Classic Audiobook Collection - With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

Starting point is 00:00:00 With trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker With big tin trumpet and little red drum, marching like soldiers the children come. It's this way and that way they circle and file. My, but that music of theirs is fine. This way and that way. And after a while, they march straight into this heart of mind.

Starting point is 00:00:30 A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb to the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum. Come on, little people, from cot and from hall. This heart, it hath welcome and room for you all. It will sing you at songs and warm you with love. As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine, it will rock you away to the dreamland above. Oh, what jolly old heart is this old heart of mine. and jollier still is it bound to become when you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum. So come, though I see not his dear little face and hear not his voice in this jubilant place,

Starting point is 00:01:16 I know he were happy to bid me enshrine his memory deep in my heart with your play. Ah me, but a love that is sweeter than mine holdeth my boy in its keeping today. And my heart, it is lonely. So little folk come, March in and make merry with trumpet and drum. Eugene Field, Chicago, September 13, 1892. End of introduction. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker.

Starting point is 00:01:55 The Sugar Plum Tree of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper-Vox recording is in the public domain. Have you ever heard of the sugar plum tree? Tis a marvel of great renown. It blooms on the shore of the lollipop sea in the Garden of Shudai Town. The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet

Starting point is 00:02:24 as those who have tasted it say that good little children have only to eat of that fruit to be happy next day. When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time to capture the fruit which I sing. The tree is so tall that no person could climb

Starting point is 00:02:43 to the boughs with a sugarplum swing. But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat and a gingerbread dog prowls below. And this is the way you contrive to get at those sugar plums tempting you so. You say but the word to that gingerbread dog, and he barks with such terrible zest, that the chocolate cat is at once all agog, as her swelling proportions attest.

Starting point is 00:03:13 And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around from this leafy limb unto that, and the sugar plums tumble, of course, to the ground. Hurrah for that chocolate cat! There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes with strippings of scarlet or gold, and you carry away of the treasure that rains as much as your apron can hold. So come, little child, cuddle closer to me in your dainty white nightcap and gown, and I'll rock you away to that sugar-plum tree in the Garden of Shud-Eye Town. End of the sugar plum tree

Starting point is 00:03:58 Recording by Annalisa Bodker Krenken of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field This Libravox recording is in the public domain Crin was a little child

Starting point is 00:04:20 It was summer when he smiled Off the Hore Sea and grim stretched its white arms Out to him Calling Sunchild Come to me, let me warm my heart with thee. But the child heard not the sea.

Starting point is 00:04:40 Crinkin on the beach one day, saw a maideness at play. Fair and very fair was she. Just a little child was he. Crinken, said the maideness, let me have a little kiss. Just a kiss and go with me to the summer lands that be, down within the Silver Sea. Krenkin was a little child, by the maideness beguiled,

Starting point is 00:05:11 down into the calling sea, with the maiden-ness went he. But the sea calls out no more. It is winter on the shore, winter where that little child made sweet summer when he smiled, though to summer on the sea, wherewith maiden, went he. Summer, summer, summer, evermore. It is winter on the shore. Winter, winter, evermore. Of the summer on the deep, come sweet visions in my sleep. His fair face lives from the sea. His dear voice calls out to me. These my dreams of summer be. Kringen was a little child by the maiden. Nis beguiled, off the hoary sea and grim, reached its longing arms to him, crying,

Starting point is 00:06:10 Sunchild, come to me, let me warm my heart with thee. But the sea calls out no more. It is winter on the shore. Winter, cold and dark and wild. Krenkin was a little child. It was summer when he smiled. Down he went into the sea. and the winter bides with me. Just a little child was he? End of Krenken, recording by Annalisa Bodker. The naughty doll of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. This Libravox recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:07:02 My dolly is a dreadful care. Her name is Miss Amandy. I dress her up and curl her hair and feed her tapy candy. Yet, heedless of the pleading voice of her devoted mother, she will not wed her mother's choice, but says she'll wed another. I'd have her wed the china base.

Starting point is 00:07:25 There is no Dresden rarer. You might go searching every place and never find a fairer. He is a gentle, pinkish youth. Of that there's no denying. Yet when I speak of him, Forsooth, Amanda falls to crying. She loves the drum. That's very plain, and scorns the vase so clever.

Starting point is 00:07:49 And weeping bow, she will remain a spinster doll forever. The protestations of the drum, I am convinced are hollow. When once distressing time should come, how soon would ruin follow? Yet all in vain the Dresden boy, from yonder mantle woos her, A mania for that vulgar toy, the noisy drum, imbues her. In vain I wheel her to and fro, and reason with her mildly, Her wax and tears and torrents flow, Her sawdust heart beats wildly.

Starting point is 00:08:30 I'm sure that when I'm big and tall, and wear long-trailing dresses. I shan't encourage bows at all till Mama acquiesces. Our choice will be a suitor then, as pretty as this vase is. Oh, how will hate the noisy men with whiskers on their faces.

Starting point is 00:08:54 End of the naughty doll. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Nightfall in Dordrich of With Trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. This labor vaux recording is in the public domain. The mill goes toiling slowly around with steady and solemn creek, and my little one hears in the kindly sound the voice of the old mill speak, while round and round those big white wings grimly and ghost-like creep. My little one hears that the old mill sings, sleep, little tulub, sleep.

Starting point is 00:09:44 The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, and over his pot of beer, the fisher, against the morrow's dawn, lustily maketh cheer. He mocks at the winds that caper along from the far-off clamorous deep. But we, we love their lullaby song of Sleep, little tulip, sleep. Old dog fritz and slumber sound Growns of the stony mart Tomorrow how proudly He'll trot you round

Starting point is 00:10:17 Hitched to our new milk cart And you shall help me blanket the kind And fold the gentle sheep And set the herring Asoaken brine But now little tulip Sleep A dream one comes to button the eyes

Starting point is 00:10:34 That wearily droop and blink while the old milk buffets the frowning skies and scolds at the stars that wink. Over your face the misty wings of that beautiful dream one sweep, and rocking your cradle she softly sings, Sleep Little Tulip, Sleep, and of Nightfall in Dordrich. Recording by Annalisa Bodker Entry-Mintry of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper-Fox recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:11:21 Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. Once as these children were hard at play, an old man, hoary and tottering came and watched them playing their pretty game. He seemed to wonder, while standing there, what the meaning thereof could be. Aha, but the old. old man yearned to share of the little children's innocent glee as they circled around with laugh and shout and told their rhyme at counting out

Starting point is 00:11:52 intry mintry cootry corn apple seed and apple thorn wire briar limber lock twelve geese in a flock some flew east some flew west some flew over the cuckoo's nest Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, ah, the mirth of that summer day. T'was Father Time who had come to share the innocent joy of those children there. He learned betimes the game they played, and into their sport with them went he. How could the children have been afraid, since little they wrecked whom he might be? They laughed to hear Old Father Time, mumbling that curious, nonsense rhyme of Intry, Mintry, Cootree, Corn,

Starting point is 00:12:43 apple seed and applethorn, wire, briar, limber lock, 12 geese in a flock, some flew east, some flew west, some flew over the cuckoo's nest. Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,

Starting point is 00:13:00 and joy of summer, where are they? The grim old man still standeth near, crooning the song of a far-off year, and into the winter I come alone, cheered by that mournful requiem, soothed by the dolorous monotone that shall count me off as it counted them. The solemn voice of old father time, chanting the homely nursery rhyme, he learned of the children a summer morn. When with apple seed and apple thorn, life was full. full of the dulcet cheer that bringeth the grace of heaven an ear,

Starting point is 00:13:42 the sound of the little ones hard at play, Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. End of Entry Mintry, recording by Annalisa Bodker. Pity Pat and Tippy Toe, of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. All day long they come and go, pity pat and tippy toe. Footprints up and down the hall, playthings scattered on the floor, finger marks along the wall, tell-tale smudges on the door. By these presents you shall know, pity pat and tippy toe.

