Grade 3 Poetry

ELEMENTARY SPEECH
3RD GRADE POETRY

Student Activities 3rd Grade Poetry Handbook 2
Contents
Introduction 3 Arithmetic 32 The Pancake Collector 60
Abraham Lincoln 4 The Gift of Friendship 33 Puppy and I 61
Afternoon with Grandmother 5 F. Scott Fitzgerald to His Daughter 34 A Sea-Song from the Shore 62
America Was Schoolmasters 6 The Good Little Girl 35 The Secret Cavern 63
The American Flag 7 Grace at Evening 36 Sermons We See 64
Animal Crackers 8 Hide and Seek 37 Spring 65
Ask Daddy, He Won’t Know 9 Hiding 38 The Story of the Baby Squirrel 66
At the Zoo 10 I Am an American 39 The Story of Flying Robert 67
Be Kind 11 If You Were 40 Tell Him So 68
Benjamin Franklin 12 An Introduction to Dogs 41 This and That 69
The Bluebird 13 It Is Raining 42 Three Little Kittens 70
The Boy We Want 14 I Meant to Do My Work Today 43 Tiger-Cat Tim 71
Busy 15 Jonathan Bing 44 Trees 72
The Boy Who Never Told a Lie 16 Kindness to Animals 45 Trees 73
A Boy’s Mother 17 The Lamb 46 Two Little Maids 74
A Boy Wonders 18 The Lamplighter 47 The Unwinged Ones 75
The Chameleon 19 The Land of Storybooks 48 Us Two 76
Circus 20 The Library 49 Very Early 77
A Circus Garland 21 Lincoln 50 Vespers 78
Columbus 22 Lincoln’s Story 51 The Wayfaring Song 79
Come Out with Me 23 I Looked in the Mirror 52 What Have We Done Today? 80
The Creation 24 The Lost Shoe 53 What Is a Teacher 81
The Crocodile 25 A Mortifying Mistake 54 The Wind 82
Daniel Boone 26 Mummy Slept Late and Daddy Fixed Which Loved Best 83
Breakfast 55
The Duck 27 Work 84
My Dog 56
The Egg 28 The World’s Bible 85
My Shadow 57
Every Time I Climb a Tree 29 A Wrecker or a Builder 86
My Speech 58
The Friendly Beasts 30 Written in March 87
The Owl and the Pussycat 59
Foreign Lands 31 Yesterday in Oxford Street 88
Please note: These are not required poems, but examples of

acceptable material. Comparable pieces may be chosen from
other sources if approved by school coordinator.
© 2013, Association of Christian Schools International

Introduction
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© 2013, Association of Christian Schools International

Abraham Lincoln
Remember he was poor and country-bred;
His face was lined; he walked with awkward gait.
Smart people laughed at him sometimes and said,
“How can so very plain a man be great?”
Remember he was humble, used to toil.
Strong arms he had to build a shack, a fence,
Long legs to tramp the woods, to plow the soil,
A head chuck full of backwoods common sense.
Remember all he ever had he earned,
He walked in time through stately White House doors;
But all he knew of men and life he learned
In little backwoods cabins, country stores.
Remember that his eyes could light with fun;
That wisdom, courage, set his name apart;
But when the rest is duly said and done,
Remember that men loved him for his heart.
—Mildred Meigs
© 2013, Association of Christian Schools International | Permission granted to reproduce

Afternoon with Grandmother
I always shout when Grandma comes,
But Mother says, “Now please be still
And good and do what Grandma wants.”
And I say, “Yes, I will.”
So off we go in Grandma’s car.
“There’s a brand new movie quite near by,”
She says, “that I’d rather like to see.”
And I say, “So would I.”
The show has horses and chases and battles;
We gasp and hold hands the whole way through.
She smiles and says, “I liked that lots.”
And I say, “I did, too.”
“It’s made me hungry, though,” she says,
I’d like a malt and tarts with jam.
By any chance are you hungry, too?”
And I say, “Yes, I am.”
Later at home my Mother says,
“I hope you were careful to do as bid.
Did you and Grandma have a good time?”
And I say, “YES, WE DID!!!”
—Barbara A. Huff

America Was Schoolmasters
America was forests, They taught the girls such manners
America was grain, As stiffened them for life,
Wheat from dawn to sunset, But made many a fine speller,
And rainbows trailing rain. Good mother and good wife.
America was beavers, They took small wiry children,
Buffalo in seas, Wild as panther-cats,
Cornsilk and the johnnycake, And turned them into reasoning,
Songs of scythes and bees. Sunny Democrats.
America was brown men They caught a nation eager,
With eyes full of the sun, They caught a nation young,
But America was schoolmasters, They taught the nation fairness,
Tall one by lonely one. Thrift, and the golden tongue.
They heaved oak, carried water, They started at the bottom
Their hands were knuckleboned. And built up strong and sweet,
They piled on loads of syntax, They shaped our minds and morals,
Till the small boys groaned. With switches on the seat!
—Robert P. Tristram Coffin

The American Flag
There’s a flag that floats above us,
Wrought in red and white and blue—
A spangled flag of stars and stripes
Protecting me and you.
Sacrifices helped to make it
As men fought the long months through,
Nights of marching—days of fighting—
For the red and white and blue.
There is beauty in that emblem,
There is courage in it, too;
There is loyalty—there’s valor—
In the red and white and blue.
In that flag which floats, unconquered
Over land and sea,
There’s equality and freedom—
There is true democracy.
There is glory in that emblem,
Wrought in red and white and blue.
It’s the stars and stripes forever
Guarding me and guarding you!
—Anonymous

Animal Crackers
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
THAT is the finest of suppers, I think:
When I’m grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.
What do you choose when you’re offered a treat?
When Mother says, “What would you like best to eat?”
Is it waffles and syrup or cinnamon toast?
It’s cocoa and animals that I love most!
The kitchen’s the cosiest place that I know:
The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,
And there in the twilight, how jolly to see
The cocoa and animals waiting for me.
Daddy and Mother dine later in state
With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait:
But they don’t have nearly as much fun as I
Who eat in the kitchen with nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said, he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!
—Christopher Morley

Ask Daddy, He Won’t Know
Now that they’ve abolished chrome work
I’d like to call their attention to home work.
Here it is only three decades since my scholarship was famous,
And I’m an ignoramus.
I cannot think which goes sideways and which goes up and down, a parallel or a meridian,
Nor do I know the name of him who first translated the Bible into Indian,
I see him only as an enterprising colonial Gideon.
I have difficulty with dates,
To say nothing of the annual rainfall of the Southern Central States.
Naturally the correct answers are just back of the tip of my tongue,
But try to explain that to your young.
I am overwhelmed by their erudite banter,
I am in no condition to differentiate between Tamerland and Tam O’Shanter.
I reel, I sway, I am utterly exhausted;
Should you ask me when Chicago was founded I could only reply I didn’t even know it
was losted.
—Ogden Nash

At the Zoo
There are lions and roaring tigers, and enormous camels and things,
There are biffalo-buffalo-bisons, and a great big bear with wings,
There’s a sort of tiny potamus, and tiny nosserus too—
But I gave buns to the elephant when I went down to the Zoo!
There are badgers and bidgers and bodgers, and a Super-in-tendent’s House,
There are masses of goats, and a Polar, and different kinds of mouse,
And I think there’s a sort of a something which is called a wallaboo—
But I gave buns to the elephant when I went down to the Zoo!
If you try to talk to the bison, he never quite understands;
You can’t shake hands with a mongo—he doesn’t like shaking hands.
And lions and roaring tigers hate saying, “How do you do?”—
But I give buns to the elephant when I go down to the Zoo!
—A. A. Milne

