Book of the Little Past - Josephine Preston Peabody

Making a House by Josephine Preston Peabody first of all i draw the smoke trailing up the sky then the chimney underneath and birds all flying by then the house and every window watching like an eye everybody else begins with the house but i love the smoke the best of all and you don't know why here it goes like little feathers sailing up the sky End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

The Busy Child by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Betty B.

The Busy Child I have so many things to do I don't know when I shall be through Today I had to watch the rain Come sliding down the window-pane and i was humming all the time around my head a kind of rhyme and blowing softly on the glass to see the dimness come and pass i made a picture with my breath rubbed out to show the underneath i built a city on the floor and then i went and was a war and i escaped from square to square that's greener on the carpet there until at last i came to us but it was very dangerous Because if I had stepped outside, I made believe I should have died.

And now I have the boat to mend, And all our supper to pretend.

I am so busy all the day, I haven't any time to play.

Sunset by Josephine Preston Peabody.

Read for LibriVox.org by Recording Person.

Sunset.

Those islands far away are mine, beyond the cloudy strip, and something beautiful besides.

I think it is a ship.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Wind by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia Wind I let them call it just the wind And tell me not to grieve But I know all it left behind And more than they believe I know about the far-off lands Where people never sleep They hide their faces in their hands And rock and weep and weep And I too little, all alone, To go and find them yet, But, oh, I hear, when I am grown, I never will forget.

my father brought somebody up to show us all asleep they came as softly up the stairs as you could creep they whispered in the doorway there and looked at us awhile i had my eyes shut up but i could feel him smile i shut my eyes up close and lay as still as i could keep because i knew he wanted us to be asleep End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Cakes and Ale by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia Cakes and Ale I'm always glad when Andrew comes.

If only I am there, he stays a while and talks to me, as if he did not care.

He took me to some music once, when it was all for me, and, oh, I had a splendid time, and he said, so did he.

It lasts as if the music still went round and round the sky.

He said he had a good time too, and I said, so did I. the journey i never saw the hills so far and blue the way the pictures are and flowers flowers growing thick but not a one for me to pick the land was running from the train all blurry through the window pane and then it all looked flat and still when up there jumped a little hill i saw the windows and the spires and sparrows sitting on the wires and fences running up and down and then we cut straight through a town i saw a valley like a cup and ponds that twinkled and dried up i counted meadows that were burned and there were trees and then there weren't we crossed the bridges with a roar then hummed the way we went before and tunnels made it dark and light like open work of day and night until i saw the chimneys rise and lights and lights and lights like eyes and when they took me through the door I heard it all begin to roar.

I thought, as far as I could see, that everybody wanted me.

pigeons out walking they never seem to hurry no even for the crowd they dip and coo and move as slow also soft and proud you can see the wavy specks of bubble color on their necks little little cloud cloud that goes the very way all the bubbles do blue and green and green and gray gold and rosy too and they talk as bubbles could if they only ever would talk and call and coo till you try to catch one so just to make it stay while the colors turn but oh then they fly away all at once two three four five like a snowstorm all alive gray and white and gray end of poem this recording is in the public domain

Concerning Love by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia Concerning Love I wish she would not ask me if I love the kitten more than her.

Of course I love her, but I love the kitten too, and it has fur.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

curls curls it happens that way in the world with everything you see some people have their hair all curled some straight as straight can be it is a mystery yes some have hair that waves and clings and does all kinds of curly things and some not ever till they die and nobody knows why and some already born with curls some of them are not even girls i always think of curly hair it looks as if the curls came there the way i hum around a song more things than really do belong the happier i feel the more i sing i never heard before i curl more music round the air the way it looks with curly hair But you may sing all day, you know, You cannot really make it grow, And you may know it is not fair, But that won't give you curly hair.

i was lost i was lost oh the day that i was lost i never shall forget i wake up in the night sometimes and think it's happening yet she let me go a minute she said she would take care but she let me go a minute and then she wasn't there everything grew awful that was good before and the faces didn't look like people any more it made you feel like wrinkles all over you and cold it made you feel two hundred and eighty-nine years old it was like being homesick and hurt when no one cares it was exactly like a wreck and people smiled like bears i thought that my own mother had just forgotten me i thought that god had lost me like a penny in the sea The noise all seemed to grow and grow and roar until it drowned me.

