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Title: Dream Blocks

Author: Aileen Cleveland Higgins

Illustrator: Jessie Willcox Smith

Release date: January 29, 2013 [eBook #41945]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Emmy, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://archive.org/details/americana)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAM BLOCKS ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Dream Blocks, by Aileen Cleveland Higgins, Illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith

Note:

Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive/American Libraries. See http://archive.org/details/dreamblocks00higg

DREAM BLOCKS

DREAM BLOCKS

AILEEN CLEVELAND HIGGINS

PICTURES BY

JESSIE WILLCOX SMITH

DUFFIELD & COMPANY

NEW YORK

CONTENTS

Page

Dream Blocks

1

Stupid You

2

Anagrams

3

Doorsteps

4

The Big Clock

6

The New Dress

7

A Questioning

9

A Test

9

A Quandary

10

Spring Music

11

A Compromise

13

A Rainy Day

14

An Appeal to Science

15

The Runaway

17

Playmates

19

The Echo

21

The Sick Rose

22

Afternoon

23

The Wild

24

Bud Music

25

Frills

26

Gone Somewhere

27

The Chosen Dream

29

Home

30

Dawn

31

The City Tree

32

A Prayer

34

Cap and Bells

35

Summer's Passing

38

When You Wait

39

Punishment

40

First Pity

40

Night

41

Hover-Time

42

Treasure Craft

43

The Moon Path

45

The Ring Charm

45

ILLUSTRATIONS

Facing Page

Title Page

ii

Dream Blocks

1

Stupid You

2

Doorsteps

4

The Big Clock

6

A Quandary

10

A Rainy Day

14

The Runaway

18

The Sick Rose

22

Frills

26

Home

30

A Prayer

34

Summer's Passing

38

Punishment

40

Treasure Craft

44

Copyright 1908 by

Duffield & Company

Engravings by the Beck Engraving Co.

———

Presswork by S. H. Burbank & Co.

Philadelphia

DREAM BLOCKS

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

DREAM-BLOCKS

ITH dream-blocks I can build

A castle to the sky.

No one can shake it down,

Though he may try and try,

Except myself, and then,

I make another one,

And shape it as I please.

This castle-building fun

Nobody takes away,

And what I like the best—

The dream-blocks change each day.

STUPID YOU

HERE is a shining thread

To-day in my rose-bed—

A magic net the fairies have outspread

To catch the dewy sweet—and yet you said

It was a cobweb there instead!

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

ANAGRAMS

O-DAY when I played anagrams,

I spelled a long word out—

A word named sorrow—then I tried

To change it all about

To make it spell another word.

My mother said, "There is a way

To make the sorrow-word spell peace."

I've tried and tried, almost all day;

I've turned the letters round and round,

This way and that, to find out how,

And yet I can not find the way,

And supper time is coming now.

DOORSTEPS

TAKE my broom and sweep my step,

To make it smooth and brown;

Then I sit down and wait with Jep

Until the sun goes down.

I think some day that I may see

A little brownie elf

Peep out of there, and speak to me,

When I am by myself.

I like my roses at the side,

Much better than the flower-row

Along your path where people ride.

I leave my roses just to grow.

I like the place that's broken, too,

With splintered edges all around,

And grasses growing right up through,

That smell so fresh like dew and ground.

Your steps are nice, but then my own

Seem nicer somehow, just for me;

Pine steps are more like home than stone,

For once they lived and were a tree.

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

THE BIG CLOCK

UR Big Clock goes so slow,

When I am waiting on the stairs,

With nice, clean clothes on, dressed to go

Out with Aunt Beth to see the bears

And funny possums at the Zoo!

But oh, at night how fast

Our Big Clock goes! It's very rude

To company, and when time's past

When I must always go to bed,

The hands just fly in wicked glee.

It strikes out long ahead

And makes them all look round at me.

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

THE NEW DRESS

HAVE a very pretty dress,

It's made of pink and white,

And there are ribbons on it, too,

Which make it bright.

And yet I think I like it less

Than this dear other one—

The worn-out, patched-up blue

I wear when I have fun.

It clings to me as if it loved

To have me wear it every day.

The pink stands out so straight and stiff

It's in my way.

How can I get to know it well,

When it's so Sunday-clean?

Perhaps when it is old and stained

With dust and grass, it will not seem

So strange and dignified as now.

But then I think

I never could make mud pies right

If I had on my pink.

A QUESTIONING

WONDER, when I die,

If some one there will see,

And hold me close,

And take good care of me,

As when I came on earth to be

A little child?

A TEST

OME day when I've had lots to eat,

Then I should like to be

A ragged beggar child,

A little while, to see

If you—and you—are kind.

A QUANDARY

HEN they are tall and all grown up,

I wonder where the children go?