Be Kind
Just a little bit of kindness
Can go a long, long way,
Just a little bit of tenderness
Can brighten up a day.
Just a bit of praise where it’s deserved
Can bring a happy glow,
Just a hand held out can give some hope
To someone feeling low.
A forgiving word, a handshake,
A pat upon the head,
Can take away a heavy heart
And bring a smile instead.
Just a little bit of kindness
Can go a long, long way
In reflecting the benevolence
God shows us every day!
—Alice Joyce Davidson

Benjamin Franklin
Ben Franklin munched a loaf of bread
while walking down the street
And all the Philadelphia girls tee-heed
to see him eat,
A country boy come up to town with eyes
as big as saucers
At the ladies in their furbelows, the
gempmum on their horses.
Ben Franklin wrote an almanac, a smile
upon his lip,
It told you when to plant your corn and
how to cure the pip,
But he salted it and seasoned it with proverbs
sly and sage,
And people read “Poor Richard” till Poor
Richard was the rage.
Ben Franklin made a pretty kite and flew
it in the air
To call upon a thunderstorm that happened
to be there,
And all our humming dynamos and
our electric light
Go back to what Ben Franklin found the day
he flew his kite.
—Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Ben’et

The Bluebird
I know the song that the bluebird is singing,
Out in the apple tree where he is swinging.
Brave little fellow! the skies may look dreary—
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.
Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!
Hark! was there ever so merry a note?
Listen awhile and you’ll hear what he’s saying,
Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying.
“Dear little blossoms down under the snow,
You must be weary of winter, I know;
Hark, while I sing you a message of cheer
Summer is coming and springtime is here!”
“Little white snowdrops, I pray you arise;
Bright yellow,crocus, come, open your eyes;
Sweet little violets, hid from the cold,
Put on your mantles of purple and gold.
Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear?
Summer is coming and springtime is here!”
—Emily Huntington Miller

The Boy We Want
A boy that is truthful and honest
And faithful and willing to work;
But we have not a place that we care to disgrace
With a boy that is ready to shirk.
Wanted—a boy you can tie to,
A boy that is trusty and true,
A boy that is good to old people,
And kind to the little ones too.
A boy that is nice to the home folks,
And pleasant to sister and brother,
A boy who will try when things go awry
To be helpful to father and mother.
These are the boys we depend on—
Our hope for the future, and then
Grave problems of state and the world’s work await
Such boys when they grow to be men.
—From The Book of Virtues

Busy
I think I am a Muffin Man. I haven’t got a bell, I think I am a Ticket Man who’s selling
tickets—please,
I haven’t got the muffin things that muffin
people sell. I think I am a Doctor who is visiting a Sneeze;
Perhaps I am a Postman. No, I think I am a Perhaps I’m just a Nanny who is walking with
Tram. a pram
I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know what I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know what
I am I am
BUT BUT
Round about Round about
And round about And round about
And round about I go— And round about I go:
All round the table, All around the table,
The table in the nursery— The table in the nursery—
Round about Round about
And round about I go; And round about I go:
I think I am a Traveler escaping from a Bear; I think I am a Puppy, so I’m hanging out my
tongue;
I think I am an Elephant,
I think I am a Camel who
Behind another Elephant
Is looking for a Camel who
Behind another Elephant who isn’t really
there … Is looking for a Camel who is looking for its
Young ...
SO
SO
Round about
And round about and round about And round about and round about
And round about I go. And round about I go.
—A. A. Milne

The Boy Who Never Told a Lie
Once there was a little boy,
With curly hair and pleasant eye—
A boy who always told the truth,
And never, never told a lie.
And when he trotted off to school,
The children all about would cry,
“There goes the curly-headed boy—
The boy that never tells a lie.”
And everybody loved him so,
Because he always told the truth,
That every day, as he grew up,
‘Twas said, “There goes the honest youth.”
And when the people that stood near
Would turn to ask the reason why,
The answer would be always this:
“Because he never tells a lie.”

A Boy’s Mother
My mother she’s so good to me, if I was
good as I could be,
I couldn’t be as good—no sir! Can’t any
boy be good as her!
She loves me when I’m glad er sad; she
loves me when I’m good er bad;
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says
she loves me when she punishes.
I don’t like her to punish me. That don’t
hurt, but it hurts to see
Her cryin’. Nen I cry; an’ nen we both
cry and be good again.
She loves me when she cuts an’ sews my
little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes;
An’ when my Pa comes home to tea, she
loves him most as much as me.
She laughs an’ tells him all I said, an’
grabs me up an’ pats my head;
An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa an’ love
him purt’nigh as much as Ma.
—James Whitcomb Riley

A Boy Wonders
Sometimes the sky seems miles away
Sometimes just o’er the hill.
Why should it always move about,
Why does it never stand quite still?
I’ve just been wond’ring.
\What makes the sun go ‘cross the sky
A-smiling down at me?
Does he sneak back when I’m asleep
And it’s so dark I cannot see?
Why is the moon sometimes so slim
And then so big and fat?
Do you suppose he eats enough
To swell as big and round as that?
What makes the stars keep twinkling
So happy and so bright?
Do they know something funny that
Keeps them laughing all the night?
—Dorothy J. Shearer

The Chameleon
The chameleon changes his color;
He can look like a tree or a wall;
He is timid and shy and he hates to be seen,
So he simply sits down on the grass and grows green,
And pretends he is nothing at all.
I wish I could change my complexion
To purple or orange or red:
I wish I could look like the arm of a chair
So nobody ever would know I was there
When they wanted to put me to bed.
I wish I could be a chameleon
And look like a lily or rose;
I’d lie on the apples and peaches and pears,
But not on Aunt Margaret’s yellowy chairs—
I should have to be careful of those.
The chameleon’s life is confusing;
He is used to adventure and pain;
But if he ever sat on Aunt Maggie’s cretonne
And found what a curious color he’d gone,
I don’t think he’d do it again.
—A. P. Herbert

Circus
The band blares,
The naphtha flares,
The sawdust smells,
Showmen ring bells,
And oh! right into the circus ring
Comes such a lovely, lovely thing,
A milk-white pony with flying tress,
And a beautiful lady,
A beautiful lady,
A beautiful lady in a pink dress!
The red-and-white clown
For joy tumbles down.
Like a pink rose
Round she goes
On her tiptoes
With the pony under—
And then, oh, wonder!
The pony his milk-white tresses droops,
And the beautiful lady,
The beautiful lady,
Flies like a bird through the paper hoops!
The red-and-white clown for joy falls dead,
Then he waggles his feet and stands on his head,
And the little boys on the two penny seats
Scream with laughter and suck their sweets.
—Eleanor Farjeon

A Circus Garland
Parade
This is the day the circus comes
With blare of brass, with beating drums,
And clashing cymbals, and with roar
Of wild beasts never heard before
Within town limits. Spick and span
Will shine each gilded cage and van;
Cockades at every horse’s head
Will nod, and riders dressed in red
Or blue trot by. There will be floats
In shapes like dragons, thrones and boats,
And clowns on stilts; freaks big and small
Till leisurely and last of all
Camels and elephants will pass
Beneath our elms, along our grass.
The Performing Seal
Who is so proud
As not to feel
A secret awe
Before a seal
That keeps such sleek
And wet repose
While twirling candles
On his nose?
Gunga
With wrinkled hide and great frayed ears
Gunga, the elephant, appears.
Colored like city smoke he goes
As gingerly on blunted toes
As if he held the earth in trust
And feared to hurt the very dust.
—Rachel Field

Columbus
In fourteen-hundred-ninety-two
Columbus sailed away
To try to reach rich India
By a much shorter way.
Columbus said, “The world is round.”
But others said, “It’s flat—
If you sail far you might fall off.”
Columbus laughed at that.
And yet he found out that his trip
Took longer than he planned,
For it was many, many weeks
Before they sighted land.
And then they weren’t in India
For when they stepped ashore
They found no silks or spices—
But they really found much more.
Yes, there Columbus stood upon
An unknown continent
Columbus found America
And quite by accident.
—Laraine Eloise Jacobson