And I could only say, I'm lost.

And then, at last, they found me.

They found me.

the polite visitor polite visitor i feel polite outside the door but when it should begin i can't remember not to ask if just their cat is in and if the sun should sprinkle through along the floor that way i can't remember what i do if i emerge to stay and when i've shaken hands all round no matter how i try i can't remember not to go and kiss their dog good-bye good-bye good-bye Yes, thank you, please.

They're very well.

I think I'd better go.

Yes, thank you, please.

I'm always late.

My mother told me so.

Yes, thank you.

If I have to bring a message, yes, I'll come.

And if your bird will only sing, and when your cat is home.

the mystic the mystic people say to me a penny for your thought and i can't remember thinking and i should think i ought i wasn't sleeping either i know that because i saw things out of both my eyes i wonder where i was Now I'm back, I see them sitting all around, and the noise, together, makes a purring sound.

But I know something more than just a while ago.

I know something more.

I wonder what I know.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

by josephine preston peabody market i went to market yesterday and it is like a fair of everything you'd like to see but nothing live is there the pigeons hanging up to eat and rabbits by their little feet and no one seemed to care and there were fishes out in rows bright ones of every kind some were pink and silver too but all of them were blind Yes, everything you'd like to touch, It would not make you happy much, But no one seemed to mind.

And loveliest of all, a deer, Only its eyes were blurred, And hanging by it very near, A beautiful great bird.

So I could smooth his feathers through, And kiss them very softly too, But oh, he never stirred.

LITTLE SIDE STREETS by Josephine Preston Peabody.

Read for LibriVox.org by Betty B.

LITTLE SIDE STREETS Why are some streets so different? The kittens all are long and thin.

I think they have more flowers there, but broken things to grow them in.

Why do they like the house so high, with such a little of the ground? And do you think they ever see the moon before it's old and round? why won't i like to play there too with all the funny things to eat and all the carts with little bells and dancing music in the street and if i can't then why do they stay out the whole of evening why do they always seem to have just not enough of everything why don't you come why can't i go it isn't fair what makes it so if they don't like it don't you know why do you always never know end of poem this recording is in the public domain

chestnut's dance by josephine preston peabody chestnut's dance i wonder why you feel somehow it's wrong to leave a chestnut stand with all so much of what you want in both your pockets and your hand i always have to turn around it sounds so hurt i don't see why that little high-up crying sound i don't remember by and by there is not anything so good as chestnuts when they're hot can be it must be fun to count them out with one for you and one for me and yet it stays so doleful there for all the people going by and breathing frosty on the air like something trying not to cry It isn't something I was told.

I know it's small and scared and thin.

It's like when both your hands are cold and pockets you can put them in.

Like something happened long ago.

Like feeling homesick, yes, and shy.

Like being sorry when you know you won't remember by and by.

The Plays the Thing by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org I never dared to look away While they were tuning so For fear the curtain might go up And I not see it go Then all at once it all went dark To make you hold your breath and hark Oh, hold your breath and hark Excepting where the curtain was It stayed as black as night and that kept still one minute more all edged across with light then up and up and oh so soon it was like all inside the moon yes sitting in the moon and oh how beautiful they were and could we see them near and oh how brave at everything but it was somehow queer to see that smiling way they had they smiled so much but not all glad No, not so always glad.

I wish we couldn't go away.

I wish it would begin.

All over now, and never end.

I wish we were locked in.

Oh, can't we see it all again? Tomorrow? Sunday? Monday? When? And when? When? End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

windows once and in the daytime too i made myself afraid playing eyelids up and down with the window shade till the houses seemed to watch people going by and they kept me looking too wondering where and why if i were that other boy if i were those men Going by with things to sell.

Who would I be then? Windows with their eyebrows high.

Windows like a frown.

Thinking it all over so.

With the curtains down.

Tall ones that are somehow sad.

Narrow ones that blink.

all the windows you can see make you think and think if i were that old man and i looked up at me watching from the window here oh and how would it be sometimes they are golden with shining in their eyes every time the sun sets it happens like surprise and so bright i almost forget the dream i made but i keep it for the days I want to make myself afraid.

But if I were that boy who limps, Now it's dark and snowing, And if I were going home, Oh, where would I be going? my mother cut it out for me and started it so i could see and then she turned some edges in and let me take it to begin i made it but i did not know how very long it takes to sew i took a long time for that stitch and now it's there i don't know which is better but not one as small and they are not alike at all That side was very hard to fix, And then the needle always pricks.

