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NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS.

by

SUSAN COOLIDGE,

Author of "The New Year's Bargain," "Mischief's Thanksgiving," "What
Katy Did," "What Katy Did at School."

With Illustrations.

   CURLY LOCKS.
   GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER.
   LITTLE BO-PEEP.
   MISTRESS MARY.
   LADY BIRD.
   ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE.
   RIDE A COCK-HORSE.
   LADY QUEEN ANNE.
   UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y.


[Illustration]







Boston:
Roberts Brothers.
1893.

Copyright, 1875.
By Roberts Brothers.

[Illustration]

University Press. John Wilson & Son,
Cambridge.



          _When nursery lamps are veiled, and nurse is singing
                        In accents low,
           Timing her music to the cradle's swinging,
                        Now fast, now slow,--_

          _Singing of Baby Bunting, soft and furry
                        In rabbit cloak,
           Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and flurry
                        Of wind-swept oak;_

          _Of Boy-Blue sleeping with his horn beside him,
                        Of my son John,
           Who went to bed (let all good boys deride him)
                        With stockings on;_

          _Of sweet Bo-Peep following her lambkins straying;
                        Of Dames in shoes;
           Of cows, considerate,'mid the Piper's playing,
                        Which tune to choose;_

          _Of Gotham's wise men bowling o'er the billow,
                        Or him, less wise,
           Who chose rough bramble-bushes for a pillow,
                        And scratched his eyes,--_

          _It may be, while she sings, that through the portal
                        Soft footsteps glide,
           And, all invisible to grown-up mortal,
                        At cradle side_

          _Sits Mother Goose herself, the dear old mother,
                        And rocks and croons,
           In tones which Baby hearkens, but no other,
                        Her old-new tunes!_

          _I think it must be so, else why, years after,
                        Do we retrace
           And mix with shadowy, recollected laughter
                        Thoughts of that face;_

          _Seen, yet unseen, beaming across the ages,
                        Brimful of fun
           And wit and wisdom, baffling all the sages
                        Under the sun?_

          _A grown-up child has place still, which no other
                        May dare refuse;
           I, grown up, bring this offering to our Mother,
                          To Mother Goose;_

          _And, standing with the babies at that olden,
                        Immortal knee,
           I seem to feel her smile, benign and golden,
                        Falling on me._




[Illustration]

CONTENTS.


          CHAP                                         PAGE
             I. CURLY LOCKS                               1
            II. GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER                    40
           III. LITTLE BO-PEEP                           65
            IV. MISTRESS MARY                           101
             V. LADY BIRD                               137
            VI. ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE                165
           VII. RIDE A COCK-HORSE                       197
          VIII. LADY QUEEN ANNE                         228
            IX. UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y      259

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




CURLY LOCKS.


WHEN a little girl is six and a little boy is six, they like pretty much
the same things and enjoy pretty much the same games. She wears an
apron, and he a jacket and trousers, but they are both equally fond of
running races, spinning tops, flying kites, going down hill on sleds,
and making a noise in the open air. But when the little girl gets to be
eleven or twelve, and to grow thin and long, so that every two months a
tuck has to be let down in her frocks, then a great difference becomes
visible. The boy goes on racing and whooping and comporting himself
generally like a young colt in a pasture; but she turns quiet and shy,
cares no longer for rough play or exercise, takes droll little
sentimental fancies into her head, and likes best the books which make
her cry. Almost all girls have a fit of this kind some time or other in
the course of their lives; and it is rather a good thing to have it
early, for little folks get over such attacks more easily than big ones.
Perhaps we may live to see the day when wise mammas, going through the
list of nursery diseases which their children have had, will wind up
triumphantly with, "Mumps, measles, chicken-pox,--and they are all over
with 'Amy Herbert,' 'The Heir of Redclyffe,' and the notion that they
are going to be miserable for the rest of their lives!"

