FATHER GOOSE'S
YEAR BOOK

Quaint Quacks
and
Feathered Shafts
for
Mature Children

by
L. Frank Baum

Illustrated by
Walter J. Enright

Copyright 1907 by
The Reilly & Britton Co

 

     The author disclaims any endeavor to be sensible--or even clever--in this book.  You'll understand why, when you read it.  The cleverest people I know of are my readers, so I have only usurped about half the book for my own cackle and left the other half blank, that the proud possessor of it may incite his or her own effusions on the nice clean paper and then discover how much better those paragraphs read than mine do.  The contrast should make you very proud.

     This is a Year Book.  It is good for any year that happens.  If you fill up the pages in your own way, the book will be positively all write.  If you don't, half of it will be all right, anyhow; but I won't say which half it will be.

     Father Goose is supposed to be jolly and irresponsible.  He insists on being happy himself and wants the world to be happy with him.  If anything at all cynical has crept into these verses he declares that he is innocent of intentional pessimism.

                                       Yours for fun,

                                                      L. F. B. Goose.

JANUARY.

 

THIS is the month the skaters glide--
         Yo, ho! they merrily go!
Over the glistening ice they slide
Skimming the ponds both far and wide
         With shouts--yo, ho!
         With cheeks aglow,
Heedless of the wind, or storm or snow--
          Yo, ho!

 


 

Tom, Tom, the pipers's son,
Stole a pig and away he run;
Which is proof enough, 'tis true,
Tommy couldn't be a Jew.
If a Coon, I'm sure that then
He'd have gone and stole a hen;
If in politics, you'd find
He'd have stole the people blind;
If a Parson, on my soul
I believe he's wear the stole!

 


 

The man who does things by halves may expect no quarter.  There's some cents in this.

 


 

He:

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
What'll your luncheon be?
     Is it to beans
     Thy fancy leans?

She:

"Some quail on toast for me."

He:

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
What'll you have to drink?
     Some beer, my dear?

She:

  "Oh no; how queer!
I'll take champagne, I think."

 

 


 

 

    The Benedict may now be seen
    Protesting to his Benedictine.
He's Comin' thro' the Rye, "that's all--"
Just listen to his loud, high bawl.
    Of Bourbon ancestry is she;
    She shakes him for the drinks, you see.

 

 


 

Many a good housemaid is sacrificed to make a poor stenographer, while many a good stenographer becomes a poor actress.  Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.



 

Now doth the master of the house
    With  trembling fingers ope'
The bills for wifey's Christmas gifts--
    For he's plumb out of soap.

 


 

"Everything comes to him who waits"--
Which means the man who juggles the plates
And thrusts the finger-bowl under your nose
And then assumes a haughty pose.
Pompous and dignified, graceful and flip
He eyes you with scorn as you feel for his tip. 
Give him your all--appease the fates--
Everything goes to him who waits!

January

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February

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March

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April

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MAY.

 

GREAT Cæsar!  Moving-Day is here!
    So from this flat we disappear
Into another, while from that
Our neighbors move into our flat.
We haven't gained a blessed thing
By breaking up and taking wing,
And no one profits but the man
Who owns the costly moving-van.

(P.S.:  This janitor is somewhat worse
Than that one whom we used to curse.)

 


 

See, saw, Margery Daw,
Wanted to act on the stage.
        She took elocution
        At some institution--
At 5c. shows she's now the rage.

 


 

She was the idol of my heart;
But since we've married been
She is the idle of our flat
And I've turned kitchen-queen!

 


 

Don't judge a man by his clothes.  Many a cheap picture has an expensive frame.

 


 

There was a sign upon the fence.
The sign read this way:

qAiNt

And every person passing thence
Would pause, with manner quaint,
And touch a finger to the place--
Then wisely was his head--
And as he journeyed on apace
"It's paint all right!" he said.

 


 

A word to the wise is unnecessary.

 


 

A SPRING TRAGEDY:

     Lovely, limber Lady Rake
     Had the gardener's bed to make
     When at morning she'd arise--
     'Twas her daily exercise.
As she picked her way o'er the grass so gay
The tools all loved her, and they say
      That the hammer lost his head,
      And the anvil colored red,
      Augur got to be a bore,
      While the lawn adored her mower;
      She refused the prying pick--
      Made him dig out mighty quick!
      Hatchet was too sharp, by far,
      So she gave his edge a jar;
      But the spade, as you might guess;
      Won from her a gracious "yes,"
      And the tweezers, passing by
      Bound them with a railway tie.
But though they wed they say Lady Rake got gay
And conducted herself in an indiscreet way:
      Scraped acquaintance with a file,
      On a shovel dared to smile
      Danced around with sickle keen
      Cutting capers on the green!
      So the spade soon got divorce--
      From the tennis-court, of course;
      She's a widow, now, alas!
      Moral is:  Keep off the Grass.
      

