A NURSERY RHYME
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 down his wire, as I do, you see;
Lay him by Dolly, and come out with me.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! Mamma will not speak;
You, my dear baby, would sleep for a week.
Poor Mamma's baby allows her no rest,
Hush-a-by, Dolly, of babies the best!
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 your master;
How it hissed, and how I cried! It ran, but I ran faster!
Down upon my face I fell, its awful wings were o'er me,
Mother came and picked me up, and off to bed she bore me.
Months have passed, my faithful steed, both you and I are older,
Sheathless is my wooden sword, my heart I think is bolder.
Always ready bridled thou, with reins of crimson leather;
Woe betide the Goose to-day who meets us both together!
Up then now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces!
Time it is that you and I won something more than races.
I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander
Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.
THE DOLLS' WASH.
Sally is the laundress, and every Saturday
She sends our clean clothes up from the wash, and Nurse puts them away.
Sometimes Sally is very kind, but sometimes she's as cross as a Turk;
When she's good-humoured we like to go and watch her at work.
She has tubs and a copper in the wash-house, and a great big fire and plenty of soap;
And outside is the drying-ground with tall posts, and pegs bought from the gipsies, and long lines of rope.
The laundry is indoors with another big fire, and long tables, and a lot of irons, and a crimping-machine;
And horses (not live ones with tails, but clothes-horses) and the same starch that is used by the Queen.
Sally wears pattens in the wash-house, and turns up her sleeves, and splashes, and rubs,
And makes beautiful white lather which foams over the tops of the tubs,
Like waves at the seaside dashing against the rocks, only not so strong.
If I were Sally I should sit and blow soap-bubbles all the day long.
Sally is angry sometimes because of the way we dirty our frocks,
Making mud pies, and rolling down the lawn, and climbing trees, and scrambling over the rocks.
She says we do it on purpose, and never try to take care;
But if things have got to go to the wash, what can it matter how dirty they are?
Last week Mary and I got a lot of kingcups from the bog, and I carried them home in my skirt;
It was the end of the week, and our frocks were done, so we didn't mind about the dirt.
But Sally was as cross as two sticks, and won't wash our dolls' clothes any more—so she said,—
But never mind, for we'll ask Mamma if we may have a real Dolls' Wash of our own instead.
Mamma says we may on one condition, to which we agree;
We're to really wash the dolls' clothes, and make them just what clean clothes should be.
She says we must wash them thoroughly, which of course we intend to do,
We mean to rub, wring, dry, mangle, starch, iron, and air them too.
A regular wash must be splendid fun, and everybody knows
That any one in the world can wash out a few dirty clothes.
Well, we've had the Dolls' Wash, but it's only pretty good fun.
We're glad we've had it, you know, but we're gladder still that it's done.
As we wanted to have as big a wash as we could, we collected everything we could muster,
From the dolls' bed dimity hangings to Victoria's dress, which I'd used as a duster.
It was going to the wash, and Mary and I were house-maids—fancy house-maids, I mean—
And I took it to dust the bookshelf, for I knew it would come back clean.
Well, we washed in the wash-hand-basin, which holds a good deal, as the things are small;
We made a glorious lather, and splashed half over the floor; but the clothes weren't white after all.
However, we hung them out in our drying-ground in the garden, which we made with dahlia-sticks and long strings,
And then Dash went and knocked over one of the posts, and down in the dirt went our things!
So we washed them again and hung them on the towel-horse, and most of them came all right,
But Victoria's muslin dress—though I rinsed it again and again—will never dry white!
And the grease-spots on Mary's doll's dress don't seem to come out, and we can't think how they got there;
Unless it was when we made that Macassar-oil, because she has real hair.
I knew mine was going to the wash, but I'm sorry I used it as a duster before it went;
We think dirty clothes perhaps shouldn't be too dirty before they are sent.
We had sad work in trying to make the starch—I wonder what the Queen does with hers?
I stirred mine up with a candle, like Sally, but it only made it worse;
So we had to ask Mamma's leave to have ours made by Nurse.
Nurse makes beautiful starch—like water-arrowroot when you're ill—in a minute or two.
It's a very odd thing that what looks so easy should be so difficult to do!
Then Mary put the iron down to heat, but as soon as she'd turned her back,
A jet of gas came sputtering out of the coals and smoked it black.
We dared not ask Sally for another, for we knew she'd refuse it,
So we had to clean this one with sand and brown-paper before we could use it.
It was very hard work, but I rubbed till I made it shine;
Yet as soon as it got on a damped "fine thing" it left a brown line.
I rubbed it for a long, long time before it would iron without a mark,
But it did at last, and we finished our Dolls' Wash just before dark.
Sally's very kind, for she praised our wash, and she has taken away
Victoria's dress to do it again; and I really must say
She was right when she said, "You see, young ladies, a week's wash isn't all play."