Starting point is 00:14:34 How they riot at their play, and a dozen times a day, in they troop demanding bread, only buttered bread will do, and that butter must be spread inches thick with sugar too. And I never can say no, pity pat and tippy-tow. Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, sometimes ruffled brows to smooth, for I much regret to say, tippy-toe and pity-pat sometimes interrupt their play with an internecine spat. Fie, for shame, to quarrel so, pity-pat and tippy-toe. Oh, the thousand worrying things every day recurrent brings, hands to scrub and hair to brush, search for playthings gone amiss, many a wee complaint to hush, many a little bump to kiss,

Starting point is 00:15:33 life seems one vain fleeting show to pity-pat and tippy-toe. And when the day is at an end, there are little duds to mend. Little frocks are strangely torn, little shoes great holes reveal, little hose but one day worn rudely yawn at toe and heel. Who but you could work such woe, pity pat, and tippy toe? But when comes this thought to me, some there are that childless be, stealing to their little beds, with a love I cannot speak. Tenderly I stroke their heads. Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. God help those who do not know, a pity pat or tippy toe. On the floor and down the hall,

Starting point is 00:16:25 rudely smudged upon the wall, there are proofs in every kind of the havoc they have wrought, and upon my heart you'd find just such trademark. if you saw it. Oh, how glad I am tis so. Pity Pat and Tippytoe. End of Pity Pat and Tippy Toe. Recording by Annalisa Bodker. Ballow, my Bonnie, of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper-Vox recording is in the public domain. Hush, Bonnie, dinnagreet. Mother will rock her sweet. Ballow, my boy. When that his toil been done, Daddy will come anon. Hush thee, my little one, Ballow, my boy. Ginn thou dost sleep perchance, fairies will come to dance. Balo, my boy.

Starting point is 00:17:34 Aft hath thy mother's seen, Moonlight and Mirkland queen, dance on thy slumbering in, Balo, my boy. Then droned a bumblebee, Saffly this song to thee. Balo, my boy. And a wee, Heather bell, plucked from a fairy dell, chimed thee this ruin herself. Balo, my boy.

Starting point is 00:18:02 So, bunny, dinna greet, Mauder doth rock her sweet. Balo my boy. Give me thy little hand. Mother will hold it and lead thee to Balo land. Balo, my boy. End of Balo my Bonnie. Recording by Annalisa Bodker.

Starting point is 00:18:34 The Hawthorne Children of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Vox recording is in the public domain. The Hawthorne children, seven in all, are famous friends of mine. and with what pleasure I recall, how years ago one gloomy fall I took a tedious railway line and journeyed by slow stages down unto that sleepy seaport town, albeit one worth seeing, where Hildegard, John, Henry Fred, and Beatrix, and Gwendolyn, and she that was the baby then, These famous seven, as for said, lived, moved and had their being. The Hawthorne children gave me such a welcome by the sea, that the eight of us were soon in touch,

Starting point is 00:19:30 and though their mother marvelled much, happy as larks were we. E. gad, I was a boy again, with Henry, John, and Gwendolyn. And, oh, the funny capers, I cut with Hildegard and Fred. The pranks we heedless children played, the deafening awful noise we made, twould shock my family if they read about it in the papers. The Hawthorne children all were smart. The girls, as I recall, had comprehended every art appealing to the head and heart. The boys were gifted all.

Starting point is 00:20:09 Twas Hildegard, who showed me how to hitch the horse and milk a cow and cooked the best of suppers. With Beatrix upon the sands, I sprinted daily and was beat, while Henry stumped me to the feet, of walking round upon my hands instead of on my uppers. The Hawthorne children liked me best,

Starting point is 00:20:31 of evenings after tea, for then, by general request, I spun them yarns about the west, and all involving me. I represented how I'd slay, slain the bison on the gore-smeared plain and diverse tales of wonder. I told of how I'd bought and bled in injun scrimmages galore, till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, no more, and packed her darlings off to bed to dream of blood and thunder.

Starting point is 00:21:05 They must have changed a deal since then, the missus tall and fair, and those three lusty, handsome men. Would they be girls and boys again ride to happen there, down in that spot beside the sea, where we made such tumultuous glee in dull autumnal weather? Ah, me, the years go swiftly by, and yet how fondly I recall, the week when we were children all. Dear Hawthorne children, you and I, just eight of us together. End of the Hawthorne Children Recording by Annalisa Bodker

Starting point is 00:21:50 Little Blue Pigeon Of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain Sleep Little Pigeon and Fold Your Wings Little Blue Pigeon with velvet eyes Sleep to the singing of Motherbird Swinging swinging the nest where her little one lies. Away out yonder I see a star, silvery star with a tinkling song.

Starting point is 00:22:28 To the soft dew falling, I hear it calling, calling and tinkling the night along. In through the window a moonbeam comes, little gold moonbeam with misty wings, all silently creeping, it asks, is he sleeping? sleeping and dreaming while mother sings. Up from the sea there floats the sob of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, as though they were groaning in anguish and moaning, bemoaning the ship that shall come no more. But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings, little blue pigeon with mournful eyes. Am I not singing? See, I am swinging. See, I am swinging. swinging, swinging the nest where my darling lies.

Starting point is 00:23:23 End of Little Blue Pigeon, recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. The Little Boy of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain. Some time there been a little boy that would not hit in play and helpless like that little tyke been always in the way. Go, make you merry with the rest, his weary mother cried. But with the frown he catched her gown and hung until her side. That boy did love his mother well, which spake him fair, I wean.

Starting point is 00:24:15 He loved to stand and hold her hand and ken her with his e'en. His corset bleated in the craft, his toys unheeded lay. He would not go, but tearing so, been always in the way. God loveth children and doth gurd, his throne with such as these, and he doth smile in pleasants while they cluster at his knees. And some time when he looked on earth and watched the bairns at play, He kenned with joy, a little boy, been a ways in the way. And then a mother felt her heart, how that it been tow-torn.

Starting point is 00:25:04 She kissed each day, till she been gray, the shun he used to warn. No bairn let hold until her gown, nor played upon the floor. Garts was the joy, a little boy, been in the way. No more. End of The Little Boy, recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Teeny Weeny, of

Starting point is 00:25:37 With Trumpet and Drum, by Eugene Field, The Sleeper-Vox recording is in the public domain. Every evening, after tea, teeny weeny comes to me and astride my willing knee, plies his lash and rides away, though that Palfrey all too spare, finds his burden hard to bear. Teeny weeny doesn't care. He commands, and I obey. First it's trot,

Starting point is 00:26:08 and gallop then. Now it's back to trot again. Teeny weeny likes it when he is riding fierce and fast. Then his dark eyes brighter grow, and his cheeks are all aglow. More he cries, and never woe, till the horse breaks down at last. Oh, the strange and lovely sights, teeny-weeny sees of nights, as he makes those famous flights on that wondrous horse of his. Oftentimes, before he knows, weary like his eyelids close, and still smiling, off he goes, where the land of Bilo is. There he sees the folk of Fay, hard at ring a rosy play, and he hears those fairies say, Come, let's chase him to and fro. But with a defiant shout, Tini puts that host to rout. Of this tale, I make no doubt, every night he tells it so. So I feel a tender pride in my boy who dares to ride, that fierce horse of his astride off into the

Starting point is 00:27:21 those misty lands, and as on my breast he lies, dreaming in that wondrous wise, I caress his folded eyes, pat his little dimpled hands. On a time he went away, just a little while to stay, and I'm not ashamed to say. I was very lonely then. Life without him was so sad. You can fancy I was glad and made merry when I had teeny-weeney back again. So of evenings after tea, when he toddles up to me and goes tugging at my knee, you should hear his paul frine, you should see him prance and shy, when, with an exulting cry, teeny weeny, balting high, flies his lash and rides away. End of Teeny Weeny, Rear. Recording by Annalisa Bodker.