Come Out with Me
There’s sun on the river and sun on the hill ...
You can hear the sea if you stand quite still!
There’s eight new puppies at Roundabout Farm
And I saw an old sailor with only one arm!
But every one says, “Run along!”
(Run along, run along!)
All of them say, “Run along! I’m busy as can be.”
Every one says, “Run along,
There’s a little darling!”
If I’m a little darling, why don’t they run with me?
There’s wind on the river and wind on the hill ...
There’s dark dead water-wheel, under the mill!
I saw a fly which had just been drowned—
And I know where a rabbit goes into the ground!
But every one says, “Run along!”
(Run along, run along!)
All of them say, “Yes, dear,” and never notice me.
Every one says, “Run along,
There’s a little darling!”
If I’m a little darling, why won’t they come and see?
—A. A. Milne

The Creation
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures, great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings;
The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high or lowly,
And order’d their estate.
The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning
That brightens up the sky;
The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun
The ripe fruits in the garden—
He made them everyone.
The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water
We gather every day;
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty
Who has made all things well!
—Cecil Frances Alexander

The Crocodile
A Crocodile once dropped a line They were hopelessly tied
To a Fox to invite him to dine; By a previous engagement, and fled.
But the Fox wrote to say Then she wrote in despair to some Eels,
He was dining, that day, And begged them to “drop in” to meals;
With a Birdfriend, and begged to decline. But the Eels left their cards
She sent off at once to a Goat. With their coldest regards,
“Pray don’t disappoint me,” she wrote; And took to what went for their heels.
But he answered too late, Cried the Crocodile then, in disgust,
He’d forgotten the date, “My motives they seem to mistrust.
Having thoughtlessly eaten her note. Their suspicions are base!
The Crocodile thought him ill-bred, Since they don’t know their place,
And invited two Rabbits instead; I suppose if I must starve, I must!”
But the Rabbits replied, —Oliver Herford

Daniel Boone
Daniel Boone at twenty-one
Came with his tomahawk, knife, and gun
Home from the French and Indian War
To North Carolina and the Yadkin shore
He married his maid with a golden band,
Builded his house and cleared his land;
But the deep woods claimed their son again
And he turned his face from the homes of men.
Over the Blue Ridge, dark and lone,
The Mountains of Iron, the Hills of Stone,
Braving the Shawnee’s jealous wrath,
He made his way on the Warrior’s Path.
Alone he trod the shadowed trails;
But he was lord of a thousand vales.
As he roved Kentucky, far and near,
Hunting the buffalo, elk, and deer.
What joy to see, what joy to win
So fair a land for his kith and kin,
Of streams unstained and woods unhewn!
“Elbow room!” laughed Daniel Boone.
—Arthur Guiterman

The Duck
If I were in a fairy tale,
And it were my good luck
To have a wish, I’d choose to be
A lovely snow-white duck.
When she puts off into the pond
And leaves me on the brink,
She wags her stumpy tail at me,
And gives me a saucy wink,
Which says as plain as words can say,
I’m safe as safe can be,
Stay there, or you will drown yourself
The pond was made for me.
She goes a-sailing to and fro,
Just like a fishing boat,
And steers and paddles all herself,
And never wets her coat.
Then in the water, upside down,
I’ve often seen her stand
More neatly than the little boys
Who do it on the land.
And best of all, her children are
The ducklings bright as gold,
Who swim about the pond with her
And do as they are told.
—E. L. M. King

The Egg
Oh! how shall I get it, how shall I get it—
A nice little new-laid egg?
My grandmamma told me to run to the barn-yard,
And see if just one I could beg.
“Mooly-cow, Mooly-cow, down in the meadow,
Have you any eggs, I pray?”
The Mooly-cow stares as if I were crazy,
And solemnly stalks away.
“Oh, Doggie, Doggie, perhaps you may have it,
That nice little egg for me.”
But Doggie just wags his tail and capers,
And never an egg has he.
“Now, Dobbin, Dobbin, I’m sure you must have one,
Hid down in your manger there,”
But Dobbin lays back his ears and whinnies,
With “Come and look, if you dare!”
“Piggywig, Piggywig, grunting and squealing,
Are you crying ‘Fresh eggs for sale’?
No! Piggy, you’re very cold and unfeeling,
With that impudent quirk in your tail.”
“You wise old Gobbler, you look so knowing,
I’m sure you can find me an egg.
You stupid old thing! just say ‘Gobble-gobble.’
And balance yourself on one leg.”
Oh! how shall I get it, how shall I get it—
That little white egg so small?
I’ve asked every animal here in the barnyard,
And they won’t give me any at all.
But after I’d hunted until I was tired
I found—not one egg, but ten!
And you never could guess where they all were hidden—
Right under our old speckled hen! —Laura E. Richards

Every Time I Climb a Tree
Every time I climb a tree
I scrape a leg
Or skin a knee
And every time I climb a tree
I find some ants
Or dodge a bee
And get the ants
All over me.
And every time I climb a tree
Where have you been?
They say to me
But don’t they know that I am free
Every time I climb a tree?
I like it best to spot a nest
That has an egg
Or maybe three.
And then I skin
The other leg
But every time I climb a tree
I see a lot of things to see
Swallows, rooftops and TV
And all the fields and farms there be
Every time I climb a tree.
Though climbing may be good for ants
It isn’t awfully good for pants
But still it’s pretty good for me
Every time I climb a tree.
—David McCord

The Friendly Beasts
Jesus our brother, kind and good,
Was humbly born in a stable rude;
The friendly beasts around Him stood,
Jesus our brother, kind and good.
“I,” said the donkey, shaggy and brown,
“I carried His Mother up hill and down;
I carried her safely to Bethlehem town,
I,” said the donkey, shaggy and brown.
“I,” said the cow, all white and red,
“I gave Him my manger for His bed;
I gave Him my hay to pillow His head.
I,” said the cow, all white and red.
“I,” said the sheep with the curly horn,
”I gave Him my wool for a blanket warm.
He wore my coat on Christmas morn.
I,”said the sheep with the curly horn.
“I,” said the dove from the rafters high,
”I cooed Him to sleep so He would not cry,
I cooed Him to sleep, my mate and I.
I,” said the dove from the rafters high.
And every beast, by some good spell,
In the stable dark was glad to tell,
Of the gift he gave Immanuel.
The gift he gave Immanuel.
—An old carol from France

Foreign Lands
Up into the cherry tree
Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands
And looked abroad on foreign lands.
I saw the next door garden lie,
Adorned with flowers, before my eye,
And many pleasant places more
That I had never seen before.
I saw the dimpling river pass
And be the sky’s blue looking-glass;
The dusty roads go up and down
With people trampling in to town.
If I could find a higher tree
Farther and farther I could see,
To where the grown-up river slips
Into the sea among the ships,
To where the roads on either hand
Lead onward into fairyland,
Where all the children dine at five,
And all the playthings come alive.
—Robert Louis Stevenson

Arithmetic
Arithmetic is where numbers fly
like pigeons in and out of your head.
Arithmetic tells you how many you lose or win
if you know how many you had
before you lost or won.
Arithmetic is seven eleven all good children
go to heaven—or five six bundle of sticks.
Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your
head to your hand to your pencil to
your paper
till you get the right answer ...
If you have two animal crackers, one good and one bad,
and you eat one and a striped zebra
with streaks all over him eats the other,
how many animal crackers will you have
if somebody offers you five six seven
and you say
No no no and you say Nay nay nay
And you say Nix nix nix?
If you ask your mother for one fried egg
for breakfast and she gives you
two fried eggs and you
eat both of them, who is better
in arithmetic
you or your mother?
—Carl Sandburg