Our backs ache, our faces are red, our hands are all wrinkled, and we've rubbed our fingers quite sore;
We feel very sorry for Sally every week, and we don't mean to dirty our dresses so much any more.
HOUSE-BUILDING AND REPAIRS.
Father is building a new house, but I've had one given to me for my own;
Brick red, with a white window, and black where it ought to be glass, and the chimney yellow, like stone.
Brother Bill made me the shelves with his tool-box, and the table I had before, and the pestle-and-mortar;
And Mother gave me the jam-pot when it was empty; it's rather big, but it's the only pot we have that will really hold water.
We—that is I and Jemima, my doll. (For it's a Doll's House, you know,
Though some of the things are real, like the nutmeg-grater, but not the wooden plates that stand in a row.
They came out of a box of toy tea-things, and I can't think what became of the others;
But one never can tell what becomes of anything when one has brothers.)
Jemima is much smaller than I am, and, being made of wood, she is thin;
She takes up too much room inside, but she can lie outside on the roof without breaking it in.
I wish I had a drawing-room to put her in when I want to really cook;
I have to have the kitchen-table outside as it is, and the pestle-and-mortar is rather too heavy for it, and everybody can look.
There's no front door to the house, because there's no front to have a door in, and beside,
If there were, I couldn't play with anything, for I shouldn't know how to get inside.
I never heard of a house with only one room, except the cobbler's, and his was a stall.
I don't quite know what that is; but it isn't a house, and it served him for parlour and kitchen and all.
Father says that whilst he is about it, he thinks he shall add on a wing;
And brother Bill says he'll nail my Doll's House on the top of an old tea-chest, which will come to the same thing.
Father's house is not finished, though the wing is; for now the builder says it will be all wrong if there isn't another to match;
And my house isn't done either, though it's nailed on, for Bill took off the roof to make a new one of thatch.
The paint is very much scratched, but he says that's nothing, for it must have had a new coat;
And he means to paint it for me, inside and out, when he paints his own boat.
There's a sad hole in the floor, but Bill says the wood is as rotten as rotten can be:
Which was why he made such a mess of the side with trying to put real glass in the window, through which one can see.
Bill says he believes that the shortest plan would be to make a new Doll's House with proper rooms, in the regular way;
Which was what the builder said to Father when he wanted to build in the old front; and to-day
I heard him tell him the old materials were no good to use and weren't worth the expense of carting away.
I don't know when I shall be able to play at dolls again, for all the things are put away in a box;
Except Jemima and the pestle-and-mortar, and they're in the bottom drawer with my Sunday frocks.
I almost wish I had kept the house as it was before;
We managed very well with a painted window and without a front door.
I don't know what Father means to do with his house, but if ever mine is finished, I'll never have it altered any more.
THE BLUE-BELLS ON THE LEA.
Fairy King.
"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
If you will give yourself to me,
Within the fairy ring,
At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring—
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
On slender stems they swing.
"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
Upon the wind,
The Blue-bells seem to play—
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Lest we should go astray.
"So gay that fairy music,
So jubilant those bells,
How days and weeks and months go by
No happy listener tells!
The toad-stools are with sweetmeats spread,
The new Moon lends her light,
And ringers small
Wait, one and all,
To ring with all their might—
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
And welcome you to night."
Boy.
"My mother made me promise
To be in time for tea,
'Go home! go home!' the breezes say,
That sigh along the lea.
I dare not give myself away;
For what would Mother do?
I wish I might
Stay out all night
At fairy games with you.
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
And hear the bells of blue.
"But Father sleeps beneath the grass,
And Mother is alone:
And who would fill the pails, and fetch
The wood when I am gone?
And who, when little Sister ails,
Can comfort her, but me?
Her cries and tears
Would reach my ears
Through all the melody—
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Of Blue-bells on the lea."
The sun was on the Blue-bells,
The lad was on the lea.
"Oh, wondrous bells! Oh, fairy bells!
I pray you ring to me.
I only did as Mother bade,
For tea I did not care,
And winds at night
Give more delight
Than all this noonday glare."
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
No sound of bells was there.
Boy.
"The snow lies o'er the Blue-bells,
A storm is on the lea;
Our hearth is warm, the fire burns bright,
The flames dance merrily.
Oh, Mother dear! I would no more
That on that summer's day,
Within the ring,
The Fairy King
Had stolen me away—
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
To where the Blue-bells play.
"Yet when the storm is loudest,
At deep midnight I dream,
And up and down upon the lea
To chase the wind I seem;
While by my side, in feathered cap,
There runs the Fairy King,
And down below,
Beneath the snow,
We hear the Blue-bells ring—
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Such happy dreams they bring!"
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 legs and a top, so it would be if the back wasn't there;
And that does for Charles to perch on, and I have to put the Prince of Wales to lean against it, because his legs have no joints to sit on a chair.
That's the small doll. I call him the Prince of Wales because he's the eldest son, you see;
For I've taken him for my brother, and he was Mother's doll before I was born, so of course he is older than me.
