The Dean to his apple-tree, came, full of hope,
But tough was the fruit-stalk as double-twist rope,
And when he had cut it with patience and pain,
He bit just one mouthful—and never again.
"An apple so tasteless, so juiceless, so hard,
Is, sure, good for nought but to bowl in the yard;
The choir-boys may have it." But choir-boys soon found
It was worthless—the tree that bore all the year round.
And Gloster lads climbing the Deanery wall
Were punished, as well might all young thieves appal,
For, clutching the booty for which they did sin,
They bit at the apples—and left their teeth in!
And thus all the year from October till May,
From May till October, the apples shone gay;
But 'twas just outside glitter, for no hand was found
To pluck at the fruit which hung all the year round.
And so till they rotted, those queer apples hung,
The bare boughs and blossoms and ripe fruit among
And in Gloster city it still may be found—
The tree that bears apples all the year round.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] This tree, known among gardeners by the name of "Winter-hanger" or "Forbidden Fruit," was planted by Dean Tucker in 1760. It, or an off shoot from it, still exists in the city of Gloucester.
THE JEALOUS BOY
What, my little foolish Ned,
Think you mother's eyes are blind,
That her heart has grown unkind,
And she will not turn her head,
Cannot see, for all her joy,
Her poor jealous little boy?
What though sister be the pet—
Laughs, and leaps, and clings, and loves,
With her eyes as soft as dove's—
Why should yours with tears be wet?
Why such angry tears let fall?
Mother's heart has room for all.
Mother's heart is very wide,
And its doors all open stand:
Lightest touch of tiniest hand
She will never put aside.
Why her happiness destroy,
Foolish, naughty, jealous boy?
Come within the circle bright,
Where we laugh, and dance, and sing,
Full of love to everything;
As God loves us, day and night,
And forgives us. Come—with joy
Mother too forgives her boy.
THE STORY OF THE BIRKENHEAD
TOLD TO TWO CHILDREN
And so you want a fairy tale,
My little maidens twain?
Well, sit beside the waterfall,
Noisy with last night's rain;
On couch of moss, with elfin spears
Bristling, all fierce to see,
When from the yet brown moor down drops
The lonely April bee.
All the wide valley blushes green,
While, in far depths below,
Wharfe flashes out a great bright eye,
Then hides his shining flow;—
Wharfe, busy, restless, rapid Wharfe,
The glory of our dale;
O I could of the River Wharfe
Tell such a fairy tale!
"The Boy of Egremond," you cry,—
"And all the 'bootless bene:'
We know that poem, every word,
And we the Strid have seen."
No, clever damsels: though the tale
Seems still to bear a part,
In every lave of Wharfe's bright wave,
The broken mother's heart—
Little you know of broken hearts,
My Kitty, blithe and wise,
Grave Mary, with the woman soul
Dawning through childish eyes.
And long, long distant may God keep
The day when each shall know
The entrance to His kingdom through
His baptism of woe!
But yet 'tis good to hear of grief
Which He permits to be;
Even as in our green inland home
We talk of wrecks at sea.
So on this lovely day, when spring
Wakes soft o'er moor and dale,
I'll tell—not quite your wish—but yet
A noble "fairy" tale.
'Twas six o'clock in the morning,
The sea like crystal lay,
When the good troop-ship Birkenhead
Set sail from Simon's Bay.
The Cape of Good Hope on her right
Gloomed at her through the noon:
Brief tropic twilight fled, and night
Fell suddenly and soon.
At eight o'clock in the evening
Dim grew the pleasant land;
O'er smoothest seas the southern heaven
Its starry arch out-spanned.
The soldiers on the bulwarks leaned,
Smoked, chatted; and below
The soldiers' wives sang babes to sleep,
While on the ship sailed slow.
Six hundred and thirty souls held she,
Good, bad, old, young, rich, poor;
Six hundred and thirty living souls—
God knew them all.—Secure
He counted them in His right hand,
That held the hungering seas;
And to four hundred came a voice—
"The Master hath need of these."