Starting point is 00:28:29 Nelly, of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field, this Leaprofoch's recording is in the public domain. His listening soul hears no echo of battle, no peon of triumph, nor welcome of fame. But down through the years comes a little one's prattle, and softly he murmurs her idolized name. And it seems as if now, at his heart, she were clinging, as she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee. He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing, and Nellie is coming

Starting point is 00:29:10 from over the sea. While each patriot's hope stays the fullness of sorrow, while our eyes are be dimmed and our voices are low. He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow, like an angel come back from the dear long ago. Ah, what to him now is a nation's emotion, and what for our love or our grief careth he. A swift speeding ship is a sail on the ocean, and Nellie is coming from over the sea. Oh, daughter, my daughter, my daughter, When death stands before me and beckons me off to that far misty shore, Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o'er me, And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of your,

Starting point is 00:30:03 And the grace of your love, all my anguish abating, I'll bear myself bravely and proudly as he, And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waiting When Nellie was coming from over the sun. End of Nelly. Recording by Annalisa Bodker. Norse Lullaby Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field.

Starting point is 00:30:38 This Leaprofox recording is in the public domain. The sky is dark and the hills are white as the Storm King speeds from the north tonight. And this is the song the Storm King sings as over the world his cloak he flings. Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep. He rustles his wings and gruffly sings. Sleep, little one, sleep.

Starting point is 00:31:08 On yonder mountain side, a vine clings at the foot of a mother pine. The tree bends over the trembling thing, and only the vine can hear her sing. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Little one's sleep What shall you fear when I am here? Sleep, little one, sleep. The king may sing in his bitter flight,

Starting point is 00:31:36 The tree may croon to the vine tonight, Put the little snowflake at my breast, Like it the song, I sing the best. Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep, Weary thou art, annexed my heart, Sleep, little one, sleep. End of Norse Lullaby. Recording by Annalisa Bodker

Starting point is 00:32:03 Grant Ma's Prayer of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain. I pray that risen from the dead, I may in glory stand. A crown, perhaps, upon my head, but a needle in my hand. I've never learned to sing or play, so let no harp be mine.

Starting point is 00:32:35 From birth unto my dying day, plain sewing's bend my line. Therefore, accustomed to the end, to plying useful stitches, I'll be content, if asked you mend, the little angels' breeches. End of Grandma's Prayer,

Starting point is 00:32:55 recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Some time. Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeperbox recording is in the public domain. Last night, my darling, as you slept, I thought I heard you sigh. And to your little crib I crept, and watched a space thereby. Then bending down, I kissed your brow. Pro, I love you so. You are too young to know it now.

Starting point is 00:33:34 but sometime you shall know. Sometime, when, in a darkened place, where others come to weep, your eyes shall see a weary face, calm in eternal sleep. The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, the patient smile may show. You are too young to know it now,

Starting point is 00:33:58 but some time you shall know. Look backward then, into the years and see me here tonight. See, oh my darling, how my tears are falling as I write, and feel once more upon your brow the kiss of long ago. You are too young to know it now, but sometime you shall know. End of Some Time, recording by Annalisa Bodker. The Fire Hangbird's Nest

Starting point is 00:34:40 Of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field The Sleber Fox recording is in the public domain As I am sitting in the sun upon the porch today I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way I say and mean with wonder For now it seems to me That elm is not as tall As years ago it used to be

Starting point is 00:35:08 The old fire hangbirds built her nest therein for many springs, high up amid the sportive winds, the curious cradle swings, but not so high as when a little boy I did my best to scale that elm and carry off the old fire hangbirds nest. The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prize that dangled from the upper outer twig in taunting wise, and once, when Deacon Turner's boy had almost grasped the limb, he fell and had to have a doctor operate on him. Filtius Baker broke his leg and Orrin root his arm, but what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm. The Bigsbee and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the rest, ran every risk to carry off the old five.

Starting point is 00:36:07 hangbird's nest. I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through, that mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue, and how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when she discovered that my hobby was the nest and yonder tree. How as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs, she told me, it would be wicked to destroy a hangbird's eggs, and then she'd call on father and on grandpa to attest that they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire hangbird's nest. Yet all those years, I coveted the trophy flaunting there. While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair, the old fire hangbird confidently used to come and go, as if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below. And sometimes, clinging to her nest, we thought we heard her child,

Starting point is 00:37:07 the callow brood whose cries betrayed, the fear that reigned inside. Hush, little dears, all profitless shall be their wicked quest. I knew my business when I built the old fire hangbird's nest. For many, very many years, that mother bird has come to rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home. She is the self-same bird of old. I'm certain it is she. although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me. Just as of old, that prudent, crafty bird of compound name,

Starting point is 00:37:47 and in parentheses, I'll say, her nest is still the same. Just as of all, the passion too, that fires the youthful breast to climb unto and comprehend the old fire hangbird's nest. I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree, and if the elms as tall and sturdy as it used to be, I'm sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow. For boys aren't what they used to be of forty years ago. The elm looks shorter than it did when Brother Roof and I beheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high. He writes that in the city where he's living way out west, his little boys have never seen.

Starting point is 00:38:37 an old fire-hangbird's nest. Poor little chaps, how lonesome like their city life must be. I wish they'd come and live a while in this old house with me. They'd have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to know when Brother Roof and I were boys of 40 years ago. So when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men, they could recall with proper pride their country life again. and of those recollections of their youth, I'm sure the best would be of how they sought in vain the old fire hangbirds nest. End of the Fire Hangbirds Nest,

Starting point is 00:39:22 recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Buttercup Poppy, Forget Me Not. Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field, the Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain. Buttercup Poppy, forget me not, these three bloomed in a garden spot, and once all merry with song and play, a little one heard three voices say, shine and shadow, summer and spring, oh thou child with the tangled hair, and laughing eyes, we three shall bring, each an offering passing fair. The little one did not understand, but they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. Buttercup gambled all day long, sharing the little one's mirth and song. Then, stealing along on misty gleams, Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams, playing and dreaming. And that was all. To once, the sleeper would not awake. Kissing the little face under the pall,

Starting point is 00:40:37 we thought of the words, the third flower spake. And we found, be times in a hollowed spot, the solace and peace of forget-me-not. Buttercup shareth the joy of day, glinting with gold the hours of play, bringeth the poppy sweet repose, when the hands would fold, and the eyes would close. But after it all, the play and the sleep of a little life, will come it then, to the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep, a new flower-be, bringeth God's peace again. Each one serveth its tender lot. Buttercup, Poppy, Forget Me Not. End of Buttercup, Poppy, Forget Me Not. Recording by Annalisa Bodker. Winkin, Blinken, and Nod. Of, with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:41:44 Winkin, Blin' Blin'n'n and nod one night sailed off in a wooden shoe, sailed on a river of crystal light, into a sea of dew. Where are you going, and what do you wish? The old moon asked the three. We have come to fish for the herringfish that live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we, said Winkin, Blinken, and. And nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe, and the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew.