Towser is my real live brother, but I don't think he's as old as the Prince of Wales;
He's a perfect darling, though he whisks everything over he comes near, and I tell him I don't know what we should do if we all had tails.
His hair curls like mine in front, and grows short like a lion behind, but no one need be frightened, for he's as good as good;
And as to roaring like a real menagerie lion, or eating people up, I don't believe he would if he could.
He has his tea out of the saucer after I've had mine out of the cup;
You see I am sure to leave some for him, but if I let him begin first he would drink it all up.
The big doll Godmamma gave me this birthday, and the chair she gave me the year before.
(I haven't many toys, but I take great care of them, and every birthday I shall have more and more.)
You've no idea what a beautiful doll she is, and when I pinch her in the middle, she can squeak;
It quite frightened Towser, for he didn't know that any of us but he and I and Charles were able to speak.
I've taken her for my only sister, for of course I may take anybody I choose;
I've called her Cinderella, because I'm so fond of the story, and because she's got real shoes.
I don't feel so only now there are so many of us; for, counting Cinderella there are five,—
She, and I, and Towser, and Charles, and the Prince of Wales—and three of us are really alive;
And four of us can speak, and I'm sure the Prince of Wales is wonderful for his size;
For his things (at least he's only got one thing) take off and on, and, though he's nothing but wood, he's got real glass eyes.
And perhaps in three birthdays more there may be as many of us as the Smiths, for five and three make eight;
I shall be seven years old then (as old as Joe), but I don't like to think too much of it, it's so long to wait.
And after all I don't know that I want any more of us: I think I'd rather my sister had a chair
Like mine; and the next year I should like a collar for Towser if it wouldn't rub off his hair.
And it would be very nice if the Prince of Wales could be dressed like a Field-marshal, for he's got nothing on his legs;
And Cinderella's beautifully dressed, and Towser looks quite as if he'd got a fur coat on when he begs.
Joe says it's perfectly absurd, and that I can't take a Pomeranian in earnest for my brother;
But I don't think he really and truly knows how much Towser and I love each other.
I didn't like his saying, "Well, there's one thing about your lot,—you can always have your own way."
And then he says, "You can't possibly have fun with four people when you have to pretend what they say."
But, whatever he says, I don't believe I shall ever enjoy a tea-party more than the one that we had on that day.
PAPA POODLE.
Can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head?
How long will it be, Papa Poodle, before you have learned to read?
You were called Papa Poodle because you took care of me when I was a baby:
And now I can read words of three syllables, and you sit with a book before you like a regular gaby.
You've not read a word since I put you in that corner ten minutes ago;
Bill and I've fought the battle of Waterloo since dinner, and you've not learned BA BE BI BO.
Here am I doing the whole British Army by myself, for Bill is obliged to be the French;
And I've come away to hear you say your lesson, and left Bill waiting for me in the trench.
And there you sit, with a curly white wig, like the Lord Chief Justice, and as grave a face,
Looking the very picture of goodness and wisdom, when you're really in the deepest disgrace.
Those woolly locks of yours grow thicker and thicker, Papa Poodle.
Does the wool tangle inside as well as outside your head? and is it that which makes you such a noodle?
You seem so clever at some things, and so stupid at others, and I keep wondering why;
But I'm afraid the truth is, Papa Poodle, that you're uncommonly sly.
You did no spelling-lessons last week, for you were out from morning till night,
Except when you slunk in, like a dirty door-mat on legs, and with one ear bleeding from a fight,
Looking as if you'd no notion what o'clock it was, and had come home to see.
But your watch keeps very good meal-time, Papa Poodle, for you're always at breakfast, and dinner, and tea.
No, it's no good your shaking hands and licking me with your tongue,—I know you can do that;
But sitting up, and giving paws, and kissing, won't teach you to spell C A T, Cat.
I wonder, if I let you off lessons, whether I could teach you to pull the string with your teeth, and fire our new gun?
If I could, you might be the Artillery all to yourself, and it would be capital fun.
You wag your tail at that, do you? You would like it a great deal better?
But I can't bear you to be such a dunce, when you look so wise; and yet I don't believe you'll ever learn a letter.
Aunt Jemima is going to make me a new cocked hat out of the next old newspaper, for I want to have a review;
But the newspaper after that, Papa Poodle, must be kept to make a fool's cap for you.
GRANDMOTHER'S SPRING.
"In my young days," the grandmother said (Nodding her head,
Where cap and curls were as white as snow),
"In my young days, when we used to go
Rambling,
Scrambling;
Each little dirty hand in hand,
Like a chain of daisies, a comical band
Of neighbours' children, seriously straying,
Really and truly going a-Maying,
My mother would bid us linger,
And lifting a slender, straight forefinger,
Would say—
'Little Kings and Queens of the May,
Listen to me!