The Gift of Friendship
Friendship is a priceless gift that cannot
be bought or sold
But its value is far greater than a
mountain made of gold.
For gold is cold and lifeless, it can neither
see nor hear,
And in the time of trouble, it is powerless
to cheer.
It has no ears to listen, no heart to
understand.
It cannot bring you comfort, or reach out
a helping hand.
So when you ask God for a gift, be
thankful if He sends
Not diamonds, pearls or riches, but the
love of real true friends.
—Helen Steiner Rice

F. Scott Fitzgerald to His Daughter
Worry about courage
Worry about cleanliness
Worry about efficiency
Worry about horsemanship
Things not to worry about:
Don’t worry about popular opinion
Don’t worry about dolls
Don’t worry about the past
Don’t worry about the future
Don’t worry about growing up
Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don’t worry about triumph
Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don’t worry about mosquitoes
Don’t worry about flies
Don’t worry about insects in general
Don’t worry about parents
Don’t worry about boys
Don’t worry about disappointments
Don’t worry about pleasures
Don’t worry about satisfactions
Things to think about:
What am I really aiming at?
How good am I in comparison to my
contemporaries in regard to:
(a) Scholarship
(b) Do I really understand about
people and am I able to get along
with them?
(c) Am I trying to make my body a
useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

The Good Little Girl
It’s funny how often they say to me, “Jane?”
”Have you been a good girl?”
“Have you been a good girl?”
And when they have said it, they say it again,
I go to a party, I go out to tea,
I go to an aunt for a week at the sea,
I come back from school or from
playing a game;
Wherever I come from, it’s always the same:
“Well?
Have you been a good girl, Jane?”
It’s always the end of the loveliest day:
I went to the Zoo, and they waited to say:
Well, what did they think that I went there to do?
And why should I want to be bad at the Zoo?
And should I be likely to say if I had?
So that’s why it’s funny of Mummy and Dad,
This asking and asking, in case I was bad,
“Well?
Have you been a good girl, Jane?”
—A. A. Milne

Grace at Evening
For all the beauties of the day,
The innocence of childhood’s play,
For health and strength and laughter sweet,
Dear Lord, our thanks we now repeat.
For this our daily gift of food
We offer now our gratitude,
For all the blessings we have known
Our debt of gratefulness we own.
Here at the table now we pray,
Keep us together down the way;
May this, our family circle, be
Held fast by love and unity.
Grant, when the shades of night shall fall,
Sweet be the dreams of one and all;
And when another day shall break
Unto Thy service may we wake.
—Edgar A. Guest

Hide and Seek
I looked in the house.
I looked in the yard.
I looked near the swing.
I looked very hard.
I called your name
And peeked near the stair,
And searched the garage
I looked everywhere!
So, come out! Come out! Wherever you are—
I know you can’t be very far.
Come out! Come out! Let’s start all over.
It’s no fun finding such a rover.
Aha! I see you! You can’t fool me.
There you are behind the tree.
Oh, no! Don’t say the game is ended.
I think Hide and Seek is splendid!
—Mimi Brodsky

Hiding
I’m hiding, I’m hiding;
And no one knows where,
For all they can see is my
Toes and my hair.
And I just heard my father
Say to my mother—
“But, darling, he must be
Somewhere or other;
Have you looked in the ink well?”
And Mother said, “Where?”
“In the INK well,” said Father. But
I was not there.
Then “Wait!” cried my mother
“I think that I see
Him under the carpet.” But
It was not me.
“Inside the mirror’s
A pretty good place,”
Said Father and looked but saw
Only his face.
“We’ve hunted,” sighed Mother,
“As hard as we could
And I AM so afraid that we’ve
Lost him for good.”
Then I laughed out aloud
And I wiggled my toes
And Father said— “Look, Dear
I wonder if those
Toes could be Benny’s.
There are ten of them. See?”
And they were so surprised to find
Out it was me! —Dorothy Aldis

I Am an American
“I was born an American; I live an American; I shall
die an American and I intend to perform the duties
incumbent upon me in that character to the end of
my career. I mean to do this with absolute disregard
of personal consequences.”
“What are the personal consequences? What is the
individual man, with all the good or evil that may
betide him in comparison with the good or evil
which may befall a great country and in the midst
of great transactions which may concern that
country’s fate?”
“Let the consequences be what they will, I am
careless. No man can suffer too much and no man
can fall too soon, if he suffers, or if he fall, in the
defense of the liberties and the Constitution of his
country.”
—Daniel Webster

If You Were
If you were busy being kind,
Before you knew it, you would find
You’d soon forget to think ‘twas true
That someone was unkind to you.
If you were busy being glad,
And cheering people who are sad,
Although your heart might ache a bit,
You’d soon forget to notice it.
If you were busy being good,
And doing just the best you could,
You’d not have time to blame some man
Who’s doing just the best he can.
If you were busy being right,
You’d find yourself too busy quite
To criticize your neighbor long
Because he’s busy being wrong.

An Introduction to Dogs
The dog is man’s best friend.
He has a tail on one end.
Up in front he has teeth.
And four legs underneath.
Dogs like to bark.
They like it best after dark.
They not only frighten prowlers away
But also hold the sandman at bay.
A dog that is indoors
To be let out implores.
You let him out and what then?
He wants back in again.
Dogs display reluctance and wrath
If you try to give them a bath.
They bury bones in hideaways
And half the time they trot sideways.
They cheer up people who are frowning
And rescue people who are drowning,
They also track in mud on beds,
And chew people’s clothes to shreds.
Dogs in the country have fun.
They run and run and run.
But in the city this species
Is dragged around on leashes.
Dogs are upright as a steeple
And much more loyal than people.
—Ogden Nash

It Is Raining
It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain?
Where would you like to be?
I’d like to be on the city street
Where the rain comes down in a driving sheet,
Where it wets the houses—roofs and wall—
The wagons and horses and autos and all.
That’s where I’d like to be in the rain,
That’s where I’d like to be.
It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain?
Where would you like to be?
I’d like to be on a ship at sea,
Where everything’s wet as wet as can be
And the waves are rolling high,
Where sailors are pulling the rope and singing,
And wind’s in the rigging and salt spray’s singing
And round us sea gulls cry.
On a dipping skimming ship at sea—
That’s where I’d like to be in the rain!
That’s where I’d like to be!
—Lucy Sprague Mitchell

I Meant to Do My Work Today
I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand—
So what could I do but laugh and go?
—Richard Le Gallienne

Jonathan Bing
Poor old Jonathan Bing
Went out in his carriage to visit the King,
But everyone pointed and said, “Look at that!
Jonathan Bing has forgotten his hat!”
(He’d forgotten his hat!)
Went home and put on a new hat for the King,
But up by the palace a soldier said, “Hi!
You can’t see the King: you’ve forgotten your tie!”
(He’s forgotten his tie!)
He put on a beautiful tie for the King,
But when he arrived an Archbishop said, “Ho!
You can’t come to court in pajamas, you know!”
Went home and addressed a short note to the King:
If you please will excuse me
I won’t come to tea;
For home’s the best place for
All people like me!
—Beatrice Curtis Brown

Kindness to Animals
Little children, never give
Pain to things that feel and live;
Let the gentle robin come
For the crumbs you save at home;
As his meat you throw along
He’ll repay you with a song.
Never hurt the timid hare
Peeping from her green grass lair,
Let her come and sport and play
On the lawn at close of day.
The little lark goes soaring high
To the bright windows of the sky,
Singing as if ‘twere always spring,
And fluttering on an untired wing—
Oh! let him sing his happy song,
Nor do these gentle creatures wrong.

The Lamb
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee:
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
—William Blake

The Lamplighter
My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;
It’s time to take the window to see Leerie going by;
For every night at teatime and before you take
your seat
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up
the street.
Now Tom would be the driver and Maria go to sea,
And my Papa’s a banker and as rich as he can be;
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what
I’m to do,
O Leerie, I’ll go round at night and light the
lamps with you.
For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And oh! before you hurry by with ladder and
with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight!

The Land of Storybooks
At evening, when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowl about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear Land of Story-Books.

