[illustration: the convalescent.] verses for children and songs for music by juliana horatia ewing. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, w.c. new york: e. & j.b. young & co. [published under the direction of the general literature committee.] preface it has been decided in publishing this volume to reproduce the illustrations with which the verses originally appeared in _aunt judy's magazine_. in all cases mrs. ewing wrote the lines to fit the pictures, and it is worthy of note to observe how closely she has introduced every detail into her words. most of the woodcuts are by german artists, oscar pletsch, fedor flinzer, and others; but the frontispiece is from an original sketch by mr. gordon browne. in accordance with his special desire, it has only been used for mrs. ewing's poem, as the convalescent was a little friend of the artist, who did not live to complete his recovery. the poem is the last that mrs. ewing wrote for children, and it was penned when she herself was enduring the discomforts of convalescence with all the courage she so warmly advocates. mr. randolph caldecott's illustrations to "mother's birthday review" first appeared in his _sketch book_, but the letterpress that accompanied them was very brief, and mrs. ewing could not resist asking permission to write some verses to the pictures, and publish them in _aunt judy's magazine_. this favour was kindly granted, and by mrs. caldecott's further kindness the sketches are again used here. the contents of this volume have been arranged chronologically as far as is possible. "the willow man" and "grandmother's spring" were both written to protest against wantonly wasting dame nature's gifts, and the note on page shows that mrs. ewing had learnt this lesson herself in childhood. my father has lately recalled an incident which he believes first roused our mother to teach the lesson to us. they were driving to sheffield one day, when on bolsover hill they saw a well-known veterinary surgeon of the district, mr. peech, who had dismounted from his horse, and was carefully taking up a few roots of white violets from a bank where they grew in some profusion. he showed mrs. gatty what he was gathering, but told her he was taking care to _leave a bit behind_. this happened fully forty years ago, long before the selborne and other societies for the preservation of rare plants and birds had come into existence, and mother was much impressed and pleased by mr. peech's delicate scrupulousness. "a soldier's children" was written in , whilst many friends were fighting in south africa, and ten years before a story bearing the same name was issued by the writer of _bootles' baby_. the "songs for music" appeared in in a volume called _songs by four friends_, except the two last poems, "anemones" and "autumn tints." the former was given by mrs. ewing to her brother, mr. alfred scott-gatty, to set to music, and it has recently been published by messrs. boosey. "autumn tints" was found amongst mrs. ewing's papers after her death, and is now printed for the first time. horatia k.f. eden. _june ._ contents. verses for children. the burial of the linnet master fritz the willow-man our garden a friend in the garden three little nest birds dolly's lullaby: a nursery rhyme a hero to his hobby-horse the dolls' wash house-building and repairs the blue-bells on the lea an only child's tea-party papa poodle grandmother's spring big smith kit's cradle the mill stream boy and squirrel little master to his big dog a sweet little dear blue and red; or, the discontented lobster the yellow fly: a tale with a sting in it canada home the poet and the brook: a tale of transformations a soldier's children "touch him if you dare:" a tale of the hedge mother's birthday review the promise convalescence the adventures of an elf. (_translated_) songs for music. serenade maiden with the gipsy look ah! would i could forget madrigal the elleree: a song of second sight other stars faded flowers speed well how many years ago? "with a difference" the lily of the lake from fleeting pleasures: a requiem for one alive the runaway's return fancy free: a girl's song my love's gift anemones autumn leaves hymns. confirmation whitsuntide christmas wishes: a carol teach me. (_from the danish_) verses for children. the burial of the linnet. found in the garden--dead in his beauty. ah! that a linnet should die in the spring! bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring. bury him kindly--up in the corner; bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there; bid the black kitten march as chief mourner, waving her tail like a plume in the air. bury him nobly--next to the donkey; fetch the old banner, and wave it about: bury him deeply--think of the monkey, shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out. bury him softly--white wool around him, kiss his poor feathers,--the first kiss and last; tell his poor widow kind friends have found him: plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast. farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty, silent through summer, though other birds sing; bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring. [illustration: master fritz.] fritz and i are not brother and sister, but we're next-door neighbours; for we both live next door. i mean we both live next door to each other; for i live at number three, and fritz and nickel the dog live at number four. in summer we climb through the garret windows and sit together on the leads, and if the sun is too hot mother lends us one big kerchief to put over both our heads. sometimes she gives us tea under the myrtle tree in the big pot that stands in the gutter. (one slice each, and i always give fritz the one that has the most butter.) in winter we sit on the little stool by the stove at number four; for when it's cold fritz doesn't like to go out to come in next door. it was one day in spring that he said, "i should like to have a house to myself with you grethel, and nickel." and i said, "thank you, fritz." and he said, "if you'll come in at tea-time and sit by the stove, i'll tell you tales that'll frighten you into fits. about boys who ran away from their homes, and were taken by robbers, and run after by wolves, and altogether in a dreadful state. i saw the pictures of it in a book i was looking in, to see where perhaps i should like to emigrate. i've not quite settled whether i shall, or be cast away on a desert island, or settle down nearer home; but you'd better come in and hear about it, and then, wherever it is, you'll be sure to be ready to come." so i took my darling katerina in my arms, and we went in to tea. i love katerina, though she lost her head long ago, poor thing; but fritz made me put her off my knee, for he said, "when you're hushabying that silly old doll i know you're not attending to me. now look here, grethel, i think i have made up my mind that we won't go far; for we can have a house, and i can be master of it just as well where we are. under the stairs would be a good place for a house for us if there's room. it's very dirty, but you're the housewife now, and you must sweep it out well with the broom. i shall expect you to keep my house very comfortable, and have my meals ready when there's anything to eat; and when nickel and i come back from playing outside, you may peep out and pretend you're watching for us coming up the street. you've kept your apple, i see--i've eaten mine--well, it will be something to make a start, and i'll put by some of my cake, if you'll keep some of yours, and remember nickel must have part. i call it your cake and your apple, but of course now you're my housewife everything belongs to me; but i shall give you the management of it, and you must make it go as far as you can amongst three. and if you make nice feasts every day for me and nickel, and never keep us waiting for our food, and always do everything i want, and attend to everything i say, i'm sure i shall almost always be good. and if i am naughty now and then, it'll most likely be your fault; and, if it isn't, you mustn't mind; for even if i seem to be cross, you ought to know that i mean to be kind. and i'm sure you'll like combing nickel's hair for my sake; it'll be something for you to do, and it bothers me so! but it must be done regularly, for if it's not, his curls tangle into lugs as they grow. i think that's all, dear grethel, for i love you so much that i'm sure to be easy to please. only remember--it's a trifle--but when i want you, never keep that headless doll on your knees. i'd much rather not have her in my house--there, don't cry! if you will have her, i suppose it must be; though i can't think what you want with katerina when you've got nickel and me." so i said, "thank you, dear fritz, for letting me bring her, for i've had her so long i shouldn't like to part with her now; and i'll try and do everything you want as well as i can, now you've told me how." but next morning i heard fritz's garret-window open, and he put out his head, and shouted, "grethel! grethel! i want you. be quick! haven't you got out of bed?" i ran to the window and said, "what is it, dear fritz?" and he said, "i want to tell you that i've changed my mind. hans-wandermann is here, and he says there are real sapphires on the beach; so i'm off to see what i can find." "oh, fritz!" i said, "can't i come too?" but he said, "you'd better not, you'll only be in the way. you can stop quietly at home with katerina, and you may have nickel too, if he'll stay." but nickel wouldn't. i give him far more of my cake than fritz does, but he likes fritz better than me. so dear katerina and i had breakfast together on the leads under the old myrtle tree. the willow-man. there once was a willow, and he was very old, and all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold; but ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow, there grew upon his hoary head a crop of mistletoe. all wrinkled and furrowed was this old willow's skin, his taper fingers trembled, and his arms were very thin; two round eyes and hollow, that stared but did not see, and sprawling feet that never walked, had this most ancient tree. a dame who dwelt near was the only one who knew that every year upon his head the christmas berries grew; and when the dame cut them, she said--it was her whim-- "a merry christmas to you, sir!" _and left a bit for him_. "oh, granny dear, tell us," the children cried, "where we may find the shining mistletoe that grows upon the tree?" at length the dame told them, but cautioned them to mind to greet the willow civilly, _and leave a bit behind_. "who cares," said the children, "for this old willow-man? we'll take the mistletoe, and he may catch us if he can." with rage the ancient willow shakes in every limb, for they have taken all, and _have not left a bit for him_! then bright gleamed the holly, the christmas berries shone, but in the wintry wind without the willow-man did moan: "ungrateful, and wasteful! the mystic mistletoe a hundred years hath grown on me, but never more shall grow." a year soon passed by, and the children came once more, but not a sprig of mistletoe the aged willow bore. each slender spray pointed; he mocked them in his glee, and chuckled in his wooden heart, that ancient willow-tree. moral. oh, children, who gather the spoils of wood and wold, from selfish greed and wilful waste your little hands withhold. though fair things be common, this moral bear in mind, "pick thankfully and modestly, and leave a bit behind." [illustration] our garden. the winter is gone; and at first jack and i were sad, because of the snow-man's melting, but now we are glad; for the spring has come, and it's warm, and we're allowed to garden in the afternoon; and summer is coming, and oh, how lovely our flowers will be in june! we are so fond of flowers, it makes us quite happy to think of our beds--all colours--blue, white, yellow, purple, and pink, scarlet, lilac, and crimson! and we're fond of sweet scents as well, and mean to have pinks, roses, sweet peas, mignonette, clove carnations, musk, and everything good to smell; lavender, rosemary, and we should like a lemon-scented verbena, and a big myrtle tree! and then if we could get an old "preserved-ginger" pot, and some bay-salt, we could make _pot-pourri_. jack and i have a garden, though it's not so large as the big one, you know; but whatever can be got to grow in a garden we mean to grow. we've got bachelor's buttons, and london pride, and old man, and everything that's nice: and last year jack sowed green peas for our dolls' dinners, but they were eaten up by the mice. and he would plant potatoes in furrows, which made the garden in a mess, so this year we mean to have no kitchen-garden but mustard and cress. one of us plants, and the other waters, but jack likes the watering-pot; and then when my turn comes to water he says it's too hot! we sometimes quarrel about the garden, and once jack hit me with the spade; so we settled to divide it in two by a path up the middle, and that's made. we want some yellow sand now to make the walk pretty, but there's none about here, so we mean to get some in the old carpet-bag, if we go to the seaside this year. on monday we went to the wood and got primrose plants and a sucker of a dog-rose; it looks like a green stick in the middle of the bed at present; but wait till it blows! the primroses were in full flower, and the rose ought to flower soon; you've no idea how lovely they are in that wood in june! the primroses look quite withered now, i am sorry to say, but that is not our fault but nurse's, and it shows how hard it is to garden when you can't have your own way. we planted them carefully, and were just going to water them all in a