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Drawn by her sweet lips' perfume,
As a bee to golden broom,
When the braes are all in bloom,
Stole the Prince across the room.
Every step he nearer set,
Oped the eyes of violet—
Oped a little—wider yet!—
Till the white lids, quite asunder,
Showed the beauties hidden under—
Showed the soft eyes, full of wonder,
Opening, towards him turned—
Till their radiance bent upon him
From his trance of marvel won him;
And his bosom burned
With the passion to outpour
All his soul her feet before,
Careless if she spurned,
So that he might only tell
That he loved her—and how well!
Now through the palace woke the stir of life;
Both fork and knife
Were in the banquet-hall with vigour plied,
While far and wide
Awoke so great a riot after the quiet,
It seemed as if the household was at strife.
Girl, woman, boy, and man
Bustled about and ran—
All hurried, not one plodding!
Because, you see,
Each thought that he or she
Had been the only one that had been nodding,
And, fearful of detection,
Was bound to strive and look alive,
In order to escape correction.
Meanwhile the red sun set. And yet
The household did not into order get:
All was surprise and wonder,
Error and blunder.
The fire was out, the cook was in a pet,
The feast was cold, the Queen was in a fret;
The hunters just returned, they thought, from hunting,
Felt it affronting
Their game should get so very high and mite-y;
The housemaid, seeing all the dust and dirt,
Felt hurt,
It drove her almost crazy—at least flighty.
But over all this din and turmoil soon
Uprose the silver moon,
And by its rays shed on the dewy grass,
Forth from the palace that young pair did pass,
And threaded the deep shades
In the arcades
Of sombre forests that around them lay.
And so they took their way
To Fairyland, wherein, as legends say,
'Mid mirth and merry-making, song and laughter,
They married, living happy ever after—
And there, I'm told, they 're living to this day!
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.
BY the side of a wood
A cottage once stood,
Where a little girl dwelt, who wore a red hood.
Her father of trees in the forest was cutter,
And her mother sold poultry, milk, eggs, cream, and butter.
The little red hood,
It must be understood,
Belonged to a mantle—as pretty and proper a cloak
As e'er you set eyes on:—in short, a red opera cloak.
But operas ne'er, that I am aware,
Had been heard of by any one dwelling round there;
Whereas every dame had a cloak bright as flame
That she wore when out riding (which gave it its name.)
For then in those parts
They'd no chaises, spring-carts,
Gigs, or waggonettes, such as a farmer now starts;
So Hodge, Reuben, or Giles,
Went his eight or ten miles
By the road—or the bridle path, dodging the stiles—
On his nag, grey or brown, to the next market town.
And were you to meet him, I'd bet you a crown
You would certainly find him
(If your sight's not, like mine, dim,)
A-jogging along with the goodwife behind him,
Perched up on the pillion of Dobbin or Dapple,
With a cloak like a poppy and cheeks like an apple:—
A cloak with a hood, that was really some good,
For use, not for ornament—one that you could
(That is, if you would)
Draw over your face quite closely, in case
The sun was too warm or the rain fell apace,—
A both-ears-protecting, eyes-shading, hair-hiding hood.
And that's why they called the child Little Red Riding Hood.
By the side of the cot where Red Riding Hood dwelt
Was a garden, surrounded by trees;
The flowers were the sweetest that ever were smelt,
And were greatly beloved by the bees,
Who led jolly lives
In a couple of hives
Well sheltered from shower and from breeze.
Beyond the small garden, whose flowers were so sweet
Bees wooed them through long summer days,
The woodman had cleared a small patch for the wheat
That, as each year came round, he would raise,
To grind and to bake
For bread and for cake——
Simple wheat, not that wonder, a maize!
Now the sun rises and the world awakes,
For morning—like a careless servant—breaks;
And from house, hut, and cot,
Hind, farmer, or what not,
Each villager his way to labour takes.
Each stride he makes a thousand dew-drops shakes
From off the fresh green grass they were besprinkling,
And makes them wink,
And gleam, and glance, and blink,
Until the peasant in great haste you think
Because he walks the whole way in a twinkling.
Red Riding Hood's father has shouldered his axe,
And is off to the woods again.
At the thwacks and the cracks as the timber he hacks
The echoing shades complain;
But woe to the stem that his steel attacks,
For its murmurs are all in vain.
Red Riding Hood's mother has risen with day,
As soon as the hens were awake,
And down to the kitchen has taken her way,
From the hearth all the embers to rake,
And the butter and flour on the table to lay,
For she's bent upon making a cake.
But little Red Riding Hood's slumbering yet—
She is terribly lazy, I fear;
For little folks up in the morning should get
As soon as the light becomes clear,
And not sleep away
The best time of the day,
Which is six, or about:—as I hear.
When the cake's nice and brown
The young lady comes down,
In her little white apron and little blue gown;
Has for breakfast a bowl of fresh milk from the cow,
And when she has finished, her mother says, "Now,
Just slip on your cloak, dear, as quick as you can; I
Want you to carry some things to your granny!"
Red Riding Hood's drest,
And, looking her best,
Is only awaiting her mother's behest.
On the table is laid
The cake that was made
Ere Red Riding Hood opened her eyes, I'm afraid,
And beside it a pot
Whose equal could not
At Fortnum and Mason's be easily got;
For, as every one tells me, fine fragrant fresh honey
Is not always obtainable, even for money.
There are very few treats in the matter of sweets,
Like the honey one fresh from the honeycomb eats.
But fond as I am of a little fresh honey,
I can't watch the bees in their wanderings sunny
Without a great risk of a painful disaster,
Though I think it would trouble the famous "Beemaster"
(As his real name's a secret, we 'll say Dr. Thingamy)
To explain to a "fellah,"
Qui tam amat viella,
How it is that the bees make an object to sting o' me.)
"Little Red Riding Hood, child of mine,".
Said the mother to her daughter,
"Through the forest of beeches, and larches, and pine,
And down by the pool of water,
And over the fields to your grandmother's cot
With the griddle-cake and the honey-pot,
Go, and tell her what you have brought her.
But—mind what I say—do not delay
To chatter with folks or pick flowers on the way!"
Little Red Riding Hood promised her mother
She'd not stop on the road to do one or the other.
"Such allurements I old enough now to withstand am,
So I 'll carry the honey and cake to my grandam,
And then you shall see how quick I can be.
Good bye, dearest mother!" And off hurried she.
The fields with buttercups are gold,
The hedges white with may;
The woodbine's trumpets manifold
Are bright beside the way;
The foxglove rears its lofty spire
Where hang the purple bells;
In shady quiet nooks retire
The modest pimpernels;
The poppy the green corn-fields decks,
The meads are bright with cowslips.
She loiters on her way, nor recks
How rapidly time now slips.
She enters now a glade,
Dappled with light and shade,
Through which the path is to her grandam's made;
And as she strolls along,
Singing her careless song,
She meets a grim grey wolf. She's not afraid,
Because close by
She hears her father ply
His axe, and knows he'd to the rescue fly
If Master Wolf should any treason try.
And Master Wolf knows too it would not do,
Although it's hard with such a meal in view;
And so most laudably
He makes himself quite pleasant,
For the present,
Albeit his stomach's crying "cupboard" audibly.
"What a nice cloak of scarlet!
How pretty you are! Let
Me carry that cake or that very big jar:—let
Me carry it, pray—are you taking it far? Let
Me see you safe there!" said the wicked old varlet.
Alas! for Little Red Riding Hood,
That she should be naughty instead of good;
That she should let the old wolf flatter,
And allow him to walk
By her side and talk,
When her mother so strictly forbade her to chatter.