HOP O' MY THUMB
UPON a forest thick and gloomy
A cottage, the reverse of roomy-
To put it plainly, just a hut
And nothing better—did abut.
'T was built of clay and roofed with straw;
The walls had many a gap and flaw;
The chimney wouldn't always draw;
The floor was damp, the ceiling leaky;
With stains of rains the walls were streaky.
Around the hearth, where seldom smiled
A blazing fire, were faggots piled
As if for fuel-
Oh, mockery cruel!
For they were heaped from floor to raft-
-Ers as a check upon the draught.
The fires that used that draught to flicker to
Consisted only of a stick or two,
Enough to warm a mess of pottage.
Pshaw! why waste time
In spinning rhyme,
When one can easily contrive
To picture it with words just five?-
The usual "English labourer's cottage."
There dwelt a goodwife, and her goodman,
Who by profession was a woodman,
But was so poor and so prolific
(A family of seven's terrific
To one whose trade is not first chop),
That oft when trees he'd limb and lop
He wished—his lot did him appal so-
That he could cut his own stick also.
But while he in the woods was hewing,
What, think you, the poor wife was doing,
Who had to sit at home, and see
Her children gather round her knee
With looks that, plain as words could utter,
Said, "Please, we want some bread and butter" r
What could she do but sit and sigh,.
While bitter tears bedewed her eye?-
His was the "hew," but hers the "cry."
Her household duties were but few:
When she had clothed the infant crew,
The toils that as a rule belong
To cooking, did not take her long;
They never tasted meat, to vary an
Eternal diet vegetarian.
And well we know, to rear a troop
On turnip broth and carrot soup,
And ne'er taste "pieces of resistance,"
Is vegetation, not existence!
Said the husband one night
As they sat by the light
Of a fire that for them was uncommonly bright, *
"My dear, we have got
One carrot—and not
A single scrap more to put into the pot.
* How it flickered and flared has been drawn con amore
By that notable artist of artists, G. Dore.
We 're as poor as church mice, and there's nothing much surer
Than that we every day shall grow poorer and poorer.
And what for our brats
Can we do, my love? That's
The question that gnaws at my heart 'like green rats!'
It's long since we had any victuals to carve,
But now we 've no soup
To spoon out for the group-
What is to be done? for we can't see them starve."
The wife shook her head,
And mournfully said,
"If we have not the food, why, they cannot be fed;
Unless we find heart to entrust them all seven.
To the Power that feeds
And attends to the needs
Of the wild things of earth and the winged things of heaven."
Said the father, "That's true!
It's what we must do-
We 'll take to the forest the poor little crew
By roundabout ways, all the more to confuse them;
And then, when we find they 're not looking, we 'll lose them."
Here the reader polite 'll
Allow the recital
To pause while they 're settling a question so vital;
And I, in requital,
To make it all right, 'll
Explain how my story has come by its title.
The last child that was born
To this couple forlorn
Was tiny in figure;
Not very much bigger
Than the wee dancing dolls that one sees in an organ;
Or rather, so small
That no figure at all
He'd, I think, have been called by Professor de Morgan,
But—devoted to fractions most infinitesimal-
That diminutive point which is known as a decimal.
So, though he was a boy,
And we do not employ-
Says the grammar that Eton lads always enjoy-
For the masculine omne quod exit in um,
They christened the little one Hop o' my Thumb.
The father regarded the child with surprise;
And his mother, poor woman, shed tears for his size,
For she felt as she looked at her babe the misgiving
That so little a boy could but make a small living.
And as he grew older
Still every beholder
That he didn't grow bigger at all always told her;
But then as some comfort they all of them found him
Possessed of great nous,
Though the size of a mouse-
For though he was little, they couldn't get round him.
Now it chanced on the night that begins my narration,
When his parents were holding this grave consultation,
Sleep would not come
To Hop o' my Thumb-
He was on the alert "a remarkable some;"
So he sat up in bed,
And there by the red
And flickering light that around it was shed,
By the glare of the log
Saw the cat and the dog-
She was poor as a rat;—he'd a waist like a frog,
Or a greyhound—but due to the absence of prog,
Not the presence of breed,-
He resembled, indeed,
He saw on her cheek a tear-drop glisten,
So he hid himself under her chair to listen
The nags that you see in a cab-driver's stud,
Whose "points" are all owing to bone, not to blood.
There his father and mother
Too sat by each other,
Conversing in tones they seemed anxious to smother,
And he saw on her cheek a tear-drop glisten,
So he hid himself under her chair to listen.
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What did he hear?-
He regarded with fear
Being left in the forest so dismal and drear!
And all for no good,
For 'twas likely he should
Get wholly mislaid, like the Babes in the Wood,
Whom (see story) with leaves the kind robin, alack! buries,
When they eat, by mistake, deadly nightshade for blackberries!
In a state of despair,
Hidden under the chair,
Poor Hop o' my Thumb heard his parents declare
That the first thing next day they would make the excursion
Which, so they determined, should end in desertion.
"What's to be done?
This is really no fun:
I 'm the wretchedest mortal that's under the sun.
To bed I must creep—
But awake I will keep,
For what I've to do is to think, not to-sleep,"
Said Hop o' my Thumb,
When his father said, "Mum!"-
To his mother, intending that she should be dumb
On the subject that late
Had formed their debate-
"I think you had better get breakfast at eight."
The boy stole to bed,
To turn o'er in his head
The things which his father and mother had said,
And discover, if possible, 'cute little chap!
As well as he can,
Some snug little plan
To guard him and brothers against a mishap.
One thing was clear:
When they started from here
He some landmarks must leave by which homeward to steer;
For if he'd the means to discover the track again,
Go where they would, he could find his way back again!
But in vain to devise
Some guide-post he tries,
Till he's quite wearied out, and sleep closes his eyes.
But while he still sleeps,
On a moonbeam down sweeps
A fairy: beneath his closed eyelids she peeps,
And finding him busy on all sorts of schemes,
To aid his escape
From the morrow's sad scrape,
She a cunning suggestion slips into his dreams.
Where lofty oaks deep shadows make,
And ceaselessly the aspens quake,
Where ancient elms their branches spread,
And ashes whisper overhead;
Within the forest's darkest glades
There flows a stream among the shades,
Above its wave a hoary group
Of melancholy willows droop.
The kingfisher its waters loves;
'T is haunted by the startled doves;
And, free of fear, beside its brink
The dappled fawn oft stops to drink.
'T is fed by twenty tinkling rills,
And here and there—where sunlight spills
Through openings in the boughs o'erhead
A halo, yellow, azure, red-
A tiny rainbow bright and small
Hangs o'er the mimic waterfall;
Where through the overarching green
Bright glimpses of the sky are seen,
The dancing waters as they go
Mirror the snatch of blue below.
Long mosses wave within its stream,
And silvery fishes glance and gleam,
And water-lilies float and sail.
But these do not concern my tale.
My point, the mystery to unravel,
Is, that the bed of it is gravel,
And that its bays and banks abound
In pebbles small, and smooth, and round.
By the side of this stream,
As he walked in his dream,
It appeared that the pebbles all set up a scream,
"Hop o' my Thumb!
Come hither, boy, come;
If we cannot show you the way it is rum!" *
At the first streak of day
He is up and away!
He creeps out of the house through a crack in the
* At the slang the stones speak don't, I pray, be offended:
How their schooling's neglected
Must be recollected—
Just remember how often roads have to be mended!
Off like a rocket
To fill every pocket
With stones—precious stones, though not fit for a locket
Brooch, bracelet, or ring,
Or any such thing-
But precious to him for the help they will bring.
Away must he go
Like arrow from bow,
Yet all in a quiver,
And reaches the river.
The scene is a taking one, though this is a giver
Of peaceful delight,
Full of charm for the sight
That reads all the beauty of Nature aright.
On the bank of the stream
Rests one fleeting gleam,
Where the bluebells and dainty anemones teem,
And there rises o'er them
The grey hollow stem
Of an old pollard willow; while many a gem
From the waters is hung
Leaf and blossom among,
For 't is here that the stream's sweetest madrigal's sung.
But what does he care for song, bluebell, or pollard?—
There are the jockeys that have to be collared.