The Library
It looks like any building
When you pass it on the street,
Made of stone and glass and marble,
Made of iron and concrete.
But once inside you can ride
A camel or a train,
Visit Rome, Siam, or Nome,
Feel a hurricane,
Meet a king, learn to sing,
How to bake a pie,
Go to sea, plant a tree,
Find how airplanes fly,
Train a horse, and of course
Have all the dogs you’d like,
See the moon, a sandy dune,
Or catch a whopping pike.
Everything that books can bring
You’ll find inside those walls.
A world is there for you to share
When adventure calls.
You cannot tell its magic

By the way the building looks,
But there’s wonderment within it,
The wonderment of books.
—Barbara A. Huff

Lincoln
There was a boy of other days,
A quiet, awkward, earnest lad,
Who trudged long weary miles to get
A book on which his heart was set—
And then no candle had!
He was too poor to buy a lamp
But very wise in woodmen’s ways.
He gathered seasoned bough and stem,
And crisping leaf, and kindled them
Into a ruddy blaze.
Then as he lay full length and read,
The firelight flickered on his face
And etched his shadow on the gloom
And made a picture on the room
In that most humble place.
The hard years came, the hard years went,
But gentle, brave and strong of will,
He met them all. And when today
We see his pictured face, we say
“There’s light upon it still.”
—Nancy Byrd Turner

Lincoln’s Story
When Lincoln was a little boy,
He was very, very poor,
His home, a rude hut of logs,
With no window, or a door.
Beside the open fireplace
In winter evenings cold,
He worked out his arithmetic
On a shovel, with charcoal.
He studied all the time he could
His books were old and few,
He read them all so many times
He knew them through and through.
Kind to the aged and the poor,
A cheerful word for all,
He learned to be both wise and good;
Loved by the children small.
When people learned that he was wise,
Honest and kind and true—
They made our Lincoln President—
As it was right to do.
—Author Unknown

I Looked in the Mirror
I looked in the mirror I looked in the closet
And what did I see— And I had to laugh—
A funny little monkey When I saw a long-necked
Looking back at me. Spotty giraffe.
I looked in the kitchen Wherever I looked
And what do you think— I found something queer—
I saw a swan swimming A purple balloon
In the kitchen sink. Or a blue reindeer,
I looked in the icebox A cat in the cupboard
And what do you know— A mouse in the tea—
Sitting on the cheese But I never did find
Was a coal-black crow. What I went out to see.
I looked in the bedroom No, I never did find
And under the bed— What I set out to see—
I saw a little beetle I looked everywhere
Stark stone dead. But I never found—me.
I looked in the bathroom —Beatrice Schenk DeRegniers
And sitting in the tub—
Was a big polar bear
And her little bear cub.

The Lost Shoe
Poor little Lucy
By some mischance, In French, Dutch, Latin,
Lost her shoe And Portuguese.
As she did dance: Ships the dark seas
‘Twas not on the stairs, Went plunging through,
Not in the hall; But none brought news
Not where they sat Of Lucy’s shoe;
At supper at all. And still she patter
She looked in the garden, In silk and leather,
But there it was not; O’er snow, sand, shingle,
Henhouse, or kennel, In every weather;
Or high dovecote. Spain, and Africa,
Dairy and meadow, Hindustan,
And wild woods through Java, China, and lamped Japan;
Showed not a trace Plain and desert,
Of Lucy’s shoe. She hops-hops through,
Bird nor bunny Pernambuco to gold Peru;
Nor glimmering moon Mountain and forest,
Breathed a whisper And river too,
Of where ‘twas gone. All the world over
It was cried and cried, For her lost shoe.
Oyez and Oyez! —Walter de la Mare

A Mortifying Mistake
I studied my tables over and over,
and backward and forward too;
But I couldn’t remember six times nine,
and I didn’t know what to do,
Till my sister told me to play with my
doll, and not to bother my head.
“If you call her ‘Fifty-four’ for a
while, you’ll learn it by hear,” she said
So I took my favorite, Mary Ann
(though I thought ‘twas a dreadful shame
To give such a perfectly lovely child
such a perfectly horrid name),
And I called her my dear little “Fifty-four”
a hundred time, till I knew
The answer of six times nine as well
as the answer to two times two.
Next day Elizabeth Wiggleworth,
who always acts so proud,
Said, “Six times nine is fifty-two,”
and I nearly laughed aloud!
But I wished I hadn’t when teacher said,
“Now, Dorothy, tell if you can.”
For I thought of my doll, and ‘sakes alive!—
I answered “Mary Ann!”
—Anna Maria Pratt

Mummy Slept Late and Daddy Fixed Breakfast
Daddy fixed breakfast.
He made us each a waffle.
It looked like gravel pudding.
It tasted something awful.
“Ha, ha,” he said, “I’ll try again.
This time I’ll get it right.”
But what I got was in between
Bituminous and anthracite.
“A little too well done? Oh well,
I’ll have to start all over.”
That time what landed on my plate
Looked like a manhole cover.
I tried to cut it with a fork
The fork gave off a spark.
I tried a knife and twisted it
Into a question mark.
I tried it with a hack-saw.
I tried it with a torch.
It didn’t even make a dent.
It didn’t even scorch.
The next time Dad gets breakfast
When Mummy’s sleeping late,
I think I’ll skip the waffles.
I’d sooner eat the plate!
—John Ciardi

My Dog
His nose is short and scrubby;
His ears hang rather low;
And he always brings the stick back,
No matter how far you throw.
He gets spanked rather often
For things he shouldn’t do
Like lying-on-beds, and barking,
And eating up shoes when they’re new.
He always wants to be going
Where he isn’t supposed to go.
He tracks up the house when it’s snowing
Oh, puppy, I love you so.
He sits and begs, he gives a paw,
He is, as you can see,
The finest dog you ever saw,
And he belongs to me.
He follows everywhere I go
And even when I swim.
I laugh because he thinks, you know,
That I belong to him.
But still no matter what we do
We never have a fuss;
And so I guess it must be true
That we belong to us.
—Marchette Chute

My Shadow
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For sometimes he shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.
He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see;
I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

My Speech
Folks think I’m such a tiny tot And then another voice replied
That I can’t make a speech, “I’m sorry you are sad,
For someone said to Mamma But misery loves company
I am too young to teach. And I am just as bad.
But I can tell a story I’ve worked all day from morn till eve,
I’m sure you never heard; Right side by side with you;
And if you’ll only listen, I’ve suffered woes, until, until—
I’ll tell you every word. My sole’s worn through and through.
One morning very early Then let us creep together, close,
I heard a whisper low, Our waning life to spend;
It came from near my bedside, For this is just a solemn fact,
This little voice, you know. We are too bad to mend.”
“Oh dear, I’m very wretched, Just then I opened my eyes
Is any one more tried? To hear such awful news,
For just behold my trouble, And by my bed I only saw
I’m broken in my side. My little worn-out shoes.
I’m torn and bruised and scratched —Mrs. E. H. Goodfellow
And grown so very thin,
It is indeed a really sad
Condition I am in.”