Starting point is 00:42:28 The little stars were the herring fish that lived in that beautiful sea. Now cast your nets wherever you wish, never have feared are we? So cried the stars to the fishermen three, winking, blinkin, and nod. All night long their nets they threw, to the stars in the twinkling foam. Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, bringing the fishermen home. T'was all so pretty a sail it seemed, as if it could not be. And some folks thought, t'was a dream they'd dream. of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fisherman three, Winkin, Blin'

Starting point is 00:43:15 and Nod. Winkin and Blin'nkin are two little eyes, and Nod is a little head, and the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee-once-trentle-bed. So shut your eyes while Mother sings of wonderful sights that be, and you shall see the beautiful things. as you rock in the misty sea, where the old shoe rocked the fisherman three. Winkin, Blin, and Nod End of Winkin, Blinckin, and Nod. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker.

Starting point is 00:44:03 Gold and Love for Deary Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field The Sleber Fox recording is in the public domain. Out on the mountain, over the town, all night long, all night long, the trolls go up, and the trolls go down, bearing their packs and singing a song. And this is the song the hill folk croon, as they trudge in the light of the misty moon. This is ever their dolorous tune. Gold, gold, ever more gold, bright red gold for dearie. Deep in the hill of Father Delves, all night long, all night long, none but the peering, furtive elves, sees his toil and hears his song. Merely ever the cavern rings, as merrily ever his

Starting point is 00:45:03 pick he swings, and merrily ever this song he sings, gold, gold, ever more gold, bright red gold for dearie. Mother is rocking thy lowly bed all night long, all night long, happy to smooth thy curly head, to hold thy hand and to sing her song. Tis not a de hill folk, dwarfed and old, nor the song of thy father, staunch and bold,

Starting point is 00:45:35 and the burthen it beareth is not of gold, but it's love, love, nothing but love, Mother's Love for Deary End of Gold and Love for Deary Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker The Peace of Christmas Time Of with trumpet and drum

Starting point is 00:46:05 by Eugene Field This Libravox recording is in the public domain Dearest How hard it is to say That all is for the best Since sometimes in a grieve way. God's will is manifest. See with what hearty, noisy glee are little ones tonight, dense round and round our Christmas tree with pretty toys bedite. Dearest, one voice they may not hear,

Starting point is 00:46:39 one face they may not see. Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer? Comeeth to you and me. Comeeth before our misty eyes, that other little face, and we clasp in tender, reverent wise, that love in the old embrace. Dearest, the Christ child walks tonight, bringing his peace to men, and he bringeth to you and to me the light of the old, old years again. Bring it the peace of long ago, when a wee one clasped your knee. and lisped of the morrow, dear one, you know, and here come back is he. Dearest, tis sometimes hard to say that all is for the best, for often, in a grievous way,

Starting point is 00:47:32 God's will is manifest, but in the grace of this holy night that bringeth us back our child, let us see that the ways of God are right, and so be reconciled. End of The Peace of Christmas Time, recording by Annalisa Bodker. To a little brook of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field, the Slebervox recording is in the public domain. You're not so big as you were then, oh little brook. I mean those hazy summers when we boys roamed, full of awe, beside your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide, and wondered if it could be true that there were bigger

Starting point is 00:48:28 brooks than you, oh mighty brook, oh peerless brook. All up and down this reedy place where lives the brook, we angled for the furtive dace. The red-wing blackbird did his best to make us think he'd built his nest hard by the stream. When like us not, he'd hung it in a secret spot, far, from the brook, the tell-tale brook. And often, when the noontime heat parboiled the brook, we'd draw our boots and swing our feet upon the waves that in their play would tag us last and scoot away. And mother never seemed to know what burnt our legs and chapped them so, but father guessed it was the brook. And Fido, how he loved to swim the cooling brook, whenever we'd throw sticks for him, and how we boys did wish that we could only swim as good as he, why Daniel Webster never was

Starting point is 00:49:30 recipient of such great applause as Fido battling with the brook. But once, oh most unhappy day, for you, my brook, came Cousin Sam along that way, and, And having lived a spell out west where creeks aren't counted much at best, he neither waited, swam, nor leapt, but with superb indifference, stepped across that brook, our mighty brook. Why do you scamper on your way, you little brook, when I come back to you today? Is it because you flee the grass that lunges at you as you pass, as if in playful mood it would, tickle the truant if it could, you chuckling, Brooke, you saucy Brooke. Or is it you no longer know, you fickle, Brooke, the honest friend of long ago. The years that kept us twain apart have changed my

Starting point is 00:50:30 face, but not my heart. Many ensore those years, and yet I fancied you could not forget that happy time, my playmate, Brooke. Oh, sing again, an artless glee, my little brook, the song you used to sing for me, the song that's lingered in my ears, so soothingly these many years. My grief shall be forgotten when I hear your tranquil voice again, and that sweet song, Dear Little Brook. End of To a Little Brook, recording by Annalisa Vodka. Crudland Dew. Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. The Slebervox recording is in the

Starting point is 00:51:27 public domain. Oh, pretty bee, did you see my crude and do? Oh, little lamb, is she jinking on the Lee? Oh, Bonnie Fairy, bring my dearie back to me. Got a lump of sugar and a posy for you. Only bring me back my wee, wee, crudlandoo. Why, here you are, my little crudlandoo. Looked in her cradle, but didn't find you there. Looked for my wee, wee, crudle and do everywhere. Been kind, lonesome all her day without anew. Where you been, my teeny, wee, wee, crudlandoo?

Starting point is 00:52:13 Now you go balo, my little crudle and do. Now you go rockabai ever so far Rockaby, rockaby, up to the star That's winking and blinking and singing to you As you go balo May we, we, crudle and do End of Cruddle and do Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker

Starting point is 00:52:42 Little Mistress Sans Merci Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain. Little Mistress Sans Merci Faireth worldwide, fancy-free, Trotteth cooing to and fro,

Starting point is 00:53:08 and her cooing is command. Never ruled there yet, I trow, mightier despot in the land. And my heart, it lieth where Mistress Sans-mercy doth fare. Little Mistress Sandsmercy, She hath made a slave of me. Go, she biddeth, and I go. Come, and I am fain to come.

Starting point is 00:53:36 Never mercy doth she show, be she wroth or frolicsome, yet I am content to be, Slave to Mistress Sainzmercée. Little mistress Sandsmercée hath become so. dear to me that I count as passing sweet all the pain her moods impart, and I bless the little feet that go trampling on my heart. Ah, how lonely life would be, but for little sans merci. Little mistress sans merci, cuddle close this night to me, and the heart, which all day long, ruthless thou hast trod upon, shall out pour a soothing song

Starting point is 00:54:27 for its best beloved one all its tenderness for thee Little Mistress Sans Merci End of Little Mistress Sans Marcy Recording by Annalisa Bodker Long ago Of with trumpet and drum By Eugene Field

Starting point is 00:54:56 The Sleper Vox is in the public domain. I once knew all the birds that came and nested in our orchard trees. For every flower I had a name. My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees. I knew where thrived in yonder glen, what plants would soothe the stone bruised toe. Oh, I was very learned then, but that was very long ago. I knew the spot upon the hill where checkerberries could be found. I knew the rushes near the mill where pickerel lay that weighed a pound. I knew the wood, the very tree where lived the poaching, saucy crow,

Starting point is 00:55:44 and all the woods and crows knew me, but that was very long ago. And pining for the joys of youth, I trained. read the old familiar spot, only to learn this solemn truth. I have forgotten and forgot. Yet here's this youngster at my knee, knows all the things I used to know, to think I once was wise as he, but that was very long ago. I know its folly to complain of whatsoever the fate's decree, yet were not wishes all in vain. I tell you what my wish should be. I'd wish to be a boy again, back with the friends I used to know, for I was, oh, so happy then. But that was very long ago. End of Long ago, recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. In the Firelight of With Trumpet and Drum

