The brook that babbled by his door
Was deep, and clear, and strong,
And yet unfettered by the frost,
Leaped merrily along.
The self-same Indian by this brook.
The astonished farmer sees;
He laid his basket in the stream,
Then hung it up to freeze.
And by this process oft renewed,
The basket soon became
A well-glazed vessel, tight and good,
Of most capacious frame.
The door he entered speedily,
And claim’d the promis’d boon,
The farmer, laughing heartily,
Fulfilled his promise soon.
Up to the basket’s brim he saw
The sparkling cider rise,
And to rejoice his absent squaw,
He bore away the prize.
Long lived the good man at the farm,—
The house is standing still,
And still leaps merrily along,
The much diminished rill.
And his descendants still remain,
And tell to those who ask it,
The story they have often heard
About the Indian’s basket.
GRANDMAMMA’S STORY.
Oh, tell some tales of ancient times,
Dear grandmamma, again;
When you was young as we are now,
Said little Mary Jane.