If you want to be
Every one of you very good
In that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful wood,
Where the little birds' heads get so turned with delight,
That some of them sing all night:
Whatever you pluck,
Leave some for good luck;
Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root,
From overhead, or from underfoot,
Water-wonders of pond or brook;
Wherever you look,
And whatever you find—
Leave something behind:
Some for the Naïads,
Some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'"
"After all these years," the grandame said,
Lifting her head,
"I think I can hear my mother's voice
Above all other noise,
Saying, 'Hearken, my child!
There is nothing more destructive and wild,
No wild bull with his horns,
No wild-briar with clutching thorns,
No pig that routs in your garden-bed,
No robber with ruthless tread,
More reckless and rude,
And wasteful of all things lovely and good,
Than a child, with the face of a boy and the ways of a bear,
Who doesn't care;
Or some little ignorant minx
Who never thinks.
Now I never knew so stupid an elf,
That he couldn't think and care for himself.
Oh, little sisters and little brothers,
Think for others, and care for others!
And of all that your little fingers find,
Leave something behind,
For love of those that come after:
Some, perchance, to cool tired eyes in the moss that stifled your laughter!
Pluck, children, pluck!
But leave—for good luck—
Some for the Naïads,
And some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies!'"
"We were very young," the grandmother said,
Smiling and shaking her head;
"And when one is young,
One listens with half an ear, and speaks with a hasty tongue;
So with shouted Yeses,
And promises sealed with kisses,
Hand-in-hand we started again,
A chubby chain,
Stretching the whole wide width of the lane;
Or in broken links of twos and threes,
For greater ease
Of rambling,
And scrambling,
By the stile and the road,
That goes to the beautiful, beautiful wood;
By the brink of the gloomy pond,
To the top of the sunny hill beyond,
By hedge and by ditch, by marsh and by mead,
By little byways that lead
To mysterious bowers;
Or to spots where, for those who know,
There grow,
In certain out-o'-way nooks, rare ferns and uncommon flowers.
There were flowers everywhere,
Censing the summer air,
Till the giddy bees went rolling home
To their honeycomb,
And when we smelt at our posies,
The little fairies inside the flowers rubbed coloured dust on our noses,
Or pricked us till we cried aloud for snuffing the dear dog-roses.
But above all our noise,
I kept thinking I heard my mother's voice.
But it may have been only a fairy joke,
For she was at home, and I sometimes thought it was
really the flowers that spoke.
From the Foxglove in its pride,
To the Shepherd's Purse by the bare road-side;
From the snap-jack heart of the Starwort frail,
To meadows full of Milkmaids pale,
And Cowslips loved by the nightingale.
Rosette of the tasselled Hazel-switch,
Sky-blue star of the ditch;
Dandelions like mid-day suns;
Bindweed that runs;
Butter and Eggs with the gaping lips,
Sweet Hawthorn that hardens to haws, and Roses that die into hips;
Lords-with-their-Ladies cheek-by-jowl,
In purple surcoat and pale-green cowl;
Family groups of Primroses fair;
Orchids rare;
Velvet Bee-orchis that never can sting,
Butterfly-orchis which never takes wing,
Robert-the-Herb with strange sweet scent,
And crimson leaf when summer is spent:
Clustering neighbourly,
All this gay company,
Said to us seemingly—
'Pluck, children, pluck!
But leave some for good luck:
Some for the Naïads,
Some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies,'"
"I was but a maid," the grandame said,
"When my mother was dead;
And many a time have I stood.
In that beautiful wood,
To dream that through every woodland noise,
Through the cracking
Of twigs and the bending of bracken,
Through the rustling
Of leaves in the breeze,
And the bustling
Of dark-eyed, tawny-tailed squirrels flitting about the trees,
Through the purling and trickling cool
Of the streamlet that feeds the pool,
I could hear her voice.
Should I wonder to hear it? Why?
Are the voices of tender wisdom apt to die?
And now, though I'm very old,
And the air, that used to feel fresh, strikes chilly and cold,
On a sunny day when I potter
About the garden, or totter
To the seat from whence I can see, below,
The marsh and the meadows I used to know,
Bright with the bloom of the flowers that blossomed there long ago;
Then, as if it were yesterday,
I fancy I hear them say—
'Pluck, children, pluck,
But leave some for good luck;
Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root,
From overhead, or from underfoot,
Water-wonders of pond or brook;
Wherever you look,
And whatever your little fingers find,
Leave something behind:
Some for the Naïads,
And some for the Dryads,
And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'"
The following note was given in Aunt Judy's Magazine, June 1880, when "Grandmother's Spring" first appeared:—"It may interest old readers of Aunt Judy's Magazine to know that 'Leave some for the Naïads and the Dryads' was a favourite phrase with Mr. Alfred Gatty, and is not merely the charge of an imaginary mother to her 'blue-eyed banditti.' Whether my mother invented the expression for our benefit, or whether she only quoted it, I do not know. I only remember its use as a check on the indiscriminate 'collecting' and 'grubbing' of a large family; a mystic warning not without force to fetter the same fingers in later life, with all the power of a pious tradition."—J.H.E.