The Owl and the Pussycat
The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are, You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose, His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon, The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
—Edward Lear

The Pancake Collector
Come visit my pancake collection,
it’s unique in the civilized world.
I have pancakes for every description,
pancakes flaky and fluffy and curled.
I have pancakes of various sizes,
pancakes regular, heavy and light,
underdone pancakes and overdone pancakes,
and pancakes done perfectly right.
I have pancakes locked up in the closets,
I have pancakes on hangers and hooks.
They’re in bags and in boxes and bureaus,
and pressed in the pages of books.
There are pretty ones sewn to the cushions
and tastefully pinned to the drapes.
The ceilings are coated with pancakes,
and the carpets are covered with crepes.
I have pancakes in most of my pockets,
and concealed in the linings of suits.
There are tiny ones stuffed in my mittens
and larger ones packed in my boots.
I see that you’ve got to be going,
Won’t you let yourselves out by the door?
It is time that I pour out the batter
and bake up a few hundred more.
—Jack Prelutsky

Puppy and I
I met a man as I went walking; (I said to the Woman as she went by)
We got talking, “Down to the village to get some barley.
Man and I. Will you come with me?” “No, not I.”
“Where are you going to, Man?” I said.
I met some Rabbits as I went walking;
(I said to the Man as he went by)
We got talking,
“Down to the village to get some bread.
Rabbits and I.
Will you come with me?” “No, not I.”
“Where are you going in your brown fur
I met a horse as I went walking; coats?”
We got talking, (I said to the Rabbits as they went by)
Horse and I. “Down to the village to get some oats.
“Where are you going to, Horse, today?” Will you come with us?” “No, not I.”
(I said to the Horse as he went by)
I met a Puppy as I went walking;
“Down to the village to get some hay.
We got talking,
Will you come with me?” “No, not I.”
Puppy and I.
I met a Woman as I went walking; “Where are you going this fine day?”
We got talking, (I said to the Puppy as he went by)
Woman and I. “Up in the hills to roll and play.”
“Where are you going to, Woman, so “I’ll come with you, Puppy,” said I.
early?”
—A. A. Milne

A Sea-Song from the Shore
Hail! Ho!
Sail! Ho!
Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!
Who calls to me,
So far at sea?
Only a little boy!
Sail! Ho!
Hail! Ho!
The sailor he sails the sea,
I wish he would capture
A little sea-horse
And send him home to me.
I wish, as he sails
Through the tropical gales,
He would catch me a sea-bird, too,
With its silver wings
And the song it sings,
And its breast of down and dew!
I wish he would catch me
A little Mermaid,
Some island where he lands,
And her dripping curls,
And her crown of pearls,
And the looking-glass in her hands!
Hail! Ho!
Sail! Ho!
Sail far o’er the fabulous main!
And if I were a sailor,
I’d sail with you,
Though I never sail back again!
—James Whitcomb Riley

The Secret Cavern
Underneath the boardwalk, way, way back
There’s a splendid cavern, big and black.
If you want to get there, you must crawl
Underneath the posts and steps and all.
When I’ve finished paddling, there I go—
None of all the other children know!
There I keep my treasures in a box
Shells and colored glass, and queer-shaped rocks,
In a secret hiding-place I’ve made,
Hollowed out with clamshells and a spade,
Marked with yellow pebbles in a row—
It’s a place that makes a splendid lair,
Room for chests and weapons and one chair.
In the farthest corner, by the stones,
I shall have a flag with skulls and bones
And a lamp that casts a lurid glow—
Some time, by and by, when I am grown
I shall go and live there all alone;
I shall dig and paddle till it’s dark,
Then go out and man my private bark;
I shall fill my cave with captive foe—
—Margaret Viddemer

Sermons We See
I’d rather see a sermon than hear one any day,
I’d rather one should walk with me than merely show the way.
The eye’s a better pupil and more willing than the ear;
Fine counsel is confusing, but example’s always clear;
And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds,
For to see the good in action is what everybody needs.
I can soon learn how to do it if you’ll let me see it done.
I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run.
And the lectures you deliver may be very wise and true;
But I’d rather get my lesson by observing what you do.
For I may misunderstand you and the high advice you give,
But there’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.
—Edgar A. Guest

Spring
I’m shouting
I’m singing
I’m swinging through trees
I’m winging skyhigh
With the buzzing black bees.
I’m the sun
I’m the moon
I’m the dew on the rose.
I’m a rabbit
Whose habit
Is twitching his nose.
I’m lively
I’m lovely
I’m kicking my heels.
I’m crying “Come dance”
To the freshwater eels.
I’m racing through meadows
Without any coat
I’m a gamboling lamb
I’m a light leaping goat
I’m a bud
I’m a bloom
I’m a dove on the wing.
I’m running on rooftops
And welcoming spring!
—Karla Kuskin

The Story of the Baby Squirrel
He ran right out of the woods to me,
Little and furry and panting with fright;
I offered a finger just to see—
And both of his paws held on to it tight.
Was it dogs that had scared him? A crashing limb?
I waited a while but there wasn’t a sign
Of his mother coming to rescue him,
So then I decided he was mine.
I lifted him up and he wasn’t afraid
To ride along in the crook of my arm.
“A very fine place,” he thought, “just made
For keeping me comfortable, safe, and warm.”
At home he seemed happy to guzzle his milk
Out of an eye dropper six times a day.
We gave him a pillow of damask silk
On which he very royally lay.
He frisked on the carpets, he whisked up the stairs,
(Where he played with some soap ‘til it made him sneeze).
He loved it exploring the tables and chairs,
And he climbed up the curtains exactly like trees.
We watched his fuzzy gray stomach swell.
He grew until he could leave a dent
In the pillow on which he’d slept so well—
And then ... Oh, then one morning he went.
Perhaps a squirrel around the place
Adopted him: oh, we’re certain it’s true
For once a little looking down face
Seemed to be saying: “How do you do?”
—Dorothy A. Idis

The Story of Flying Robert
When the rain comes tumbling down
In the country or the town,
All good little girls and boys
Stay at home and mind their toys.
Robert thought, “No, when it pours,
It is better out of doors.”
Rain it did, and in a minute
Bob was in it
Here you see him, silly fellow,
Underneath his red umbrella.
What a wind! Oh! how it whistles
Through the trees and flowers and thistles!
It had caught his red umbrella;
Now look at him, silly fellow,
Up he flies
To the skies.
No one heard his screams and cries,
Through the clouds the rude wind bore him,
And his hat flew on before him.
Soon they got to such a height,
They were nearly out of sight!
And the hat went up so high,
That it really touched the sky.
No one ever yet could tell
Where they stopped or where they fell:
Only, this one thing is plain,
Bob was never seen again!
—From the German of Heinrich Hoffman

Tell Him So
If you have a word of cheer that may
light the pathway drear,
Of a brother pilgrim here, let him know.
Show him you appreciate what he does and do not wait
Till the heavy hand of fate lays him low.
If your heart contains a thought that will
brighter make his lot,
Then, in mercy, hide it not; tell him so.
Wait not till your friend is dead ‘ere your
compliments are said;
For the spirit that has fled, if it know,
does not need to speed it on
Our poor praise; where it has gone,
love’s eternal, golden dawn is aglow.
But unto our brother here that poor praise
is very dear;
If you’ve any word of cheer, tell him so.
—F. A. Egerton

This and That
Mary Mcguire’s our cook, you know;
And Bridget McCann, our neighbor,
Does whatever she finds to do,
And lives by honest labor;
And every morning when she comes
To help about the dairy,
“A foine day this!” says Bridget McCann,
“It is that!” answers Mary.
It may be June, or it may be March
With sleet and wild winds blowing,
Whether it’s warm and bright, and fair,
Or whether it’s cold and snowing,
Bridget McCann comes bouncing in
Her cheeks as red as a cherry,
And “A foine day this!” she always says
“It is that!” answers Mary.
—Florence Boyce Davis

Three Little Kittens
Three little kittens lost their mittens, Soiled your mitten!
And they began to cry, You naughty kittens!
O mother dear, Then they began to sigh.
We sadly fear Mew, mew, mew.
That we have lost our mittens.
The three little kittens washed their mittens
Lost your mittens! And hung them out to dry.
You naughty kittens! O mother dear,
Then you shall have no pie. Look here, look here!
Mew, mew, mew. See! We have washed our mittens.
No, you shall have no pie.
Washed your mittens!
Mew, mew, mew.
Oh, you’re good kittens.
Three little kittens found their mittens, But I smell a rat close by.
Hush! Hush! Mew, mew.
Found your mittens,
We smell a rat near by.
You little kittens,
Mew, mew, mew.
Then you may have some pie.
Purr, purr, purr. —Eliza Cook
Oh, let us have the pie.
Purr, purr, purr.
The three little kittens put on their mittens,
And soon ate up their pie.
O mother dear
We greatly fear
That we have soiled our mittens.

