Clara Doty Bates

Clara Doty Bates was an American author best known for her children's poetry and literature. Born on December 22, 1838, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, she made significant contributions to children's literature in the late 19th century. She married Morgan Bates, a journalist and playwright. Throughout her career, she published several books and contributed to various children's magazines. Clara passed away on October 14, 1895.

December 22, 1838

October 14, 1895

English

Clara Doty Bates

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Little Bo-Beep.

What was Bo-Peep? Can anyone guess?
Why, little Bo-Peep was a shepherdess!
And she dressed in a short white petticoat,
And a kirtle of blue, with a looped-up look,
And a snowy kerchief about her throat,
And held in her hand a crook.

What eyes she had, the little Bo-Peep!
They had tears to laugh with, and tears to weep.
So fringy, and shy, and blue, and sweet,
That even the summer skies in color,
Or the autumn gentians under her feet,
Less tender were and duller.

Now, a shepherdess ought to watch her sheep;
But the careless little girl, Bo-Peep,
Was hunting for late wild strawberries,
The sweetest her tongue had ever tasted;
They were few in number, and small in size,
Too good, though, to be wasted.

And in that way the little Bo-Peep...

Clara Doty Bates

Little Red Riding-Hood.

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.


If you listen, children, I will tell
The story of little Red Riding-hood:
Such wonderful, wonderful things befell
Her and her grandmother, old and good
(So old she was never very well),
Who lived in a cottage in a wood.

Little Red Riding-hood, every day,
Whatever the weather, shine or storm,
To see her grandmother tripped away,
With a scarlet hood to keep her warm,
And a little mantle, soft and gay,
And a basket of goodies on her arm.

A pat of butter, and cakes of cheese,
Were stored in the napkin, nice and neat;
As she danced along beneath the trees,
As light as a shadow were her feet;
And she hummed such tunes as the bumble-bees
Hum when the clover-tops are sweet.

But an ugly wo...

Clara Doty Bates

Puss In Boots.

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.


A miller had three sons,
And, on his dying day,
He willed that all he owned should be
Shared by them in this way:
The mill to this, and the donkey to that,
And to the youngest only the cat.

This last, poor fellow, of course
Thought it a bitter fate;
With a cat to feed, he should die, indeed,
Of hunger, sooner or late.
And he stormed, with many a bitter word,
Which Puss, who lay in the cupboard, heard.

She stretched, and began to purr,
Then came to her master's knee,
And, looking slyly up, began:
"Pray be content with me!
Get me a pair of boots ere night,
And a bag, and it will be all right!"

The youth sighed heavy sighs,
And laughed a scornful laugh:
"Of all the silly th...

Clara Doty Bates

Pussy Cat's Doing.

By Susan Hartley


'Twas a good little lady fairy,
Who saddled her wee white mouse,
And rode away to the village,
Long miles from her snug, wee house;
She tied her steed to a flower stalk airy,
And left him there--this most careless fairy!

In Fairyland no dreadful pussies
Do prowl, and do growl and slay--
In Fairyland the mice have honor,
And draw the queen's carriage gay;
And the little lady ne'er thought of danger
Because on the fence sat a green-eyed stranger,

But hurried away in a twinkling
Down a dark and gloomy street,
Where daily the charm of her presence
Made the children's dreams more sweet;
Then Pussy Cat sprang as quick as magic!
One squeal (as I've heard the story tragic)

And down his throat went steed and...

Clara Doty Bates

Saarchinkold!

Nose to window,
Still as a mouse,
Watching grampa
"Bank the house."
Out of the barrow he shovels the tan,
And he piles and packs it as hard as he can
"All about the house's feet,"
Says "Phunny-kind,"
Nose to the window,
Eager and sweet.
Now she comes to the entry door:
"Grampa--what are you do that for?
Are you puttin' stockin's on to the house?"
(Found her tongue, has Still-as-a-Mouse.)

Grandpa twinkles out of his eyes,
Straightens his aching back, and tries
To look as solemn as Phunny-kind.
But the child says:
"Grampa, is it the wind
That keeps you a-shakin' an' shakin' so?"
Then the old man, shaking the more, says: "No!
But I'm bankin' the house, Miss Locks-o-gold,
To keep out the dreadful--
Sa-archin' Cold...

Clara Doty Bates

Silver Locks And The Bears.
Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

Silver Locks was a little girl,
Lovely and good;
She strayed out one day
And got lost in the wood,
And was lonely and sad,
Till she came where there stood
The house which belonged to the Bears.

She pulled the latch string,
And the door opened wide;
She peeped softly first,
And at last stepped inside;
So tired her little feet
Were that she cried,
And so hungry she, sobbed to herself.

She did not know
Whether to stay or to go;
But there were three chairs
Standing all in a row,
And there were three bowls
Full of milk white as snow,
And there were three beds by the wall.

But the Father Bear's chair
Was too hard to sit in it,
And the Mother Bear's chair
Wa...
Clara Doty Bates

The Babes In The Wood.
Come, list to my story,
More sorry, by far,
To her who must tell it,
And you who will hear it,
Than all others are!

