plunged right through the foam, To-day they pranced right up the shore, A thousand horses, row on row, And then a thousand more. H AMISH H ENDRY

Heart free, hand free, Blue above, brown under, All the world to me Is a place of wonder.

Sunshine, moonshine, Stars, and winds a-blowing, All into this heart of mine Flowing, flowing, flowing! W ILLIAM S TANLEY B RAITHWAITE

Hush the waves are rolling in, White with foam, white with foam; Father toils amid the din; But baby sleeps at home.
Hush the winds roar hoarse and deep, On they come, on they come! Brother seeks the wandering sheep; But baby sleeps at home.
Hush! the rain sweeps o'er the knowes, Where they roam, where they roam; Sister goes to seek the cows; But baby sleeps at home.

Alow and aloof, Over the roof, How the midnight tempests howl! With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune Of wolves that bay at the desert moon; Or whistle and shriek Through limbs that creak, "Tu-who! tu-whit!" They cry and flit, "Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn owl!
Alow and aloof, Over the roof, Sweep the moaning winds amain, And wildly dash The elm and ash, Clattering on the window-sash, With a clatter and patter, Like hail and rain That well nigh shatter The dusky pane!
Alow and aloof Over the roof, How the tempests swell and roar! Though no foot is astir, Though the cat and the cur Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, There are feet of air On every stair Through every hall, Through every gusty door, There's a jostle and bustle, With a silken rustle, Like the meeting of guests at a festival!
Alow and aloof, Over the roof, How the stormy tempests swell! And make the vane On the spire complain; They heave at the steeple with might and main, And burst and sweep Into the belfry, on the bell! They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell! T HOMAS B UCHANAN R EAD

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.
And out again I curve and flow.
And out again I curve and flow.

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. A LFRED T ENNYSON

All around, To the bound Of the vast horizon's round, All sand, sand, sand All burning, glaring sand On my camel's hump I ride, As he sways from side to side, With an awkward step of pride, And his scraggy head uplifted, and his eye So long and bland.
Naught is near, In the blear And the simmering atmosphere, But the shadow on the sand, The shadow of the camel on the sand; All alone as I ride O'er the desert's ocean wide, It is ever at my side; It haunts me, it pursues me, if I flee or if I stand.
Not a sound All around Save the paddled heat and bound Of the camel on the sand Of the feet of the camel on the sand. Not a bird is in the air, Though the sun, with burning stare, Is prying everywhere, O'er the yellow thirsty desert, so Desolately grand. W ILLIAM W ETMORE S TORY

When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams, And slow the hues of sunset die; When firefly and moth go by, And in still streams the new moon seems Another moon and sky: Then from the hills there comes a cry, The owlet's cry: A shivering voice that sobs and screams, With terror screams:
"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o? Who rides through the dusk and dew, With a pair of horns, As thin as thorns, And face a bubble-blue? Who, who, who! Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"
When night has dulled the lily's white, And opened the moonflower's eyes; When pale mists rise and veil the skies, And round the height in whispering flight The night-wind sounds and sighs: Then in the wood again it cries, The owlet cries: A shivering voice that calls in fright, In maundering fright:
"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o? Who walks with a shuffling shoe 'Mid the gusty trees, With a face none sees, And a form as ghostly, too? Who, who, who! Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"
When midnight leans a listening ear And tinkles on her insect lutes; When 'mid the roots the cricket flutes, And marsh and mere, now far, now near, A jack o'lantern foots: Then o'er the pool again it hoots: The owlet hoots: A voice that shivers as with fear, That cries with fear:
"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o? Who creeps with his glow-worm crew Above the mire With a corpse-like fire, As only dead men do? Who, who, who! Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?" M ADISON C AWEIN

The doors are shut, the windows fast, Outside the gust is driving past, Outside the shivering ivy clings, While on the hob the kettle sings.