But you must hold it and take care, Because the point is always there, And knots keep coming by and by, And then, no matter how hard you try, The thread comes out of its old eye.

But some way, now I have it done, I think it is a pretty one.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Ode on the Dog by Josephine Preston Peabody.

Read for livervox.org by recording person.

One.

My pitch-star angel with the rosy tongue, my own, my own, why can't the grown-up things we live among let us alone? Why do they always have to talk the live-long day about such silly things? But if they must, why can't they anyway have either tails or wings? two of course i cannot love them as they are as much as you why aren't they ever really beautiful they two with curly coats like will and floppy ears to pull yes and a wide pink mouth with such a smile yes and a tail that beats time all the while beautiful beautiful and golden stars for eyes behind the darkest trees two he has parted why can't they have such darling ways as these why can't they be so lovely when they sneeze why can't they ever be so tender-hearted or even look so wise as you my wonderful even if you won't say mew my true prince in disguise why can't they be as funny when they try to sing a song and when for everything that i can do they won't agree why can't they think they're always in the wrong like you three why you o precious thing you are swift almost as any sparrow over the tall grass how you arch and spring yes like a bow and arrow oh and how good to see you when it snows plough a long lovely pathway with your nose No one grown up could do it, I suppose.

4.

My dearest blessing and my very own, even when I am grown, never do you forsake me.

If you don't go to heaven when you die, neither will I.

Nothing can ever make me.

I won't go, for all that they can do.

No, on the steps outside and down below, forever and ever and ever, I'll stay too, with you.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

The Sorrows by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Recording Person The Sorrows if this is all it will be like i wish to die i don't care how while i am very very young as young as almost now they never felt what sorrow was or never learned their golden rule they say these are your happiest days with school school school when saturday's all out of breath with the week before in sight and monday coming after you spoils every sunday night And nothing done but yesterday's, And nothing coming but tomorrow's, Don't cheer me up, please let me be, I have the sorrows.

Secrets by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Recording Person

Secrets.

I have a secret to myself

that no one else can see.

i am it over to myself and no one hears but me something you don't know i knew long ago and the more i never tell you it the more it gets to be it makes me feel as purry as the kitten on your knee it makes me feel as round and warm as the sparrow on that tree it makes me puff my feathers out the way he puffs out his and if you think i haven't one i'll tell you what it is maybe This recording is in the public domain.

I know you're in the house.

I know you're in there.

I feel the green and breathing all around the air.

I know you're safe and warm.

I know you're very near.

Oh, darling tree, do you hear? I promise not to look the way I did before, but I can hear you purring, purring through the door.

A green soft purring, just as if you knew.

Everybody here loves you.

Don't feel lonely, now you are indoors.

Wait for all the shining things, tomorrow, all yours.

Then you won't know what to think, all over candlelight.

Oh, darling tree, goodnight.

And I love you, I love you, and everybody too.

And so does the market man that brought us to you.

And if you haven't anything from me this year, I love you, goodnight.

Do you hear? End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Candlelight by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Recording Person Candlelight When I've wished on my first star While the rest begin And the grass is waking up Oh, she calls us in Then she calls us in but I wouldn't go unless I was sure there'd be something more like that indoors, something more to see, beautiful to see.

So she lights the candle then, where the shadows are, and it stands and holds its breath, then it makes a star, then it makes a star.

I curl up for my good night, dark where I can see, and I watch the candle light till it looks at me, oh, it looks at me.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Cowbells by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Panama Cowbells I've followed till the sun was down As low as to the very brink And still the pathway kept along Around the world, I think i've tried to find it everywhere a bell would clink and clink and call but some way i can never find that farthest one of all i've been in all the tallest weeds and thistles with the loudest bees and once across the stepping-stones and through the cedar trees and now you hear it hushing up and then you hear it clink and clink and if you found it it would lead around the world i think It sounds so small, and gold, and far, Far off beyond the lily-pool, And so, as if there must be there, Oh, something wonderful!

thunderstorms excepting when they're very loud and then when they're almost too bright i love to see a thunderstorm excepting when it's in the night it's harder to remember then it's very wicked not to trust a thunderstorm because it's sure to know and then besides you must for it will light your heart up, yes, the deepest darkness ever made, could never hide the guilty one who feels at all afraid.

