Mew X.
The Ogre. The Baptism of Blinks.
It might have been thought that the trials and adventures of Blinks were now at an end for one day; but, no,—he had still another to add to the list. He had come through fire and earth and air; he was now to come through water. One other weary mile he had yet to wander, ere he could lay his war-worn head on his mother’s breast; and this mile he was engaged placing behind him, when, suddenly, and ere he was aware, a gigantic hand was laid upon him, and he was carried swiftly through space, wheeled quickly round, and immediately found himself face to face with—horror of horrors!—the ogre.
“Ho! ho! my little gentleman,” so spoke the ogre; “you’ve been and gone and got a couple of peepers” (that is what the ogre termed Blinks’s eyes, such desecration of terms can scarcely be credited, but it is indeed true),—“a couple of peepers, queer blue-grey blinkers they are too; so, so, you must be baptized, then.”
It may be observed here, that although our hero had got a name, the ceremony of baptism had not yet taken place. The ogre then pronounced these remarkable words, swinging our little hero through the immensity of space at every word, and finally plunging him feline fathoms below water, in a dark wooden-bound lake of murky water (bucket?).
“In the name—of your father—and your mother—and your sister—and your brother—who all—made a living—in the—software line—I baptize you Blinks.”
Down, down, down, did the ogre plunge Blinks, and the dark waves, cold and cruel, closed remorselessly over his head. Then did Blinks gasp,—he gasped, he spluttered and spluttering spat, kicked violently, and kicking, sunk into insensibility. When he revived, he found himself in the hairy arms of his loving ma, who was licking his wet and shivering body with loving tongue. Blinks soon dried; then tired out, war-worn, and weary, he sunk to rest with a tit in his mouth, while his mother crooned over the following song, taught her by her mother,—Blink’s grandma,—in the happy days of her playful kittenhood.
THE THREE THREADS.
(Tune, PURR—WURR-R-R,—PURR—WURR-R-R.)
Hirple, dirple, dirrum dum,
Three threads and a thrum,[6 (1)]
The wee bit mousie
Made a housie,—
Made a housie in a drum;
Scraped a hole,
And made a housie,—
Made its housie in a drum.
The three threadies and a thrum,
If ye canna sing, ye just maun hum;[6 (2)]
When the mousie sleepit,
Pousie creepit,—
Creepit slily to the drum;
Popped a paw in,
Clook’t a claw in,—
Clook’t a claw in the mousie’s wum.
Och, hey, how, hum,
Three threadies and a thrum:
If ye canna sing, ye maun be mum.
The mousie grat,[6 (3)]
The cattie spat,
And hauld the thingie frae the drum:
It winked its eenies,[6 (4)]
Like heads o’ preenies,[6 (5)]
Gave ae wee cheep and syne[6 (6)] was dumb.
Fee, fa, fi, fum,
Cheer up my dear, and look na glum:[6 (7)]
I bit off its heed,[6 (8)]
I lickit its bleed,[6 (9)]
And gnawed the beanies[6 (10)] beside the drum:
Just three sips,
And I lickit my lips,—
Lickit my lips, and then said “Num!”[6 (11)]
“Tinkle, tankle, tingle, tum,
Weel, weel, and isn’t it rum?
There is nae musie in the drum,”
The manie cried,
When he spied
The mousie’s holie in the drum.
“But deil gang wi’ it,
That I should greet,[6 (12)]
It’ll mak a very decent lum[6 (13)]
Wi’ three threads and a thrum.”
Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Three threads and a thrum.