I wonder how one finds the place—

My mother says she doesn't know.

The little boy that's I, must go

To this strange meeting-place some day,

When I outgrow my starchy kilts,

And nursery things are put away.

Must I go there quite by myself?

How shall I find the proper door,

That hides so close and shuts away

The little children gone before?

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

SPRING MUSIC

HEARD a violin one day—

It sounded like the Spring;

Like woolly lambs at play,

Like baby birds that sing

In snatches, when they're learning how.

I know the one who played

Could see pink blossoms on a bough,

Where children came beneath its shade

To make white clover in a crown.

Then while they laughed there in the grass,

Soft petals fluttered down;

They hushed and saw some angels pass,

With friendly eyes that smile—

The kind that I have often seen

When mother sings awhile,

Just as I go to sleep and dream.

I held my breath and then there rose

The last sweet note so high.

I felt as when the sunshine goes—

I could not help but cry.

A COMPROMISE

HEN I have done a Something Wrong,

I feel ashamed to kneel and pray.

But then the dark-time lasts so long,

And God seems—oh, so far away!—

That when the lights are out awhile,

I clamber out of bed once more

And pour my pennies in a pile.

. . . I listen at the door,

And then I get upon my knees,

And whisper just for God to hear,

To ask him, oh, just once more, please,

Will he forgive and come back near,

If I will make a promise quick

To give my pennies to the sick?

A RAINY DAY

HEN I woke up and saw the rain

In blurs upon the window-pane,

I said I hated such a day,

Because I couldn't run and play,

Out in the sunshine and the grass.

It's queer how such a day can pass

So soon, before you know it 'most,

And while I eat my milk and toast,

Before I go to bed, I think

I've never had a day so pink.

Without the sun to make the shine,

This whole day long has been just mine

And Mother's, in the fireplace glow.—

Because it rained, it made it so.

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

AN APPEAL TO SCIENCE

WISH the clever men who made

The whirly things with patents on,

The telephone and phonograph,

The watch that tells how far you've gone,

Would just invent some bottled sleep

That we could take at night,

And then again when it grows light.

It might keep little boys awake

When there is company.

All I should have to do, would be

To pour a glass of sleep to take.

The things I leave undone,

Because I haven't time enough,

The things I've only half begun—

My castle-house, my doll-queen's ruff—

I'd get quite finished in a day.

I'd have some time left over, too.

I'd have the chance to do new things.

And first of all, I'd learn to play

The games the flowers frolic through,

Each afternoon, and I'd find who

Has charge of yesterday.

I think that made-to-order dreams

Of rainbow-folk and orange-creams

Would be much nicer than the kind

Which on dark nights I always find.

THE RUNAWAY

HERE'S something that is calling me—

Far off from Here—

It calls for me to come and see,

Away from Near.

Sometimes it tinkles like a bell.

Then echo songs above the blue,

And sometimes silver whistles tell

About a shining dream come true.

This call sings low of wonder-worlds.

It tells in runs and soft-blown trills

Of hidden places near that line

Where distance smooths the little hills.

The call is begging me to come.

It makes me dance and sing

Along the meadow road,

Far past the street's dust-ring.

There's something waiting just for me,

And I must go—must go,

Away from houses here, to see,

Where lights begin to glow.

PLAYMATES

O-DAY I met a rabbit in the path

Who stopped and looked at me,

While I was laughing at a frog

Hop sidewise from a bee.

The little rabbit's eyes laughed too.

He would have like to stay;

And if my clothes had been like his,

He might have come to play.

I wish I had a rabbit dress,

A furry one, from head to toe,

Then I could go away with him

From streets in line, all set just so.

I think my clothes are stupid things

To rob me of my friends,

But then, the kind of playmate clothes

I want, nobody lends!

THE ECHO

LAUGHED in woods down where a brook

Ran off with little leaps,

An answer came from some fern-nook,

And then another made me look

Off in the dark tree-deeps.

I ran to all the nooks to see

If I could find the one

Who heard me first, and answered me—

Each place was still as it could be,

As far as I could run.

Nurse said, "There's no one to be caught.

It's just the echo's glee."

But then I know that it was not!

The little wood-elves all forgot,

And laughed out loud with me.

THE SICK ROSE

HIS rose I picked, began to die,

And so, I've brought it back again

To where it used to live. I'll try

To make it as it was—and then,

I'll whisper to it how I care.

Why can't it grow now any more,

A rose with other roses there,

Upon the rosebush by the door?

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

AFTERNOON

UST since the night, the wind has won

The last pink bud to open bloom.

The long path whitens in the sun;

All grown folks hunt a darkened room.

Cool sweet of morning time is gone

From all the leaves and grass.

Here in this place the shade falls on,

I wait for butterflies to pass.