lump, when nurse fetched us both indoors, and put us to bed for wetting our pinafores at the pump. it's very hard, and i'm sure the gardener's plants wouldn't grow any better than ours, if nurse fetched him in and sent him to bed just when he was going to water his flowers. we've got blue nemophila and mignonette, and venus's looking-glass, and many other seeds; the nemophila comes up spotted, which is how we know it from the weeds. at least it's sure to come up if the hens haven't scratched it up first. but when it is up the cats roll on it, and that is the worst! i sowed a ring of sweet peas, and the last time i looked they were coming nicely on, just sprouting white, and i put them safely back; but when jack looked he found they were gone. jack made a great many cuttings, but he has had rather bad luck, i've looked at them every day myself, and not one of them has struck. the gardener gave me a fine moss-rose, but jack took it to his side, i kept moving it back, but he took it again, and at last it died. but now we've settled to dig up the path, and have the bed as it was before, so everything will belong to us both, and we shan't ever quarrel any more. it is such a long time, too, to wait for the sand, and perhaps sea-sand does best on the shore. we're going to take everything up, for it can't hurt the plants to stand on the grass for a minute, and you really can't possibly rake a bed smooth with so many things in it. we shall dig it all over, and get leaf-mould from the wood, and hoe up the weeds, and when it's tidy we shall plant, and put labels, and strike cuttings, and sow seeds. we are so fond of flowers, jack and i often dream at night of getting up and finding our garden ablaze with all colours, blue, red, yellow, and white. and midsummer's coming, and big brother tom will sit under the tree with his book, and mary will beg sweet nosegays of jack and me. the worst is, we often start for the seaside about midsummer day, and no one takes care of our gardens whilst we are away. but if we sow lots of seeds, and take plenty of cuttings before we leave home, when we come back, our flowers will be all in full bloom, bright, bright sunshine above, and sweet, sweet flowers below. come, oh midsummer, quickly come! and go quickly, midsummer, go! p.s. it is so tiresome! jack wants to build a green-house now, he has found some bits of broken glass, and an old window-frame, and he says he knows how. i tell him there's not glass enough, but he says there's lots, and he's taken all the plants that belong to the bed and put them in pots. a friend in the garden. he is not john the gardener, and yet the whole day long employs himself most usefully, the flower-beds among. he is not tom the pussy-cat, and yet the other day, with stealthy stride and glistening eye, he crept upon his prey. he is not dash the dear old dog, and yet, perhaps, if you took pains with him and petted him, you'd come to love him too. he's not a blackbird, though he chirps, and though he once was black; and now he wears a loose grey coat, all wrinkled on the back. he's got a very dirty face, and very shining eyes! he sometimes comes and sits indoors; he looks--and p'r'aps is--wise. but in a sunny flower-bed he has his fixed abode; he eats the things that eat my plants-- he is a friendly toad. [illustration] three little nest birds. we meant to be very kind, but if ever we find another soft, grey-green, moss-coated, feather-lined nest in a hedge, we have taken a pledge-- susan, jemmy, and i--with remorseful tears, at this very minute, that if there are eggs or little birds in it-- robin or wren, thrush, chaffinch or linnet-- we'll leave them there to their mother's care. there were three of us--kate, and susan, and jem-- and three of them-- i don't know _their_ names, for they couldn't speak, except with a little imperative squeak, exactly like poll, susan's squeaking doll; but squeaking dolls will lie on the shelves for years and never squeak of themselves: the reason we like little birds so much better than toys is because they are _really_ alive, and know how to make a noise. there were three of us, and three of them; kate,--that is i,--and susan, and jem. our mother was busy making a pie, and theirs, we think, was up in the sky; but for all susan, jemmy, or i can tell, she may have been getting their dinner as well. they were left to themselves (and so were we) in a nest in the hedge by the willow tree; and when we caught sight of three red little fluff-tufted, hazel-eyed, open-mouthed, pink-throated heads, we all shouted for glee. the way we really did wrong was this: we took them for mother to kiss, and she told us to put them back; whilst out on the weeping-willow _their_ mother was crying "alack!" we really heard both what mother told us to do, and the voice of the mother-bird. but we three--that is susan and i and jem-- thought we knew better than either of them: and in spite of our mother's command and the poor bird's cry, we determined to bring up her three little nestlings ourselves on the sly. we each took one, it did seem such excellent fun! susan fed hers on milk and bread, jem got wriggling worms for his instead. i gave mine meat, for, you know, i thought, "poor darling pet! why shouldn't it have roast beef to eat?" but, oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! how we cried when in spite of milk and bread and worms and roast beef, the little birds died! it's a terrible thing to have heart-ache, i thought mine would break as i heard the mother-bird's moan, and looked at the grey-green, moss-coated, feather-lined nest she had taken such pains to make, and her three little children dead, and as cold as stone. mother said, and it's sadly true, "there are some wrong things one can never undo." and nothing that we could do or say would bring life back to the birds that day. the bitterest tears that we could weep wouldn't wake them out of their stiff cold sleep. but then, we--susan and jem and i--mean never to be so selfish, and wilful, and cruel again. and we three have buried those other three in a soft, green, moss-covered, flower-lined grave at the foot of the willow tree. and all the leaves which its branches shed we think are tears because they are dead. dolly's lullaby. a nursery rhyme hush-a-by, baby! _your_ baby, mamma, no one but pussy may go where you are; soft-footed pussy alone may pass by, for, if he wakens, your baby will cry. hush-a-by, dolly! my baby are you, yellow-haired dolly, with eyes of bright blue; though i say "hush!" because mother does so, you wouldn't cry like her baby, i know! hush-a-by, baby! mamma walks about, sings to you softly, or rocks you without; if you slept sounder, then i might walk too, sing to my dolly, and rock her like you! hush-a-by dolly! sleep sweetly, my pet! dear mamma made you this fine berceaunette, muslin and rose-colour, ribbon and lace; when had a baby a cosier place? hush-a-by, baby! the baby who cries. why, dear mamma, don't you shut baby's eyes? pull down his wire, as i do, you see; lay him by dolly, and come out with me. hush-a-by, dolly! mamma will not speak; you, my dear baby, would sleep for a week. poor mamma's baby allows her no rest, hush-a-by, dolly, of babies the best! [illustration] a hero to his hobby-horse. hear me now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces! time is it that you and i won something more than races. i have got a fine cocked hat, with feathers proudly waving; out into the world we'll go, both death and danger braving. doubt not that i know the way--the garden-gate is clapping: who forgot to lock it last deserves his fingers slapping. when they find we can't be found, oh won't there be a chorus! you and i may laugh at that, with all the world before us. all the world, the great green world that lies beyond the paling! all the sea, the great round sea where ducks and drakes are sailing! i a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander out into that grassy waste where dwells the goosey gander. months ago, my faithful steed, that goose attacked your master; how it hissed, and how i cried! it ran, but i ran faster! down upon my face i fell, its awful wings were o'er me, mother came and picked me up, and off to bed she bore me. months have passed, my faithful steed, both you and i are older, sheathless is my wooden sword, my heart i think is bolder. always ready bridled thou, with reins of crimson leather; woe betide the goose to-day who meets us both together! up then now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces! time it is that you and i won something more than races. i a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander out into that grassy waste where dwells the goosey gander. the dolls' wash. sally is the laundress, and every saturday she sends our clean clothes up from the wash, and nurse puts them away. sometimes sally is very kind, but sometimes she's as cross as a turk; when she's good-humoured we like to go and watch her at work. she has tubs and a copper in the wash-house, and a great big fire and plenty of soap; and outside is the drying-ground with tall posts, and pegs bought from the gipsies, and long lines of rope. the laundry is indoors with another big fire, and long tables, and a lot of irons, and a crimping-machine; and horses (not live ones with tails, but clothes-horses) and the same starch that is used by the queen. sally wears pattens in the wash-house, and turns up her sleeves, and splashes, and rubs, and makes beautiful white lather which foams over the tops of the tubs, like waves at the seaside dashing against the rocks, only not so strong. if i were sally i should sit and blow soap-bubbles all the day long. sally is angry sometimes because of the way we dirty our frocks, making mud pies, and rolling down the lawn, and climbing trees, and scrambling over the rocks. she says we do it on purpose, and never try to take care; but if things have got to go to the wash, what can it matter how dirty they are? last week mary and i got a lot of kingcups from the bog, and i carried them home in my skirt; it was the end of the week, and our frocks were done, so we didn't mind about the dirt. but sally was as cross as two sticks, and won't wash our dolls' clothes any more--so she said,-- but never mind, for we'll ask mamma if we may have a real dolls' wash of our own instead. * * * * * mamma says we may on one condition, to which we agree; we're to _really_ wash the dolls' clothes, and make them just what clean clothes should be. she says we must wash them thoroughly, which of course we intend to do, we mean to rub, wring, dry, mangle, starch, iron, and air them too. a regular wash must be splendid fun, and everybody knows that any one in the world can wash out a few dirty clothes. * * * * * well, we've had the dolls' wash, but it's only pretty good fun. we're glad we've had it, you know, but we're gladder still that it's done. as we wanted to have as big a wash as we could, we collected everything we could muster, from the dolls' bed dimity hangings to victoria's dress, which i'd used as a duster. it was going to the wash, and mary and i were house-maids--fancy house-maids, i mean-- and i took it to dust the bookshelf, for i knew it would come back clean. well, we washed in the wash-hand-basin, which holds a good deal, as the things are small; we made a glorious lather, and splashed half over the floor; but the clothes weren't white after all. however, we hung them out in our drying-ground in the garden, which we made with dahlia-sticks and long strings, and then dash went and knocked over one of the posts, and down in the dirt went our things! so we washed them again and hung them on the towel-horse, and most of them came all right, but victoria's muslin dress--though i rinsed it again and again--will never dry white! and the grease-spots on mary's doll's dress don't seem to come out, and we can't think how they got there; unless it was when we made that macassar-oil, because she has real hair. i knew mine was going to the wash, but i'm sorry i used it as a duster before it went; we think dirty clothes perhaps shouldn't be _too_ dirty before they are sent. we had sad work in trying to make the starch--i wonder what the queen does with hers? i stirred mine up with a candle, like sally, but it only made it worse; so we had to ask mamma's leave to have ours made by nurse. nurse makes beautiful starch--like water-arrowroot when you're ill--in a minute or two. it's a very odd thing that what looks so easy should be so difficult to do! then mary put the iron down to heat, but as soon as she'd turned her back, a jet of gas came sputtering out of the coals and smoked it black. we dared not ask sally for another, for we knew she'd refuse it, so we had to clean this one with sand and brown-paper before we could use it. it was very hard work, but i rubbed till i made it shine; yet as soon as it got on a damped "fine thing" it left a brown line. i rubbed it for a long, long time before it would iron without a mark, but it did at last, and we finished our dolls' wash just before dark. * * * * * sally's very kind, for she praised our wash, and she has taken away victoria's dress to do it again; and i really must say she was right when she said, "you see, young ladies, a week's wash isn't all play." our backs ache, our faces are red, our hands are all wrinkled, and we've rubbed our fingers quite sore; we feel very sorry for sally every week, and we don't mean to dirty our dresses so much any more. [illustration] house-building and repairs. father is building a new house, but i've had one given to me for my own; brick red, with a white window, and black where it ought to be glass, and the chimney yellow, like stone. brother bill made me the shelves with his tool-box, and