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 don't you wish he were?
My horse's coat is only paint, but his is soft grey hair;
His face is big and kind, like yours, his forelock white as snow—
Shan't you be sorry when you've done his shoes and he must go?
I do so wish, Big Smith, that I might come and live with you;
To rake the fire, to heat the rods, to hammer two and two.
To be so black, and not to have to wash unless I choose;
To pat the dear old horses, and to mend their poor old shoes.
When all the world is dark at night, you work among the stars,
A shining shower of fireworks beat out of red-hot bars.
I've seen you beat, I've heard you sing, when I was going to bed;
And now your face and arms looked black, and now were glowing red.
The more you work, the more you sing, the more the bellows roar;
The falling stars, the flying sparks, stream shining more and more.
You hit so hard, you look so hot, and yet you never tire;
It must be very nice to be allowed to play with fire.
I long to beat and sing and shine, as you do, but instead
I put away my horse, and Nurse puts me away to bed.
I wonder if you go to bed; I often think I'll keep
Awake and see, but, though I try, I always fall asleep.
I know it's very silly, but I sometimes am afraid
Of being in the dark alone, especially in bed.
But when I see your forge-light come and go upon the wall,
And hear you through the window, I am not afraid at all.
I often hear a trotting horse, I sometimes hear it stop;
I hold my breath—you stay your song—it's at the blacksmith's shop.
Before it goes, I'm apt to fall asleep, Big Smith, it's true;
But then I dream of hammering that horse's shoes with you!
KIT'S CRADLE.
They've taken the cosy bed away
That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.
I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.
I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.
On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.
I've found a crib where they won't find me,
Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house.
Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree!
A cat can keep as still as a mouse.
It's rather unwise perhaps to purr,
But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves.
I'm happy in every hair of my fur;
They may keep the hamper and hay themselves.
THE MILL STREAM.
One of a hundred little rills—
Born in the hills,
Nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky,
Sang—"Who so mighty as I?
The farther I flow
The bigger I grow.
I, who was born but a little rill,
Now turn the big wheel of the mill,
Though the surly slave would rather stand still.
Old, and weed-hung, and grim,
I am not afraid of him;
For when I come running and dance on his toes,
With a creak and a groan the monster goes.
And turns faster and faster,
As he learns who is master,
Round and round,
Till the corn is ground,
And the miller smiles as he stands on the bank,
And knows he has me to thank.
Then when he swings the fine sacks of flour,
I feel my power;
But when the children enjoy their food,
I know I'm not only great but good!"
Furthermore sang the brook—
"Who loves the beautiful, let him look!
Garlanding me in shady spots
The Forget-me-nots
Are blue as the summer sky:
Who so lovely as I?
My King-cups of gold
Shine from the shade of the alders old,
Stars of the stream!—
At the water-rat's threshold they gleam.
From below
The Frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow,
And in masses
The Willow-herb, the flags, and the grasses,
Reeds, rushes, and sedges,
Flower and fringe and feather my edges.
To be beautiful is not amiss,
But to be loved is more than this;
And who more sought than I,
By all that run or swim or crawl or fly?
Sober shell-fish and frivolous gnats,
Tawny-eyed water-rats;
The poet with rippling rhymes so fluent,
Boys with boats playing truant,
Cattle wading knee-deep for water;
And the flower-plucking parson's daughter.
Down in my depths dwell creeping things
Who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings,
For—too swift for a school-boy's prize—
Hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies.
At my side the lover lingers,
And with lack-a-daisical fingers,
The Weeping Willow, woe-begone,
Strives to stay me as I run on."
There came an hour
When all this beauty and love and power
Did seem
But a small thing to that Mill Stream.
And then his cry
Was, "Why, oh! why
Am I thus surrounded
With checks and limits, and bounded
By bank and border
To keep me in order,
Against my will?
I, who was born to be free and unfettered—a mountain rill!
But for these jealous banks, the good
Of my gracious and fertilizing flood
Might spread to the barren highways,
And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways.
Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave
Her feet in my cooling wave;
When the tender and beautiful Beech
Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach?
Could I but rush with unchecked power,
The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour.
And what are the ends
Of life, but to serve one's friends?"
A day did dawn at last,
When the spirits of the storm and the blast,
Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow,
Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the valley below.
Dams were broken and weirs came down;
Cottage and mill, country and town,
Shared in the general inundation,
And the following desolation.
Then the Mill Stream rose in its might,
And burst out of bounds to left and to right,
Rushed to the beautiful Beech,
In the meadow far out of reach.
But with such torrents the poor tree died,
Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side.
The cattle swam till they sank,
Trying to find a bank.
Never more shall the broken water-wheel
Grind the corn to make the meal,
To make the children's bread.
The miller was dead.
When the setting sun
Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done
In its hour
Of unlimited power,
And what was left when that had passed by,
Behold the channel was stony and dry.
