Juliana Horatia Ewing

Juliana Horatia Ewing was an English writer of children's stories, known for her pioneering work in the genre. Born on August 3, 1841, she was the daughter of Margaret Gatty, herself a noted British writer. Juliana's works were marked by their imaginative quality and their combination of adventure and moral lessons, making significant contributions to children's literature of the Victorian era. Her acclaimed works include 'Jackanapes,' 'Daddy Darwin's Dovecot,' and 'The Story of a Short Life.' She passed away on May 13, 1885.

August 3, 1841

May 13, 1885

English

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A Friend In The Garden.

He is not John the gardener,
And yet the whole day long
Employs himself most usefully,
The flower-beds among.

He is not Tom the pussy-cat,
And yet the other day,
With stealthy stride and glistening eye,
He crept upon his prey.

He is not Dash the dear old dog,
And yet, perhaps, if you
Took pains with him and petted him,
You'd come to love him too.

He's not a Blackbird, though he chirps,
And though he once was black;
And now he wears a loose grey coat,
All wrinkled on the back.

He's got a very dirty face,
And very shining eyes!
He sometimes comes and sits indoors;
He looks--and p'r'aps is--wise.

But in a sunny flower-bed
He has his fixed abode;
He eats the things that eat my plants--
He is a friend...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

A Hero To His Hobby-Horse.

Hear me now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces!
Time is it that you and I won something more than races.
I have got a fine cocked hat, with feathers proudly waving;
Out into the world we'll go, both death and danger braving.

Doubt not that I know the way--the garden-gate is clapping:
Who forgot to lock it last deserves his fingers slapping.
When they find we can't be found, oh won't there be a chorus!
You and I may laugh at that, with all the world before us.

All the world, the great green world that lies beyond the paling!
All the sea, the great round sea where ducks and drakes are sailing!
I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander
Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.

Months ago, my faithful steed, that Goose attacked y...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

A Soldier's Children.

Our home used to be in a hut in the dear old Camp, with lots of bands and trumpets and bugles and Dead Marches, and three times a day there was a gun,
But now we live in View Villa at the top of the village, and it isn't nearly such fun.
We never see any soldiers, except one day we saw a Volunteer, and we ran after him as hard as ever we could go, for we thought he looked rather brave;
But there's only been one funeral since we came, an ugly black thing with no Dead March or Union Jack, and not even a firing party at the grave.
There is a man in uniform to bring the letters, but he's nothing like our old Orderly, Brown;
I told him, through the hedge, "Your facings are dirty, and you'd have to wear your belt if my father was at home," and oh, how he did frown!
But things can't be expected to go right when Old ...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

A Sweet Little Dear

I always was a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a sensitive nature!--Mamma often says so.
And I'm the sweetest, little dear in my blue ribbons, and quite a picture in my Pompadour hat!--Mrs. Brown told her so on Sunday, and that's how I know.
And I'm a sacred responsibility to my parents--(it was what the clergyman's wife at the seaside said),
And a solemn charge, and a fair white page, and a tender bud, and a spotless nature of wax to be moulded;--but the rest of it has gone out of my head.
There was a lot more, and she left two books as well, and I think she called me a Privilege, and Mamma said "Yes," and began to cry.
And Nurse came in with luncheon on a tray, and put away the books, and said she was as weak as a kitten, and worried to fiddlestrings, as any one with common sense could see w...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Ah! Would I Could Forget.

The whispering water rocks the reeds,
And, murmuring softly, laps the weeds;
And nurses there the falsest bloom
That ever wrought a lover's doom.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.

We wander'd by the river's brim,
The day grew dusk, the pathway dim;
Her eyes like stars dispell'd the gloom,
Her gleaming fingers pluck'd the bloom.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.

The pale moon lit her paler face,
And coldly watch'd our last embrace,
And chill'd her tresses' sunny hue,
And stole that flower's turquoise blue.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!<...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

An Only Child's Tea-Party.