the table i had before, and the pestle-and-mortar; and mother gave me the jam-pot when it was empty; it's rather big, but it's the only pot we have that will really hold water. we--that is i and jemima, my doll. (for it's a doll's house, you know, though some of the things are real, like the nutmeg-grater, but not the wooden plates that stand in a row. _they_ came out of a box of toy tea-things, and i can't think what became of the others; but one never can tell what becomes of anything when one has brothers.) jemima is much smaller than i am, and, being made of wood, she is thin; she takes up too much room inside, but she can lie outside on the roof without breaking it in. i wish i had a drawing-room to put her in when i want to really cook; i have to have the kitchen-table outside as it is, and the pestle-and-mortar is rather too heavy for it, and everybody can look. there's no front door to the house, because there's no front to have a door in, and beside, if there were, i couldn't play with anything, for i shouldn't know how to get inside. i never heard of a house with only one room, except the cobbler's, and his was a stall. i don't quite know what that is; but it isn't a house, and it served him for parlour and kitchen and all. father says that whilst he is about it, he thinks he shall add on a wing; and brother bill says he'll nail my doll's house on the top of an old tea-chest, which will come to the same thing. * * * * * father's house is not finished, though the wing is; for now the builder says it will be all wrong if there isn't another to match; and my house isn't done either, though it's nailed on, for bill took off the roof to make a new one of thatch. the paint is very much scratched, but he says that's nothing, for it must have had a new coat; and he means to paint it for me, inside and out, when he paints his own boat. there's a sad hole in the floor, but bill says the wood is as rotten as rotten can be: which was why he made such a mess of the side with trying to put real glass in the window, through which one can see. bill says he believes that the shortest plan would be to make a new doll's house with proper rooms, in the regular way; which was what the builder said to father when he wanted to build in the old front; and to-day i heard him tell him the old materials were no good to use and weren't worth the expense of carting away. i don't know when i shall be able to play at dolls again, for all the things are put away in a box; except jemima and the pestle-and-mortar, and they're in the bottom drawer with my sunday frocks. i almost wish i had kept the house as it was before; we managed very well with a painted window and without a front door. i don't know what father means to do with his house, but if ever mine is finished, i'll never have it altered any more. the blue-bells on the lea. fairy king. "the breeze is on the blue-bells, the wind is on the lea; stay out! stay out! my little lad, and chase the wind with me. if you will give yourself to me, within the fairy ring, at deep midnight, when stars are bright, you'll hear the blue-bells ring-- d! di! din! ding! on slender stems they swing. "the rustling wind, the whistling wind, we'll chase him to and fro, we'll chase him up, we'll chase him down to where the king-cups grow; and where old jack-o'-lantern waits to light us on our way, and far behind, upon the wind, the blue-bells seem to play-- d! di! din! ding! lest we should go astray. "so gay that fairy music, so jubilant those bells, how days and weeks and months go by no happy listener tells! the toad-stools are with sweetmeats spread, the new moon lends her light, and ringers small wait, one and all, to ring with all their might-- d! di! din! ding! and welcome you to night." boy. "my mother made me promise to be in time for tea, 'go home! go home!' the breezes say, that sigh along the lea. i dare not give myself away; for what would mother do? i wish i might stay out all night at fairy games with you. d! di! din! ding! and hear the bells of blue. "but father sleeps beneath the grass, and mother is alone: and who would fill the pails, and fetch the wood when i am gone? and who, when little sister ails, can comfort her, but me? her cries and tears would reach my ears through all the melody-- d! di! din! ding! of blue-bells on the lea." the sun was on the blue-bells, the lad was on the lea. "oh, wondrous bells! oh, fairy bells! i pray you ring to me. i only did as mother bade, for tea i did not care, and winds at night give more delight than all this noonday glare." d! di! din! ding! no sound of bells was there. boy. "the snow lies o'er the blue-bells, a storm is on the lea; our hearth is warm, the fire burns bright, the flames dance merrily. oh, mother dear! i would no more that on that summer's day, within the ring, the fairy king had stolen me away-- d! di! din! ding! to where the blue-bells play. "yet when the storm is loudest, at deep midnight i dream, and up and down upon the lea to chase the wind i seem; while by my side, in feathered cap, there runs the fairy king, and down below, beneath the snow, we hear the blue-bells ring-- d! di! din! ding! such happy dreams they bring!" an only child's tea-party. when i go to tea with the little smiths, there are eight of them there, but there's only one of me, which makes it not so easy to have a fancy tea-party as if there were two or three. i had a tea-party on my birthday, but joe smith says it can't have been a regular one, because as to a tea-party with only one teacup and no teapot, sugar-basin, cream-jug, or slop-basin, he never heard of such a thing under the sun. but it was a very big teacup, and quite full of milk and water, and, you see, there wasn't anybody there who could really drink milk and water except towser and me. the dolls can only pretend, and then it washes the paint off their lips, and what charles the canary drinks isn't worth speaking of, for he takes such very small sips. joe says a kitchen-chair isn't a table; but it has got four legs and a top, so it would be if the back wasn't there; and that does for charles to perch on, and i have to put the prince of wales to lean against it, because his legs have no joints to sit on a chair. [illustration] that's the small doll. i call him the prince of wales because he's the eldest son, you see; for i've taken him for my brother, and he was mother's doll before i was born, so of course he is older than me. towser is my real live brother, but i don't think he's as old as the prince of wales; he's a perfect darling, though he whisks everything over he comes near, and i tell him i don't know what we should do if we all had tails. his hair curls like mine in front, and grows short like a lion behind, but no one need be frightened, for he's as good as good; and as to roaring like a real menagerie lion, or eating people up, i don't believe he would if he could. he has his tea out of the saucer after i've had mine out of the cup; you see i am sure to leave some for him, but if i let him begin first he would drink it all up. the big doll godmamma gave me this birthday, and the chair she gave me the year before. (i haven't many toys, but i take great care of them, and every birthday i shall have more and more.) you've no idea what a beautiful doll she is, and when i pinch her in the middle, she can squeak; it quite frightened towser, for he didn't know that any of us but he and i and charles were able to speak. i've taken her for my only sister, for of course i may take anybody i choose; i've called her cinderella, because i'm so fond of the story, and because she's got real shoes. i don't feel so _only_ now there are so many of us; for, counting cinderella there are five,-- she, and i, and towser, and charles, and the prince of wales--and three of us are really alive; and four of us can speak, and i'm sure the prince of wales is wonderful for his size; for his things (at least he's only got one thing) take off and on, and, though he's nothing but wood, he's got real glass eyes. and perhaps in three birthdays more there may be as many of us as the smiths, for five and three make eight; i shall be seven years old then (as old as joe), but i don't like to think too much of it, it's so long to wait. and after all i don't know that i want any more of us: i think i'd rather my sister had a chair like mine; and the next year i should like a collar for towser if it wouldn't rub off his hair. and it would be very nice if the prince of wales could be dressed like a field-marshal, for he's got nothing on his legs; and cinderella's beautifully dressed, and towser looks quite as if he'd got a fur coat on when he begs. joe says it's perfectly absurd, and that i can't take a pomeranian in earnest for my brother; but i don't think he really and truly knows how much towser and i love each other. i didn't like his saying, "well, there's one thing about your lot,--you can always have your own way." and then he says, "you can't possibly have fun with four people when you have to pretend what they say." but, whatever he says, i don't believe i shall ever enjoy a tea-party more than the one that we had on that day. [illustration] papa poodle. can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head? how long will it be, papa poodle, before you have learned to read? you were called papa poodle because you took care of me when i was a baby: and now i can read words of three syllables, and you sit with a book before you like a regular gaby. you've not read a word since i put you in that corner ten minutes ago; bill and i've fought the battle of waterloo since dinner, and you've not learned ba be bi bo. here am i doing the whole british army by myself, for bill is obliged to be the french; and i've come away to hear you say your lesson, and left bill waiting for me in the trench. and there you sit, with a curly white wig, like the lord chief justice, and as grave a face, looking the very picture of goodness and wisdom, when you're really in the deepest disgrace. those woolly locks of yours grow thicker and thicker, papa poodle. does the wool tangle inside as well as outside your head? and is it that which makes you such a noodle? you seem so clever at some things, and so stupid at others, and i keep wondering why; but i'm afraid the truth is, papa poodle, that you're uncommonly sly. you did no spelling-lessons last week, for you were out from morning till night, except when you slunk in, like a dirty door-mat on legs, and with one ear bleeding from a fight, looking as if you'd no notion what o'clock it was, and had come home to see. but _your watch keeps very good meal-time_, papa poodle, for you're always at breakfast, and dinner, and tea. no, it's no good your shaking hands and licking me with your tongue,--i know you can do that; but sitting up, and giving paws, and kissing, won't teach you to spell c a t, cat. i wonder, if i let you off lessons, whether i could teach you to pull the string with your teeth, and fire our new gun? if i could, you might be the artillery all to yourself, and it would be capital fun. you wag your tail at that, do you? you would like it a great deal better? but i can't bear you to be such a dunce, when you look so wise; and yet i don't believe you'll ever learn a letter. aunt jemima is going to make me a new cocked hat out of the next old newspaper, for i want to have a review; but the newspaper after that, papa poodle, must be kept to make a fool's cap for you. grandmother's spring. "in my young days," the grandmother said (nodding her head, where cap and curls were as white as snow), "in my young days, when we used to go rambling, scrambling; each little dirty hand in hand, like a chain of daisies, a comical band of neighbours' children, seriously straying, really and truly going a-maying, my mother would bid us linger, and lifting a slender, straight forefinger, would say-- 'little kings and queens of the may, listen to me! if you want to be every one of you very good in that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful wood, where the little birds' heads get so turned with delight, that some of them sing all night: whatever you pluck, leave some for good luck; picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root, from overhead, or from underfoot, water-wonders of pond or brook; wherever you look, and whatever you find-- leave something behind: some for the naïads, some for the dryads, and a bit for the nixies, and the pixies.'" "after all these years," the grandame said, lifting her head, "i think i can hear my mother's voice above all other noise, saying, 'hearken, my child! there is nothing more destructive and wild, no wild bull with his horns, no wild-briar with clutching thorns, no pig that routs in your garden-bed, no robber with ruthless tread, more reckless and rude, and wasteful of all things lovely and good, than a child, with the face of a boy and the ways of a bear, who _doesn't care;_ or some little ignorant minx who _never thinks_. now i never knew so stupid an elf, that he couldn't think and care for himself. oh, little sisters and little brothers, think for others, and care for others! and of all that your little fingers find, leave something behind, for love of those that come after: some, perchance, to cool tired eyes in the moss that stifled your laughter! pluck, children, pluck! but leave--for good luck-- some for the naïads, and some for the dryads, and a bit for the nixies, and the pixies!'" "we were very young," the grandmother said, smiling and shaking her head; "and when one is young, one listens with half an ear, and speaks with a hasty tongue; so with shouted yeses, and promises sealed with kisses, hand-in-hand we started again, a chubby chain, stretching the whole wide width of the lane; or