In uttermost ruin
The Mill Stream had been its own undoing.
Furthermore it had drowned its friend:
This was the end.
h 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 climbing trees,
Of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze,
Of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning hoards,
And all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords.
It cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me,
Who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free;
An extra hour indoors, I know, is punishment to you;
You make me twirl a tiny cage? It never can be true!
Yet I've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow.
He thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know;
He says we're safe with Doctor Birch, because he is so blind,
And that Miss Mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind.
But you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you,
He says my life and liberty are lost unless I do;
That you, who fear the Doctor's cane, will fling big sticks at me,
And tear me from my forest home, and from my favourite tree.
The more we think of what he says, the more we're sure it's "chaff,"
We sit beneath the shadow of our bushy tails and laugh;
Hey, presto! Friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play,
If you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day!
LITTLE MASTER TO HIS BIG DOG.
Oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate,
Your mouth waters so, and your big tail is drumming
Flop! flop! flop! on the carpet, and yet if you'll wait,
When we have quite finished, your dinner is coming.
Yes! I know what you mean, though you don't speak a word;
You say that you wish that I kindly would let you
Take your meals with the family, which is absurd,
And on a tall chair like a gentleman set you.
But how little you think, my dear dog, when you talk;
You've no "table manners," you bolt meat, you gobble;
And how could you eat bones with a knife, spoon, and fork?
You would be in a most inconvenient hobble.
And yet, once on a time it is certainly true,
My own manners wanted no little refining;
For I gobbled, and spilled, and was greedy like you,
And had no idea of good manners when dining.
So that when I consider the tricks you have caught,
To sit or shake paws with the utmost good breeding,
I must own it quite possible you may be taught
The use of a plate, and a nice style of feeding.
Therefore try to learn manners, and eat as I do;
Don't glare at the joint, and as soon as you're able
To behave like the rest, you shall feed with us too,
And dine like a gentleman sitting at table.
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 with half an eye.
I was hopping round the room, but I stopped and said, "My kitten's not weak, and I don't believe anybody could see with only half an eye. Could they, Mamma?"
And Nurse said, "Go and play, my dear, and let your Mamma rest;" but Mamma said, "No, my love, stay where you are.
Dear Nurse, lift me up, and put a pillow to my back, I know you mean to be kind;
But she does ask such remarkable questions, and while I've strength to speak, don't let me check the inquiring mind.
If I should fail to be all a mother ought—oh, how my head throbs when the dear child jumps!" and then Nurse said, "Ugh!
When you're worried into your grave, she'll have no mother at all, and 'll have to tumble up as other folks do.
There's the poor master at his wits' end—a child's not all a grown person has to think of—and Miss Jane would do well enough if she'd less of her own way;
But there's more children spoilt with care than the want of it, and more mothers murdered than there's folks hanged for, and that's what I say.
Children learns what you teach 'em, and Miss Jane's old enough to have learned to wait upon you:
And if her mother thought less of her and she thought more of her mother, it would be better for her too."
But Nurse is a nasty cross old thing—I hate her; and I hate the doctor, for he wanted me to be left behind
When Mamma went to the sea for her health; but I begged and begged till she promised I should go, for Mamma is always kind.
And she bought me a new wooden spade and a basket, and a red and green ship with three masts, and a one-and-sixpenny telescope to look at the sea;
But when I got on to the sands, I thought I'd rather be on the esplanade, for there was a little girl there who was looking at me,
Dressed in a navy-blue suit and a sailor hat, with fair hair tied with ribbons; so I told Mamma,
And she got me a suit, ready-made (but she said it was dreadfully dear), and a hat to match, in the Pebble Brooch Repository and Universal Bazaar.
It faded in the sun, and came all to pieces in the wash; but I was tired of it before.
For the esplanade is very dull, and the little girl with fair hair had got sand-boots and a shrimping-net and was playing on the shore.
And when my sand-boots came home, and I'd got a better net than hers, she went donkey-riding, and I knew it was to tease me,
But Nurse was so cross, and said if they sent a man in a herring-boat to the moon for what I wanted that nothing would please me.
So I said the seaside was a very disagreeable place, and I wished I hadn't come,
And I told Mamma so, and begged her to try and get well soon, to take us all home.
But now we've got home, it's very hot, and I'm afraid of the wasps; and I'm sure it was cooler at the sea,
And the Smiths won't be back for a fortnight, so I can't even have Matilda to tea.
I don't care much for my new doll—I think I'm too old for dolls now; I like books better, though I didn't like the last,
And I've read all I have: I always skip the dull parts, and when you skip a good deal you get through them so fast.
I like toys if they're the best kind, with works; though when I've had one good game with them, I don't much care to play with them again.
I feel as if I wanted something new to amuse me, and Mamma says it's because I've got such an active brain.
Nurse says I don't know what I want, and I know I don't, and that's just what it is.
