Appendix

When I was a little girl and lived in England, I attended the infant school. We were taught to sing a number of little songs, some of which I remember, and have often sung them for my grandchildren, and now they wish me to write them here for my great-grandchildren. One was the “Cricket Song,” another the “Old-fashioned Clock,” and another, “The Bread Song.” I write them here for the little ones as promised:^*

THE CRICKET SONG

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing
Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,
Began to complain when he found that at home
His cupboard was empty and winter had come.

Not a crumb to be found on the snow-covered ground—
Not a flower could he see, not a leaf on a tree.
“0 what will become,” said the cricket, “of me?”

At last by starvation and famine made bold,
All dripping with wet and trembling with cold,
Away he set off to a miserly ant,
To see if to keep him alive he would grant
Him shelter from rain and a mouthful of grain.

He wished only to borrow- he would pay it tomorrow—
If not, he must die with starvation and sorrow.

Said the ant to the cricket, “I’m your servant and friend,
But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend;
But tell me, dear cricket, did you lay nothing by
When the weather was warm?” Said the cricket, “Not I.”

“My heart was so light that I sang day and night,
For all nature looked gay.” You sang, sir, you say?
Go then,” said the cricket, “and dance winter away.”

THE BREAD SONG

Should you like to know how bread is made?
Come, and I’ll tell you about the trade.
Bread comes from wheat, which we all should know,
Which men in the field in autumn sow.

And when quite ripe they reap it with care,
Before they begin to hunt the hare;
Then safe into the barns they stow it away,
That the threshers may work on it another day.

The thresher he comes, with his flail so loud
And scatters the chaff about like a cloud;
The wheat he packs into sacks very tight,
That the miller may see that the weight is right.

He calls a boy with a rosy face,
And bids him set off with a steady pace.
The boy and the horse trot up the hill
Till he comes to the place where stands the mill.

The miller comes out with his clothes all white,
And tugs at the sacks with all his might.
He grinds the wheat into flour so small—
First, seconds, and thirds, and bran, and all.

Then into the sacks he puts it again,
That the boy may proceed to the baker’s lane.
The baker, you know, must bake the bread,
Or otherwise how could we be fed?

Well, then he weighs it in scales so bright,
To see that the weight is not too light,
And then with water he wets it through—
Which, mixed with yeast, is what we call dough.

He beats it about with both his hands,
And turns it again—in the bake-house stands—
He takes two lumps and sticks them together,
In hopes they will prove as light as a feather.

He pats it and pats it, and pats it again,
Till the oven is fit to receive it in train,
And then with his peal he sets it all in,
Unless it is first to be placed in a tin;
And there it remains till the crust is brow…
And away it is sent with a boy round th…

THE OLD-FASHIONED CLOCK

See the neat little cl…
In the corner it s…
And points out the…
With its two pre…
The one shows th…
The other the…
As you often ma…
In the church…
The …
Hark, hark! now it strikes,
There is one, two, three, four,
Five, six, seven, eight—
Will it strike any more?
Oh, yes, if you listen,
…You will hear when ‘tis done,
…e, ten, eleven, twelve,
…d the next will be one,
…heels would not move,
…the pendulum swing,
…hammer tap-tap
…he little bell ring,
…heavy weights
…wheels round and round,
…they’re in motion,
…make a sound.
…ike the clock,
…face clean and bright;
…e they’re moving
…at is right—
…ust be guided
…s true,
…ever I do.