Starting point is 00:56:57 by Eugene Field This Leber Fox recording is in the public domain The fire upon the hearth is low And there is stillness everywhere And like winged spirits Here and there

Starting point is 00:57:14 The firelight shadows fluttering go And as the shadows round me creep A childish treble breaks the gloom And softly from a further room Comes Now I lay me down to sleep. And somehow, with that little prayer and that sweet treble in my ears, my thought goes back to distant years and lingers with a dear one there. And as I hear my child's amen, my mother's

Starting point is 00:57:44 faith comes back to me, crouched at her side I seem to be, and mother holds my hands again. Oh, for an hour in that dear place, oh for the people. Oh, for the people. peace of that dear time. Oh, for that childish trust sublime! Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face. Yet as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone. Sweet magic of that treble tone. And now I lay me down to sleep. End of In the Firelight. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Cobbler and Stork. Of with trumpet and a trumpet of. and drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Vox recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:58:44 Cobbler. Stork, I am justly wroth, for thou hast wronged me sore. The ashroof tree that shelters thee shall shelter thee no more. Stork. Full fifty years I've dwelt upon this honest tree. And long ago, as people know, I brought thy father thee. What hail hath chilled? thy heart, that thou shouldst bid me go. Speak out, I pray, then all away, since thou commandest so.

Starting point is 00:59:17 Cobler, thou tellest of the time when wheeling from the west, this hut thou soughtest, and one thou broughtest unto a mother's breast. I was the wretched child, was fetched that dismal morn. To her better die than be as I to life of misery born. and hadst thou borne me on still farther up the town a king i'd be of high degree and wear a golden crown for yonder lives the prince was brought that self-same day how happy he while look at me i toil my life away and see my little boy to what estate he's born why when i die no horde leave i but poverty and scorn and that that's my little boy to what estate he's born why when i die no horde leave i but poverty and scorn And thou hast done it all. I might have been a king, and ruled in state, but for thy hate, thou base perfidious thing.

Starting point is 01:00:17 Stork Since cobbler thou dost speak of one thou lovest well, Hear of that king what grievous thing this very morn befell, Waltz round thy homely bench, Thy well-beloved played, at yonder hall beneath a pall, a little one was laid. Thy well-beloved's face was rosy with delight,

Starting point is 01:00:42 but neath that pall in yonder hall, the little face is white. While spay a merry voice, Thy soul is filled with cheer, another weeps for one that sleeps, all mute and cold, and near. One father hath his hope, and one is childless now.

Starting point is 01:01:01 He wears a crown And rules a town Only a cobbler thou Wouldst thou exchange thy lot At price of such a woe I'll nest no more above thy door But as thou bids me go Cobbler

Starting point is 01:01:19 Nay stork Thou shalt remain I mean not what I said Good neighbors we must always be So make thy home or head I would not change my bench for any monarch's throne or sacrifice at any price my darling and my own

Starting point is 01:01:40 Stork on my roof tree bide That seeing thee an ear I'll thankful be God sent by thee Me and my darling here End of cobbler and stork Recording by Annalisa Vodker Lollie by Lollie by

Starting point is 01:02:06 Lolly Lollie Bigh. Of, with trumpet and drum, by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain. Last night, whilst the curfew bell been ringing, I heard a mother to her dearie singing, Lollie by, Lollie, Lollie, Lollie, and presently that child did cease his weeping, and on his mother's breast did fall asleep.

Starting point is 01:02:37 to Lolly, Lollie, Lollieby. Fair ben the child unto his mother clinging, but fairer yet the mother's gentle singing. Lollie, lollaby, lolly, lolly, and angels came and kissed the dearly smiling, in dreams while him his mother been beguiling, with Lolly, Lollie, Lollie by. Then to my heart, says I, Oh, that thy beating could be assuaged by some sweet voice repeating, Lollie-Lollaby, that like this little child I too been sleeping, With pleasant fantasies about me creeping, to Lally, Lollie, Lollaby. Some time, mayhap when curfew bells are ringing, A weary heart shall hear strong voices singing.

Starting point is 01:03:40 Lollie by, lally, lolly, lollaby. Some time, may hap, with Christ's love round me streaming, I shall be lulled into eternal dreaming with Lally, Lollie Lollaby. End of Lollie by Lollie Lollie Lollie by. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker Lizzie and the Baby Of With Trumpet and Drum By Eugene Field

Starting point is 01:04:15 The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain I wonder if all women air like Lizzie is when we go out to theatres and concerts where as things the papers talk about do other women fret and

Starting point is 01:04:33 stew like they was being crucified fret in a show or concert through with wondering if the baby cried. Now Lizzie knows the grandma's there to see that everything is right, yet Lizzie thinks that grandma's care ain't good enough for baby quite. Yet what am I to answer when she kind of fidgets at my side? And asks me every now and then, I wonder if the baby cried. Seems like she's seen two little eyes a pining for their mother's smile. Seems like she's.

Starting point is 01:05:11 She hearing the pleading cries, of one she thinks of all the while, and so she's sorry that she come, and though she always tries to hide, the truth she'd rather stay to hum than wonder if the baby cried. Yes, women folks is all alike, but Lizzie you can judge the rest. There never was a little tyke, but that his mother loved him best, and next to being what I be, the husband of my gentle bride. I'd wished I was that cruelin' wee, with Lizzie wondering if I cried. End of Lizzie and the Baby.

Starting point is 01:05:56 Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. At the door of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain. I thought myself, indeed secure. so fast the door, so firm the lock, but lo, he toddling comes to lure, my parent ear with timorous knock. My heart were stone,

Starting point is 01:06:29 could it withstand the sweetness of my baby's plea, that timorous baby knocking, and, please let me in, it's only me. I threw aside the unfinished book, regardless of its tempting charms, and opening wide the door, I took my laughing darling in my arms. Who knows but in eternity,

Starting point is 01:06:55 I, like a truant child, shall wait, the glories of a life to be beyond the heavenly father's gate. And will that heavenly father heed the truant's supplicating cry, as at the outer door I plead, Tis I, O Father, only I, End of At the Door, recording by Annalisa Bodker. Hugo's Child at Play

Starting point is 01:07:32 Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field, The Sleber Fox recording is in the public domain. A child was singing at his play. I heard the song and paused to hear. His mother, moaning, groaning, lay, and lo, a spectre stood in ear. The child shook sunlight from his hair, and caroled gaily all day long.