It seems so sad a young creature like me should feel unhappy, and not know what's amiss;
But Nurse never thinks of my feelings, any more than the cruel nurse in the story about the little girl who was so good,
And if I die early as she did, perhaps then people will be sorry I've been misunderstood.
I shouldn't like to die early, but I should like people to be sorry for me, and to praise me when I was dead:
If I could only come to life again when they had missed me very much, and I'd heard what they said—
Of course that's impossible, I know, but I wish I knew what to do instead!
It seems such a pity that a sweet little dear like me should ever be sad.
And Mamma says she buys everything I want, and has taught me everything I will learn, and reads every book, and takes every hint she can pick up, and keeps me with her all day, and worries about me all night, till she's nearly mad;
And if any kind person can think of any better way to make me happy we shall both of us be glad.
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 and old cork floats;
Nasty smells at the nicest spots,
And blue-jerseyed sailors and—lobster-pots.
"It is sweet to be
At home in the deep, deep sea.
It is very pleasant to have the power
To take the air on dry land for an hour;
And when the mid-day midsummer sun
Is toasting the fields as brown as a bun,
And the sands are baking, it's very nice
To feel as cool as a strawberry ice
In one's own particular damp sea-cave,
Dipping one's feelers in each green wave.
It is good, for a very rapacious maw,
When storm-tossed morsels come to the claw;
And 'the better to see with' down below,
To wash one's eyes in the ebb and flow
Of the tides that come and the tides that go."
So sang the Lobsters, thankful for their mercies,
All but the hero of these simple verses.
Now a hero—
If he's worth the grand old name—
Though temperature may change from boiling-point to zero
Should keep his temper all the same:
Courageous and content in his estate,
And proof against the spiteful blows of Fate.
It, therefore, troubles me to have to say,
That with this Lobster it was never so;
Whate'er the weather or the sort of day,
No matter if the tide were high or low,
Whatever happened he was never pleased,
And not himself alone, but all his kindred teased.
"Oh! oh!
What a world of woe
We flounder about in, here below!
Oh dear! oh dear!
It is too, too dull, down here!
I haven't the slightest patience
With any of my relations;
I take no interest whatever
In things they call curious and clever.
And, for love of dear truth I state it,
As for my Home—I hate it!
I'm convinced I was formed for a larger sphere,
And am utterly out of my element here."
Then his brothers and sisters said,
Each solemnly shaking his and her head,
"You put your complaints in most beautiful verse,
And yet we are sure,
That, in spite of all you have to endure,
You might go much farther and fare much worse.
We wish you could live in a higher sphere,
But we think you might live happily here."
"I don't live, I only exist," he said,
"Be pleased to look upon me as dead."
And he swam to his cave, and took to his bed.
He sulked so long that the sisters cried,
"Perhaps he has really and truly died."
But the brothers went to the cave to peep,
For they said, "Perhaps he is only asleep."
They found him, far too busy to talk,
With a very large piece of bad salt pork.
"Dear Brother, what luck you have had to-day!
Can you tell us, pray,
Is there any more pork afloat in the bay?"
But not a word would my hero say,
Except to repeat, with sad persistence,
"This is not life, it's only existence."
One day there came to the fishing village
An individual bent on pillage;
But a robber whom true scientific feeling
May find guilty of picking, but not of stealing.
He picked the yellow poppies on the cliffs;
He picked the feathery seaweeds in the pools;
He picked the odds and ends from nets and skiffs;
He picked the brains of all the country fools.
He dried the poppies for his own herbarium,
And caught the Lobsters for a seaside town aquarium.
"Tank No. 20" is deep,
"Tank No. 20" is cool,
For clever contrivances always keep
The water fresh in the pool;
And a very fine plate-glass window is free to the public view,
Through which you can stare at the passers-by and the passers-by stare at you.
Said my hero, "This is a great variety
From those dull old rocks, where we'd no society."
For the primal cause of incidents,
One often hunts about,
When it's only a coincidence
That matters so turned out.
And I do not know the reason
Or the reason I would tell—
But it may have been the season—
Why my hero chose this moment for casting off his shell.
He had hitherto been dressed[1]
(And so had all the rest)
In purplish navy blue from top to toe!
But now his coat was new,
It was of every shade of blue
Between azure and the deepest indigo;
And his sisters kept telling him, till they were tired,
There never was any one so much admired.
My hero was happy at last, you will say?
So he was, dear Reader—two nights and a day;
Then, as he and his relatives lay,
Each at the mouth of his mock
Cave in the face of a miniature rock,
They saw, descending the opposite cliff,
By jerks spasmodic of elbows stiff;
Now hurriedly slipping, now seeming calmer,
With the ease and the grace of a hog in armour,
And as solemn as any ancient palmer,
No less than nine
Exceedingly fine
And full-grown lobsters, all in a line.
But the worst of the matter remains to be said.
