Lullabyland by Eugene Field

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Title: Lullaby-Land
Songs of Childhood

Author: Eugene Field

Illustrator: Charles Robinson

Release Date: June 9, 2017 [EBook #54874]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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Contents.

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COPYRIGHT, 1892 AND 1897, BY JULIA SUTHERLAND

FIELD. 1892, BY MARY FRENCH FIELD.
1893 AND 1894, BY EUGENE FIELD.

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Preface.

There is a sort of a garden—or rather an estate, of park and fallow and waste—nay, perhaps we may call it a kingdom, albeit a
noman’s-land and an everyman’s land—which lies so close to the frontier of our work-a-day world that a step will take us therein.
Indeed, some will have it that we are there all the time, that it is the real fourth dimension, and that at any moment—if we did but
know the trick—we might find ourselves trotting along its pleasant alleys, without once quitting our arm-chair. Nonsense-Land is
one of the names painted up on the board at the frontier-station; and there the custom-house officers are very strict. You may
take as much tobacco as you please, any quantity of spirits, and fripperies of every sort, new and old; but all common-sense, all
logic, all serious argument, must strictly be declared, and is promptly confiscated. Once safely across the border, it is with no
surprise at all that you greet the Lead Soldier strutting somewhat stiffly to meet you, the Dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels
following affably at his heel; on the banks of the streams little Johnny-head-in-air is perpetually being hauled out of the water;
while the plaintive voice of the Gryphon is borne inland from the margin of the sea.

Most people, at one time or another, have travelled in this delectable country, if only in young and irresponsible days.

Certain unfortunates, unequipped by nature for a voyage in such latitudes, have never visited it at all, and assuredly never will. A
happy few never quit it entirely at any time. Domiciled in that pleasant atmosphere, they peep into the world of facts but fitfully,
at moments; and decline to sacrifice their high privilege of citizenship at any summons to a low conformity.

Of this fortunate band was Eugene Field. He knew the country thoroughly, its highways and its byways alike. Its language

was the one he was fondest of talking; and he always refused to emigrate and to settle down anywhere else. As soon as he set
himself to narrate the goings-on there, those of us who had been tourists in bygone days, but had lost our return-tickets, pricked
up our ears, and listened, and remembered, and knew. The Dinkey-Bird, we recollected at once, had been singing, the day we left,
in the amfalula-tree; and there, of course, he must have been singing ever since, only we had forgotten the way to listen. Eugene
Field gently reminded us, and the Dinkey-Bird was vocal once more, to be silent never again. Shut-Eye Train had been starting
every night with the utmost punctuality; it was we who had long ago lost our way to the booking-office (I really do not know the
American for booking-office). Now we can hurry up the platform whenever we please, and hear the doors slam and the whistle
toot as we sink back on those first-class cushions! And the Chocolate Cat,—why, of course the cats were all chocolate then! And
how pleasantly brittle their tails were, and how swiftly, though culled and sucked each day, they sprouted afresh!

It is an engaging theory, that we are all of us just as well informed as the great philosophers, poets, wits, who are getting all

the glory; only unfortunately our memories are not equally good—we forget, we forget so terribly! Those belauded gentlemen,
termed by our fathers “makers”—creators, to wit—they are only reminders after all: flappers, Gulliver would have called them.
The parched peas in their gaily-painted bladders rattle with reminiscences as they flap us on the ears; and at once we recall what
we are rightly abashed beyond measure to have for one instant forgotten. At any rate, it is only when the writer comes along who
strikes a new clear note, who does a thing both true and fresh, that we say to ourselves, not only “How I wish I had done that
myself!”—but also “And I would have done it, too—if only I had remembered it in time!” Perhaps this is one of the tests of
originality.

Of course I am touching upon but one side of Eugene Field the writer. An American of Americans, much of his verse was

devoted to the celebration of what we may call the minor joys which go to make social happiness in the life he lived with so frank
and rounded a completion—a celebration which appealed to his countrymen no less keenly, that the joys were of a sort which,
perhaps from some false sense of what makes fitness in subject, had hitherto lacked their poet—on that side at least. This, of
course, was the fault of the poets. And though I spoke just now of minor joys, there are really no such things as minor joys—or
minor thrushes and blackbirds. Fortunately this other aspect does not need to be considered here. I say fortunately, because it is
not given to a writer to know more than one Land—to know it intimately, that is to say, so as to dare to write about it. This is the
Law and the Prophets. Even that most native utterance, which sings of “the clink of the ice in the pitcher that the boy brings up
the hall,” appeals to us but faintly, at second-hand. That pitcher does not clink in England.

In this spheral existence all straight lines, sufficiently prolonged, prove to be circles: and a line of thought is no exception.

We are back at the point we started from—the consideration of Eugene Field as a citizen; of a sort of a cloud-country, to start
with; and later, of a land more elemental. In either capacity we find the same note, of the joy of life. We find the same honest
resolve, to accept the rules and to play out the game accordingly; the same conviction, that the game is in itself a good one, well
worth the playing. And so, with no misgiving, he takes his America with just the same heartiness as his Nonsense-land.

The little boy who should by rights have been lost in the forest, by the white pebbles he had warily dropped found his way

back safely to sunlight and to home; and to keep in touch with earth is at least to ensure progression in temperate and sweet-
breathed atmosphere, as well as in a certain zone, and that no narrow one, of appreciation; the appreciation of our fellows, the
world over; those who, whatever their hemisphere, daily find themselves pricked by a common sun, with the same stimulus for
every cuticle, towards pleasures surprisingly similar.