Starting point is 01:08:03 I, with that spectre gloating there, the innocent made mirth in song. How like to harvest fruit wert thou, O sorrow, in that dismal room. God ladeth not the tender bow, save with the joy of bud and bloom End of Hugo's Child at Play Recording by

Starting point is 01:08:31 Annalisa Bodker High Spy Of with trumpet and drum By Eugene Field The Sleber Fox recording is in the public domain Strange that the city thoroughfare noisy and bustling

Starting point is 01:08:54 all the day Should with the night renounce its care and lend itself to children's play. Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys, and have been so since Abel's birth, and shall be so till dolls and toys are with the children swept from earth. The self-same sport that crowns the day of many Assyrian Shepherd's son

Starting point is 01:09:21 beguiles the little lads at play by night in stately Babylon. I hear their voices in the day of the day. street yet tis so different now from then come brother from your winding sheet and let us too be boys again end of high spy recording by annalisa bodker little boy blue up with trumpet and drum by eugene field the sleeper fox recording is in the public domain the little toy dog is covered with dust but dirty and staunch he stands, and the little toy soldier is red with rust, and his musket moulds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new, and the soldier was passing fair, and that was the time when our little boy blew kissed them and put them there. Now don't you go till I come, he said, and don't you make any noise, so toddling off to his trundle

Starting point is 01:10:36 bed he dreamt of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song awakened our little boy blue. Oh, the years are many, the years are long, but the little toy friends are true. I, faithful to little boy blue they stand, each in the same old place, awaiting the touch of a little hand, the smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting the long years through in the dust of that little chair, what has become of our little boy blue since he kissed them and put them there. End of Little Boy Blue, recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Father's Letter of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:11:46 I'm going to write a letter to our oldest boy who went out west last spring to practice law and run for president. I'll tell him all the gossip I guess he'd like to hear, for he hasn't seen the home folks for going on a year. Most generally as Marthy does the writing, but as she is suffering with a felon why the job devolves on me. So when the supper things are done and put away tonight, I'll draw my boots and shed my coat and settle down to write. I'll tell him crops are looking up, with prospects big for corn, that fooling with the barnyard gate, the off-box hurt his horn. That the Templar Lodge is doing well. Tim Bennett joined last week, when the prohibition candidate for Congress came to speak, that the old gray woodchucks living still down in the pasture lot,

Starting point is 01:12:43 wondering what's become a little William like is not. Oh yes, there's lots of pleasant things and no bad news to tell, except that old-built graves was sick, but now he's up and well. Cy Cooper says, But I'll not pass my word that it is so, for Cy he is some punkins on spinning yarn, you know. He says that, since the freshet, the pickerel are so thick in Baker's Pond, you can wade in and kill him with a stick. The Hubbard girls are teaching school, and Widow Cutler's Bill has taken Eli Baxter's place in Luther Eastman's Mill.

Starting point is 01:13:25 Old Deacon Skinner's dog, looked Deacon Howard's dog last week, and now there are two lambkins in one flock that will not speak. The yellow rooster froze his feet, Awaiting through the snow, And now he leans again the fence when he starts into crow. The chestnut colt that was so skittish when he went away, I've broke him to the sulky and I'd drive him every day. We've got new pink window curtains for the front spare room upstairs, and Lizzie's made new covers for the parlor lounge and chairs.

Starting point is 01:14:01 We've roofed the barn, Embrace the elm that has the hangbird's nest. Oh, there's been lots of changes since our William went out west. Old Uncle Enos Packard is getting mighty gay. He gave Miss Susan Burchard a peach the other day. His late lamented Sarah hain't been buried quite a year, so his purring round Miss Susan causes criticism here. At the last donation party, the minister opined,

Starting point is 01:14:32 that if he'd half-susitioned what was coming, he'd resigned, for though they brought him slippers like he was a centipede, his pantry was depleted by the consequential feed. These are the things I'll write him. Our boy that's in the West, and I'll tell him how we miss him, his mother and the rest. Why, we never have an apple pie that mother doesn't say. He liked it so. I wish that he could have a piece today. I'll tell him we are prospering and hope he is the same, that we hope he'll have no trouble getting on to wealth and fame. And just before I write, goodbye from Father and the rest. I'll say that Mother sends her love, and that will please him best.

Starting point is 01:15:24 For when I went away from home, the weekly news I heard was nothing to the tenderness I found in that one word. The sacred name of Mother. Why, even now as then, the thought brings back the saintly face, the gracious love again, and in my bosom seems to come a peace that is divine, as if an angel's spirit communed a while with mine. And one man's heart is strengthened by the message from above, and earth seems nearer heaven when Mother sends her love. End of Father's Letter, recording by Annalisa Bodker. Jewish lullaby. Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field, the sleeper-vox recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:16:27 My harp is on the willow tree. Else would I sing, O love to thee, a song of long ago. Perchance the song that Miriam sung, ere yet Judea's heart was wrung by centuries of woe. I ate my crust and tears today. As scourged, I went upon my way, and yet my darling smiled. I, beating at my breast, he laughed. My anguish curdled, not the draught, t'was sweet with love, my child.

Starting point is 01:17:03 The shadow of the centuries lies, deep in thy dark and moon, mournful eye, but hush and close them now, and in the dreams that thou shalt dream, the light of other days shall seem to glorify thy brow. Our harp is on the willow tree. I have no song to sing to thee as shadows round us roll, but hush and sleep and thou shalt hear, Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer Judea's fainting soul End of Jewish Lullaby Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker

Starting point is 01:17:50 Our Whippings Of With Trempet and Drum By Eugene Field The Sleeper Fox recording is in the public domain Come Harvey Let us sit a while and talk about the times Before you went to selling clothes and eye to peddling rhymes.

Starting point is 01:18:15 The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys, as ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise. Eagat! And were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show the scars of wallopings

Starting point is 01:18:30 we got some forty years ago. What wallopings, I mean, I think I need not specify. Mother's whipping's didn't hurt, but fathers, oh my. The way that we played hooky, those many years ago, we'd rather give most anything than have our children know. The thousand naughty things we did. The thousand fibs we told. Why thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold. How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his,

Starting point is 01:19:05 he'd tan our pesky little hides until the blisters riz. It's many a hearty thrashing to that deacon Morse we owe. Mother's whippings didn't count. Fathers did, though. We used to sneak off swimming in those careless, boyish days and come back home of evenings with our necks and backs of place. How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand. But, father, having been a boy, seemed to understand.

Starting point is 01:19:38 And after tea, he'd beckon us to join him in the shed. where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red. Say what we will of mothers. There is none will controvert the proposition that our father's licking's always hurt. For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild that she inclined to spare the rod, although she spoiled the child. And when at last in self-defense, she had to whip us. She appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we.

Starting point is 01:20:16 But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die, poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made her cry. Then how we youngsters snickered, as out the door we slid. Poor mother's whippings never hurt, though fathers always did. In after years, poor father simmered down to five feet four. But in our youth he seemed to us, in height, eight feet or more. Oh, how he shivered, when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone, I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone.

Starting point is 01:20:56 Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser buttons flew! What florid vocalisms marked that Vesper interview. Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly asserted. With all respect to mother, it was father's whipping's hurt. The little boy experiencing that tingling neath his vest is often loath to realize that all is for the best. Yet when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight the buffetings of childhood, as we do here tonight. The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways that to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days before you went to selling clothes, an eye to peddling rhymes.

Starting point is 01:21:48 So Harvey, let us sit a while and think upon those times. End of Our Whippings. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker The Armenian Mother of Wood Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleber Fox recording is in the public domain. I was a mother, and I weep, the night has come, the day has sped, the night of woe profound, for, oh, my little golden sun is dead, the pretty rose that bloomed anon upon my mother's breast, they stole, they let the dove I nurse with love, fly far away, so sped my soul.

Starting point is 01:22:42 That falcon death swooped down upon, my sweet voice. turtle as he sung. Tis hushed and dark were sword the lark, and so, and so my heart was wrong. Before my eyes they sent the hail upon my green pomegranate tree, upon the bow where only now a rosy apple bent to me. They shook my beauteous almond tree, beating its glorious bloom to death. They strewed it round upon the ground And mocked its fragrant dying breath I was a mother And I weep

Starting point is 01:23:23 I seek the rose where nestlet none No more is heard the singing bird I have no little golden sun So fall the shadows over me A blighted garden, lonely nest Reach down in love, O God above And fold my darling to thy breast End of the Armenian mother.

