Little Red Riding Hood loitered along,
Stopping to hear while the thrush sang his song,
Or to list in the croft to the blackbird's clear whistle,
Or to follow the feathery down of the thistle—
Or blowing in flocks
The seeds from the "clocks"
Of the bright dandelions, or searching the docks
For the burrs, whose chief trick
Is to catch and to stick
To one's garments, no matter if thin ones or thick:
(Though it matters to you,
Because they come through—
Supposing your clothes are the former—and prick.
Why, foolish butterfly,
Will you skip, flutter, fly
Close by the child? You 're an idiot utter, fly!
She puts down the honey and cake in a trice,
And the latter's immediately stolen by the mice.
But what does the latter at all to her matter:
She's after that butterfly, mad as a hatter.
[It's not clear to me
Why a hatter should be
Proverbially called a fit subject for De
Luncitico—so runs the writ—inquirendo;
But I fancy the hatter this harsh innuendo
Must, in the first place, to a humorous friend owe,
Who fain in the sneer would his gratitude smother
For a man who's invariably felt for another.]
Through pastures and meads as the butterfly leads,
Red Riding Hood follows, and little she heeds
The orders and warning her mother that morning
Had given her, or even her grandmother's needs.
But when she comes back once again to the track,
And finds the cake gone, she grows frightened. "Alack!"
She cries, "what a loss!
Won't granny be cross,
To breakfast off nothing—with honey for sauce?"
Just then a glittering dragon-fly
On gauzy pinion darted by.
Oh, he was clad in burnished mail,
His wing a fairy galley's sail,
And he was twice as big, I ween,
As the biggest butterfly she had seen.
Soon forgotten the honey's;
She off with a run is
Where the dragon-fly glancing so bright in the sun is.
By ditches and hedges, by rushes and sedges,
By ponds full of reeds and all sorts of weeds,
By pools that are stagnant, and brooks full of waterbreaks,
She chases Libellula Eagerly. [Well, you'll a-
Llow there must some
Awful punishment come
When her mother's commands in this manner a daughter,
But conceive her concern
When, on her return,
She finds that an empty jar's all she can earn.
For the ants had discovered it placed in a sunny spot,
And cleared all the honey, and left but the honey's pot.
Said she, "Lack-a-day!
What will grandmother say?
And shan't I get scolded for stopping to play!
I'd better get on without further delay!"
Resolution how vain! Again and again
She loiters in meadow, wood, highway, and lane—
Strays into the coppice
To pick the bright poppies,
Or climbs up the hedge for the nest that a-top is;
Or else she emerges
Where widely diverges
The forest's long avenues—leafy green arches
Of beeches, of ashes, of elms and of larches,
Which she lingers beneath
To pick for a wreath
A bright trail of ivy, that some lofty stem on is,
Or with bluebells her apron to fill—or anemones;
Or to watch the quaint habits
And ways of the rabbits,
And the plans of the crows,
Who, as every one knows,
Establish their scouts
At certain look-outs,
To warn them of danger whenever they 've doubts.
[As touching these rooks,
Natural History books
Declare that the thing to their greatest éclat's The fact—which should win them the warmest applause—
That nothing they do is e'er done without caws.]
But now she has passed
Through the forest, and fast
Is approaching her grandmother's cottage at last.
What excuse can she make
For the honey and cake?
At the thought of that scrape she's beginning to quake.
She creeps through the garden,
Attempting to harden
Her heart, and declare she "Don't care a brass farden."
But, in spite of her trying,
She's very near crying,
And asking her granny to grant her a pardon.
The knock is so faint, that the wolf's scarce aware
That there's any one knocking, but cries out, "Who's there
"Red Riding Hood"—here on her speech broke a sob in—
"Come to see you." Said wolf, "If you pull at the bobbin,
The latch will fly up!" So she opened the door,
And tottered with terrified feet o'er the floor.
Said wolf, "Where's the cake
Mother promised to make?"
"Please, granny, to-day she's not able to bake,
For love or for money."
"Then where is my honey?"
"What makes you expect any, granny? How funny!"
Said Little Red Riding Hood, trying to smile,
Although in a terrible fright all the while.
"To send me no breakfast," said wolf, "she was silly;
I 'm feeling so hungry and faint, I'm quite chilly.
As you 've brought me no food, you must warm me instead;
I 'll take you in place of my breakfast in bed.
So take off your things, and, some help to your gran to be,
Jump into bed, just for once warming-pan to be."
She takes off her clothes,
And into bed goes.
Old wolf keeps the counterpane up to his nose,
But the child sees with fear
That, now she's so near,
Her grandmother's looking remarkably queer.
She trembles with fright, and in sad perturbation,
Commences the following brief conversation:
[Original Size] -- [Medium-Size]
"Oh, granny, I view your long ears with surprise!"
"They 're to hear all you say to the letter."
"Oh, granny, how fiery and big are your eyes!"
"They 're to see you all the better."
"Oh, granny, your teeth are tremendous in size!"
"They 're to eat you!"
—AND HE ATE HER.
PUSS IN BOOTS.
'THERE once was a miller, who lived till he died—
It's been done by a good many people beside;
But this miller, you see,
In particular—he,
On the brink of the grave—"on the banks of the dee,"
As a Scotchman would say (vide song "Annie Laurie;"
It North-country short is
For articula mortis)—
Made a will, whence arises the whole of my story.
Three sons had this miller,
To whom all his "siller," *
Stock, business, premises, goodwill, and "wilier"—
A tenure, in short, not to spin out my verse, on all
Things he died "seised" of, both real and personal,
(Exclusive, of course, of the very bad cough
With which he was seized—and which carried him off)
He had to devise—
And, as you would surmise,
Would divide in accordance with ages and size.
But no!—not a bit!
He hadn't the wit
For such a division—or didn't see fit;
* Though with terms Caledonian this story is filled,
You 'll find it, I hope, only scotched, and not killed.
But made a partition
So strange in condition
That to one 't was a blow—for the others a hit.
It is half after one,
The funeral 's done,
The reading should now of the will be begun.
The youngest is crying,
The others are trying
To think who's most colour for praising the dying;
Their loss doesn't grieve,
Since it does not bereave
Them of all that their father was able to leave.
(Though "where there s a will," says the proverb, you know,
There's always a Way"—there's not always a Woe.)
When the will is recited
They both are delighted,
For it proves their young brother is cruelly slighted.
For joy they with decency scarce can bemean them
When they find that their dad
Every thing that he had
Has left them, the eldest, to own all between them,
Save one thing—and that
Is only the cat,
Which he leaves to the youngest, described as "that brat."
The youngest, poor lad! didn't care what he had,
By the loss of a father, not fortune, made sad.
But as silent he sat, nursing his cat,
And quite at a loss what he next should be at,
Each brother, addressing him sternly as Nemesis,
(Who, the Greeks say, less just and more cruel than Themis is,)
Said, "Now then, young Lazybones! Clear off the premises!''
He asked for some bread and some straw for a bed,
And he'd work like a slave for his brothers, he said.
But they both answered, "No! you'd much better go:
We shall have to assist you along if you're slow!"
So, half broken-hearted, the poor lad departed,
And thus in the world for himself he was started.
'T was a poorish look out,
Of that there's no doubt;
He'd not an idea what he'd best set about.
So, much to be pitied,
The old mill he quitted.
The door gave a slam—
Not one pang was spared for him—
He sat by the dam,
And that nobody cared for him
He could not help feeling—and what was prepared for him!
Thus he sat, while big tear-drops his eyes were suffusing,
Nor speaking a word,
Till he suddenly heard,
As he was a-musing, his cat, too, a mew sing.
"Ah, Puss," he said, "you
Are unfortunate too;
I'm inclined to think yours the more serious disaster
In having a penniless wretch for a master."
Puss, thus addressed, his master caressed,
And then in plain language his feelings expressed.
"Dear master," said he, "just leave it to me;
You shall see, then, I promise, what then you shall see.
I 'll at once undertake
Your fortune to make,
And assist you to wreak your revenge on those brutes;
And all that I want is a new pair of boots!"
The notion was funny:
He hadn't much money,
But as nothing more hopeful appeared to be done, he
Went off to a cobbler, who lived in a stall,
And ordered the boots to be made—rather small.
New boots, too! Not shabby, old, worn-out, and holey 'uns,
But a spick-and-span pair of resplendent Napoleons.
The boots arrived, the bill was paid,
And Pussy an excursion made.
Some snares he prepares,
To take dozens of hares,
And a wire that will grab its
Quantum of rabbits;
Without burning cartridges,
Catches some partridges
And several pheasants;
And bears them as presents
To the court of the King—I can't tell you his name,
But history reports he was partial to game.
Day after day the cat brought his prey
In numbers sufficient to load a big dray,
Or the cart which they call in the Crimea an arabah;
And each single thing
He brought to the King
"With the loyal respects of the Marquis of Carabas."
Said the monarch one day, "Come, tell me, I pray,
Whereabouts is the Marquis's property, eh?
The cat, as requested, the quarter suggested
Where the lands lay whose fee in the Marquis was vested.
Said the monarch, "Hooray!
I'll drive over that way:
Tell the Master of Horse just to bring round the chay."
In a moment at that off went the cat
At what modern slang styles "a terrible bat,"
Faster and faster, till, reaching his master,
He cried, "Of your clothes be at once off a caster,
And jump in the river that runs by the path!"
"In the river—" "Don't talk, sir, but pray go to bath!"
On the bank Pussy stayed, while his master obeyed;
But the Royal procession so long was delayed
That he felt very cold in the stream, I'm afraid.
At last, "Here they come!" cried Pussy: "now, mum
Is the word!" Said his master, "With cold I am numb,
But, while my teeth chatter so, cannot be dumb."
Said the cat, "My young friend, to this warning attend;
If you do, it will all turn out well in the end.
You've good fortune at hand, and the path's very quick to it,
So keep a look-out,
Mind what you 're about,
And whatever I say, say you likewise—and stick to it!"