KENNETH GRAHAME.

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Image unavailable: CONTENTS.

The Rock-a-By Lady
Page 21

Garden and Cradle
29

The Night Wind
35

The Dinkey-Bird
44

So, so, Rock-a-by so!
47

The Duel
53

Good-Children Street
59

The Bottle Tree
65

Lady Button-Eyes
71

The Ride to Bumpville
79

Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks
85

The Shut-Eye Train
91

Little-Oh-Dear
99

The Fly-Away Horse
105

“Fiddle-Dee-Dee”
113

Image unavailable: From “With Trumpet and Drum.”

The Sugar-Plum Tree
Page 123

Krinken
131

Pittypat and Tippytoe
137

Little Blue Pigeon
145

Teeny-Weeny
151

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not
159

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
165

Little Mistress Sans-Merci
173

Hi-Spy
179

Little Boy Blue
183

Heigho, my Dearie
189

Fairy and Child
195

Child and Mother
201

Ganderfeather’s Gift
207

Telling the Bees
Page 217

in “The Holy Cross and Other Tales.

Contentment
Page 225

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THE Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street

Comes stealing; comes creeping;

The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet—
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,

When she findeth you sleeping!

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There is one little dream of a beautiful drum—

“Rub-a-dub!” it goeth;

There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,

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“THERE IS ONE LITTLE DREAM
OF A BEAUTIFUL DRUM”—

And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,

And a trumpet that bloweth!

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams

With laughter and singing;

And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,

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And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,

The fairies go winging!

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?

They’ll come to you sleeping;

So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,
With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,

Comes stealing; comes creeping.

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WHEN our babe he goeth walking in his garden,

Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;
The posies they are good to him,
And bow them as they should to him,

As fareth he upon his kingly way;

And birdlings of the wood to him

Make music, gentle music, all the day,

When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.

When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,

Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;

The little stars are kind to him,
The moon she hath a mind to him

And layeth on his head a golden crown;

And singeth then the wind to him

A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,

When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.

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HAVE you ever heard the wind go “Yooooo”?

’Tis a pitiful sound to hear!

It seems to chill you through and through

With a strange and speechless fear.

’Tis the voice of the night that broods outside

When folks should be asleep,

And many and many’s the time I’ve cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide

Over the land and the deep:

“Whom do you want, O lonely night,

That you wail the long hours through?”

And the night would say in its ghostly way:

“Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!”

My mother told me long ago

(When I was a little tad)

That when the night went wailing so,

Somebody had been bad;

And then, when I was snug in bed,

Whither I had been sent,

With the blankets pulled up round my head.
I’d think of what my mother’d said,

And wonder what boy she meant!

And “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask

Of the wind that hoarsely blew,

And the voice would say in its meaningful way:

“Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!”

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That this was true I must allow—

You’ll not believe it, though!

Yes, though I’m quite a model now,

I was not always so.

And if you doubt what things I say,

Suppose you make the test;

Suppose, when you’ve been bad some day
And up to bed are sent away

From mother and the rest—

Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?”

And then you’ll hear what’s true;

For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:

“Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!”

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I

N an ocean, ’way out yonder
(As all sapient people know),

Is the land of Wonder-Wander,

Whither children love to go;

It’s their playing, romping, swinging,

That give great joy to me

While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing

In the amfalula tree!

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There the gum-drops grow like cherries,

And taffy’s thick as peas—

Caramels you pick like berries

When, and where, and how you please;

Big red sugar-plums are clinging

To the cliffs beside that sea

Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the amfalula tree.

So when children shout and scamper

And make merry all the day,

When there’s naught to put a damper

To the ardor of their play;

When I hear their laughter ringing,

Then I’m sure as sure can be

That the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the amfalula tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras

And staccatos are so sweet—

His roulades, appoggiaturas,

And robustos so complete,

That the youth of every nation—

Be they near or far away—

Have especial delectation

In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter,

Their lungs begin to crow,

Their hearts get light and lighter,

And their cheeks are all aglow;

For an echo cometh bringing

The news to all and me,

That the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the amfalula tree.

I’m sure you like to go there

To see your feathered friend—

And so many goodies grow there

You would like to comprehend!

Speed, little dreams, your winging

To that land across the sea

Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the amfalula tree!

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SO, so, rock-a-by so!

Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;

And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,

And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek

And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies
In the beautiful garden way up in the skies

Which you seek.

Now mind these three kisses wherever you go—
So, so, rock-a-by so!

There’s one little fumfay who lives there, I know,
For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;
I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,

I send him this kiss on your rosy-red cheek.

And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise
When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies

Which you seek.

Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe—
So, so, rock-a-by so!

And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,
Don’t forget mother who loveth you so!
And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,

And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,

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And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies
Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies

Which you seek—

The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow—
So, so, rock-a-by so!

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Image unavailable: THE DUEL.

THE gingham dog and the calico cat

Side by side on the table sat;

’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t’other had slept a wink!

The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate

There was going to be a terrible spat.

(I wasn’t there; I simply state
What was told me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”
And the calico cat replied “mee-ow!”
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,

While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place
Up with its hands before its face,

For it always dreaded a family row!

(Now mind: I’m only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do?”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,

Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw—

And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

(Don’t fancy I exaggerate!
I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

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