Tiger-Cat Tim
Timothy Tim was a very small cat
Who looked like a tiger the size of a rat.
There were little black stripes running all over him,
With just enough white on his feet for a trim
On Tiger-Cat Tim.
Timothy Tim had a little pink tongue
That was spoon, comb, and washcloth all made into one.
He lapped up his milk, washed and combed all his fur,
And then he sat down in the sunshine to purr.
Full little Tim!
Timothy Tim had a queer little way
Of always pretending at things in his play.
He caught pretend mice in the grass and sand,
And fought pretend cats when he played with your hand,
Fierce little Tim!
He drank all his milk, and he grew and grew.
He ate all his meat and his vegetables too.
He grew very big and he grew very fat,
And now he’s a lazy old, sleepy old cat,
Timothy Tim!
—Edith H. Newlin

Trees
Trees are the kindest things I know,
They do no harm, they simply grow.
And spread a shade for sleepy cows,
And gather birds among their boughs.
They give us fruit in leaves above,
And wood to make our houses of,
And leaves to burn on Halloween
And in the spring new buds of green.
They are the first when day’s begun
To touch the beams of morning sun.
They are the last to hold the light
When evening changes into night.
And when a moon floats on the sky
They hum a drowsy lullaby.
Of sleepy children long ago.
Trees are the kindest things I know.
—Harry Behn

Trees
To me trees are the loveliest things,
Their friendly arms always outspread;
Sometimes in them I see bright wings,
A nest, and then a young bird’s head.
I love the trees when morning dew
Like prisms hang, or diamonds rare;
I love them in the noontide too;
They shield me from the sun’s warm glare.
I love them in the autumn when
They deck themselves in gay attire;
They flaunt their colors proudly then,
And blaze as with a living fire.
I love them when the breezes blow
The dancing, trembling, painted leaves;
I love them when the fleecy snow
Among their branches magic weaves.
When in the mellow moonlight glow,
As sentinels I see them stand,
I hear their voices soft and low;
They tell me tales of fairyland.
—Grace Oakes Burton

Two Little Maids
Little Miss Nothing-to-do
Is fretful and cross and so blue,
And the light in her eyes
Is all dim when she cries
And her friends, they are few, Oh, so few!
Her dolls, they are nothing but sawdust and clothes,
Whenever she wants to go skating it snows,
And everything’s criss-cross, the world is askew!
I wouldn’t be Little Miss Nothing-to-do
Would you?
Little Miss Busy-all-day
Is cheerful and happy and gay
And she isn’t a shirk
For she smiles at her work
And she romps when it comes time for play.
Her dolls, they are princesses, blue-eyed and fair,
She makes them a throne from a rickety chair,
And everything happens the jolliest way,
I’d rather be Little Miss Busy-all-day, Hurray,
I’d rather be Little Miss Busy-all-day, I say.
—James W. Foley

The Unwinged Ones
I don’t travel on planes.
I travel on trains.
Once in a while, on trains,
I see people who travel on planes.
Every once in a while I’m surrounded
By people whose planes have been grounded.
I’m enthralled by their air-minded snobbery,
Their exclusive hobnobbery.
They feel that they have to explain
How they happen to be on a train,
For even in Drawing Room A
They seem to feel déclassé
So they sit with portentous faces
Clutching their attaché cases.
They grumble and fume about how
They’d have been in Miami by now.
By the time that they’re passing through Rahway
They should be in Havana or Norway,
And they strongly imply that perhaps,
Since they’re late, the world will collapse.
Sometimes on the train I’m
By people whose planes have been grounded.
That’s the only trouble with trains;
When it fogs, when it smogs, when it rains,
You get people from planes.
—Ogden Nash

Us Two
Wherever I am, there’s always Pooh, “As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
There’s always Pooh and Me. That’s what they are,” said Pooh, said he.
Whatever I do, he wants to do. “That’s what they are,” said Pooh.
“Where are you going today?” says Pooh:
“Let’s frighten the dragons,” I said to Pooh.
“Well, that’s very odd ‘cos I was too.
“That’s right,” said Pooh to Me.
Let’s go together,” says Pooh, says he.
“I’m not afraid,” I said to Pooh.
“Let’s go together,” says Pooh.
And I held his paw and I shouted “Shoo!
“What’s twice eleven?” I said to Pooh. Silly old dragons!” and off they flew.
(“Twice what?” said Pooh to Me.) “I wasn’t afraid,” said Pooh, said he.
“I think it ought to be twenty-two.” “I’m never afraid with you.”
“Just what I think myself,” said Pooh,
So wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,
“It wasn’t an easy sum to do,
There’s always Pooh and Me.
But that’s what it is,” said Pooh, said he.
“What would I do?” I said to Pooh,
“That’s what it is,” said Pooh.
“If it wasn’t for you,” and Pooh said: “True,
“Let’s look for dragons,” I said to Pooh. It isn’t much fun for One, but Two
“Yes, let’s,” said Pooh to Me. Can stick together,” says Pooh, says he.
We crossed the river and found a few
“That’s how it is,” says Pooh.
”Yes, those are dragons all right,” said
Pooh. —A. A. Milne

Very Early
When I wake in the early mist
The sun has hardly shown
And everything is still asleep
And I’m awake alone.
The stars are faint and flickering.
The sun is new and shy.
And all the world sleeps quietly,
Except the sun and I.
And then beginning noises start,
The whirrs and huffs and hums,
The birds peep out to find a worm,
The mice squeak out for crumbs,
The calf moos out to find the cow,
And taste the morning air
And everything is wide awake
And running everywhere.
The dew has dried,
The fields are warm,
The day is loud and bright,
And I’m the one who woke the sun
And kissed the stars good night.
—Karla Kuskin

Vespers
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head,
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
God bless Mummy. I know that’s right.
Wasn’t it fun in the bath tonight?
The cold’s so cold and the hot’s so hot.
Oh! God bless Daddy—I quite forgot.
If I open my fingers a little bit more,
I can see Nanny’s dressing gown on the door.
It’s a beautiful blue, but it hasn’t a hood.
Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.
Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed,
And pull the hood right over my head,
And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small,
And nobody knows that I’m here at all.
Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day.
And what was the other I had to say?
I said “Bless Daddy,” so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. God bless Me.
Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
—A. A. Milne

The Wayfaring Song
O who will walk a mile with me
Along life’s merry way?
A comrade blithe and full of glee,
Who dares to laugh out loud and free
And let his frolic fancy play,
Like a happy child, through the flowers gay
That fill the field and fringe the way
Where he walks a mile with me.
And who will walk a mile with me
Along life’s weary way?
A friend whose heart has eyes to see
The stars shine out o’er the darkening lea,
And the quiet rest at the end o’ the day
A friend who knows, and dares to say,
The brave, sweet words that cheer the way
Where he walks a mile with me.
With such a comrade, such a friend,
I fain would walk till journey’s end,
Through summer sunshine, winter rain,
And then?—Farewell, we shall meet again!
—Henry Van Dyke

What Have We Done Today?
We shall do much in the years to come
But what have we done today?
We shall give our gold in a princely sum,
But what did we give today?
We shall lift the heart and dry the tear,
We shall plant a hope in the place of fear,
We shall speak the words of love and cheer,
But what did we speak today?
We shall be so kind in the after while,
But have we been today?
We shall bring to each lonely life a smile
But what have we brought today?
We shall give to truth a grander birth,
And to steadfast faith a deeper worth,
We shall feed the hungering souls of earth.
But whom have we fed today?
We shall reap such joys in the by-and-by,
But what have we sown today?
We shall build us mansions in the sky,
But what have we built today?
‘Tis sweet in the idle dreams to bask;
But here and now, do we our task?
Yet, this is the thing our souls must ask,
What have we done today?
—Nixon Waterman

What Is a Teacher
What is a teacher? She’s so much that’s fine,
A precious companion, a mother part-time;
She patches up bruises and wipes away tears,
With a kind understanding, she banishes fears.
A teacher is blessed with a patience so rare,
A voice soft and gentle, a heart sweet and fair,
She lends of her knowledge that each child might see
The reason for learning, and accept graciously.
What is a teacher ... a heartwarming smile,
A very good listener, so much that’s worthwhile.
A playmate at recess, what pleasant delight,
A stern referee if someone starts a fight.
A teacher is laughter, she’s pleasant and gay
Yet she disciplines firmly, should a child disobey;
An adult or a playmate, she has too much to lend.
What is a teacher? A child’s dearest friend.
—Garnett Ann Schultz

The Wind
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass—
O wind, a-blowing all day long
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song.