in broken links of twos and threes, for greater ease of rambling, and scrambling, by the stile and the road, that goes to the beautiful, beautiful wood; by the brink of the gloomy pond, to the top of the sunny hill beyond, by hedge and by ditch, by marsh and by mead, by little byways that lead to mysterious bowers; or to spots where, for those who know, there grow, in certain out-o'-way nooks, rare ferns and uncommon flowers. there were flowers everywhere, censing the summer air, till the giddy bees went rolling home to their honeycomb, and when we smelt at our posies, the little fairies inside the flowers rubbed coloured dust on our noses, or pricked us till we cried aloud for snuffing the dear dog-roses. but above all our noise, i kept thinking i heard my mother's voice. but it may have been only a fairy joke, for she was at home, and i sometimes thought it was really the flowers that spoke. from the foxglove in its pride, to the shepherd's purse by the bare road-side; from the snap-jack heart of the starwort frail, to meadows full of milkmaids pale, and cowslips loved by the nightingale. rosette of the tasselled hazel-switch, sky-blue star of the ditch; dandelions like mid-day suns; bindweed that runs; butter and eggs with the gaping lips, sweet hawthorn that hardens to haws, and roses that die into hips; lords-with-their-ladies cheek-by-jowl, in purple surcoat and pale-green cowl; family groups of primroses fair; orchids rare; velvet bee-orchis that never can sting, butterfly-orchis which never takes wing, robert-the-herb with strange sweet scent, and crimson leaf when summer is spent: clustering neighbourly, all this gay company, said to us seemingly-- 'pluck, children, pluck! but leave some for good luck: some for the naïads, some for the dryads, and a bit for the nixies, and the pixies,'" "i was but a maid," the grandame said, "when my mother was dead; and many a time have i stood. in that beautiful wood, to dream that through every woodland noise, through the cracking of twigs and the bending of bracken, through the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the bustling of dark-eyed, tawny-tailed squirrels flitting about the trees, through the purling and trickling cool of the streamlet that feeds the pool, i could hear her voice. should i wonder to hear it? why? are the voices of tender wisdom apt to die? and now, though i'm very old, and the air, that used to feel fresh, strikes chilly and cold, on a sunny day when i potter about the garden, or totter to the seat from whence i can see, below, the marsh and the meadows i used to know, bright with the bloom of the flowers that blossomed there long ago; then, as if it were yesterday, i fancy i hear them say-- 'pluck, children, pluck, but leave some for good luck; picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root, from overhead, or from underfoot, water-wonders of pond or brook; wherever you look, and whatever your little fingers find, leave something behind: some for the naïads, and some for the dryads, and a bit for the nixies, and the pixies.'" the following note was given in _aunt judy's magazine_, june , when "grandmother's spring" first appeared:--"it may interest old readers of _aunt judy's magazine_ to know that 'leave some for the naïads and the dryads' was a favourite phrase with mr. alfred gatty, and is not merely the charge of an imaginary mother to her 'blue-eyed banditti.' whether my mother invented the expression for our benefit, or whether she only quoted it, i do not know. i only remember its use as a check on the indiscriminate 'collecting' and 'grubbing' of a large family; a mystic warning not without force to fetter the same fingers in later life, with all the power of a pious tradition."--j.h.e. [illustration] big smith. are you a giant, great big man, or is your real name smith? nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with. i'm good to-day, and so i've come to see if it is true that you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe. why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather? is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather? if horses should be shod with iron, big smith, will you shoe mine? for now i may not take him out, excepting when it's fine. although he's not a real live horse, i'm very fond of him; his harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim. his tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels; i think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels. they say that dapple-grey's not yours, but don't you wish he were? my horse's coat is only paint, but his is soft grey hair; his face is big and kind, like yours, his forelock white as snow-- shan't you be sorry when you've done his shoes and he must go? i do so wish, big smith, that i might come and live with you; to rake the fire, to heat the rods, to hammer two and two. to be so black, and not to have to wash unless i choose; to pat the dear old horses, and to mend their poor old shoes. when all the world is dark at night, you work among the stars, a shining shower of fireworks beat out of red-hot bars. i've seen you beat, i've heard you sing, when i was going to bed; and now your face and arms looked black, and now were glowing red. the more you work, the more you sing, the more the bellows roar; the falling stars, the flying sparks, stream shining more and more. you hit so hard, you look so hot, and yet you never tire; it must be very nice to be allowed to play with fire. i long to beat and sing and shine, as you do, but instead i put away my horse, and nurse puts me away to bed. i wonder if you go to bed; i often think i'll keep awake and see, but, though i try, i always fall asleep. i know it's very silly, but i sometimes am afraid of being in the dark alone, especially in bed. but when i see your forge-light come and go upon the wall, and hear you through the window, i am not afraid at all. i often hear a trotting horse, i sometimes hear it stop; i hold my breath--you stay your song--it's at the blacksmith's shop. before it goes, i'm apt to fall asleep, big smith, it's true; but then i dream of hammering that horse's shoes with you! kit's cradle. they've taken the cosy bed away that i made myself with the shetland shawl, and set me a hamper of scratchy hay, by that great black stove in the entrance-hall. [illustration] i won't sleep there; i'm resolved on that! they may think i will, but they little know there's a soft persistence about a cat that even a little kitten can show. i wish i knew what to do but pout, and spit at the dogs and refuse my tea; my fur's feeling rough, and i rather doubt whether stolen sausage agrees with me. on the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door, they've turned me out of the easy-chairs; i wonder it never struck me before that they make their beds for themselves up-stairs. * * * * * i've found a crib where they won't find me, though they're crying "kitty!" all over the house. hunt for the slipper! and riddle-my-ree! a cat can keep as still as a mouse. it's rather unwise perhaps to purr, but they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves. i'm happy in every hair of my fur; they may keep the hamper and hay themselves. [illustration] the mill stream. one of a hundred little rills-- born in the hills, nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky, sang--"who so mighty as i? the farther i flow the bigger i grow. i, who was born but a little rill, now turn the big wheel of the mill, though the surly slave would rather stand still. old, and weed-hung, and grim, i am not afraid of him; for when i come running and dance on his toes, with a creak and a groan the monster goes. and turns faster and faster, as he learns who is master, round and round, till the corn is ground, and the miller smiles as he stands on the bank, and knows he has me to thank. then when he swings the fine sacks of flour, i feel my power; but when the children enjoy their food, i know i'm not only great but good!" furthermore sang the brook-- "who loves the beautiful, let him look! garlanding me in shady spots the forget-me-nots are blue as the summer sky: who so lovely as i? my king-cups of gold shine from the shade of the alders old, stars of the stream!-- at the water-rat's threshold they gleam. from below the frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow, and in masses the willow-herb, the flags, and the grasses, reeds, rushes, and sedges, flower and fringe and feather my edges. to be beautiful is not amiss, but to be loved is more than this; and who more sought than i, by all that run or swim or crawl or fly? sober shell-fish and frivolous gnats, tawny-eyed water-rats; the poet with rippling rhymes so fluent, boys with boats playing truant, cattle wading knee-deep for water; and the flower-plucking parson's daughter. down in my depths dwell creeping things who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings, for--too swift for a school-boy's prize-- hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies. at my side the lover lingers, and with lack-a-daisical fingers, the weeping willow, woe-begone, strives to stay me as i run on." there came an hour when all this beauty and love and power did seem but a small thing to that mill stream. and then his cry was, "why, oh! why am i thus surrounded with checks and limits, and bounded by bank and border to keep me in order, against my will? i, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill! but for these jealous banks, the good of my gracious and fertilizing flood might spread to the barren highways, and fill with forget-me-nots countless neglected byways. why should the rough-barked willow for ever lave her feet in my cooling wave; when the tender and beautiful beech faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach? could i but rush with unchecked power, the miller might grind a day's corn in an hour. and what are the ends of life, but to serve one's friends?" a day did dawn at last, when the spirits of the storm and the blast, breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow, swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the valley below. dams were broken and weirs came down; cottage and mill, country and town, shared in the general inundation, and the following desolation. then the mill stream rose in its might, and burst out of bounds to left and to right, rushed to the beautiful beech, in the meadow far out of reach. but with such torrents the poor tree died, torn up by the roots, and laid on its side. the cattle swam till they sank, trying to find a bank. never more shall the broken water-wheel grind the corn to make the meal, to make the children's bread. the miller was dead. when the setting sun looked to see what the mill stream had done in its hour of unlimited power, and what was left when that had passed by, behold the channel was stony and dry. in uttermost ruin the mill stream had been its own undoing. furthermore it had drowned its friend: this was the end. [illustration] boy and squirrel. oh boy, down there, i can't believe that what they say is true! we squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you; we have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me that i can really feel for you, and you can feel for me. some human beings might not understand the life we lead; if we asked dr. birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read; he hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise; if he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys. fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump, what joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump? miss mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers; what wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs? but you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbing trees, of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze, of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning hoards, and all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords. it cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me, who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free; an extra hour indoors, i know, is punishment to you; _you_ make _me_ twirl a tiny cage? it never can be true! yet i've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow. he thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know; he says we're safe with doctor birch, because he is so blind, and that miss mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind. but you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you, he says my life and liberty are lost unless i do; that you, who fear the doctor's cane, will fling big sticks at me, and tear me from my forest home, and from my favourite tree. the more we think of what he says, the more we're sure it's "chaff," we sit beneath the shadow of our bushy tails and laugh; hey, presto! friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play, if you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day! little master to his big dog. oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate, your mouth waters so, and your big tail is drumming flop! flop! flop! on the carpet, and yet if you'll wait, when we have quite finished, your dinner is coming. yes! i know what you mean, though you don't speak a word; you say that you wish that i kindly would let you take your meals with the family, which is absurd, and on a tall chair like a gentleman set you. but how little you think, my dear dog, when you talk; you've no "table manners," you bolt meat, you gobble; and how could you eat bones with a knife, spoon, and fork? you would be in a most inconvenient hobble. and yet, once on a time it is certainly true, my own manners wanted no little refining; for i gobbled, and spilled, and was greedy like you, and had no idea of good manners when dining. so that when i consider the tricks _you_ have caught, to sit or shake paws with the utmost good breeding, i must own it quite possible you may be taught the use of a plate, and a nice style of feeding. therefore try to learn manners, and eat as i do; don't glare at the joint, and as soon as you're able to behave like the rest, you shall feed with us too, and dine like a gentleman sitting at table. [illustration] a sweet little dear i always _was_ a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a sensitive nature!