Starting point is 01:23:48 Recording by Annalisa Bodker. Hi-oh, my dearie. Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. The sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. A moonbeam floated from the skies, whispering, Hi, oh, my dearie, I would spin a web before your eyes. A beautiful web of silver light. wherein is many a wondrous sight of a radiant garden leagues away,

Starting point is 01:24:27 where the softly tinkling lilly sway, and the snow-white lambkins are at play. Hio, my dearie. A brownie stealeth from the vine, singing, Hi-o, my dearie, and will you hear this song of mine? A song of the land of murk and mist, where biteeth the bud the dew hath kissed, Then let the moonbeams web of light be spun before thee, silvery white, and I shall sing the live-long night.

Starting point is 01:24:59 Hi, oh, my dearie! The night wind speedeth from the sea, murmuring, Hi, O my dearie, I bring a mariner's prayer for thee, so let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, and the brownies sing thee lullabies, but I shall rock thee to and fro. kissing the brow, he loveth so, and the prayer shall guard thy bed I tro. Hio, my dearie. End up, Hio, my dearie. Recording by Annalisa Bodker.

Starting point is 01:25:42 To a usurper, of with trumpet and drum, by Eugene Field. This LeBerfog's recording is in the public domain. Aha, a traitor in the camp, a rebel strangely bold. a lisping, laughing, toddling scamp no more than four years old, to think that I, who've ruled alone so proudly in the past, should be ejected from my throne by my own son at last. He trots his treason to and fro as only babies can, and says he'll be his mama's beau when he's a great big man.

Starting point is 01:26:25 You stingy boy, you've always always. had a share in Mama's heart, would you begrudge your poor old dad the tiniest little part? That Mama, I regret to see, inclines to take your part, as if a dual monarchy should rule her gentle heart. But when the years of youth have spent, the bearded man I trow will quite forget he ever said he'd be his Mama's bow. Renounce your treason, little son. leave Mama's heart to me, for there will come another one to claim your loyalty. And when that other comes to you, God grant her love may shine through all your life as fair and true as Mama's does through mine. End of To a Usurper.

Starting point is 01:27:22 Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker The Bellflower Tree of With Trumpet and Drum By Eugene Field, the Sleeper Vox recording is in the public domain. When Brother Bill and I were boys, how often in the summer we would seek the shade your branches made, O fair and gracious bellflower tree, amid the clover bloom we sat and looked upon the holy oak range, while Fido lay a space away, thinking our silence very strange. The woodchuck in the pasture lot, beside his furtive hole, elate, heard, off beyond the Pickerel Pond, the red-wing blackbird tried her mate. The bumblebee went bustling round, pursuing labors never done,

Starting point is 01:28:21 with drone and sting, the greedy thing, begrudged the sweets we lay upon. Our eyes looked always at the hills, the Holy Oak Hills that seemed to stand between us boys and pictured joys of conquest in a further land. Ah how we coveted the time when we should leave this prosy place and work our wills beyond those hills and meet creation face to face. You must have heard our childish talk. Perhaps our prattle gave you pain.

Starting point is 01:28:56 For then, old friend, you seem to bend to your kindly arms about us twain. It might have been the wind that sighed, and yet I thought I heard you say, Seek not the ills beyond those hills. Oh, stay with me. My children stay. See, I've come back.

Starting point is 01:29:16 The boy you knew is wiser, older, sadder, grown. I come once more just as of your. I come, but see, I come alone. The memory of a brother's love, of blighted hopes I bring with me, and here I lay my heart today, a weary heart, O bellflower tree. So let me nestle in your shade as though I were a boy again, and pray, extend your arms, old friend, and love me as you used to then. Sing softly as you used to sing, and maybe I shall seem to be a little,

Starting point is 01:29:57 boy and feel the joy of thy repose, oh bellflower tree. End of the bellflower tree, recording by Annalisa Bodker. Fairy and Child, of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. This Libra Fox recording is in the public domain. Oh, listen, little dear my soul, to the fairy voices calling, for the moon is high in the misty sky, and the honey-dew is falling. To the midnight feast in the clover bloom, the blue bells are a-ringing, and it's come away to the land of Faye that the Katie did is singing. Oh, slumber little dear my soul, and hand in hand will wander, hand in hand to the beautiful land of Balo, away off yonder,

Starting point is 01:31:01 Or will sail along in a lily leaf Into the white moon's halo Over a stream of mist and dream Into the land of Balo Or you shall have two beautiful wings Two gossamer wings and airy And all the while Shall the old moon smile

Starting point is 01:31:22 And think you a little fairy And you shall dance in the velvet sky And the silvery stars shall twinkle and dream sweet dreams as over their beams your footfall softly tinkle. End of Fairy and Child. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker The Grand Sire of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Sleeper-Vox recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:32:04 I loved him so. His voice had grown into my heart and now to hear the pretty song he had sung so long, die on the lips to me so dear. He, a child with golden curls, and I with head as white as snow, I knelt down there and made this prayer. God, let me be the first to go.

Starting point is 01:32:32 How often I recall it now, my darling tossing on his bed, I sitting there in mute despair, smoothing the curls that crowned his head. They did not speak to me of death. A feeling here had told me so. What could I say or do, but pray that I might be the first to go. Yet thinking of him standing there, out yonder,

Starting point is 01:33:01 as the years go by, waiting for me to come, I see, t'was better, he should wait, not I. For when I walk the veil of death, above the wail of Jordan's flow, shall rise a song that shall make me strong, the call of the child that was first to go. End of the Grand Sire. Recording by Annalisa Bodker Hushabai Sweet My Own, Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field, Sleeper-Vox recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:33:49 Fair is the castle upon the hill. Hushabai, sweet my own. The night is fair, and the waves are still, and the wind is singing to you and to me, in the slowly home beside the sea, Hushabai, sweet my own. On yonder hill is store of wealth, Hushabai, sweet my own,

Starting point is 01:34:13 and revelers drink to a little, one's health, but you and I bide night and day, for the other love that has sailed away. Hushabai, sweet my own. See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep, ghostlike, oh my own, out of the mists of the murmuring deep. Oh, see them not, and make no cry till the angels of death have passed us by, Hushabai, sweet my own. Ah, love! Little they wreck of you and me. Hushabai, sweet my own. In our lonely home beside the sea,

Starting point is 01:34:53 they seek the castle upon the hill, and there they will do their ghostly will. Hushabai, oh my own. Here by the sea a mother croons, Hushabai sweet my own. In yonder castle a mother swoons, while the angels go down to the misty deep, bearing a little one fast asleep. Hushabai, sweet my own.

Starting point is 01:35:23 End of Hushabai, sweet my own. Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Child and Mother. Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field, the Slebravox recording is in the public domain. Oh, Mother, my love, if you'll give me your hand, and go where I ask you to wander. I will lead you away to a beautiful land, the dreamland that's waiting out yonder.

Starting point is 01:36:00 We'll walk in a sweet posy garden out there where moonlight and starlight are streaming, and the flowers and the birds are filling the air with the fragrance and music of dreaming. There'll be no little tired out boy to undress, No questions or cares to perplex you. There'll be no little bruises or bumps to caress, nor patching of stockings to vex you.