Which Loved Best
“I love you, mother,” said little John;
Then, forgetting work, his cap went on,
And he was off to the garden swing,
Leaving his mother the wood to bring.
“I love you, mother,” said rosy Nell;
“I love you better than tongue can tell;”
Then she teased and pouted full half the day,
Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play.
“I love you, mother,” said little Fran;
“Today I’ll help you all I can;
How glad I am that school doesn’t keep!”
So she rocked the baby till it fell asleep.
Then, stepping softly, she took the broom,
And swept the floor, and dusted the room;
Busy and happy all day was she,
Helpful and cheerful as child could be.
“I love you, mother,” again they said—
Three little children going to bed;
How do you think that mother guessed
Which of them really loved her best?
—Joy Allison

Work
Let me but do my work from day to day,
In field or forest, the desk or loom,
In roaring market-place or tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,
“This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;
Of all who live, I am the one by whom
This work can best be done in the right way.”
Then shall I see it not too great, nor small.
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;
Then shall I cheerful greet the laboring hours,
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
At eventide, to play and love and rest,
Because I know for me my work is best.
—Henry Van Dyke

The World’s Bible
Christ has no hands but our hands
To do His work today;
He has no feet but our feet
To lead men in His way;
He has no tongue but our tongue
To tell men how He died;
He has no help but our help
To bring them to His side.
We are the only Bible
The careless world will read;
We are the sinner’s gospel,
We are the scoffer’s creed;
We are the Lord’s last message,
Given in deed and word;
What if the type is crooked?
What if the print is blurred?
What if our hands are busy
With other work than His?
What if our feet are walking
Where sin’s allurement is?
What if our tongues are speaking
Of things His lips would spurn.
How can we hope to help Him
And hasten His return?
—Annie Johnson Flint

A Wrecker or a Builder
I watched them tearing a building down,
A gang of men in a busy town.
With a ho-heave-ho and a lusty yell
They swung a beam and the side wall fell.
I said to the foreman,
“Are these men skilled,
And the ones you’d hire
If you had to build?”
He gave a laugh and said, “No, indeed,
Just common labor is all I need.
I can easily wreck in a day or two
What builders have taken a year to do.”
And I thought to myself,
As I went my way,
“Which of these roles
Am I trying to play?
Am I shaping my life
To a well-made plan
Patiently doing the
Best that I can?
Am I doing my work
With the utmost care,
Measuring life
By the rule and square?
Oram I a wrecker
Who wrecks the town
Content with the labor
Of tearing down?”
—Edgar A. Guest

Written in March
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter.
The green field sleeps in the sun:
The oldest and the youngest
Are at work with the strongest,
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding as one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated.
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon;
There’s joy in the mountains;
There’s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
—William Wordsworth

Yesterday in Oxford Street
Yesterday in Oxford Street, oh, what d’you think, my dears?
I had the most exciting time I’ve had for years and years;
The buildings looked so straight and tall, the sky was blue between
And riding on a motor-bus, I saw the fairy queen!
Sitting there upon the rail and bobbing up and down,
The sun was shining on her wings and on her golden crown;
And looking at the shops she was, the pretty silks and lace—
She seemed to think that Oxford Street was quite a lovely place.
And once she turned and looked at me, and waved her little hand;
But I could only stare and stare—oh, would she understand?
I simply couldn’t speak at all, I simply couldn’t stir,
And all the rest of Oxford Street was just a shining blur.
Then suddenly she shook her wings—a bird had fluttered by—
And down into the street she looked and up into the sky;
And perching on the railing on a tiny fairy toe,
She flashed away so quickly that I hardly saw her go.
I never saw her any more, altho’ I looked all day:
Perhaps she only came to peep, and never meant to stay;
But, oh, my dears, just think of it, just think what luck for me,
That she should come to Oxford Street, and I be there to see!
—Rose Fyleman

California/Hawaii South-Central
California, Hawaii Arkansas, Kansas, Louisiana, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas
Megan Ilertsen • megan_ilertsen@acsi.org Tricia Hays
Dale Phillips • dale_phillips@acsi.org 2001 W. Plano Parkway, Suite 3600, Plano, TX 75075
910 E. Birch St., Suite 260, Brea, CA 92821-5854 972-941-4411 • Fax 972-941-4405 • tricia_hays@acsi.org
714-256-1287 • Fax 714-256-4085 • megan_ilertsen@acsi.org
Southeast
Eastern Canada Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina,
New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island Tennessee, Virginia
Ginny Kennedy Jana Csehy
1 Wenden Ct., R.R. #2, Minesing, ON L0L 1Y2 Canada P.O. Box 1537, Snellville, GA 30078-1537
705-728-7344 • Fax 705-728-4401 • gkennedy@acsiec.org 770-985-5840 • Fax 770-985-5847 • jana_csehy@acsi.org
Florida Western Canada

Florida Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, Saskatchewan
Jon Sprankle Tina Martin
461 Plaza Dr., Suite C, Dunedin, Florida 34698 44 Willow Brook Dr. N.W., Airdrie, AB T4B 2J5 Canada
727-734-7096 • Fax 727-734-3666 • jon_sprankle@acsi.org 403-948-2332 • Fax 403-948-2395 • info@acsiwc.org
Mid-America/Ohio River Valley

Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Michigan, Minnesota, Nebraska,
North Dakota, Ohio, South Dakota, West Virginia, Wisconsin Headquarters
Roberta (Bobbie) Kelly Teresa Bolton
6755 Weaver Rd., Suite 1, Rockford, IL 61114 731 Chapel Hills Drive, Colorado Springs, Colorado 80920
815-282-7070 • Fax 815-282-7086 • bobbie_kelly@acsi.org 719-528-6906 • Fax 719-531-0631 • www.acsi.org
Northeast
Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Maine, Maryland,
Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York,
Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, Vermont
Julie Phipps
845 Silver Spring Plaza, Suite B, Lancaster, PA 17601-1183
717-285-3022 • Fax 717-285-2128 • julie_phipps@acsi.org
Northwest
Alaska, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Washington
Denese Lawson
10818 N.E. Coxley Dr., Suite J, Vancouver, WA 98662-6163
360-256-5860 • Fax 360-256-7357 • denese_lawson@acsi.org
Rocky Mountain
Arizona, Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, Wyoming
Kathie Boice
1607 N. Wilmot Rd., Suite 104D, Tucson, AZ 85712
520-514-2897 • Fax 520-514-0994 • kathie_boice@acsi.org

Grade 3 Poetry

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ELEMENTARY SPEECH

3RD GRADE POETRY

Please note: These are not required poems, but examples of

© 2013, Association of Christian Schools International

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—Robert P. Tristram Coffin

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—Alice Joyce Davidson

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—Emily Huntington Miller

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—From The Book of Virtues

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—Laraine Eloise Jacobson

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—Cecil Frances Alexander

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—An old carol from France

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—Robert Louis Stevenson

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—From The Book of Virtues

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—Lucy Sprague Mitchell

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—Beatrice Curtis Brown

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Florida Western Canada