HOP O' MY THUMB
UPON a forest thick and gloomy
A cottage, the reverse of roomy-
To put it plainly, just a hut
And nothing better—did abut.
'T was built of clay and roofed with straw;
The walls had many a gap and flaw;
The chimney wouldn't always draw;
The floor was damp, the ceiling leaky;
With stains of rains the walls were streaky.
Around the hearth, where seldom smiled
A blazing fire, were faggots piled
As if for fuel-
Oh, mockery cruel!
For they were heaped from floor to raft-
-Ers as a check upon the draught.
The fires that used that draught to flicker to
Consisted only of a stick or two,
Enough to warm a mess of pottage.
Pshaw! why waste time
In spinning rhyme,
When one can easily contrive
To picture it with words just five?-
The usual "English labourer's cottage."
There dwelt a goodwife, and her goodman,
Who by profession was a woodman,
But was so poor and so prolific
(A family of seven's terrific
To one whose trade is not first chop),
That oft when trees he'd limb and lop
He wished—his lot did him appal so-
That he could cut his own stick also.
But while he in the woods was hewing,
What, think you, the poor wife was doing,
Who had to sit at home, and see
Her children gather round her knee
With looks that, plain as words could utter,
Said, "Please, we want some bread and butter" r
What could she do but sit and sigh,.
While bitter tears bedewed her eye?-
His was the "hew," but hers the "cry."
Her household duties were but few:
When she had clothed the infant crew,
The toils that as a rule belong
To cooking, did not take her long;
They never tasted meat, to vary an
Eternal diet vegetarian.
And well we know, to rear a troop
On turnip broth and carrot soup,
And ne'er taste "pieces of resistance,"
Is vegetation, not existence!
Said the husband one night
As they sat by the light
Of a fire that for them was uncommonly bright, *
"My dear, we have got
One carrot—and not
A single scrap more to put into the pot.
* How it flickered and flared has been drawn con amore
By that notable artist of artists, G. Dore.
We 're as poor as church mice, and there's nothing much surer
Than that we every day shall grow poorer and poorer.
And what for our brats
Can we do, my love? That's
The question that gnaws at my heart 'like green rats!'
It's long since we had any victuals to carve,
But now we 've no soup
To spoon out for the group-
What is to be done? for we can't see them starve."
The wife shook her head,
And mournfully said,
"If we have not the food, why, they cannot be fed;
Unless we find heart to entrust them all seven.
To the Power that feeds
And attends to the needs
Of the wild things of earth and the winged things of heaven."
Said the father, "That's true!
It's what we must do-
We 'll take to the forest the poor little crew
By roundabout ways, all the more to confuse them;
And then, when we find they 're not looking, we 'll lose them."
Here the reader polite 'll
Allow the recital
To pause while they 're settling a question so vital;
And I, in requital,
To make it all right, 'll
Explain how my story has come by its title.
The last child that was born
To this couple forlorn
Was tiny in figure;
Not very much bigger
Than the wee dancing dolls that one sees in an organ;
Or rather, so small
That no figure at all
He'd, I think, have been called by Professor de Morgan,
But—devoted to fractions most infinitesimal-
That diminutive point which is known as a decimal.
So, though he was a boy,
And we do not employ-
Says the grammar that Eton lads always enjoy-
For the masculine omne quod exit in um,
They christened the little one Hop o' my Thumb.
The father regarded the child with surprise;
And his mother, poor woman, shed tears for his size,
For she felt as she looked at her babe the misgiving
That so little a boy could but make a small living.
And as he grew older
Still every beholder
That he didn't grow bigger at all always told her;
But then as some comfort they all of them found him
Possessed of great nous,
Though the size of a mouse-
For though he was little, they couldn't get round him.
Now it chanced on the night that begins my narration,
When his parents were holding this grave consultation,
Sleep would not come
To Hop o' my Thumb-
He was on the alert "a remarkable some;"
So he sat up in bed,
And there by the red
And flickering light that around it was shed,
By the glare of the log
Saw the cat and the dog-
She was poor as a rat;—he'd a waist like a frog,
Or a greyhound—but due to the absence of prog,
Not the presence of breed,-
He resembled, indeed,
He saw on her cheek a tear-drop glisten,
So he hid himself under her chair to listen
The nags that you see in a cab-driver's stud,
Whose "points" are all owing to bone, not to blood.