--mamma often says so. and i'm the sweetest, little dear in my blue ribbons, and quite a picture in my pompadour hat!--mrs. brown told her so on sunday, and that's how i know. and i'm a sacred responsibility to my parents--(it was what the clergyman's wife at the seaside said), and a solemn charge, and a fair white page, and a tender bud, and a spotless nature of wax to be moulded;--but the rest of it has gone out of my head. there was a lot more, and she left two books as well, and i think she called me a privilege, and mamma said "yes," and began to cry. and nurse came in with luncheon on a tray, and put away the books, and said she was as weak as a kitten, and worried to fiddlestrings, as any one with common sense could see with half an eye. i was hopping round the room, but i stopped and said, "my kitten's not weak, and i don't believe anybody could see with only half an eye. could they, mamma?" and nurse said, "go and play, my dear, and let your mamma rest;" but mamma said, "no, my love, stay where you are. dear nurse, lift me up, and put a pillow to my back, i know you mean to be kind; but she does ask such remarkable questions, and while i've strength to speak, don't let me check the inquiring mind. if i should fail to be all a mother ought--oh, how my head throbs when the dear child jumps!" and then nurse said, "ugh! when you're worried into your grave, she'll have no mother at all, and'll have to tumble up as other folks do. there's the poor master at his wits' end--a child's not all a grown person has to think of--and miss jane would do well enough if she'd less of her own way; but there's more children spoilt with care than the want of it, and more mothers murdered than there's folks hanged for, and that's what i say. children learns what you teach 'em, and miss jane's old enough to have learned to wait upon you: and if her mother thought less of her and she thought more of her mother, it would be better for her too." but nurse is a nasty cross old thing--i hate her; and i hate the doctor, for he wanted me to be left behind when mamma went to the sea for her health; but i begged and begged till she promised i should go, for mamma is always kind. and she bought me a new wooden spade and a basket, and a red and green ship with three masts, and a one-and-sixpenny telescope to look at the sea; but when i got on to the sands, i thought i'd rather be on the esplanade, for there was a little girl there who was looking at me, dressed in a navy-blue suit and a sailor hat, with fair hair tied with ribbons; so i told mamma, and she got me a suit, ready-made (but she said it was dreadfully dear), and a hat to match, in the pebble brooch repository and universal bazaar. it faded in the sun, and came all to pieces in the wash; but i was tired of it before. for the esplanade is very dull, and the little girl with fair hair had got sand-boots and a shrimping-net and was playing on the shore. and when my sand-boots came home, and i'd got a better net than hers, she went donkey-riding, and i knew it was to tease me, but nurse was so cross, and said if they sent a man in a herring-boat to the moon for what i wanted that nothing would please me. so i said the seaside was a very disagreeable place, and i wished i hadn't come, and i told mamma so, and begged her to try and get well soon, to take us all home. but now we've got home, it's very hot, and i'm afraid of the wasps; and i'm sure it was cooler at the sea, and the smiths won't be back for a fortnight, so i can't even have matilda to tea. i don't care much for my new doll--i think i'm too old for dolls now; i like books better, though i didn't like the last, and i've read all i have: i always skip the dull parts, and when you skip a good deal you get through them so fast. i like toys if they're the best kind, with works; though when i've had one good game with them, i don't much care to play with them again. i feel as if i wanted something new to amuse me, and mamma says it's because i've got such an active brain. nurse says i don't know what i want, and i know i don't, and that's just what it is. it seems so sad a young creature like me should feel unhappy, and not know what's amiss; but nurse never thinks of my feelings, any more than the cruel nurse in the story about the little girl who was so good, and if i die early as she did, perhaps then people will be sorry i've been misunderstood. i shouldn't like to die early, but i should like people to be sorry for me, and to praise me when i was dead: if i could only come to life again when they had missed me very much, and i'd heard what they said-- of course that's impossible, i know, but i wish i knew what to do instead! it seems such a pity that a sweet little dear like me should ever be sad. and mamma says she buys everything i want, and has taught me everything i will learn, and reads every book, and takes every hint she can pick up, and keeps me with her all day, and worries about me all night, till she's nearly mad; and if any kind person can think of any better way to make me happy we shall both of us be glad. blue and red: or, the discontented lobster. permit me, reader, to make my bow, and allow me to humbly commend to your tender mercies the hero of these simple verses. by domicile, of the british nation; by birth and family, a crustacean. one's hero should have a name that rare is; and his was _homarus_, but--_vulgaris!_ a lobster, who dwelt with several others,-- his sisters and brothers,-- in a secluded but happy home, under the salt sea's foam. it lay at the outermost point of a rocky bay. a sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove, with a red-roofed fishing village above, of irregular cottages, perched up high amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky. shells and pebbles, and wrack below, and shrimpers shrimping all in a row; tawny sails and tarry boats, dark brown nets and old cork floats; nasty smells at the nicest spots, and blue-jerseyed sailors and--lobster-pots. "it is sweet to be at home in the deep, deep sea. it is very pleasant to have the power to take the air on dry land for an hour; and when the mid-day midsummer sun is toasting the fields as brown as a bun, and the sands are baking, it's very nice to feel as cool as a strawberry ice in one's own particular damp sea-cave, dipping one's feelers in each green wave. it is good, for a very rapacious maw, when storm-tossed morsels come to the claw; and 'the better to see with' down below, to wash one's eyes in the ebb and flow of the tides that come and the tides that go." so sang the lobsters, thankful for their mercies, all but the hero of these simple verses. now a hero-- if he's worth the grand old name-- though temperature may change from boiling-point to zero should keep his temper all the same: courageous and content in his estate, and proof against the spiteful blows of fate. it, therefore, troubles me to have to say, that with this lobster it was never so; whate'er the weather or the sort of day, no matter if the tide were high or low, whatever happened he was never pleased, and not himself alone, but all his kindred teased. "oh! oh! what a world of woe we flounder about in, here below! oh dear! oh dear! it is too, too dull, down here! i haven't the slightest patience with any of my relations; i take no interest whatever in things they call curious and clever. and, for love of dear truth i state it, as for my home--i hate it! i'm convinced i was formed for a larger sphere, and am utterly out of my element here." then his brothers and sisters said, each solemnly shaking his and her head, "you put your complaints in most beautiful verse, and yet we are sure, that, in spite of all you have to endure, you might go much farther and fare much worse. we wish you could live in a higher sphere, but we think you might live happily here." "i don't live, i only exist," he said, "be pleased to look upon me as dead." and he swam to his cave, and took to his bed. he sulked so long that the sisters cried, "perhaps he has really and truly died." but the brothers went to the cave to peep, for they said, "perhaps he is only asleep." they found him, far too busy to talk, with a very large piece of bad salt pork. "dear brother, what luck you have had to-day! can you tell us, pray, is there any more pork afloat in the bay?" but not a word would my hero say, except to repeat, with sad persistence, "this is not life, it's only existence." one day there came to the fishing village an individual bent on pillage; but a robber whom true scientific feeling may find guilty of picking, but not of stealing. he picked the yellow poppies on the cliffs; he picked the feathery seaweeds in the pools; he picked the odds and ends from nets and skiffs; he picked the brains of all the country fools. he dried the poppies for his own herbarium, and caught the lobsters for a seaside town aquarium. "tank no. " is deep, "tank no. " is cool, for clever contrivances always keep the water fresh in the pool; and a very fine plate-glass window is free to the public view, through which you can stare at the passers-by and the passers-by stare at you. said my hero, "this is a great variety from those dull old rocks, where we'd no society." for the primal cause of incidents, one often hunts about, when it's only a coincidence that matters so turned out. and i do not know the reason or the reason i would tell-- but it may have been the season-- why my hero chose this moment for casting off his shell. he had hitherto been dressed[ ] (and so had all the rest) in purplish navy blue from top to toe! but now his coat was new, it was of every shade of blue between azure and the deepest indigo; and his sisters kept telling him, till they were tired, there never was any one so much admired. my hero was happy at last, you will say? so he was, dear reader--two nights and a day; then, as he and his relatives lay, each at the mouth of his mock cave in the face of a miniature rock, they saw, descending the opposite cliff, by jerks spasmodic of elbows stiff; now hurriedly slipping, now seeming calmer, with the ease and the grace of a hog in armour, and as solemn as any ancient palmer, no less than nine exceedingly fine and full-grown lobsters, all in a line. but the worst of the matter remains to be said. these nine big lobsters were all of them _red_.[ ] and when they got safe to the floor of the tank,-- for which they had chiefly good luck to thank,-- they settled their cumbersome coats of mail, and every lobster tucked his tail neatly under him as he sat in a circle of nine for a cosy chat. they seemed to be sitting hand in hand, as shoulder to shoulder they sat in the sand, and waved their antennæ in calm rotation, apparently holding a consultation. but what were the feelings of master blue shell? oh, gentle reader! how shall i tell? [footnote : the colours of lobsters vary a good deal in various localities. _homarus vulgaris_, the common lobster, is spotted, and, on the upper part, more or less of a bluish black. i once saw a lobster that had just got a new shell, and was of every lovely shade of blue and violet.] [footnote : _palurinus vulgaris_, the spiny lobster, has no true claws, but huge hairy antennæ. these lobsters are red _during their lifetime_! i have seen them (in the crystal palace aquarium) seated exactly as here described, with blue lobsters watching them from niches of the rocky sides of the tank, where they looked like blue-jerseyed smugglers at the mouths of caves.] from the moment that those nine he saw, he never could bear his blue coat more. "oh, brothers in misfortune!" he said, "did you ever see any lobsters so grand, as those who sit down there in the sand? why were we born at all, since not one of us all was born red?" "dear brother, indeed, this is quite a whim." (so his brothers and sisters reasoned with him; and, being exceedingly cultivated, the case with remarkable fairness stated.) "red is a primary colour, it's true, but so is blue; and we all of us think, dear brother, that one is quite as good as the other. a swaggering soldier's a saucy varlet, though he looks uncommonly well in scarlet. no doubt there's much to be said for a field of poppies of glowing red; for fiery rifts in sunset skies, roses and blushes and red sunrise; for a glow on the alps, and the glow of a forge, a foxglove bank in a woodland gorge; sparks that are struck from red-hot bars, the sun in a mist, and the red star mars; flowers of countless shades and shapes, matadors', judges', and gipsies' capes; the red-haired king who was killed in the wood, robin redbreast and little red riding hood; autumn maple, and winter holly, red-letter days of wisdom or folly; the scarlet ibis, rose cockatoos, cardinal's gloves, and karen's shoes; coral and rubies, and huntsmen's pink; red, in short, is splendid, we think. but, then, we don't think there's a pin to choose; if the guards are handsome, so are the blues. it's a narrow choice between sappers and gunners. you sow blue beans, and rear scarlet runners. then think of the blue of a mid-day sky, of the sea, and the hills, and a scotchman's eye; of