The thunder is the best of all, except the waiting for the birds, and then the shining in the wet, oh, and the rainbow afterwards.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Church Time by Josephine Preston Peabody.

Read for LibriVox.org by Recording Person.

Church Time.

It feels forever without end, the time I have to stay.

It's even harder to keep still than pray and pray and pray.

The reading happens all the time, the praying rolls along, and something makes them always sing a long, long song.

So when I've nearly gone to sleep, I make my penny walk.

I walk it up and down to here, the talk and talk and talk.

And if I lose it on the floor, before they pass the plate, why, then there's nothing more to do but wait, wait, wait.

Till when you'd have to go to sleep, or else you'd have to die, they let you out and straighten to the sky.

With nestle hiding up the trees, and roads to make you run, and everything like squirrels in the sun, the sun.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

You may look up and try to see one there, just when you feel it breathing on your hair.

But then it has to go.

Somehow I know.

They want you to believe how bright they are, and never try to see whether they keep their word, for that would be as if they could deceive.

That makes them grieve.

So if you want yours near, and hide your eyes and keep quite still, and say, Oh, I have wanted you all day, all day.

Shine at me, angel dear.

It will be here.

End of poem The Beggar Man by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Panama The Beggar Man He only looked like a beggar man, as ragged just as any.

But he might have been an angel, too, so I gave him my penny.

I waited till I thought I saw him shining through.

And when he held out his hand, I watched for what would happen to my penny.

He might have been an angel, too, but I know he wasn't any.

For he frowned at me, like that, you see, when it wasn't but one penny.

And now that's gone, and I don't care.

I'd rather not have any than keep it if an angel came and asked me for my penny.

The Green Singing Book by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Recording Person The Green Singing Book I don't know how to read the words, nor how the black things go, But if you stand it up and sing, you'll never have to know.

The music sounds alike each time, when grown-up people play, But every time I sing myself, it sounds a different way.

and when i've sung the book all through and every page around i stand it upside down and sing to see how that will sound i sing how all the things outside the window look to me the shiny wrinkles on the road and then about my tree i sing about the city too the noises and the wheels and windows blinking in the sun i sing the way it feels and if a sparrow flies across i put him in the song i sing whatever happens in to make it last for long I sing about the things I think of almost everything.

Sometimes I don't know what to think till I begin to sing.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

It happens when the birds go by and leave you far behind, and you flutter till you ache all around your mind, like a flag, like a flag flapping at the wind.

It happens when you catch the hills as blue as yesterday.

You hold your heart in both hands, or it would fly away.

Yes, it would.

Yes, it would.

Away, away, away.

It makes your heart into a bird that darts and leaps and sings.

Oh, feel my pinafore high up.

Oh, do you think it's wings? Do you think? Do you think? Oh, couldn't it be wings?

early early i like to lie and wait to see my mother braid her hair it is as long as it can be and yet she doesn't care i love my mother's hair and then the way her fingers go they look so quick and white in and out and to and fro and braiding in the light and it is always right So then she winds it, shiny brown, around her head into a crown, just like the day before.

And then she looks and pats it down, and looks a minute more.

Will I stay here, or still and cool? Oh, isn't morning beautiful? End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

The Wind's East by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Panama.

The Wind's East The wind's east, oh, oh, only a little while ago.

Today was just like yesterday.

But now, now, only now the world's all turned some silver way.

I know how, I know how.

The wind's east, the wind's east.

Salt, salt wind that I love so.

all the things in the garden blow wavy gray and the trees all know trees that never never can go must know how it would feel to be there where the ships sail to and fro ships on the blue blue sea and the homesick ones by the bridge up here are tugging to get their anchors clear and they reach up high to see They catch their breath when they feel the air, And the rigging stirs, and the lanterns stare.

For they know the tide is high out there, The gulls go skirling by out there, The gulls and the wind go free.

And they tug, and they pull, And they wonder so when will the captain let them go.

Oh, oh, to sea, to sea!

Afterword by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Recording Person Afterword And shall we light the candle now, And leave, since there is so much more, Our cupful and the share of bread Here by the open door? For someone might be wanting it, If there should chance to come this way, A very poor man or a bird, Or maybe God some day.

End of poem This recording is in the public domain.