When I go to tea with the little Smiths, there are eight of them there, but there's only one of me,
Which makes it not so easy to have a fancy tea-party as if there were two or three.
I had a tea-party on my birthday, but Joe Smith says it can't have been a regular one,
Because as to a tea-party with only one teacup and no teapot, sugar-basin, cream-jug, or slop-basin, he never heard of such a thing under the sun.
But it was a very big teacup, and quite full of milk and water, and, you see,
There wasn't anybody there who could really drink milk and water except Towser and me.
The dolls can only pretend, and then it washes the paint off their lips,
And what Charles the canary drinks isn't worth speaking of, for he takes such very small sips.
Joe says a kitchen-chair isn't a table; but it has got four...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Anemones.

If I should wish hereafter that your heart
Should beat with one fair memory of me,
May Time's hard hand our footsteps guide apart,
But lead yours back one spring-time to the Lea.
Nodding Anemones,
Wind-flowers pale,
Bloom with the budding trees,
Dancing to every breeze,
Mock hopes more fair than these,
Love's vows more frail.

For then the grass we loved grows green again,
And April showers make April woods more fair;
But no sun dries the sad salt tears of pain,
Or brings back summer lights on faded hair,
Nodding Anemones,
Wind-flowers pale,
Bloom with the budding trees,
Dancing to every breeze,
Mock hopes more frail than these,
Love's vows more frail.

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Autumn Leaves.

The Spring's bright tints no more are seen,
And Summer's ample robe of green
Is russet-gold and brown;
When flowers fall to every breeze
And, shed reluctant from the trees,
The leaves drop down.

A sadness steals about the heart,
--And is it thus from youth we part,
And life's redundant prime?
Must friends like flowers fade away,
And life like Nature know decay,
And bow to time?

And yet such sadness meets rebuke,
From every copse in every nook
Where Autumn's colours glow;
How bright the sky! How full the sheaves!
What mellow glories gild the leaves
Before they go.

Then let us sing the jocund praise,
In this bright air, of these bright days,
When years our friendships crown;
The love that's loveliest when 'tis old--

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Big Smith.

Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith?
Nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with.
I'm good to-day, and so I've come to see if it is true
That you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe.

Why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather?
Is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather?
If horses should be shod with iron, Big Smith, will you shoe mine?
For now I may not take him out, excepting when it's fine.

Although he's not a real live horse, I'm very fond of him;
His harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim.
His tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels;
I think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels.

They say that Dapple-grey's not yours, but d...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Blue And Red: Or, The Discontented Lobster.

Permit me, Reader, to make my bow,
And allow
Me to humbly commend to your tender mercies
The hero of these simple verses.
By domicile, of the British Nation;
By birth and family, a Crustacean.
One's hero should have a name that rare is;
And his was Homarus, but--Vulgaris!
A Lobster, who dwelt with several others,--
His sisters and brothers,--
In a secluded but happy home,
Under the salt sea's foam.
It lay
At the outermost point of a rocky bay.
A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove,
With a red-roofed fishing village above,
Of irregular cottages, perched up high
Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky.
Shells and pebbles, and wrack below,
And shrimpers shrimping all in a row;
Tawny sails and tarry boats,
Dark brown nets an...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Boy And Squirrel.

Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you;
We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me
That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.

Some human beings might not understand the life we lead;
If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read;
He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise;
If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.

Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump,
What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump?
Miss Mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers;
What wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs?

But you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbin...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Canada Home.

Some Homes are where flowers for ever blow,
The sun shining hotly the whole year round;
But our Home glistens with six months of snow,
Where frost without wind heightens every sound.
And Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

Yet Willy is old enough to recall
A Home forgotten by Eily and me;
He says that we left it five years since last Fall,
And came sailing, sailing, right over the sea.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

Our other Home was for ever green,
A green, green isle in a blue, blue sea,
With sweet flowers such as we never have seen;
And Willy tells all this to Eily and me.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

H...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Christmas Wishes.

A CAROL.


Oh, happy Christmas, full of blessings, come!
Now bid our discords cease;
Here give the weary ease;
Let the long-parted meet again in peace;
Bring back the far-away;
Grant us a holiday;
And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray--
Let love restore the fallen to his Home;
Whilst up and down the snowy streets the Christmas minstrels sing;
And through the frost from countless towers the bells of
Christmas ring.