peacock's feathers, forget-me-nots, worcester china and "jap" tea-pots. the blue that the western sky wears casually, sapphire, turquoise, and lapis-lazuli. what can look smarter than the broad blue ribbon of knights of the garter? and, if the subject is not too shocking, an intellectual lady's stocking. and who that loves hues could fail to mention the wonderful blues of the mountain gentian?" but to all that his brothers and sisters said, he made no reply but--"i wish i were dead! i'm all over blue, and i want to be red." and he moped and pined, and took to his bed. "that little one looks uncommonly sickly, put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly." the voice that spoke was the voice of fate, and the lobster was soon in his former state; where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled, and growled and grumbled: "oh dear! what shall i do? i want to be red, and i'm all over blue." i don't think i ever met with a book the evil genius of which was a cook; but it thus befell, in the tale i have the honour to tell; for as he was fretting and fuming about, a fisherman fished my hero out; and in process of time, he heard a voice, which made him rejoice. the voice was the cook's, and what she said was, "he'll soon come out a beautiful red." he was put in the pot, the water was very hot; the less we say about this the better, it was all fulfilled to the very letter. he did become a beautiful red, but then--which he did not expect--he was dead! some gentle readers cannot well endure to see the ill end of a bad beginning; and hope against hope for a nicer cure for naughty heroes than to leave off sinning. and yet persisting in behaving badly, do what one will, does commonly end sadly. but things in general are so much mixed, that every case must stand upon its merits; and folks' opinions are so little fixed, and no one knows the least what he inherits-- i should be glad to shed some parting glory upon the hero of this simple story. it seems to me a mean end to a ballad, but the truth is, he was made into salad; it's not how one's hero should end his days, in a mayonnaise, but i'm told that he looked exceedingly nice, with cream-coloured sauce, and pale-green lettuce and ice. i confess that if he'd been my relation, this would not afford me any consolation; for i feel (though one likes to speak well of the dead) that it must be said, he need not have died so early lamented, if he'd been content to live contented. p.s.--his claws were raised to very high stations; they keep the earwigs from our carnations. the yellow fly. a tale with a sting in it. [illustration] ah! there you are! i was certain i heard a strange voice from afar. mamma calls me a pup, but i'm wiser than she; one ear cocked and i hear, half an eye and i see; wide-awake though i doze, not a thing escapes me. yes! let me guess: it's the stable-boy's hiss as he wisps down black bess. it sounds like a kettle beginning to sing, or a bee on a pane, or a moth on the wing, or my master's peg-top, just let loose from the string. [illustration] well! now i smell, i don't know who you are, and i'm puzzled to tell. you look like a fly dressed in very gay clothes, but i blush to have troubled my mid-day repose for a creature not worth half a twitch of my nose. [illustration] how now? bow, wow, wow! the insect imagines we're playing, i vow! if i pat you, i promise you'll find it too hard. be off! when a watch-dog like me is on guard, big or little, no stranger's allowed in the yard. eh? "come away!" my dear little master, is that what you say? i am greatly obliged for your kindness and cares, but i really can manage my own small affairs, and banish intruders who give themselves airs. [illustration] snap! yap! yap! yap! you defy me?--you pigmy, you insolent scrap! what!--this to my teeth, that have worried a score of the biggest rats bred in the granary floor! come on, and be swallowed! i spare you no more! help! yelp! yelp! yelp! little master, pray save an unfortunate whelp, who began the attack, but is now in retreat, having shown all his teeth, just escapes on his feet, and is trusting to you to make safety complete. [illustration] oh! let me go! my poor eye! my poor ear! my poor tail! my poor toe! pray excuse my remarks, for i meant no such thing. don't trouble to come--oh, the brute's on the wing! i'd no notion, i'm sure, there were flies that could sting. dear me! i can't see. my nose burns, my limbs shake, i'm as ill as can be. i was never in such an undignified plight. mamma told me, and now i suppose she was right; one should know what one's after before one shows fight. [illustration] canada home. some homes are where flowers for ever blow, the sun shining hotly the whole year round; but our home glistens with six months of snow, where frost without wind heightens every sound. and home is home wherever it is, when we're all together and nothing amiss. yet willy is old enough to recall a home forgotten by eily and me; he says that we left it five years since last fall, and came sailing, sailing, right over the sea. but home is home wherever it is, when we're all together and nothing amiss. our other home was for ever green, a green, green isle in a blue, blue sea, with sweet flowers such as we never have seen; and willy tells all this to eily and me. but home is home wherever it is, when we're all together and nothing amiss. he says, "what fine fun when we all go back!" but canada home is very good fun when pat's little sled flies along the smooth track, or spills in the snowdrift that shines in the sun. for home is home wherever it is, when we're all together and nothing amiss. some day i should dearly love, it is true, to sail to the old home over the sea; but only if father and mother went too, with willy and patrick and eily and me. for home is home wherever it is, when we're all together and nothing amiss. the poet and the brook. a tale of transformations. a little brook, that babbled under grass, once saw a poet pass-- a poet with long hair and saddened eyes, who went his weary way with woeful sighs. and on another time, this brook did hear that poet read his rueful rhyme. now in the poem that he read, this poet said-- "oh! little brook that babblest under grass! (_ah me! alack! ah, well-a-day! alas!_) say, are you what you seem? or is your life, like other lives, a dream? what time your babbling mocks my mortal moods, fair naïad of the stream! and are you, in good sooth, could purblind poesy perceive the truth, a water-sprite, who sometimes, for man's dangerous delight, puts on a human form and face, to wear them with a superhuman grace? "when this poor poet turns his bending back, (_ah me! ah, well-a-day! alas! alack!_) say, shall you rise from out your grassy bed, with wreathed forget-me-nots about your head, and sing and play, and wile some wandering wight out of his way, to lead him with your witcheries astray? (_ah me! alas! alack! ah, well-a-day!_) would it be safe for me that fateful form to see?" (_alas! alack! ah, well-a-day! ah me!_) so far the poet read his pleasing strain, then it began to rain: he closed his book. "farewell, fair nymph!" he cried, as with a lingering look his homeward way he took; and nevermore that poet saw that brook. the brook passed several days in anxious expectation of transformation into a lovely nymph bedecked with flowers; and longed impatiently to prove those powers-- those dangerous powers--of witchery and wile, that should all mortal men mysteriously beguile; for life as running water lost its charm before the exciting hope of doing so much harm. and yet the hope seemed vain; despite the poet's strain, though the days came and went, and went and came, the seasons changed, the brook remained the same. the brook was almost tired of vainly hoping to become a naïad; when on a certain summer's day, dame nature came that way, busy as usual, with great and small; who, at the water-side dipping her clever fingers in the tide, out of the mud drew creeping things, and, smiling on them, gave them radiant wings. now when the poor brook murmured, "mother dear!" dame nature bent to hear, and the sad stream poured all its woes into her sympathetic ear, crying,--"oh, bounteous mother! do not do more for one child than another; if of a dirty grub or two (dressing them up in royal blue) you make so many shining demoiselles,[ ] change me as well; uplift me also from this narrow place, where life runs on at such a petty pace; give me a human form, dear dame, and then see how i'll flit, and flash, and fascinate the race of men!" [footnote : the "demoiselle" dragon-fly, a well-known slender variety (_libellula_), with body of brilliant blue.] then mother nature, who is wondrous wise, did that deluded little brook advise to be contented with its own fair face, and with a good and cheerful grace, run, as of yore, on its appointed race, safe both from giving and receiving harms; outliving human lives, outlasting human charms. but good advice, however kind, is thrown away upon a made-up mind, and this was all that babbling brook would say-- "give me a human face and form, if only for a day!" then quoth dame nature:--"oh, my foolish child! ere i fulfil a wish so wild, since i am kind and you are ignorant, this much i grant: you shall arise from out your grassy bed, and gathered to the waters overhead shall thus and then look down and see the world, and all the ways of men!" scarce had the dame departed to the place from whence she came, when in that very hour, the sun burst forth with most amazing power. dame nature bade him blaze, and he obeyed; he drove the fainting flocks into the shade, he ripened all the flowers into seed, he dried the river, and he parched the mead; then on the brook he turned his burning eye, which rose and left its narrow channel dry; and, climbing up by sunbeams to the sky, became a snow-white cloud, which softly floated by. it was a glorious autumn day, and all the world with red and gold was gay; when, as this cloud athwart the heavens did pass, lying below, it saw a poet on the grass, the very poet who had such a stir made, to prove the brook was a fresh-water mermaid. and now, holding his book above his corrugated brow-- he read aloud, and thus apostrophized the passing cloud: "oh, snowy-breasted fair! mysterious messenger of upper air! can you be of those female forms so dread,[ ] who bear the souls of the heroic dead to where undying laurels crown the warrior's head? or, as you smile and hover, are you not rather some fond goddess of the skies who waits a mortal lover? and who, ah! who is he? --and what, oh, what!--your message to poor me?"-- so far the poet. then he stopped: his book had dropped. but ere the delighted cloud could make reply, dame nature hurried by, and it put forth a wild beseeching cry-- "give me a human face and form!" dame nature frowned, and all the heavens grew black with storm. [footnote : the walkyrie in teutonic mythology, whose office it is to bear the souls of fallen heroes from the field of battle.] but very soon, upon a frosty winter's noon, the little cloud returned below, falling in flakes of snow; falling most softly on the floor most hard of an old manor-house court-yard. and as it hastened to the earth again, the children sang behind the window-pane: "old woman, up yonder, plucking your geese, quickly pluck them, and quickly cease; throw down the feathers, and when you have done, we shall have fun--we shall have fun." the snow had fallen, when with song and shout the girls and boys came out; six sturdy little men and maids, carrying heather-brooms, and wooden spades, who swept and shovelled up the fallen snow, which whimpered,--"oh! oh! oh! oh, mother, most severe! pity me lying here, i'm shaken all to pieces with that storm, raise me and clothe me in a human form." they swept up much, they shovelled up more, there never was such a snow-man before! they built him bravely with might and main, there never will be such a snow-man again! his legs were big, his body was bigger, they made him a most imposing figure; his eyes were large and as black as coal, for a cinder was placed in each round hole. and the sight of his teeth would have made yours ache, being simply the teeth of an ancient rake. they smoothed his forehead, they patted his back, there wasn't a single unsightly crack; and when they had given the final pat, they crowned his head with the scare-crow's hat. and so the brook--the cloud--the snow, got its own way after so many days, and did put on a human form and face. but whether the situation pleased it altogether; if it is nice to be a man of snow and ice; whether it feels painful, when one congeals; how this man felt when he began to melt; whether he wore his human form and face with any extraordinary grace; if many mortals fell as victims to the spell; or if, as he stood, stark and stiff, with a bare broomstick in his arms, and not a trace of transcendental charms, that man of snow grew wise enough to know that the brook's hopes were but a poet's dream, and well content to be again a stream, on the first sunny day, flowed quietly away; or what the end was--you must ask the poet, i don't know it. [illustration] a soldier's children. our home used to be in a hut in the dear old camp, with lots of bands and trumpets and bugles and dead marches, and three times a day there was a gun, but now we live in view villa at the top of the village, and it isn't nearly such fun. we never see any soldiers, except one day we saw a volunteer, and we ran after him as hard as ever we could go, for we thought he looked rather brave; but there's only been one funeral since we came, an ugly black thing with no dead march or union jack, and not even a firing party at the grave. there is a man in uniform to bring the letters, but