THE WILD

LOVE the gold-brown flutter-bird

You caught for me;

But from its song is gone a note I heard

When it was free.

And when I bring the lace-ferns home

I can not bring

The wood-charm too—the spell of that wee gnome

Which makes birds sing.

The trees you painted with your brush

Are like the real,

But that still harking of the soft leaf-hush

You could not steal.

It is the spirit of the wold—the same

That's part of me,—

The gipsy wild of me without a name,

Unhoused and free.

BUD MUSIC

KNOW when little buds come out,

And spread their colors all about,

They make soft music—Yet it's true

Most people never hear. Do you?

There is the faintest, tinkly sound.

Birds fly to listen all around,

Then all the leaves stand just as still,

And sunshine dances on the hill.

FRILLS

HE dainty frills upon my frocks

Make me all twinkly smiles inside.

I want to take my sweets around,—

A something in me says "Divide."

I run to give my mother dear

My nicest, clean-face kiss.

I feed the sparrows on the steps,

And think what others miss.

I put some water on my fern;

To every one I want to say

Nice velvet things. It is so queer

That we can dress our moods away!

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

GONE SOMEWHERE

NE day a little boy,

With a poor broken toy,

And ragged clothes, went by.

He looked as if he'd like to cry,

To see my soldiers fine,

In scarlet coats, so straight in line.

Would he have liked to play with me,

Here beneath my shady tree?

I wonder, but I did not call him back again.

I thought he'd come next day the same,

And I would ask him in to play,

And when he had to go away

Give him my nicest toys—

The drum that makes the loudest noise,

My whistle, and perhaps my sword,

Or even my soldier hat with braids and cord.

But though I watch here by the gate

Until it grows quite dark and late,

I never hear his footsteps there,

The little boy is gone somewhere.

THE CHOSEN DREAM

F I could choose a dream to-night,

I'd choose a splendid dream

About big soldiers in a fight,—

So real that it would seem

A truly one not in a book,

With flags and banners waving high

And horses with a prancing look

And powder smoke that filled the sky,

And lots of swords to flash.

Perhaps this dream would frighten me,

More than a noisy game,

If too much blood should splash,

And any soldiers die.

And yet I think I'd choose it just the same

And then wake up and cry.

HOME

OU think my home is up the street

In that big house with lots of steps,

All worn in places by our feet—

With tracks that look like mine and Jep's.

You think it's where I always eat,

Where I can find my spoon and bowl,

My napkin folded clean and neat,

And milk, and sometimes jelly-roll.

You think it's where I always sleep,

Where I get in my puffy bed,

And fall right in a comfy heap,

Some nights before my prayers are said.

But that's not home—just roof and walls,

A place that anybody buys,

With shiny floors and stairs and halls.—

My home is in my mother's eyes.

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

DAWN

HERE are no sounds of feet

Or wagons in the street,

So still, so beautiful,

With air so fresh and cool.

I love the dawn to come—

But oh, I know that some

Are not so glad as I,—

For they must wake to cry.

THE CITY TREE

SOLEMN, dressed-up City Tree,

As stiff and straight as it can be,

All cut and trimmed and kept just so,

Is trying very hard to grow

Correctly, with its top so queer,

In front of my big window here.

It is not like my Country Tree,

Good friend of every bird and bee,

Who keep it merry company

And always sing and talk to me.

My Country Tree laughs all day long.

Its fresh leaves whisper in a song

Their secrets just for me to hear.

Its branches lean so very near

The ground, that grasses stretch and try

To meet the boughs not swung too high.

There is the place, the very best

In all the world, to play and rest.

The City Tree stands all alone

Above the clean-swept pavement stone.

No little children ever stay

Beneath its trimmed-off shade to play—

They aren't brave enough to dare,

Because it is so proper there.

There are no lady-birds about;

No crickets frolic in and out.

The City Tree is very proud,

It hasn't even looked or bowed.

We're not at all acquainted yet—

It's just as if we'd never met.

The days seem long—I wonder when

I'll see my country tree again?

A PRAYER

EAR God, may I not dream

The Dragon-dream to-night,—

And please do not forget

To make it light

On time again

For me. Amen.

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield and Co.

CAP AND BELLS

HEY make me laugh and clap my hands

When they run out in wide striped clothes

Of white, with red and yellow bands,

With pointed caps and pointed toes,—

The "funny men" at circus shows.

I wish I knew just how a clown

Can make his mouth up in a smile,

And wrinkle in a crinkly frown

His forehead all the while,

In that queer circus style.

One day when I had cried and cried

Because I lost the picture book

Which I had made, and mother tried

To comfort me, we went and took

A walk, to see how clown men look.

I soon forgot my book, and though

I loved it just the same,

I couldn't cry and miss it so,

And think about each picture's name

When all the clown men came.