Ah, Christ! and yet a happier day shall come!
Then bid our discords cease;
There give the weary ease;
Let the long-parted meet again in peace;
Bring back the far-away;
Grant us a holiday;
And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray--
Let love restore the fallen to his Home;
Whilst up and down the golden streets...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Confirmation.

Long, long ago, with vows too much forgotten,
The Cross of Christ was seal'd on every brow,
Ah! slow of heart, that shun the Christian conflict;
Rise up at last! The accepted time is now.
Soldiers of Jesus! Blest who endure;
Stand in the battle; the victory is sure.

Hark! hark! the Saviour's voice to each is calling--
"I bore the Cross of Death in pain for thee;
On thee the Cross of daily life is falling:
Children! take up the Cross and follow Me."
Soldiers of Jesus! &c.

Strive as God's saints have striven in all ages;
Press those slow steps where firmer feet have trod:
For us their lives adorn the sacred pages,
For them a crown of glory is with God.
Soldiers of Jesus! &c.

Peace! peace! sweet voices bring an ancient story,
(Such ...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Convalescence.

Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, whilst I try to remember the word,
What was it?--that the doctor says is now fairly established both in me and my bird.
C-O-N-con, with a con, S-T-A-N-stan, with a stan--No! That's Constantinople, that is
The capital of the country where rhubarb-and-magnesia comes from, and I wish they would keep it in that country, and not send it to this.
C-O-N-con--how my head swims! Now I've got it! C-O-N-V-A-L-E-S-C-E-N-C-E.
Convalescence! And that's what the doctor says is now fairly established both in my blackbird and me.
He says it means that you are better, and that you'll be well by and by.
And so the Sea-captain says, and he says we ought to be friends, because we're both convalescents--at least we're all three convalesc...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Dolly's Lullaby.

Hush-a-by, Baby! Your baby, Mamma,
No one but pussy may go where you are;
Soft-footed pussy alone may pass by,
For, if he wakens, your baby will cry.

Hush-a-by, Dolly! My baby are you,
Yellow-haired Dolly, with eyes of bright blue;
Though I say "Hush!" because Mother does so,
You wouldn't cry like her baby, I know!

Hush-a-by, Baby! Mamma walks about,
Sings to you softly, or rocks you without;
If you slept sounder, then I might walk too,
Sing to my Dolly, and rock her like you!

Hush-a-by Dolly! Sleep sweetly, my pet!
Dear Mamma made you this fine berceaunette,
Muslin and rose-colour, ribbon and lace;
When had a baby a cosier place?

Hush-a-by, Baby! the baby who cries.
Why, dear Mamma, don't you shut baby's eyes?
Pull dow...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Faded Flowers.

My love she sent a flower to me
Of tender hue and fragrance rare,
And with it came across the sea
A letter kind as she was fair;
But when her letter met mine eyes,
The flower, the little flower, was dead:
And ere I touched the tender prize
The hues were dim, the fragrance fled.

I sent my love a letter too,
In happy hope no more to roam;
I bade her bless the vessel true
Whose gallant sails should waft me home.
But ere my letter reach'd her hand,
My love, my little love, was dead,
And when the vessel touch'd the land,
Fair hope for evermore had fled.

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Fancy Free.

A GIRL'S SONG.


With bark and bound and frolic round
My dog and I together run;
While by our side a brook doth glide,
And laugh and sparkle in the sun.
We ask no more of fortune's store
Than thus at our sweet wills to roam:
And drink heart's ease from every breeze
That blows about the hills of home.
As, fancy free,
With game and glee,
We happy three
Dance down the glen.

And yet they say that some fine day
This vagrant stream may serve a mill;
My doggy guard a master's yard;
My free heart choose another's will.
How this may fare we little care,
My dog and I, as still we run!
Whilst by our side the brook doth glide,
And laugh and sparkle in the sun.
For, fancy free,
With game and glee,
We happy three
Dance...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

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