The Little Artist

(From the German of Froebel)

Come, little one, quite close to me, Lean softly here against my knee, And you and I will draw to-day The pretty things you see at play. We’ll make the bird with glancing wings, As high above the hill she sings; We’ll make the plum-tree and the nest Where all her bright-eyed birdlings rest. Now draw a scampering, silky mouse, And in the corner here, a house. We’ll make the staircase built within, The windows where the sun shines in; We’ll roof the house with crimson tiles And draw in front tall trees in files. We’ll make the mirrors on its walls, The tables laid for festivals, And everything within shall be, My little one, for you and me. Now sketch the bridge where children go Across the brook that winds below; Next try to make a ladder long, And mother’s scissors sharp and strong. Now let me guide your hand, my dear, And we will make a dovecote here, The farmer’s doves all flutt’ring round, The chickens and the worm they’ve found, The rabbits in their cozy hutch, The saw the farmer needs so much, His harrow and his shining plow, His cart with hay for mooly-cow, The axle, spoke, and tire, and wheel, His water-jug for noon-day meal. Now let us draw the great, round sun, The stars that shine when bedtime’s come, And then the eye that sees their light, Bright-beaming in the sky of night; A thousand, thousand stars like these We see when snow hides grass and trees. Next we will make the baby moon And then the sphere she’ll be so soon; Now last of all the great church door, And then the drawing lesson’s o’er. These pictures, dear, may not last long, But practice makes the fingers strong; And as the world without they show, The world within will clearer grow.