Starting point is 01:36:27 For I'll rock you away on a silver-duced dream and sing you asleep when you're weary, and no one shall know of our beautiful dream, but you and your own little deary. And when I am tired, I'll nestle my head in the bosom that soothed me so often, and the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead a song which our dreaming shall soften. So, Mother, my love, let me take your dear hand,

Starting point is 01:36:59 and away through the starlight will wander, away through the mist to the beautiful land, the dreamland that's waiting out yonder. End of Child and Mother, recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Medieval Even Tide Song Of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field The Slibervox recording is in the public domain Come hither little child

Starting point is 01:37:36 And lie upon my breast to-night For yonder fares an angel E clad in raiment white And yonder sings ye angel As only angels may And his song been of a garden That bloometh far away. To them that have no little child, God sometimes sendeth down, a little child that been a little

Starting point is 01:38:02 angel of his own. And if so be, they love that child, he willeth it to stay, but elsewise, in his mercy, he taketh it away. And sometimes, though they love it, God yearneth for your child, and sendeth angels singing, whereby it been beguiled. They fold their arms about your lamb that crudleth at his play, and bear him to your garden that bloometh far away. I would not lose ye little lamb that God hath lent to me, if I could sing that angel's song, how joysome I should be, for with mine arms about him and my music in his ear,

Starting point is 01:38:47 What angel's song of paradise so ever should I fear? So come, my little child, and lie upon my breast unite, For yonder fares an angel, eclad in raiment white, And yonder sings that angel, as only angels may, And is song been of a garden that bloometh far away. End of medieval even-tide song. by Anna Lisa Bodker Armenian Lullaby

Starting point is 01:39:28 Up with Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field The Sleeper-Vox recording is in the public domain If thou wilt shut thy drowsy eyes My mulberry one, my golden sun The rose shall sing the lullabies, My pretty cosset lampkin And thou shalt swing in an almond tree with a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,

Starting point is 01:39:56 A silver boat in a golden sea, My velvet love, My nestling dove, My own pomegranate blossom. The stork shall guard thee passing well, All night, my sweet, my dimple feet, And bring thee my mir and asphodel, My gentle rain of springtime,

Starting point is 01:40:19 And for thy slumberous play shall twine, the diamond stars with an emerald vine to trail in the waves of ruby wine, my my my my my heart's perfume, my little chirping sparrow. And when the morn wakes up to sea, my apple bright, my soul's delight, the partridge shall come calling thee my jar of milk and honey. Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies in the amethyst deep of the curtain skies, if thou wilt fold thy ony's eyes, you wakeful one, you naughty son, you cooing little turtle.

Starting point is 01:41:05 End up Armenian Lullaby, recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Christmas Treasures Of with Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. The Liebervox recording is in the public domain. I count my treasures or with care, the little toy, my darling knew, a little sock of faded hue, a little lock of golden hair. Long years ago this holy time, my little one, my all to me, sat robed in white upon my knee, and heard the merry Christmas chime. Tell me, my little golden head, if Santa Claus should come tonight, what shall he bring my

Starting point is 01:41:57 baby bright. What treasure for my boy, I said. And then he named this little toy, while in his round mournful eyes, there came a look of sweet surprise that spake his quiet, trustful joy. And as he lisped his evening prayer, he asked the boon with childish grace. Then toddling to the chimney place, he hung this little stocking there. That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come with singing to our lowly home and kiss my darling as he slept. They must have heard his little prayer, for in the morn with rapturous face he toddled to the chimney place and found this little treasure there. They came again one Christmas tide that angel host, so fair and white, and singing all that glorious night,

Starting point is 01:42:59 they lured my darling from my side. A little sock, a little toy, a little lock of golden hair, the Christmas music on the air, a watching for my baby boy. But if again that angel train and golden head, come back for me to bear me to eternity. My watching will not be in vain. End of Christmas Treasures, recording by Anna Lisa Bodker. Oh, little child, of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field. The Sleevervox recording is in the public domain. Hush, little one, and fold your hands. The sun hath said. the moon is high, the sea is singing to the sands, and wakeful posies are beguiled by many a fairy lullaby. Hush, little child, my little child. Dream, little one, and in your dreams float upward

Starting point is 01:44:14 from this lowly place, float out on mellow, misty streams, to lands where bided Mary mild, and let her kiss thy little face, you little child, my little child. Sleep, little one, and take thy rest, with angels bending over thee. Sleep sweetly on that father's breast, whom our dear Christ hath reconciled. But stay not there. Come back to me, O little child, my little child. End of, O Little Child, recording by Annalisa Botker. Gander Feathers' Gift of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field.

Starting point is 01:45:10 The Sleber Fox recording is in the public domain. I was just a little thing when a fairy came and kissed me, floating in upon the light of a haunted summer night. Lo, the fairies came to sing pretty slum. songs and bring surgeon boons that else had missed me. From a dream I turned to see what those strangers brought for me when that fairy up and kissed me. Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me. Simmer-Due was there, but she did not like me altogether. Daisy Bright and Turtle Dove, pilfer curds and honey-love thistle blow and amber glee on that gleaming ghostly sea floated from the misty heather and around my trundle-bed frisked and looked and whispering said solemn-like and all together you shall kiss him gander feather gander feather kissed me then gander feather quaint and merry no a tentuit sprite was he

Starting point is 01:46:23 but as buxom as could be, kissed me twice, and once again, and the others shouted when, on my cheek, a brose of berry, somewhat like a mole may have, but the kiss mark of that chap, Ganderfeather, passing Mary, humorsome, but kindly very. I was just a tiny thing, when the prankish Ganderfeather brought this curious gift to me, with his fairy kisses three. Yet with honest pride I sing, that same gift he chose to bring out of yonder haunted heather. Other charms and friendships fly, constant friends, this mole and I, who have been so long together. Thank you, little Ganderfeather.

Starting point is 01:47:18 End of Gander Feather's Gift Recording by Anna Lisa Bodker Pambino Up with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field The Sleaprovox recording is in the public domain Pambino in his cradle slept And by his side his grandam grim Bent down and smiled upon the child

Starting point is 01:47:52 And sung this lullaby to him This ninia and aninia. When thou art older, thou shalt mine To traverse countries far and wide, And thou shalt go, Where roses blow, And balmy waters singing glide, Sowninia and an an aninia.

Starting point is 01:48:13 And thou shalt wear, Trimmed up in points, A famous jacket edged in red, And more than that, A peaked hat, All decked in gold upon thy head, ah nina and anina then thou shalt carry gun and knife nor shall the soldiers bully thee perchance be set by wrong or debt a mighty bandit thou shalt be so nina and an No woman yet of our proud race lived to her 14th year unwed.

Starting point is 01:48:50 The brazen churl that eyed a girl bought her the ring or paid his head. So Nina and anina. But once came spies, I know the thieves, and brought disaster to our race. God heard us when our 15 men were hanged within the marketplace, but Nina and aninia. Good men they were, my babe, and true. Rightworthy fellows all and strong. Live thou, and be for them and me,

Starting point is 01:49:24 avenger of that deadly wrong. So ninia and anina. End of Bambino. Recording by Annalisa Bodker. Little Homer Slate of With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field. This Leber Fox recording is in the public domain. After dear old grandma died, hunting through an oaken chest,

Starting point is 01:49:59 in the attic we espied what repaid our childish quest. Twas a homely little slate, seemingly of ancient date. On its quaint and battered face was the picture of a cart, drawn with all that awkward grace which betokens childish, art. But what meant this legend, pray? Homer drew this yesterday. Mother recollected then what the years were fain to hide. She was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died. Forty years, so Mother said, Little Homer had been dead. This one secret, through those years, Grandma kept from all apart, hallowed by her lonely tears and the breaking of her heart,

Starting point is 01:50:51 while each year that sped away seemed to her but yesterday. So the homely little slate Grandma's baby's fingers pressed to a memory consecrate, lieth in the oaken chest, where, unwilling we should know, grandma put it, years ago, End of Little Homer Slate. Recording by Annalisa Bodker. End of with trumpet and drum by Eugene Field.

Classic Audiobook Collection - With Trumpet and Drum by Eugene Field ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

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