he's nothing like our old orderly, brown; i told him, through the hedge, "your facings are dirty, and you'd have to wear your belt if my father was at home," and oh, how he did frown! but things can't be expected to go right when old father's away, and he's gone to the war; which is why we play at soldiers and fighting battles more than ever we did before. and i try to keep things together: every morning i have a parade of myself and dick, to see that we are clean, and to drill him and do sword-exercise with poor grandpapa's stick. grandpapa's dead, so he doesn't want it now, and dick's too young for a real tin sword like mine: he's so young he won't make up his mind whether he'll go into the artillery or the line. i want him to be a gunner, for his frock's dark blue, and captain powder gave us a wooden gun with an elastic that shoots quite a big ball. it's nonsense dick's saying he'd like to be a chaplain, for that's not being a soldier at all. besides, he always wants to be drum-major when we've funerals, to stamp the stick and sing rum--tum--tum-- to the dead march in _saul_ (that's the name of the tune, and you play it on a drum). [illustration] mary is so good, she might easily be a chaplain, but of course she can't be anything that wants man; she likes nursing her doll, but when we have battles she moves the lead soldiers about, and does what she can. she never grumbles about not being able to grow up into a general, though i should think it must be a great bore. i asked her what she would do if she were grown up into a woman, and belonged to some one who was wounded in the war,-- she said she'd go out and nurse him: so i said, "but supposing you couldn't get him better, and he died; how would you behave?" and she said if she couldn't get a ship to bring him home in, she should stay out there and grow a garden, and make wreaths for his grave. nurse says we oughtn't to have battles, now father's gone to battle, but that's just the reason why! and i don't believe one bit what she said about its making mother cry. only she does like us to put away our toys on sunday, so we can't have the soldiers or the gun; but yesterday dick said, "i was thinking in church, and i've thought of a game about soldiers, and it's a perfectly sunday one; it's a church parade: you'll have to be a lot of officers and men, mary'll do for a few wives and families, and i'll be chaplain to the forces and pray for everyone at the war." so he put his nightgown over his knickerbocker suit, and knelt on the ashantee stool, and mary and i knelt on the floor. i think it was rather nice of dick, for he said what put it into his head was thinking they mightn't have much time for their prayers on active service, and we ought to say them instead. i should have liked to parade the lead soldiers, but i didn't, for mother says, "what's the good of being a soldier's son if you can't do as you're bid?" but we thought there'd be no harm in letting the box be there if we kept on the lid. dick couldn't pray out of the prayer-book, because he's backward with being delicate, and he can't read; so he had to make a prayer out of his own head, and i think he did it very well indeed. he began, "god save the queen, and the army and the navy, and the irregular forces and the volunteers! especially old father (he went out with the first draft, and he's a captain in the royal engineers"). but i said, "i don't think 'god save the queen' is a proper prayer, i think it's only a sort of three cheers." so he said, "god bless the generals, and the colonels, and the majors, and the captains, and the lieutenants, and the sub-lieutenants, and the quartermasters, and the non-commissioned officers, and the men; and the bands, and the colours, and the guns, and the horses and the wagons, and the gun-carriage they use for the funerals; and please i should like them all to come home safe again. (don't, mary! i haven't finished; it isn't time for you to say amen.) i haven't prayed for the chaplains, or the doctors who help the poor men left groaning on the ground when the victories are won; and i want to pray particularly for the very poor ones who die of fever and miss all the fighting and fun. god bless the good soldiers, like old father, and captain powder, and the men with good-conduct medals; and please let the naughty ones all be forgiven; and if the black men kill our men, send down white angels to take their poor dear souls to heaven! _now_ you may both say amen, and i shall give out hymn four hundred and thirty-seven." there are eight verses and eight alleluias, and we can't sing very well, but we did our best, only mary would cry in the verse about "soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest!" but we're both very glad dick has found out a sunday game about fighting, for we never had one before; and now we can play at soldiers every day till old father comes home from the war. [illustration] "touch him if you dare." a tale of the hedge. hedge-plants. "beware! we advise you to take care. he lodges with us, so we know him well, and can tell you all about him, and we strongly advise you not to flout him." dandelion. "at my time of life," said the dandelion, "i keep an eye on the slightest sign of disturbance and riot, for my one object is to keep quiet the reason i take such very great care," the old dandy went on, "is because of my hair. it was very thick once, and as yellow as gold; but now i am old, it is snowy-white, and comes off with the slightest fright. as to using a brush-- my good dog! i beseech you, don't rush, go quietly by me, if you please you're as bad as a breeze. i hope you'll attend to what we've said; and--whatever you do--don't touch my head, in this equinoctial, blustering weather you might knock it off with a feather." thistle. said the thistle, "i can tickle, but not as a hedgehog can prickle; even my tough old friend the moke would find our lodger no joke." dog-rose. "i have thorns," sighed the rose, "but they don't protect me like those; he can pull his thorns right over his nose." nettle. "my sting," said the nettle, "is nothing to his when he's put on his mettle. no nose can endure it, no dock-leaves will cure it." dog. "bow-wow!" said the dog: "all this fuss about a hedgehog? though i never saw one before-- there's my paw! good-morning, sir! do you never stir? you look like an overgrown burr. good-day, i-say: will you have a game of play? with your humped-up back and your spines on end, you remind me so of an intimate friend, the persian puss who lives with us. how well i know her tricks! the dear creature! just when you're sure you can reach her, in the twinkling of a couple of sticks she saves herself by her heels, and looks down at you out of the apple-tree, with eyes like catherine wheels. the odd part of it is, i could swear that i could not possibly miss her silky, cumbersome, traily tail, and that's just where i always fail. but you seem to have nothing, sir, of the sort; and i should be mortified if you thought that i'm stupid at sport; i assure you i don't often meet my match, where i chase i commonly catch. i've caught cats, and rats, and (between ourselves) i once caught a sheep, and i think i could catch a weasel asleep." hedge-plants. from the whole of the hedge there rose a shout, "oh! you'll catch it, no doubt! but remember we gave you warning fair, touch him if you dare!" dog. "if i dare?" said the dog--"take that!" as he gave the hedgehog a pat. but oh, how he pitied his own poor paw; and shook it and licked it, it was so sore. dandelion. "it's much too funny by half," said the dandelion; "it makes me ill, for i cannot keep still, and my hair comes out if i laugh." the hedgehog he spoke never a word, and he never stirred; his peeping eyes, his inquisitive nose, and his tender toes, were all wrapped up in his prickly clothes. a provoking enemy you may suppose! and a dangerous one to flout-- like a well-stocked pin-cushion inside out. the dog was valiant, the dog was vain, he flew at the prickly ball again, snapping with all his might and main, but, oh! the pain! he sat down on his stumpy tail and howled, then he laid his jaws on his paws and growled. dandelion. with laughter the dandelion shook-- "it passes a printed book; it's as good as a play, i declare, but it's cost me half my back hair!" the dog he made another essay, it really and truly was very plucky-- but "third times," you know, are not always lucky-- and this time he ran away! hedge-plants. then the hedge-plants every one rustled together, "what fun! what fun! the battle is done, the victory won. dear hedge-pig, pray come out of the sun." the hedge-pig put forth his snout, he sniffed hither and thither and peeped about; then he tucked up his prickly clothes, and trotted away on his tender toes to where the hedge-bottom is cool and deep, had a slug for supper, and went to sleep. his leafy bed-clothes cuddled his chin, and all the hedge-plants tucked him in. but the hairs and the tears that we shed never can be recalled; and when _he_ too went off, in hysterics, to bed, dandelion was bald. mother's birthday review. brother bill. to have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed; we don't give it up, for mother says the harder things are, the harder you must try till you succeed. still, _our_ birthdays are different; we want so many things, and choosing your own pudding, and even half-holidays are treats; but what can you do for people who always order the dinner, and never have lessons, and don't even like sweets? i know mother does not. baby put a big red comfit in her mouth, and i saw her take it out again on the sly; i don't believe she even enjoys going a-gypseying, for she gets neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry. and how can you boil the kettle if you're not near the brook? but it's the last time she shall go there, i told her so; i said, "what's the good of having five sons, except to mount guard over you, you queen of all mothers that ever were?" but she's not easy to manage, and she shams sometimes, and shamming is a thing i can't bear. she shammed about the red comfit, when she didn't think baby could see her; and (because they're the only things we can think of for birthday presents for her) she shams wearing out a needle-book and a pin-cushion every year. the only things we can think of for father are paper-cutters; but there's no sham about _his_ wearing _them_ out; he would always lose them, long before his next birthday, if mother did not keep finding them lying about. last year's paper-cutter was as big as a sword (not as big as father's sword, but as big as a wooden one, like ours), and he left it behind in a railway-carriage, when he'd had it just thirty-six hours; so we knew he was ready for another. it was mother's birthday that bothered us so; [illustration: review of the household troops the cavalry] and if it hadn't been for dolly's major (he's her godfather, and she calls him "my major"), what we should have done i really don't know! he said, "what's the matter?" and dolly said, "mother's birthday's the matter." and i said, "we can't think what to devise to give her a birthday treat that won't give her neuralgia, and will take her by surprise. look here, major! how can you give people treats who can order what they wish for far better than you? i wonder what they do for the queen!--her birthday must be the hardest of all." but he said, "not a bit of it! they have a review: cocked hats and all the rest of it; and a salute, and a _feu de joie_, and a march-past. that's the way we keep the queen's birthday; and every year the same as the last." so i settled at once to have a mother's birthday review; and that she should be queen, and i should be the general in command. i thought she couldn't come to any harm by sitting in a fur cloak and a birthday wreath at the window, and bowing and waving her hand. we did not tell her what was coming, we only asked for leave to have all the seven donkeys for an hour and a half; (we always hire them from the same old man)--two for the girls, and five for me and my brothers--i told him, "for me and my staff." we could have managed with five, if the girls would only have been maids of honour, and stayed indoors with the queen. maggie would if i'd asked her; but dolly will go her own way, and that's into the thick of everything, to see whatever there is to be seen. she's only four years old, but she's ridiculously like the picture of an ancient ancestress of ours who defended an old castle in cornwall, against the french, for hours and hours. her husband was away, so she was in command, and all her household obeyed her; she made them strip the lead off the roofs, and they did, and she boiled it down and gave it very hot indeed to the french invader.[ ] maggie would have let the french in; she doesn't like me to say so, but i know she would,--you can get anything out of maggie by talking. [illustration: the spectators.] she likes to hire a donkey, and then sham she'd rather not ride, for fear of being too heavy; and to take spike out for a run, and then carry him to save him the trouble of walking. but she's very good; she made all our cocked hats, and at the review she and dolly and spike were the loyal crowd. dick and tom and harry were the troops, and i was the general, and mother looked quite like a queen at the window, and bowed. the donkeys made very good chargers on the whole, and especially mine; jem's was the only one that gave trouble, and neither fair means nor foul would keep him in line. just when i'd dressed all their noses to a nice level (you can do nothing with their ears), then back went jem's brute, and jem caught him a whack with the flat of his sword (a thing you never see done on the staff), and it rather spoilt the salute; but the spirit of the troops was excellent, and we'd a _feu de joie_ with penny pistols (jem's donkey was the only one that shied), and dolly's major says that, all things considered, he never saw a better march-past; and mother was delighted with her first birthday review, and she is none the worse for it, and says she only hopes that it won't be the last. [footnote : dame elizabeth treffry (_temp._ henry vi.) defended place house, fowey, cornwall, in the circumstances and with the vigorous measures described. on his return her husband wisely "embattled all the walls of the house, and in a manner made it a castelle, and unto this day it is the glorie of the town building in faweye."