There his father and mother
Too sat by each other,
Conversing in tones they seemed anxious to smother,
And he saw on her cheek a tear-drop glisten,
So he hid himself under her chair to listen.
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What did he hear?-
He regarded with fear
Being left in the forest so dismal and drear!
And all for no good,
For 'twas likely he should
Get wholly mislaid, like the Babes in the Wood,
Whom (see story) with leaves the kind robin, alack! buries,
When they eat, by mistake, deadly nightshade for blackberries!
In a state of despair,
Hidden under the chair,
Poor Hop o' my Thumb heard his parents declare
That the first thing next day they would make the excursion
Which, so they determined, should end in desertion.
"What's to be done?
This is really no fun:
I 'm the wretchedest mortal that's under the sun.
To bed I must creep—
But awake I will keep,
For what I've to do is to think, not to-sleep,"
Said Hop o' my Thumb,
When his father said, "Mum!"-
To his mother, intending that she should be dumb
On the subject that late
Had formed their debate-
"I think you had better get breakfast at eight."
The boy stole to bed,
To turn o'er in his head
The things which his father and mother had said,
And discover, if possible, 'cute little chap!
As well as he can,
Some snug little plan
To guard him and brothers against a mishap.
One thing was clear:
When they started from here
He some landmarks must leave by which homeward to steer;
For if he'd the means to discover the track again,
Go where they would, he could find his way back again!
But in vain to devise
Some guide-post he tries,
Till he's quite wearied out, and sleep closes his eyes.
But while he still sleeps,
On a moonbeam down sweeps
A fairy: beneath his closed eyelids she peeps,
And finding him busy on all sorts of schemes,
To aid his escape
From the morrow's sad scrape,
She a cunning suggestion slips into his dreams.
Where lofty oaks deep shadows make,
And ceaselessly the aspens quake,
Where ancient elms their branches spread,
And ashes whisper overhead;
Within the forest's darkest glades
There flows a stream among the shades,
Above its wave a hoary group
Of melancholy willows droop.
The kingfisher its waters loves;
'T is haunted by the startled doves;
And, free of fear, beside its brink
The dappled fawn oft stops to drink.
'T is fed by twenty tinkling rills,
And here and there—where sunlight spills
Through openings in the boughs o'erhead
A halo, yellow, azure, red-
A tiny rainbow bright and small
Hangs o'er the mimic waterfall;
Where through the overarching green
Bright glimpses of the sky are seen,
The dancing waters as they go
Mirror the snatch of blue below.
Long mosses wave within its stream,
And silvery fishes glance and gleam,
And water-lilies float and sail.
But these do not concern my tale.
My point, the mystery to unravel,
Is, that the bed of it is gravel,
And that its bays and banks abound
In pebbles small, and smooth, and round.
By the side of this stream,
As he walked in his dream,
It appeared that the pebbles all set up a scream,
"Hop o' my Thumb!
Come hither, boy, come;
If we cannot show you the way it is rum!" *
At the first streak of day
He is up and away!
He creeps out of the house through a crack in the
* At the slang the stones speak don't, I pray, be offended:
How their schooling's neglected
Must be recollected—
Just remember how often roads have to be mended!
Off like a rocket
To fill every pocket
With stones—precious stones, though not fit for a locket
Brooch, bracelet, or ring,
Or any such thing-
But precious to him for the help they will bring.
Away must he go
Like arrow from bow,
Yet all in a quiver,
And reaches the river.
The scene is a taking one, though this is a giver
Of peaceful delight,
Full of charm for the sight
That reads all the beauty of Nature aright.
On the bank of the stream
Rests one fleeting gleam,
Where the bluebells and dainty anemones teem,
And there rises o'er them
The grey hollow stem
Of an old pollard willow; while many a gem
From the waters is hung
Leaf and blossom among,
For 't is here that the stream's sweetest madrigal's sung.
But what does he care for song, bluebell, or pollard?—
There are the jockeys that have to be collared.
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Down on his knees he. went, if you please,
And oblivious of sunshine, and blossoms, and trees,
Where the waterfall piped in the shrillest of trebles
Hop o' my Thumb filled his pocket with pebbles.
