ON THE TREE TOP

THE GOLD-SPINNER.

Amiller had a daughter,

And lovely, too, she was;

Her step was light, her smile was bright,

Her eyes were gray as glass.

(So Chaucer loved to write of eyes

In which that nameless azure lies

So like shoal-water in its hue,

Though all too crystal clear for blue.)

As you would suppose, the miller

Was very proud of her,

And would never fail to tell some tale

As to what her graces were.

On the powdery air of his own mill

Floated the whispers of her skill;

At the village inn the loungers knew

All that the pretty girl could do.

Oft in his braggart way

This foolish tale he told,

That his daughter could spin from bits of straw

Continuous threads of gold!

So boastful had he grown, forsooth,

That he cared but little for the truth:

But since this was a curious thing

It came to the knowledge of the king.

He thought it an old wife’s fable,

But senseless stuff at best;

Yet, as he had greed, he cried, “Indeed!

I will put her powers to test.”

With a wave of his hand, he further said

That to-morrow morning the clever maid

Should come to the castle, and he would see

What truth in the story there might be.

Down sat she in despair,

Her tears falling like rain:

She had never spun a thread in her life,

Nor ever reeled a skein!

Hark! the door creaked, and through a chink,

With droll wise smile and funny wink,

In stepped a little quaint old man,

All humped, and crooked, and browned with tan.

She looked in fear and amaze

To see what he would do;

He said, “Little maid, what will you give

If I’ll spin the straw for you?”

Ah, me, few gifts she had in store—

A trinket or two, and nothing more!

A necklace from her throat so slim

She took, and timidly offered him.

’Twas enough, it seemed; for he sat

At the wheel in front of her,

And turned it three times round and round,

Whirr, and whirr-rr, and whirr-rr-rr—

One of the bobbins was full; and then,

Whirr, and whirr-rr, and whirr-rr-rr again,

Until all the straw that had been spread

Had been deftly spun into golden thread.

At sunrise came the king

To the chamber, and, behold,

Instead of the ugly heaps of straw

Were bobbins full of gold!

This made him greedier than before;

And he led the maiden out at the door

Into a new room, where she saw

Still larger and larger heaps of straw,

A chair to sit in, a spinning-wheel,

A little can of oil, and a reel;

And he said that straw, too, must be spun

To gold before the next day’s sun

Was an hour high in the morning sky,

And if ’twas not done, she must die.

For I might search through all my life

Nor find elsewhere so rich a wife.”

Then he led her by the hand

Through still another door,

To a room filled twice as full of straw

As either had been before.

There stood the chair and the spinning-wheel,

And there the can of oil and the reel;

And as he gently shut her in

He whispered, “Spin, little maiden, spin.”

The second day ’twas the same;

But the third a messenger

Came in from the mountains to the queen,

And told this tale to her:

That, riding under the forest boughs,

He came to a tiny, curious house;

Before it a feeble fire burned wan,

And about the fire was a little man;

In and out the brands among,

Dancing upon one leg, he sung:

“To-day I’ll stew, and then I’ll bake,

To-morrow I shall the queen’s child take;

How fine that none is the secret in,

That my name is Rumpelstiltskin!”

He vanished then and there,

And never more was seen!

This much was in his dreadful name—

It saved her child to the queen.

And the little lady grew to be

So very sweet, so fair to see,

That none could her loveliness surpass;

And her eyes—they were as gray as glass!

SirArthur, the sinner,

Ate twelve fish for dinner,

And you may believe it’s just as I say!

For if you but knew it,

’Twas I saw him do it,

And just as it happened, sir, this was the way:

One day this tall fish

Swallowed this small fish

(He had just eaten a smaller one still);

Up came this queer one

And gobbled that ’ere one—

Didn’t he show the most magical skill?

Then came this other

And chewed up his brother,

Made but one gulp, and behold he was through!

He was a gold fish

Oh! he was a bold fish—

But before he could wink he was eaten up too!

Up came a flounder,

He was a ten-pounder,

Opened his mouth, swallowed him and was gone;

Before you could blink, sir,

Before he could shrink, sir,

This fish came by and the flounder was gone!

(Alas for my story,

’Tis getting quite gory!

So many swallows a summer might make.)

This one came smiling,

And, sweetly beguiling,

Gobbled the last like a piece of hot cake;

A cod followed after;

’Twould move you to laughter

To see in his turn how this hake came up,

Swallowed that cod, sir,

As if he were scrod, sir,

And then went by in a kind of a huff!

Last, but not least,

Came this fellow, the beast—

Down went the hake like a small pinch of snuff!

Then Cap’en Jim caught him,

And then mamma bought him,

And then Annie cooked him, served up in a dish;

And so this small sinner

Who had him for dinner—

’Twas just as I say, sir—had eaten twelve fish!

’Twasa good little lady fairy,

Who saddled her wee white mouse,

And rode away to the village,

Long miles from her snug, wee house;

She tied her steed to a flower stalk airy,

And left him there—this most careless fairy!

In Fairyland no dreadful pussies

Do prowl, and do growl and slay—

In Fairyland the mice have honor,

And draw the queen’s carriage gay;

And the little lady ne’er thought of danger

Because on the fence sat a green-eyed stranger,

But hurried away in a twinkling

Down a dark and gloomy street,

Where daily the charm of her presence

Made the children’s dreams more sweet;

Then Pussy Cat sprang as quick as magic!

One squeal (as I’ve heard the story tragic)

She summons the kittens; each one stands

While the mittens are tried on his clumsy hands;

Then her glasses drop to the end of her nose,

And her wits go wandering off in a doze,

And as never before,

Does old Puss snore!

She is off to that dream-land paradise

Of cats, where cupboards are full of mice;

Where white and sweet and big as the sea

Are the saucers of warm new milk—ah me,

There is no cream

Like that in a dream!

There the ways of things are very absurd;

For a bobolink, or a yellow bird,

Comes of its own accord, and sits

On every knitting-needle that knits,

And pipes and sings,

As the rocker swings.

A smart cuff over their little brains

Is the only answer the mother deigns

“Not another word from one of you!”

It means, so without more ado,

Ashamed and slow

Away they go.

Again she settles herself and sleeps;

This time she dreams that she crouches and creeps,

A great gray tiger along the grass,

While herds of soft-eyed antelopes pass,

Dame Puss goes out to wash her paws,

And to comb her whiskers with her claws,

When again the troublesome three appear;

“Oh mother dear, see here—see here!”

Distressed and shy

They begin to cry.

Once more they haste to their mother dear;

“Oh mammy dear, see here, see here,

We’ve washed our mittens clean!” they cry.

“You darling kittens,

To wash your mittens,”

She says, and fondles them till they’re dry—

Purr, purr, purr,

Purr—pu-r-r—p-u-r-r!

THE GROUND SQUIRREL.

By PAUL H. HAYNE.

Blessus, and save us! What’s here?

Pop!

At a bound,

A tiny brown creature, grotesque in his grace,

Is sitting before us, and washing his face

With his little fat paws overlapping;

Where does he hail from? Where?

Why, there,

Underground,

From a nook just as cosey,

And tranquil, and dozy,

As e’er wooed to Sybarite napping

(But none ever caught him a-napping).

Don’t you see his burrow so quaint and queer?

II.

Gone! like the flash of a gun!

This oddest of chaps,

Mercurial,

Disappears

Head and ears!

Then, sly as a fox,

Swift as Jack in his box,

Pops up boldly again!

What does he mean by thus frisking about,

Now up and now down, and now in and now out,

And all done quicker than winking?

What does it mean? Why, ’tis plain—fun!

Only Fun! or, perhaps,

The pert little rascal’s been drinking?—

There’s a cider-press yonder all say on the run!

III.

Capture him! no, we won’t do it,

Or, be sure in due time we would rue it!

IV.

Such a piece of perpetual motion,

Full of bother

And pother,

Would make paralytic old Bridget

A Fidget.

So you see (to my notion),

Better leave our downy

Diminutive browny

Alone, near his “diggings;”

Ever free to pursue,

Rush round, and renew

His loved vaulting

Unhalting,

His whirling,

And curling,

And twirling,

And swirling,

And his ways, on the whole

So unsteady!

’Pon my soul,

Come,see how the ladies ride,

All so pretty, all so gay,

In their beauty, in their pride,

Down Broadway;

Prancing horses silver shod,

All so pretty, all so gay;

Princely feathers bend and nod,

Down Broadway.

Jiggety-jog, jiggety-jog,

Over the mountain, through the bog—

That’s the way the farmers go,

Hear the news and see the show;

Pumpkins round strapped on behind,

Eggs in baskets, too, you’ll find,

Soon to change for calico—

That’s the way the farmers go.

Bells a-jingle, fingers tingle,

Ditto toes, likewise nose.

The wind doth blow,

And all the snow

Around doth scatter;

Our teeth they chatter,

But that’s no matter—

The song rings clear

With a Happy New Year,

And never a mutter,

As we fly in our cutter.

Sword and pistols by their side,

And that’s the way the officers ride!

Boots stretched out like a letter V,

Over the hurdles after the hounds, tirra-la! the hunting-hornsounds—

Dashaway, slashaway, reckless and fast! Crashaway, smashaway, tumbledat last!

Allalone in the field

Stands John S. Crow;

And a curious sight is he,

With his head of tow,

And a hat pulled low

On a face that you never see.

His clothes are ragged

And horrid and old,

The worst that ever were worn;

They’re covered with mold,

And in each fold

A terrible rent is torn.

They once were new

And spick and span,

As nice as clothes could be;

For though John hardly can

Be called a man,

They were made for men you see.

That old blue coat,

With a double breast

And a brass button here and there,

Was grandfather’s best,

And matches the vest—

The one Uncle Phil used to wear.

The trousers are short;

They belonged to Bob

Before he had got his growth;

But John’s no snob,

And, unlike Bob,

Cuts his legs to the length of his cloth.

She pulled the latch string,

And the door opened wide;

She peeped softly first,

And at last stepped inside;

So tired her little feet

Were that she cried,

And so hungry she, sobbed to herself.

She did not know

Whether to stay or to go;

But there were three chairs

Standing all in a row,

And there were three bowls

Full of milk white as snow,

And there were three beds by the wall.

And the Father Bear’s bed

Was as hard as a stone,

And the Mother Bear’s bed

Was as hard as a stone;

But the Baby Bear’s bed

Was so soft she lay down,

And before she could wink was asleep.

By and by came the scratch

Of old Father Bear’s claw,

And the fumbling knock

Of old Mother Bear’s paw,

And the latch string flew up,

And the Baby Bear saw

That a stranger had surely been there.

And Father Bear roared,

“Who’s been lying on my bed?”

And Mother Bear roared,

“Who’s been lying on my bed?”

And Baby Bear laughed,

“Who’s been lying on my bed?

O, here she is, fast asleep!”

The savage old Father Bear cried,

“Let us eat her!”

The savage old Mother Bear cried,

“Let us eat her!”

But the Baby Bear said,

“Nothing ever was sweeter.

Let’s kiss her, and send her home!”

Alazyand careless boy was Jack,—

He would not work, and he would not play;

And so poor, that the jacket on his back

Hung in a ragged fringe alway;

But ’twas shilly-shally, dilly-dally,

From day to day.

At last his mother was almost wild,

And to get them food she knew not how;

And she told her good-for-nothing child

To drive to market the brindle cow.

So he strolled along, with whistle and song,

And drove the cow.

A man was under the wayside trees,

Who carried some beans in his hand—all white.

He said, “My boy, I’ll give you these

For the brindle cow.” Jack said, “All right.”

And, without any gold for the cow he had sold,

Went home at night.

Bitter tears did the mother weep;

Out of the window the beans were thrown,

And Jack went supperless to sleep;

But, when the morning sunlight shone,

High, and high, to the very sky,

The beans had grown.

And the Giant sniffed, and beat his breast,

And grumbled low, “Fe, fi, fo, fum!”

His poor wife prayed he would sit and rest,—

“I smell fresh meat! I will have some!”

He cried the louder, “Fe, fi, fo, fum!

I will have some.”

He ate as much as would feed ten men,

And drank a barrel of beer to the dregs;

Then he called for his little favorite hen,

As under the table he stretched his legs,—

And he roared “Ho! ho!”—like a buffalo—

“Lay your gold eggs!”

She laid a beautiful egg of gold;

And at last the Giant began to snore;

Jack waited a minute, then, growing bold,

He crept from the oven along the floor,

And caught the hen in his arms, and then

Fled through the door.

But the Giant heard him leave the house,

And followed him out, and bellowed “Oh-oh!”

But Jack was as nimble as a mouse,

And sang as he rapidly slipped below:

“Hitchity-hatchet, my little red jacket,

And down I go!”

Her innocent head on the pillow laid,

She spied great pricked-up, hairy ears,

And a fierce great mouth, wide open spread,

And green eyes, filled with wicked leers;

And all of a sudden she grew afraid;

Yet she softly asked, in spite of her fears:

“Oh, granny! what makes your ears so big?”

“To hear you with! to hear you with!”

“Oh, granny! what make your eyes so big?”

“To see you with! to see you with!”

“Oh, granny! what makes your teeth so big?”

“To eat you with! to eat you with!”

Poor,pretty little thing she was,

The sweetest-faced of girls,

With eyes as blue as larkspurs,

And a mass of tossing curls;

But her step-mother had for her

Only blows and bitter words,

While she thought her own two ugly crows,

The whitest of all birds.

She was the little household drudge,

And wore a cotton gown,

While the sisters, clad in silk and satin,

Flaunted through the town.

When her work was done, her only place

Was the chimney-corner bench.

For which one called her “Cinderella,”

The other, “Cinder-wench.”