 

May

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June

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JULY.

 

HUZZAH!  Hurroo!  Hip, hip hooray!
      The 4th is Independence Day.
The small boy now is much elated;
The population's decimated;
Toes, fingers, eye-balls, scattered wide
Proclaim the day our nations pride.

 

 


 

        The Queen was tart;
        She lost her heart
All on a summer's day.
        The thing, I'm told,
         Was hard and cold
And worthless, anyway.

 


 

          Hey, diddle, diddle,
          If Ysaÿe would fiddle
While Rockefeller captured the moon
          The people would say:
          "It's only his way;
He'll have the sun, too, pretty soon.

 


 

The proof of the printing has nothing to do with the case.

 


 

Good morning, merry sunshine!
    What makes you come so soon?
You lure us to the picnic grounds
    And then it rains by noon.

 


 

And now restrain your envy when you find your neighbor can
Go riding in an auto that is stylish, spick and span.
It doesn't mean excessive wealth--in these days any man
May buy a great big auto on the small instalment plan.

 


 

Distance lends enchantment to the ball game.

 

 


Sing a song o' ten cents
    A bottle full of rye
A glass that holds a nickle's worth
    A ball that's rather high.

When the nozzle gurgles
    The barkeep gives a frown--
Isn't that a foolish drink
     For any man to down?

 


 

It seems queer that an old bachelor would buy a talking-machine.  But then, he isn't obliged to wind it up.

 


THE OLD, OLD STORY

Now doth the busy little she
    Employ each shining minute,
For at the sea-shore she can be
    A star, and strictly in it.

Nor doth her bathing-togs disguise
    The fact she seeks a chance
To flirt; and thus her soulful eyes
    Some yearning youth entrance.

On the moonlit sands they sit to rest
    In dreamy satisfaction;
'Tis sweet to hear the youth protest
   He loves her to distraction.

To the end this fond, idyllic spree
     They both  go home to work;
For she's a lovely sales-ladye
     And he's a drug-store clerk.

July

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August

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September

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October

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NOVEMBER.

 

THIS is the month of the football game
      Puts wars and rioting to shame,
And moral mortals sink so low
They bet which way the game will go!

Our gentle maidens all adore
The champion who sheds most gore,
And laugh with innocent delight
To see the long-haired fellows fight.

And if a shudder you behold
It's 'cause the weather's beastly cold;
To freeze and shiver every one
With joy submits, to see "the fun."

 


 

The North wind doth blow
    And we shall have snow
And what will the robber do then,
           poor thing?
    He'll "hold up" a few,
    And the whole police, too,
And relieve you of your diamond
           ring--poor thing!

 


 

There was a crooked man
Who was crooked all the while.
He beat his crooked neighbors
In an easy, crooked style.
He delved in crooked politics
And cast a crooked vote,
And now the crooks respect him
As a man of crooked note.

 


 

The lady gave a wail
For a man walked up her trail;
    Said he:  "Great Scott!
  As like as not
There's no moral to this tale!"

 


 

The perfume on a lady's gown
   Suggests the darling meant
No matter whether asked or not
   She'd surely give a-scent.

 


 

Many a true word is spoken in disgust.

 


 

        "Pease porridge hot,
        Pease porridge cold;
Here's wifey's letter I forget--
        It's three days old!"

 


 

There was a little man, and he had a little gun,
And its bullets were mischievous sneers, sneers, sneers--
He thought it good luck when he hit a little duck
And brought to her pretty eyes tears, tears, tears.

 


 

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of snake-bite.

 


 

"Race suicide," said Mr. Jinks,
   "I'm guilty of, I know;
For I bet my money on a nag
    That never had a show.
'Twas sure a matter of disgrace
    To squander money so:
You'd hardly call the thing a race--
    'Twas suicidal, though!"

 


 

The man who gets a chauffeur seldom gets a show for his money.

 


 

Rolling billiard-balls gather no salary.

November

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December

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