On the Tree Top

by Clara Doty Bates

And put them on himself. Then he decided To hasten to the king; And, as he traveled towards the royal palace, Each boot was like a wing. There was a war. The king had need of service In carrying the news. He heard his tale, and said, “I’ll use this fellow Who wears the magic shoes.” So little Hop-o’-my-Thumb made mints of money, And his whole family Lived very easy lives, and from his bounty Grew rich as rich could be.

As for the Ogre, in his sleep he tumbled Down from that ledge of rock, And was so bumped and bruised he never rallied, But perished from the shock. And Hop-o’-my-Thumb, whose influence in high places Was certain to prevail, Made the kind Ogress, who had hidden and fed them, Duchess of Draggletail.

[THUMB]
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[ THE BABES IN THE WOOD. ]

	Come, list to my story, More sorry, by far, To her who must tell it, And you who will hear it, Than all others are! ’Tis the darling of each, who Has spirit so mild As to grieve for the Human— The sad man or woman, Or desolate child!
	Of eyes, my dear children, Yours are not the first, Through whose teary lashes, In soft, pitying splashes, The warm drops have burst At hearing it. Many, For hundreds of years, Have in the same fashion Their heartfelt compassion Shown thus—with their tears!

A dying father in his arms Two children did enfold. The eldest one, a little boy, Was only three years old; Even less than that had served to tint The baby’s head with gold. The mother, too, lay ill to death, No human power might save, And to her darlings, that same hour, Her farewell blessing gave. Father and mother—one in life— Were laid in the same grave.
		But, ere the latest breath was drawn, The father’s brother came— Nearest of kin, upon whose love
			The orphaned ones had claim— And he made oath to cherish them As his own blood and name.

The will devised three hundred pounds A year unto the son, Three hundred, on her marriage-day, To Jane, the little one. Thus it was from the uncle’s greed That trouble first begun. For if, by chance, they both should die, He was to have their gold; He felt no love for either child— His heart was hard and cold. And, while he promised fair, he planned A scheme both bad and bold.

A twelvemonth did his darksome mind Plot for the dreadful deed. Two brutal ruffians he hired To help him in his need; And yet, so secret were his ways, None knew to intercede. He formed a wily, plausive tale, And told it everywhere, How the two children were to go, Under the best of care— Two friends of his—for holiday To London, for the fair.