Sometimes this odd change comes after an illness when a little girl
feels weak and out of sorts, and does not know exactly what is the
matter. This is the way it came to Johnnie Carr, a girl whom some of you
who read this are already acquainted with. She had intermittent fever
the year after her sisters Katy and Clover came from boarding-school,
and was quite ill for several weeks. Everybody in the house was sorry to
have Johnnie sick. Katy nursed, petted, and cosseted her in the
tenderest way. Clover brought flowers to the bedside and read books
aloud, and told Johnnie interesting stories. Elsie cut out paper dolls
for her by dozens, painted their cheeks pink and their eyes blue, and
made for them beautiful dresses and jackets of every color and fashion.
Papa never came in without some little present or treat in his pocket
for Johnnie. So long as she was in bed, and all these nice things were
doing for her, Johnnie liked being ill very much, but when she began to
sit up and go down to dinner, and the family spoke of her as almost well
again, _then_ a time of unhappiness set in. The Johnnie who got out of
bed after the fever was not the Johnnie of a month before. There were
two inches more of her for one thing, for she had taken the opportunity
to grow prodigiously, as sick children often do. Her head ached at
times, her back felt weak, and her legs shook when she tried to run
about. All sorts of queer and disagreeable feelings attacked her. Her
hair had fallen out during the fever so that Papa thought it best to
have it shaved close. Katy made a pretty silk-lined cap for her to wear,
but the girls at school laughed at the cap, and that troubled Johnnie
very much. Then, when the new hair grew, thick and soft as the plumy
down on a bird's wing, a fresh affliction set in, for the hair came out
in small round rings all over her head, which made her look like a
baby. Elsie called her "Curly," and gradually the others adopted the
name, till at last nobody used any other except the servants, who still
said "Miss Johnnie." It was hard to recognize the old Johnnie, square
and sturdy and full of merry life, in poor, thin, whining Curly, always
complaining of something, who lay on the sofa reading story-books, and
begging Phil and Dorry to let her alone, not to tease her, and to go off
and play by themselves. Her eyes looked twice as big as usual, because
her face was so small and pale, and though she was still a pretty child,
it was in a different way from the old prettiness. Katy and Clover were
very kind and gentle always, but Elsie sometimes lost patience entirely,
and the boys openly declared that Curly was a cross-patch, and hadn't a
bit of fun left in her.

One afternoon she was lying on the sofa with the "Wide Wide World" in
her hand. Her eyelids were very red from crying over Alice's death, but
she had galloped on, and was now reading the part where Ellen
Montgomery goes to live with her rich relatives in Scotland.

"Oh, dear," sighed Johnnie. "How splendid it was for her! Just think,
Clover, riding lessons, and a watch, and her uncle takes her to see all
sorts of places, and they call her their White Rose! Oh, dear! I wish
_we_ had relations in Scotland."

"We haven't, you know," remarked Clover, threading her needle with a
fresh bit of blue worsted.

"I know it. It's too bad. Nothing ever does happen in this stupid place.
The girls in books always do have such nice times. Ellen could leap, and
she spoke French _beau_tifully. She learned at that place, you know, the
place where the Humphreys lived."

"Litchfield Co., Connecticut," said Clover mischievously. "Katy was
there last summer, you recollect. I guess they don't _all_ speak such
good French. Katy didn't notice it."

"Ellen did," persisted Johnnie. "Her uncle and all those people were so
surprised when they heard her. Wouldn't it be grand to be an adopted
child, Clover?"

"To be adopted by people who gave you your bath like a baby when you
were thirteen years old, and tapped your lips when they didn't want you
to speak, and stole your Pilgrim's Progresses? No, thank you. I would
much rather stay as I am."

"I wouldn't," replied Johnnie pensively. "I don't like this place very
much. I should love to be rich and to travel in Europe."

At this moment Papa and Katy came in together. Katy was laughing, and
Papa looked as if he had just bitten a smile off short. In his hand was
a letter.

"Oh, Clovy," began Katy, but Papa interposed with "Katy, hold your
tongue;" and though he looked quizzical as he said it, Katy saw that he
was half in earnest, and stopped at once.

"We're about to have a visitor," he went on, picking Johnnie up and
settling her in his lap,--"a distinguished visitor. Curly, you must put
on your best manners, for she comes especially to see you."

"A visitor! How nice! Who is it?" cried Clover and Johnnie with one
voice. Visitors were rare in Burnet, and the children regarded them
always as a treat.

"Her name is Miss Inches,--Marion Joanna Inches," replied Dr. Carr,
glancing at the letter. "She's a sort of godmother of yours, Curly;
you've got half her name."

"Was I really named after her?"

"Yes. She and Mamma were school-friends, and though they never met after
leaving school, Mamma was fond of her, and when little No. 4 came, she
decided to call her after her old intimate. That silver mug of yours was
a present from her."

"Was it? Where does she live?"

"At a place called Inches Mills, in Massachusetts. She's the rich lady
of the village, and has a beautiful house and grounds, where she lives
all alone by herself. Her letter is written at Niagara. She is going to
the Mammoth Cave, and writes to ask if it will be convenient for us to
have her stop for a few days on the way. She wants to see her old
friend's children, she says, and especially her namesake."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Johnnie, ruffling her short hairs with her fingers.
"I wish my curls were longer. What _will_ she think when she sees me?"

"She'll think

          "There is a little girl, and she has a little curl
             Right in the middle of her forehead;
           When