[2] Palurinus vulgaris, the spiny lobster, has no true claws, but huge hairy antennæ. These lobsters are red during their lifetime! I have seen them (in the Crystal Palace Aquarium) seated exactly as here described, with blue lobsters watching them from niches of the rocky sides of the tank, where they looked like blue-jerseyed smugglers at the mouths of caves.
From the moment that those Nine he saw,
He never could bear his blue coat more.
"Oh, Brothers in misfortune!" he said,
"Did you ever see any lobsters so grand,
As those who sit down there in the sand?
Why were we born at all, since not one of us all was born red?"
"Dear Brother, indeed, this is quite a whim."
(So his brothers and sisters reasoned with him;
And, being exceedingly cultivated,
The case with remarkable fairness stated.)
"Red is a primary colour, it's true,
But so is Blue;
And we all of us think, dear Brother,
That one is quite as good as the other.
A swaggering soldier's a saucy varlet,
Though he looks uncommonly well in scarlet.
No doubt there's much to be said
For a field of poppies of glowing red;
For fiery rifts in sunset skies,
Roses and blushes and red sunrise;
For a glow on the Alps, and the glow of a forge,
A foxglove bank in a woodland gorge;
Sparks that are struck from red-hot bars,
The sun in a mist, and the red star Mars;
Flowers of countless shades and shapes,
Matadors', judges', and gipsies' capes;
The red-haired king who was killed in the wood,
Robin Redbreast and little Red Riding Hood;
Autumn maple, and winter holly,
Red-letter days of wisdom or folly;
The scarlet ibis, rose cockatoos,
Cardinal's gloves, and Karen's shoes;
Coral and rubies, and huntsmen's pink;
Red, in short, is splendid, we think.
But, then, we don't think there's a pin to choose;
If the Guards are handsome, so are the Blues.
It's a narrow choice between Sappers and Gunners.
You sow blue beans, and rear scarlet runners.
Then think of the blue of a mid-day sky,
Of the sea, and the hills, and a Scotchman's eye;
Of peacock's feathers, forget-me-nots,
Worcester china and "jap" tea-pots.
The blue that the western sky wears casually,
Sapphire, turquoise, and lapis-lazuli.
What can look smarter
Than the broad blue ribbon of Knights of the Garter?
And, if the subject is not too shocking,
An intellectual lady's stocking.
And who that loves hues
Could fail to mention
The wonderful blues
Of the mountain gentian?"
But to all that his brothers and sisters said,
He made no reply but—"I wish I were dead!
I'm all over blue, and I want to be red."
And he moped and pined, and took to his bed.
"That little one looks uncommonly sickly,
Put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly."
The voice that spoke was the voice of Fate,
And the lobster was soon in his former state;
Where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled,
And growled and grumbled:
"Oh dear! what shall I do?
I want to be red, and I'm all over blue."
I don't think I ever met with a book
The evil genius of which was a cook;
But it thus befell,
In the tale I have the honour to tell;
For as he was fretting and fuming about,
A fisherman fished my hero out;
And in process of time, he heard a voice,
Which made him rejoice.
The voice was the cook's, and what she said
Was, "He'll soon come out a beautiful red."
He was put in the pot,
The water was very hot;
The less we say about this the better,
It was all fulfilled to the very letter.
He did become a beautiful red,
But then—which he did not expect—he was dead!
Some gentle readers cannot well endure
To see the ill end of a bad beginning;
And hope against hope for a nicer cure
For naughty heroes than to leave off sinning.
And yet persisting in behaving badly,
Do what one will, does commonly end sadly.
But things in general are so much mixed,
That every case must stand upon its merits;
And folks' opinions are so little fixed,
And no one knows the least what he inherits—
I should be glad to shed some parting glory
Upon the hero of this simple story.
It seems to me a mean end to a ballad,
But the truth is, he was made into salad;
It's not how one's hero should end his days,
In a mayonnaise,
But I'm told that he looked exceedingly nice,
With cream-coloured sauce, and pale-green lettuce and ice.
I confess that if he'd been my relation,
This would not afford me any consolation;
For I feel (though one likes to speak well of the dead)
That it must be said,
He need not have died so early lamented,
If he'd been content to live contented.
P.S.—His claws were raised to very high stations;
They keep the earwigs from our carnations.