'Tis the darling of each, who
Has spirit so mild
As to grieve for the Human--
The sad man or woman,
Or desolate child!

Of eyes, my dear children,
Yours are not the first,
Through whose teary lashes,
In soft, pitying splashes,
The warm drops have burst

At hearing it. Many,
For hundreds of years,
Have in the same fashion
Their heartfelt compassion
Shown thus--with their tears!

A dying father in his arms
Two children did enfold.
The eldest one, a little boy,
Was only three years old;
Even less than that had served to tint
The baby's head with gold.

The mother, too,...
Clara Doty Bates

The Gold-Spinner.
A miller had a daughter,
And lovely, too, she was;
Her step was light, her smile was bright,
Her eyes were gray as glass.
(So Chaucer loved to write of eyes
In which that nameless azure lies
So like shoal-water in its hue,
Though all too crystal clear for blue.)
As you would suppose, the miller
Was very proud of her,
And would never fail to tell some tale
As to what her graces were.
On the powdery air of his own mill
Floated the whispers of her skill;
At the village inn the loungers knew
All that the pretty girl could do.

Oft in his braggart way
This foolish tale he told,
That his daughter could spin from bits of straw
Continuous threads of gold!
So boastful had he grown, forsooth,
That he cared but little for the truth:
But...
Clara Doty Bates

The Ground Squirrel.
By Paul H. Hayne.

I.

Bless us, and save us! What's here?
Pop!
At a bound,
A tiny brown creature, grotesque in his grace,
Is sitting before us, and washing his face
With his little fat paws overlapping;
Where does he hail from? Where?
Why, there,
Underground,
From a nook just as cosey,
And tranquil, and dozy,
As e'er wooed to Sybarite napping
(But none ever caught him a-napping).
Don't you see his burrow so quaint and queer?

II.

Gone! like the flash of a gun!
This oddest of chaps,
Mercurial,
Disappears
Head and ears!
Then, sly as a fox,
Swift as Jack in his box,
Pops up boldly again!
What does he mean by thus frisking about,
Now up and now down, and now in and no...
Clara Doty Bates

The Little Brown Owl
The little brown owl sits up in the Tree,
And if you look well
His big eyes you may see.
He says Whit a whoo, when the night grows dark,
And he hears the dogs
and the little foxes bark.
Clara Doty Bates

The Sleeping Princess
Versified by Clara Doty Bates

The ringing bells and the booming cannon
Proclaimed on a summer morn
That in the good king's royal palace
A Princess had been born.

The towers flung out their brightest banners,
The ships their streamers gay,
And every one, from lord to peasant,
Made joyful holiday.

Great plans for feasting and merry-making
Were made by the happy king;
And, to bring good fortune, seven fairies
Were bid to the christening.

And for them the king had seven dishes
Made out of the best red gold,
Set thickly round on the sides and covers
With jewels of price untold.

When the day of the christening came, the bugles
Blew forth their shrillest notes;
Drums throbbed, and endless lines of soldiers
Filed...
Clara Doty Bates

The Three Little Kittens.
Knit, knit, knit, knit!
See old white-capped Pussy sit,
Fairly gray with worry and care,
In her little straight-backed rocking-chair?
Knit, knit, knit,
Till she is tired of it!

Why does she work so? Look and see,
There in the corner, children three!
Plump and furry and full of fun,
(A good-for-nothing is every one.)
And all those kittens
Must have mittens!

Weather is cold; and snow and sleet
Make it bad for their little feet;
And they dare not peep outside, because
Jack Frost stands ready to pinch their paws--
That's why she sits,
And knits, and knits.

If by any chance she drops her ball,
And if one of them chases it at all,
She peeps out over her glasses' rim
With a savage, dreadful scowl at him,
And cries out, ...
Clara Doty Bates

The Three Little Pigs
Ah, very, very poor was she--
Old Dame Pig, with her children three!
Robust, beautiful little ones
Were those three sons,
Each wearing always, without fail,
A little fanciful knot in his tail.

But never enough of sour or sweet
Had they to eat;
And so, one day, with a piteous squeak,
Did the mother speak:
"My sons, your fortune you must seek!"
And out in the world, as they were sent,
The three pigs went.

Trotting along, the first one saw
A man who carried a bundle of straw.
"Give me some straw for a house and bed,"
The little pig said.
Straightway, not even waiting a bit,
The kind man did as he was bid;
And the little pig built a house of it.

But he was no more than settled, before
A wolf came along and knocked at the ...
Clara Doty Bates

Tony.
Whisk!--away in the sun
His little flying feet
Scamper as softly fleet
As ever the rabbits run.
He is gone like a flash, and then
In a breath is back again.

The silky flosses shine
Down to his very toes:
Tipped with white is his nose:
And his ears are fleeces fine,
Blowing a shadow-grace
Breeze-like about his face.

Quick to a whistled call
Hearkens his ready ear,
Scarcely waiting to hear;
Silk locks, white feet, all
Rush, like a furry elf
Tumbling over himself.

How does he sleep? He winks
Twice with his mischief eyes;
Dozes a bit; then lies
Down with a sigh; then thinks
Over some roguish play,
And is up and away!
Clara Doty Bates

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