These nine big lobsters were all of them red.[2]
And when they got safe to the floor of the tank,—
For which they had chiefly good luck to thank,—
They settled their cumbersome coats of mail,
And every lobster tucked his tail
Neatly under him as he sat
In a circle of nine for a cosy chat.
They seemed to be sitting hand in hand,
As shoulder to shoulder they sat in the sand,
And waved their antennæ in calm rotation,
Apparently holding a consultation.
But what were the feelings of Master Blue Shell?
Oh, gentle Reader! how shall I tell?
[1] The colours of lobsters vary a good deal in various localities. Homarus vulgaris, the common lobster, is spotted, and, on the upper part, more or less of a bluish black. I once saw a lobster that had just got a new shell, and was of every lovely shade of blue and violet.
[2] Palurinus vulgaris, the spiny lobster, has no true claws, but huge hairy antennæ. These lobsters are red during their lifetime! I have seen them (in the Crystal Palace Aquarium) seated exactly as here described, with blue lobsters watching them from niches of the rocky sides of the tank, where they looked like blue-jerseyed smugglers at the mouths of caves.
From the moment that those Nine he saw,
He never could bear his blue coat more.
"Oh, Brothers in misfortune!" he said,
"Did you ever see any lobsters so grand,
As those who sit down there in the sand?
Why were we born at all, since not one of us all was born red?"
"Dear Brother, indeed, this is quite a whim."
(So his brothers and sisters reasoned with him;
And, being exceedingly cultivated,
The case with remarkable fairness stated.)
"Red is a primary colour, it's true,
But so is Blue;
And we all of us think, dear Brother,
That one is quite as good as the other.
A swaggering soldier's a saucy varlet,
Though he looks uncommonly well in scarlet.
No doubt there's much to be said
For a field of poppies of glowing red;
For fiery rifts in sunset skies,
Roses and blushes and red sunrise;
For a glow on the Alps, and the glow of a forge,
A foxglove bank in a woodland gorge;
Sparks that are struck from red-hot bars,
The sun in a mist, and the red star Mars;
Flowers of countless shades and shapes,
Matadors', judges', and gipsies' capes;
The red-haired king who was killed in the wood,
Robin Redbreast and little Red Riding Hood;
Autumn maple, and winter holly,
Red-letter days of wisdom or folly;
The scarlet ibis, rose cockatoos,
Cardinal's gloves, and Karen's shoes;
Coral and rubies, and huntsmen's pink;
Red, in short, is splendid, we think.
But, then, we don't think there's a pin to choose;
If the Guards are handsome, so are the Blues.
It's a narrow choice between Sappers and Gunners.
You sow blue beans, and rear scarlet runners.
Then think of the blue of a mid-day sky,
Of the sea, and the hills, and a Scotchman's eye;
Of peacock's feathers, forget-me-nots,
Worcester china and "jap" tea-pots.
The blue that the western sky wears casually,
Sapphire, turquoise, and lapis-lazuli.
What can look smarter
Than the broad blue ribbon of Knights of the Garter?
And, if the subject is not too shocking,
An intellectual lady's stocking.
And who that loves hues
Could fail to mention
The wonderful blues
Of the mountain gentian?"
But to all that his brothers and sisters said,
He made no reply but—"I wish I were dead!
I'm all over blue, and I want to be red."
And he moped and pined, and took to his bed.
"That little one looks uncommonly sickly,
Put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly."
The voice that spoke was the voice of Fate,
And the lobster was soon in his former state;
Where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled,
And growled and grumbled:
"Oh dear! what shall I do?
I want to be red, and I'm all over blue."
I don't think I ever met with a book
The evil genius of which was a cook;
But it thus befell,
In the tale I have the honour to tell;
For as he was fretting and fuming about,
A fisherman fished my hero out;
And in process of time, he heard a voice,
Which made him rejoice.
The voice was the cook's, and what she said
Was, "He'll soon come out a beautiful red."
He was put in the pot,
The water was very hot;
The less we say about this the better,
It was all fulfilled to the very letter.
He did become a beautiful red,
But then—which he did not expect—he was dead!
Some gentle readers cannot well endure
To see the ill end of a bad beginning;
And hope against hope for a nicer cure
For naughty heroes than to leave off sinning.
And yet persisting in behaving badly,
Do what one will, does commonly end sadly.
But things in general are so much mixed,
That every case must stand upon its merits;
And folks' opinions are so little fixed,
And no one knows the least what he inherits—
I should be glad to shed some parting glory
Upon the hero of this simple story.
It seems to me a mean end to a ballad,
But the truth is, he was made into salad;
It's not how one's hero should end his days,
In a mayonnaise,
But I'm told that he looked exceedingly nice,
With cream-coloured sauce, and pale-green lettuce and ice.
I confess that if he'd been my relation,
This would not afford me any consolation;
For I feel (though one likes to speak well of the dead)
That it must be said,
He need not have died so early lamented,
If he'd been content to live contented.
P.S.—His claws were raised to very high stations;
They keep the earwigs from our carnations.