Then homeward he stole,
Returned through the hole,
And crept into bed, not disturbing a soul;
But feeling the danger completely forestalled.
Curled up, and slept soundly until he was called!
At eight o' clock the mother rose,
And donning mournfully her clothes,
Lit up some sticks and put the kettle on,
As she and he did last night settle on:—
The water boiling, in goes, souse!
The one last carrot in the house.
The hapless mother can't but feel
In any case it's their last meal;
For even if they now gave up
The plan on which they had agreed,
There's nothing left,—nor bite nor sup,—
Her hungry, starving babes to feed.
Less pain 't will be, she feels, poor mother,
To lose them one way than another.
And so this poor Hagar
Prepared her soupe maigre,
While grief and perplexity harass and plague her.
And soon as their eyes
Are open, with cries
Of "Oh, we 're so hungry!" the little ones rise.
While the father, who's not
Very great at a plot,
Conceives that his plan some more treachery lacks;
So in order to hatch it, goes out with his axe,
And makes an attempt at restoring his mind's tone
By setting the edge of the blade to the grindstone.
The poor little souls
Sit down to their bowls,
And eat up their pottage without any rolls.
It's not a remarkably nourishing diet,
But it eases the pangs
Of hunger's sharp fangs,
And the wolf in the stomach keeps partially quiet.
But the mother's afraid
It's far from well made,
For the carrot's fine flavour and strength haven't stopt in it,
And it's rather too salt—from the tears that have dropt in it.
However, no matter!
They clear out each platter:
In expecting a share of the soup, dog and cat err;
If they want a first course they must e'en lick the dish for it,
And as for the second, they 'll have to go fish for it-
A third they 'll not meet with, however they wish for it.
So the table was cleared;
The cloth disappeared:
And then came what Hop o' my Thumb had so feared.
Said the father, "Come, children, I'm off to the wood,
And I 'll take you all with me providing you 're good.
There are lots of wild fruits,
Not to mention the roots,
And the hawthorns are putting forth midsummer shoots.
You 'll have plenty to eat-
'T will be really a treat;-
So run to your mother, and all be made neat!"
Off they ran in great glee
To their mother, and she
Did the best that she could for the boys; but, you see,
A respectable look's not the easiest of matters
To give to clothes made of shreds, patches, and tatters.
However, at last, inspected and passed,
They set out for the forest so gloomy and vast.
The father goes first with his axe on his shoulder,
The next place was the mother's,
And then all the others;
First he of the brothers
Who is than the rest of the family older,
And so from the tallest
Right down to the smallest,
On a scale that would greatly amuse a beholder.
And, pray, who last of all should come
But the mite of the family, Hop o' my Thumb r
Trudging along,
Humming a song,
As if he were quite unsuspecting of wrong,
But keeping an eye
Very much on the sly
On the various objects the road took them by,
And here and there along the track
Dropping a pebble to guide him back.
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On they went still, mounting a hill
In the sort of locality papers call "ill"-
That retired kind of spot
You would look on as not
An unsuitable place for the scene of a murther-
Up the steep gloomy slope
They stumble and grope;
They'd come to a fir wood, but still they went further.
At last the old woodcutter cried out a halt,
Set the children to play,
And then stole away
With his wife when he fancied they'd all be at fault.
And so they were rather
When, weary of playing
And running and straying,
They hunted in vain for their mother and father.
Oh, where could they be?
In bush, thicket, and tree
They searched, but their parents they nowhere could see.
And some of them cried,
"Oh, where do you hide?"
As young Lovell remarked to his beautiful bride,
Who got in "the wrong box," while the key was outside,
And suffered such pains in the chest that she died.
They ran to and fro,
And searched high and low,
And exerted themselves till near ready to drop,
Whereupon little Hop
my Thumb, who till then held his tongue, called out "Stop
This was done to deceive us:
They meant thus leave us;
But I, if you 'll just let me manage the job, 'll
Soon help you all out of this queer-looking hobble."
That night the sad sire
Sat down by the fire,
And the mother sat near him in agony dire,
And, though they'd not dined,
Felt far from inclined
To eat of the loaf they'd the good luck to find
Where some gay picnic party had left it behind,
Just as they-
Well-a-day!
(As the madrigals say)-
Had left their poor children behind in dismay.
"Rat-tat-tat!"
"What is that?"
Said the sire as he sat
On the desolate hearth 'twixt the dog and the cat.
"A knock at the door."
And without any more
Ado, it was opened—and, lo! on the floor
Stood those desolate ones,
His seven little sons,
With Hop o' my Thumb walking coolly before!
There was nought to be said:
They put them to bed;-
You can't solve a riddle by scratching your head,
Or that father distrest
Would have certainly guessed
All the "Family Herald's" most puzzling and best.
But he said to his wife, "Though it's much to our sorrow,
We 'll lose the young rascals once more, dear, to-morrow.
But for fear that again of our scheme nought should come,
Just keep a sharp eye on that Hop o' my Thumb."
The very next day
He led them away,
In a different part of the forest to stray-
Where the foliage was thicker, and darker, and denser,
And—if I'm permitted the term—much immenser!
Any chance, to provide
From the rivulet's side
Any pebbles, to Hop o' my Thumb was denied;
But the youngster was one
Not easily done-
Said he, "I 'll contrive it, as sure as a gun!"
So into his pocket, unnoticed, the crust
He had given him for breakfast he quietly thrust,
And when onward they strode
By this different road,
He dropt crumbs all along, that had certainly showed
Very well the way back, as had been his intention,
But for one little fact I am going to mention:-
That the thrush and the blackbird, the woodlark and linnet
Discovered this strewing of bread in a minute,
And alighting at once, ate up all of the crumbs,
And ruined this plan of poor Hop o' my Thumb's!
Now the boys didn't mind
If they were left behind,
Thinking Hop o' my Thumb would the road for them find.
But, alas! when they thought
It was late, and they ought
To get home, and he failed to find out what he sought,
A pretty to-do
And a frightened "bohoo!"
Was set up all at once by the terrified crew.
T was useless to search;
They were left in the lurch,
They were lost in the forest as safe as the church.
What a terrible plight!
It was getting t'wards night,
And although there might not be (so whispered their fright)
Wild beasts in the forest about,—yet there might!
The sun adown the western sky in dying glory rolled,
And turned the forest's topmost leaves to fluttering flecks of gold;
The twilight shadows deepened round
And filled the violet sky,
Till, springing out of depths profound,
The stars were in the sky.
A purple pall
Fell over all;
The last ray faded soon.
And, like a galley far and small
Appeared the thread of moon.
All noises died
Save winds that sighed
Among the sombre trees.
And nightingale's sad song, allied
In melody to these!
Huddling shoulder to shoulder,
And not growing bolder.
As the breezes moaned louder, the moon shone out colder,
Those poor little brothers in terrors the sorest,
Went wandering on through the gloom of the forest.
Free from dismay,
Gallant and gay,
Hop o' my Thumb, marching first, led the way;
But they hadn't got the same spirit—not they!
At last he espies
A trunk of huge size;
Said he, "In the world this will give me a rise-
I can see by ascending it how the land lies."
So without wasting time
He hastes to the climb. '
His own elbows and knees,
With some limbs of the trees,
Assisting him up to the top by degrees,
He contrives on a bough very lofty to sit him,
And views all the darkness of night will permit him,
While his brothers conjure him to tell what he sees.
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"Far away
Shines a single ray,
But what it may be I can't venture to say;
It looks rather far,
But since here we are
Without any voice
In the matter or choice,
Whatever the distance we ought to rejoice-
For whether the night be a melter
Or pelter-
If it's muggy as beer or it rains helter-skelter-
We mustn't make light of a light that means shelter!"
On went the children, still shoulder to shoulder,
As frightened as bricks, and-than stones vastly colder,
And much more alarmed, for a stone is oft bowlder!
Arm-in-arm,
In alarm,
Expecting some harm,
In a terror no words of their brother's could charm,
They walked t'wards the light
Gleaming out through the night,
And as fearful to turn as if playing at Fright.
Through brake and through mire,
Beginning to tire,
Trudged the sorrowful sons of a sorrowful sire.
On wandered they
In pursuit of a ray
(Though girls more than boys think of dress, so they say);
Till at length at the great
Front-door, postern-gate
(Or whatever 't was called at that very vague date),
Of a castle, or mansion, a building gigantic,
Designed on the model of dwellings romantic-
You queer little crew
Gothic, solid, and strong,
That lasts ever so long-
Not sham Gothic run up on that very bad plan, tick!
'T was terribly high;
It wearied the eye
To follow its turrets up into the sky,
How many feet.
I don't care to repeat,-
I 'm a bad hand at figures, of which to be sparing,
T was as high as the Grosvenor, or Langham, or Charing. *
They none of them knew what course to pursue,
Till Hop o' my Thumb found a horn—which he blew;
Whereon some one the bolts, bars, and fastenings withdrew,
And came out with a light
Very vivid and bright,
On the top of the steps at the head of the flight,
And they saw, to their joy,
Not a man—nor a boy-
But one of a sex for which terms we employ
Of a tenderer sort;
In short, one to court-
"In short"? Not at all—but a tall one, in short!
For she was a giantess, being in figure
Than Chang the tremendous, An-actually bigger.
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"Who are you, you queer little crew?"
Said Hop o' my Thumb, "Madam, pray how d' ye do?
* The poet who sighed (he's depicted as thin)
The warmest of welcomes to find at an inn
Might equal in panting
The sighs of a Banting
To learn that these inns are prepared, in kind thrift,
To give to those guests who are poorest—a lift!
We people so small
Have come for a call:
We want a night's lodging and supper, that's all!"
"Alas!" said the dame,
"I can't promise that same,
Though your lonely condition to pity lays claim.
But to grant your entreaty were really a sin-
In receiving you here, I should take you all in!"
"Please, madam, do!"
Said the terrified crew,
Who fancied each moment much darker it grew,
And gazing with awe,
Believed that they saw
Wild beasts coming after with ravenous maw
(Not to mention such trifles as jaw, paw, or claw),
And spectres enough all their marrow to thaw;
So closer and closer together they drew,
Repeating the chorus of "Please, madam, do!"
"My poor children!" said she,
"I've a husband, and he
Is an Ogre as savage as savage can be;
His appetite's great, and when hungry he's sweet on boys;
So board, lodging, and clothing
He 'll give you for no-thing, *
Besides education—because you 'll be Eton, boys!"
These words they don't like,
But the terror they strike
Not being so near
As the darkness they fear,
They beg her once more to their prayer to give ear.
* Pray pardon the rhyme, which, it's terribly clear,
Is a rhyme to the eye, not a rhyme to the ear.
If in thus fitting clothing you fancy I fail, or
Am making a botch—say 't was done by a tailor.
"By arm, leg, or head,
He dragged all the urchins from under the bed"
"Please, madam, do!"
Said the terrified crew;
"We're prepared to be eaten, we're in such a stew!
Besides, ma'am, you might
Put us out of his sight;
We only want shelter and food for the night.
Let our prayers, and our tears, and our woes your heart soften;
Some supper provide us,
And hide us—please hide us,-
We 're quite used to it, father has done it so often.''
Moved by their tears, she flung open the door,
And gave them some food; but in five minutes more,
Ere they'd finished their bread
And Gloster, she said,
"Here's the Ogre approaching—get under the bed!
Unless you feel gridiron-like or stewpan-ish,
Or would like to be fried with the onions called Spanish!
They were off in a jiffy,
As promptly as if he
Were Colonel Stodare and had said to them, "Vanish!"
But scarce were they hidden away, I declare,
Than the giant came in with a curious air.
All his wife's kind precautions were very well meant,
But he, like a Jew
Who is going to do
A bill, was not easily sent off the scent.
"Fee, faw, fum!"
Said he, "there are some
Little children about—yes, I nose there are, mum!"
No sooner said,
Than by arm, leg, or head,
He dragged all the urchins from under the bed.
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Each began to entreat him
To please not to eat him,
But the Ogre replied he'd be happy to meat him;
So he sharpened his knife
To take every life-
As he would have done had it not been for his wife,
Who showed him the supper she'd got—"Wasn't that enough
If so, she was willing
To feed up for killing
The children, who now he could see were not fat enough.
Said the Ogre, "That's true-
The supper will do.
We 'll fatten the brats for a week—or p'rhaps two.
Meanwhile, since late hours make them tasteless and flabby,
Let them all go to bed—without waking the babby! '
Away they all sped
And hurried to bed,
For fear his opinion should change on that head.
But Hop o' my Thumb, while his brothers were weeping,
Everywhere peeping,
Stealthily creeping,
Found seven young Ogrelings cozily sleeping
In the very next bed on a pillow of down,
And each of them wearing a little gold crown.
Cried Hop o' my Thumb, on perceiving those bright caps,
"We've not been accustomed to sleep without nightcaps!"
So he took the gold circlets away from the others,
And put them instead on himself and his brothers.
By and bye
The Ogre so sly
(Who had made up his mind to a little boy-pie
For his breakfast) comes up in the dead of the night
With his very sharp knife, but without any light,
And so in the dark (as pitched as the ark)
Begins fumbling and feeling about for his mark,-
Comes to the bed,
But feels on Hop's head
A crown, so goes off to his children instead,
And at once—for at slaughter you see he a dab is-
He cuts all the throats of his slumbering babbies.
(For which, since here, Reader, you coroner are, dict-
-Ate, "Sarve him right"—it's the usual verdict.)
Hop o' my Thumb
Heard all, but kept mum;
And as soon as the first streak of daylight was come,
And the dawn "breaking fast" in the heavens he saw
(The night was quite done, if the morning was raw),
Woke his brothers at once; and they all crept downstairs,
Climbed up to a window by aid of some chairs,
Got easily out through a large broken pane,
Jumped down on the grass, and were free once again!
Off went each urchin,
And left quite the lurch in
The Ogre, who still his bed slept like a church in.
And well may they run,
For as sure as a gun
The Ogre will wake and find out what he's done,
And at once setting forth from his castle to catch 'em,
In spite of their start will be sure to outmatch' 'em.
They may run like the wind—but the horrible brute s
Possessed of a pair of charmed Seven League Boots!
Yes! dread and fear!
Already they hear
The giant pursuing them—coming more near:-
They must try to conceal themselves closely, that's clear.
They endeavour to save
Themselves in a cave:
The Ogre approaches, and even the brave
Little Hop o' my Thumb feels a tremor of dread
When the giant, who suffers most frightful fatigues
From striding across at each step seven leagues,
Sits down on the rock that is over their head;
But it's not long before
He's beginning to snore,
And Hop o' my Thumb plucks up courage once more.
"Now while he's asleep
We must quietly creep
From our hiding, and bolt like a parcel of sheep! ''
Out scramble the boys
Without making a noise,
And while this way or that way each rapidly shoots off,
Hop o' my Thumb takes the Seven League Boots off.
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With the boots was our hero at once in his glory.
He returned at full speed to the house of the giant,
And finding the wife to his orders compliant,
Made her hand him more treasure at once from the coffer
Than the whole Bank of England is able to offer,
And took it straightway to his parents, by which
He made, like a 'tickler good joke, the poor rich.
So his and his brothers'
And father's and mother's
Good fortune he made—not to name any others..
And as for the Ogre, what chanced to become of him
I know not—I never asked Hop o' my Thumb of him;
But one can't but suppose
That such giants as those
Which in nursery legends and stories one knows,
By defaming the race must inflict quite a pang
On the large hearts of giants like Anak and Chang,
"While this way or that way each rapidly shoots off
Hop o' my Thumb takes the Seven League Boots off
(Though, their size for their suffering some remedy gives,
Since one learns the more patience the longer one lives).
So we 'll trust that this giant,
So fierce and defiant,
Got punished. Indeed, on one fact I'm reliant-
His gold was all taken by Hop o' my Thumb!
And so being left with a very small sum,
Namely, nothing, 't is likely ere long he began
To fall in arrear—and so sank to a van,-
A poor sort of coop
In which he'd to stoop
(E'en the greatest must bow if their fortunes will droop).
Then at revels and fairs he'd be shown as a sight-
As "A Giant"—see handbills—"unrivalled in height,
Allowed on all sides to be taller than any
That ever existed. Admission, one penny.
N.B. Babies in arms free of charge are admitted."
In which case e'en a monster like that's to be pitied.
l'envoi.
Five Favourite Fairy Fables old,-
The efforts of a muse, which eke
Are efforts to amuse,—are told,
And my farewell 't is time to speak,
Since ended now this book of mine is,
With one more "f" for't—adding
FINIS.