I think we ought to say our thanks,

To each of them who makes and sells

Such fun and jokes, such jigs and pranks,—

How dull we'd be without the spells

They make with cap and bells!

SUMMER'S PASSING

Y mother says that Summer's gone away.

It seems so queer I didn't see her go,

Or know till now; she didn't say good-bye—

And oh, I loved her so!

Now that I know, I miss her all the time.

To-day I found this piece torn from her gown.

It fluttered softly down the path to me.

Perhaps my nurse would call it thistledown,

But grown folks often make such strange mistakes.

Nobody knows such wonder-things as I.

On fresh, dew mornings, when I used to play,

Out where the friendly rose-hedge grows so high,

The pinks and four-o'clocks would lean to me

And tell me secrets of my Summer dear.

It's lonesome now, and sad as it can be,

Since Summer is no longer here.

The Dark comes down so soon, and it is cold.

I wait and watch the sunset track,

But Mother says I'll be a year more old

Before my Summer will come back.

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

WHEN YOU WAIT

O you know that when you wait

To tell the truth, and fear—

Until it grows almost too late—

God leans to hear?

PUNISHMENT

OME days my doll-child is so bad,

I have to whip her very hard.

I put her in the corner there,

And take away her picture-card.

She's put to bed without a kiss.

She doesn't have her way one bit,

But then, I am the one it hurts,

And so what is the use of it?

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

FIRST PITY

'VE found a bird that's hurt.

It flutters so and cries,

Then looks its pain at me

With such bright frightened eyes.

Its feathers are so soft!

How quiet it is now!

I want to make it well—

I wish my hands knew how!

NIGHT

DO not like to say good-night,—

I hate to shut my eyes,

When fringe-beams of the stars and moon

Make day-things play surprise.

The night is such a wonder-world,

I love it more than day.

The Dark comes close and calls. That's why

My prayers are hard to say.

HOVER-TIME

T is the hover-time

That comes between the light and dark.

The little squirrels climb

Into their nests in trees and hark

To rustly leaves about.

Far off, I hear new insect cries—

From things which never dare call out

In daytime: they're afraid of Eyes.

Out from the purply wood

The first bat circles on the fly.

Far things draw on a hood

And shadows hide the place where sky

And earth make dim their line.

The trees change shape, and soon the gray

Blurs into black; and that's the hour

When dark comes down to stay.

TREASURE CRAFT

PON the brook, for treasure-craft,

I sail some petals, red and white;

They always go away from me—

They float much faster in their flight,

Than I can run along the bank.

My precious wee bit things bear freight;

Which very soon falls overboard,

And sinks where miser-folk await

To snatch my sparkling treasure-store.

Perhaps the waters dash too high

For such a little fleet of ships,

And that may be the reason why

My crafts do not return again.

Still, I expect them any day.

I've lost some things I love the best,—

My flower-chains and ribbons gay—

But, though I miss these pretty things,

I love much more the sailing-fun,

And launch new ships when morning sings,

And rainbow mist floats in the sun.

Copyright, 1908, by Duffield & Co.

THE MOON PATH

F I could walk along the path

The moonlight makes upon the sea,

I know that I should find the one

Who sings the Silver Song to me.

THE RING CHARM

HAVE a little charm

A gypsy gave to me,

To keep me safe from harm,

So ugly things can't see

When I am all alone.

It keeps the 'Fraid all out

When trees cry so, and moan,

And throw their leaves about.

It keeps away the Woops that creep

About my bed when I'm asleep.

And even by day my charm keeps anything

From hurting me, and that is why

I love my gypsy-ring

More than the ones I buy.

The gypsy put it on for me

And said some words so strange

I knew that they must be

Some fairy charm to change

The sad things into gay,

And keep me safe and well.

I wear it every day,

For that's to keep the spell.

Each morning when I wake,

I kiss and turn my ring

Three times for sake of luck

These wishes bring.

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Table of Contents

DREAM BLOCKS

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

DREAM-BLOCKS

STUPID YOU

ANAGRAMS

DOORSTEPS

THE BIG CLOCK

THE NEW DRESS

A QUESTIONING

A TEST

A QUANDARY

SPRING MUSIC

A COMPROMISE

A RAINY DAY

AN APPEAL TO SCIENCE

THE RUNAWAY

PLAYMATES

THE ECHO

THE SICK ROSE

AFTERNOON

THE WILD

BUD MUSIC

FRILLS

GONE SOMEWHERE

THE CHOSEN DREAM

HOME

DAWN

THE CITY TREE

A PRAYER

CAP AND BELLS

SUMMER'S PASSING

WHEN YOU WAIT

PUNISHMENT

FIRST PITY

NIGHT

HOVER-TIME

TREASURE CRAFT

THE MOON PATH

THE RING CHARM

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE