| And, worst of all, the youngest one was puny, So odd, and still, and slight, That father, mother, and the other brothers, Thought him not over bright. So small he was when he was born, so tiny Since then he had become, That—for he was no bigger than your finger— They called him Hop-o’-my-Thumb. Now at this time, for days and days together, There fell no drop of rain; The corn shrunk on the stalks; and in the sunshine Rustled the shriveled grain; |
| As if a fire had swept across the meadows They shriveled in the drouth; And what this meant for the poor fagot-maker Was famine, without doubt. One night he sat before a smouldering fire, His head bowed down with grief, Trying with those weak wits of his to compass Some scheme for their relief. His wife above the feeble embers hovered, And wrung her toil-hard hands; She knew there was no help for their starvation, No hope in making plans. |
| At last he spoke: “Ah, bad luck to the trying, I cannot find them food! To-morrow morning with me to the forest I’ll take the little brood! “I cannot bear to watch this piece meal starving, So, while they run and play, Or gather fagots for me, or pick berries To eat, I’ll come away!” “Oh!” groaned the wife, “I’m sure the wolves will eat them, Poor dears—poor little dears! Yet do as you think best—we all must perish!” Then went to bed in tears. Meanwhile, though all the rest were sleeping soundly, Hop-o’-my-Thumb had heard, And at the thought of wolves and woods, in terror His little heart was stirred; |
And so he lay and planned; and early dressed him, And ran with all his might Down to the river, where he filled his pockets With pebbles small and white. | |
And, as they started for the wood, he lingered Somewhat behind, and when They came to dismal places, dropped in secret A pebble now and then. Thick grew the trees; ’twas twilight in their shadows, Although broad day without; But gay the laddies at the fagot-picking Went scampering about, |  |
And chattering like a flock of busy sparrows; Till, having hungry grown, They turned to ask their mother for their dinner, And found they were alone! | |
 | Then all but Hop-o’-my-Thumb wailed out affrighted. “Don’t cry so hard!” said he. “I’ll find the path, if you’ll but keep together And try to follow me!” By the white stones strewn on the dead pine needles, Though night had fallen, he soon Led the way out, and spied their humble cottage, Low lying ’neath the moon. |
They hurried near, and, pausing at the window,
Hop-o’my-Thumb climbed up,
And peeped within; his father and his mother
Were just about to sup.
| Some one had paid them two gold guineas On an old debt; and when They went for beef for two, they were so hungry They bought enough for ten. Quick as a flash the ravenous seven went rushing Pell-mell into the house, Nor left, of the fine roast upon the table, Enough to feed a mouse. It all went well long as the money lasted. When that was gone, once more The father planned to take them to the forest, And leave them as before. |