The automobile gave one violent shake, turned off his spark and said in an orderly voice, "It struck my funny bone to hear you say you went everywhere _on land_, that's all. Don't you realize you're an old fuss budget with your steam and your boiler and your fire and what not?

You're tied to your rails and if everything about your old tracks isn't kept just so you tumble over into a ditch or do some fool thing. Now I'm the one that can endure real hardships. Sparks and gasoline! you just sit right there, you baby, you railclinger, and watch me take that hill!

Honk, honk!" And he was off up the hill.

The engine slowly turned back his headlight till the light shone full on his shiny rails. He thought of what he had heard. "He called me a railclinger--yes, that I am. How can that preposterous little beetle run without tracks? I'm afraid he's more wonderful than I."

Now the automobile went jouncing and bouncing up the rough road puffing merrily and thinking, "I'm mightily pleased with myself. Look at the way I climb this hill. There's nothing really so wonderful as I----"

Just then he heard a sound that made his engine boil with fright.

Dzdzdzdzdzr--it seemed to come right out of the sky. He got all his courage together and turned his searchlights up. The sight instantly killed his engine. Above him soared a giant aeroplane. It floated, it wheeled, it rose, it dropped. It looked serene, strong and swift. Down, down came the great thing. Through the terrific droning the automobile could just make out these words:

"Dzdzdzdz. You think you're wonderful, you poor little creeping worm tied to the earth! I pity all you slow, slow things that I look down on as I fly through the sky. Ox made way for horse, horse made way for engine, car and auto but all,--all make way for me. For if you want speed, I'm just what you need. Dzdzdzdzdz."

And the great aeroplane wheeled and rose like a giant bird. The automobile watched him, too humbled to speak. Up, up, up, went the aeroplane--up, up, up 'til it was out of sight.

SPEED

The hounds they speed with hanging tongues; The deer they speed with bursting lungs; Foxes hurry, Field mice scurry.

Eagles fly Swift, through the sky, And man, his face all wrinkled with worry, Goes speeding by tho' he couldn't tell why!

But a little wild hare He pauses to stare At the daisies and baby and me Just sitting,--not trying to go anywhere, Just sitting and playing with never a care In the shade of a great elm tree.

And the daisies they laugh As they hear the world pa.s.s, What is speed to the growing flowers?

And my baby laughs As he sits in the gra.s.s, We all laugh through the sunshiny hours,-- Through the long, dear sunshiny hours!

For flowers and babies And I still know 'Tis fun to be happy, 'Tis fun to go slow, 'Tis fun to take time to live and to grow.

FIVE LITTLE BABIES

This story was originally written because the children thought a negro was dirty. The songs are authentic. They have been enjoyed by children as young as four years old.

FIVE LITTLE BABIES

This is going to be a story about some little babies,--five different little babies who were born in five different parts of this big round world and didn't look alike or think alike at all.

One little baby was all yellow. He just came that way. His eyes were black and slanted up in his little face. His hair was black and straight. He wore gay little silk coats and gay little silk trousers with flowers and figures sewed all over them. When he looked up he saw his father's face was yellow and so was his mother's. And his father's hair was black and so was his mother's. And when he was a little older he saw they both wore gay silk coats and gay silk trousers with flowers and figures sewed all over them. But the baby didn't think any of this was queer,--not even when he grew up. For every one he knew had yellow skin and wore silk coats and trousers. So of course he thought all the world was that way.

But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little yellow baby with slanting black eyes. And he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying:

"Chu Sir Tsun Ching Min. Tsoun Sun Gi Gi. Koo Yin Fee Min Kwei Hua Shiang Lee Pan Run Yin.

Fon Chin Yoa Sir. Loo Yi To Choa Yeo Liang Sung. Tsun Tze Doo Soo Soo Wei Gun. Tsin Tsin."

For all this happened in China and he was a little Chinese Baby.

Another little baby was all brown. He just came that way. His eyes were black and his hair was black. He wore pretty colored silk shawls and little silk dresses. And when he looked up he saw his father's face was brown and that he wore a big turban on his head. And he saw that around his mother's brown face was long soft hair. He saw that she wore pretty colored silk shawls and long silk trousers and bare feet. But the baby didn't think any of this was queer,--even when he grew up. He thought every one had brown skin and that everybody dressed like himself and his father and his mother.

But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things, he knew his mother loved her little brown baby with black eyes. And he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying:

"Arecoco Jarecoco, Jungle parkie bare, Marabata cunecomunga dumrecarto sare, Hillee milee puneah jara de naddeah, Arecoco Jarecoco Jungle parkie bare."

For all this happened in India and he was a little Indian baby.

Now another little baby was all black. He just came that way. His eyes were black and his hair was black and curled in tight kinky curls all over his little head. And this little baby didn't wear anything at all except a loin cloth. When he looked up he saw the black faces and kinky black hair of his father and his mother. And when he was a little older he saw that they didn't wear any clothes either except a loin cloth and a feather skirt and some sh.e.l.ls. Neither did this baby think any of this was queer,--not even when he grew older. He thought all the world looked and dressed like that.

But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things, he knew his mother loved her little black baby with kinky black hair. And he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying,

"O tula, mntwana, O tula, Unyoko akamuko, Usele ezintabeni, Uhlu shwa izigwegwe, Iwa.

O tula, mntwana, O tula, Unyoko w-zezobuya, Akupatele into enhle, Iwa."

For all this happened in Africa and he was a little negro baby.

Still another little baby,--he was the fourth,--was all red. He just came that way. His eyes were black and his hair was straight and black.

He was bound up tight and slipped into a basket and carried around on his mother's back. He didn't think this was queer, even when he grew up.

He thought all little babies were carried that way. And he thought all fathers and mothers had red skin and black hair and wore leather coats and trousers trimmed with feathers. For his did.

But long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little red baby that she carried on her back, and he loved to have her take him out of his basket bed and rock him in her arms and sing to him, saying:

"Cheda-e Nakahu-kalu Be-be!

Nakahu-kalu Be-be!

E-Be-be!"

For all this happened in America long, long ago, and he was a little Indian baby.

The last little baby, and he makes five, was all white. He just came so too. His eyes were blue and his hair was gold and he looked like a little baby you know. And he wore dear little white dresses and little knitted shoes. When he looked up he saw his father's white skin and his mother's blue eyes. When the baby was big enough he saw what kind of clothes his father and his mother wore,--but the story doesn't tell what they were like. And when the baby was big enough he saw they all lived in a big dirty noisy city, but the story doesn't tell what kind of a house they lived in. And the story doesn't tell whether he thought any of these things queer when he was little or when he grew up; probably because you know all these things yourselves. But the story does tell that long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little white baby with blue eyes and golden hair. And it tells that he loved to have her rock him in her arms and sing to him this song:

"Listen, wee baby, I'd sing you a song; The arms of the mothers Are tender and strong, The arms of the mothers Where babies belong!

Brown mothers and yellow And black and red too, They love their babies As I, dear, love you,-- My little white blossom With wide eyes of blue!

And your wee golden head, I do love it, I do!

And your feet and your hands I love you there too!

And my love makes me sing to you Sing to you songs, Lying hushed in my arms Where a baby belongs!"

For all this is happening in your own country every day and he is a little American baby. Perhaps you know his father,--perhaps you know the baby,--perhaps, oh, perhaps, you have heard his mother sing!