--_carew_. the beauties of place castle remain to this day also.] dolly. they call me dolly, but i'm not a doll, and i'm not a baby, though baby is sometimes my name; i behave beautifully at meals, and at church, and i can put on my own boots, and can say a good deal of the catechism, and ride a donkey, and play at any boys' game. i've ridden a donkey that kicks (at least i rode him as long as i was on), and a donkey that rolls, and an old donkey that goes lame. i mean to ride like a lady now, but that's because i ought, not because i easily can; for what with your legs and your pommels (i mean the saddle's pommels), it would be much easier always to ride like a man. boys _look_ braver, but i think it's really more dangerous to ride sideways, because of the saddle slipping round. (i didn't cry; i played at slipping round the world, and getting to new zealand with my head upside down on the ground.) the reason the saddle is slippery is not because it's smooth, for it's rather rough; and there's a hard ridge behind, and the horse's hair coming through the donkey's back (i mean through his saddle) scratches you dreadfully; but i tuck my things under me, and pretend i don't mind. they work out again though, particularly when they are starched, and i think frocks get shorter every time they go to the wash; but i don't complain; if it's very uncomfortable, i make an ugly face to myself, and say, "bosh!" we've all of us had a good deal of practice, so we ought to know how to ride; we've ridden a great deal since we came to live on the heath, and we rode a good deal when father was stationed at the sea-side. my major taught me to ride sideways, and at first he would hold me on; but i don't like being touched; and i don't call it riding like a lady if you're held on by an officer, and i'd rather tumble off if i can't stick on by myself; so i sent him away, and the nasty saddle slipped round directly he was gone. i only crushed my sun-bonnet, and the donkey stood quite still. (we always call that one "the old stager.") i wasn't frightened, except just the tiniest bit; but he says he was dreadfully frightened. so i said, "then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, considering all your medals, and that you're a major." he likes me very much, and i like him, and when my fifth birthday comes, he says i'm to choose a donkey, and he'll buy it for me, but the saddle and bridle shall be quite new; so i've made up my mind to choose the one brother bill had for his charger at mother's birthday review; and maggie is so glad, she says her life is quite miserable with thinking how miserable other lives are, if only we knew. maggie loves every creature that lives; she won't confess to black beetles, but she can't stamp on them (i've stamped out lots in my winter boots), and she doesn't even think a donkey ugly when he brays; and she says she shall buy a brush, out of her pocket-money, and brush my donkey every day till he looks like a horse, and that it shan't be her fault if there isn't one poor old brute beast who lives happily to the end of his days. jack ass. the dew falls over the heath, brother donkeys, and the darkness falls, but still through the gathering night all around us spreads the heath bed-straw[ ] in glimmering sheets of white. dragged and trampled, and plucked and wasted, it patiently spreads and survives; kicked and thwacked, and prodded and over-laden, we patiently cling to our lives. hee-haw! for the rest and silence of darkness that follow the labours of light. hee-haw! for the hours from night to morning, that balance the hours from morning to night. hee-haw! for the sweet night air that gives human beings cold in the head. hee-haw! for the civilization that sends human beings to bed. rest, brother donkeys, rest, from the bit, the burden, the blow, the dust, the flies, the restless children, the brutal roughs, the greedy donkey-master, the greedier donkey-hirer, the holiday-maker who knows no better, and the holiday-makers who ought to know! when the odorous furze-bush prickles the seeking nose, and the short damp grass refreshes the tongue,--lend, brother donkeys, lend a long and attentive ear! whilst i proudly bray of the one bright day in our hard and chequered career. i've dragged pots, and vegetables, and invalids, and fish, and i've galloped with four costermongers to the races; i've carried babies, and sea-coal, and sea-sand, and sea-weed in panniers, and been sold to the gypsies, and been bought back for the sea-side, and ridden (in a white saddle-cloth with scarlet braid) by the fashionable visitors. (there was always a certain distinction in my paces, though i say it who shouldn't) i've spent a summer on the heath, and next winter near covent garden, and moved the following year to the foot of a mountain, to take people up to the top to show them the view. but how little we know what's before us! and how little i guessed i should ever be chief charger at a queen's birthday review! did i triumph alone? no, brother donkeys, no! you also took your place with the defenders of the nation; subordinate positions to my own, but meritoriously filled, though a little more style would have well become so great an occasion. that malevolent old moke--may his next thistle choke him!--disgraced us all with his jibbing--the ill-tempered old ass! young neddy is shaggy and shy, but not amiss, if he'd held his ears up, and not kept his eyes on the grass. nothing is more je-june (i may say vulgar) than to seem anxious to eat when the crisis calls for public spirit, enthusiasm, and an elevated tone; and i wish, brother donkeys, i wish that all had felt as i felt, the responsibility of a march-past the throne! respect and self-respect delicately blended; one ear up, and the other lowered to salute, as i passed the window from which we were seen (unless i grievously misunderstood the young general this morning,) by no less a personage than her most gracious majesty the queen. sleep, brother donkeys, sleep! but i fancy you're sleeping already, for you make no reply; not a quiver of your ears, not a sign from your motionless drooping noses, dark against the dusky night sky. as black and immovable as the silent fir-trees you solemnly slumber beneath, whilst i wakefully meditate on a glorious past, and painfully ponder the future, as the dews fall over the heath. [footnote : heath bed-straw (_galium saxatile_). this white-flowered bed-straw grows profusely on hampstead heath.] the promise. child. five blue eggs hatching, with bright eyes watching, little brown mother, you sit on your nest. bird. oh! pass me blindly, oh! spare me kindly, pity my terror, and leave me to rest. chorus of children. hush! hush! hush! 'tis a poor mother thrush. when the blue eggs hatch, the brown birds will sing-- this is a promise made in the spring. child. five speckled thrushes in leafy bushes singing sweet songs to the hot summer sky. in and out twitting, here and there flitting, happy is life as the long days go by. chorus. hush! hush! hush! 'tis the song of the thrush: hatched are the blue eggs; the brown birds do sing-- keeping the promise made in the spring. published in _aunt judy's magazine_, july , with music by alexander ewing. convalescence. hold my hand, little sister, and nurse my head, whilst i try to remember the word, what was it?--that the doctor says is now fairly established both in me and my bird. c-o-n-_con_, _with a con_, s-t-a-n-_stan_, _with a stan_--no! that's constantinople, that is the capital of the country where rhubarb-and-magnesia comes from, and i wish they would keep it in that country, and not send it to this. c-o-n-_con_--how my head swims! now i've got it! c-o-n-v-a-l-e-s-c-e-n-c-e. _convalescence!_ and that's what the doctor says is now fairly established both in my blackbird and me. he says it means that you are better, and that you'll be well by and by. and so the sea-captain says, and he says we ought to be friends, because we're both convalescents--at least we're all three convalescents, my blackbird, and the captain and i. he's a sea-captain, not a land-captain, but, all the same, he was in the war, and he fought,--for i asked him,--and he's been ill ever since, and that's why he's not afloat, but ashore; and why somebody else has got his ship; and she behaved so beautifully in the battle, and he loves her quite as much as his wife, and rather better than the rest of his relations, for i asked him; and now he's afraid she will never belong to him any more. i like him. i've seen him three times out walking with two sticks, when i was driving in the bath-chair, but i never talked to him till to-day. he'd only one stick and a telescope, and he let me look through it at the big ship that was coming round the corner into the bay. he was very kind, and let me ask questions. i said, "are you a sea-captain?" and he said, "yes." and i said, "how funny it is about land things and sea things! there are captains and sea-captains, and weeds and sea-weeds, and serpents and sea-serpents. did you ever meet one, and is it really like the dragons on our very old best blue tea-things?" but he never did. so i asked him, "have you got convalescence? does your doctor say it is fairly established? do your eyes ache if you try to read, and your neck if you draw, and your back if you sit up, and your head if you talk? don't you get tired of doing nothing, and worse tired still if you do anything; and does everything wobble about when you walk? wouldn't you rather go back to bed? i think i would. don't you wish you were well? wouldn't you rather be ill than only better? i do hate convalescence, don't you?" then i stopped asking, and he shut up his telescope, and sat down on the shingle, and said, "when you come to my age, little chap, you won't think 'what is it i'd rather have?' but, 'what is it i've got to do?' 'what have i got to do or to bear; and how can i do it or bear it best?' that's the only safe point to make for, my lad. make for it, and leave the rest!" i said, "but _wouldn't_ you rather be in battles than in bed, with your head aching as if it would split?" and he said, "of course i would; so would most men. but, my little convalescent, that's not it. what would _you_ think of a man who was ordered into battle, and went grumbling and wishing he were in bed?" "what should i think of the fellow? why, i should know he was a coward," i said. "and if he were confined to bed," said the sea-captain, "and lay grumbling and wishing he were in battle, i should give him no better a name; for the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, are really one and the same." hold my hand, little sister, and nurse my head, for i'm thinking, and i very much fear you've had no good of being well since i was ill; i've led you such a life; but indeed i am obliged to you, dear! is it true that nurse has got something the matter with her legs, and that mary has gone home because she's worn out with nursing, and won't be fit to work for months? (will _she_ be convalescent, because it was such hard work waiting on _me_?) and did cook say, "so much grumbling and complaining is nigh as big a sin as swearing and cursing"? i wish i hadn't been so cross with poor mary, and i wish i hadn't given so much trouble about my medicine and my food. i didn't think about her. i only thought what a bother it was. i wish i hadn't thought so much about being miserable, that i never thought of trying to be good. i believe the sea-captain is right, and i shall tell him so to-morrow, when he comes here to tea; he's going to look at my blackbird's leg, and if it is really set, he wants me to let it go free. he says captivity is worse than convalescence, and so i should think it must be. are you tired, little sister? you feel shaky. don't beg my pardon; i beg yours. i've not let you go out of my sight for weeks. get your things on, and have a gallop on jack. ride round this way and let me see you. i won't say a word about wishing i was going too; and if my head gets bad whilst you're away, i will bear it my very best till you come back. tell me one thing before you start. if i learn to be patient, shall i learn to be brave, do you think? the sea-captain says so. he says, "self-command is the making of a man," and he's a finely-made man himself, so he ought to know. perhaps, if i try hard at convalescence now, i may become a brave sea-captain hereafter, and take my beautiful ship into battle, and bring her out again with flying colours and fame, if the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, _are_ really one and the same. [illustration] the adventures of an elf. a picture poem for the little ones. _by fedor flinzer. freely translated by j.h. ewing._ i. dear children, listen whilst i tell what to a certain elf befell, who left his house and sallied forth adventure seeking, south and north, and west and east, by path and field, resolved to conquer or to yield. a thimble on his back he carried, with a rose-twig his foes he parried. [illustration] ii. it was a sunny, bright, spring day, when to the wood he took his way; he knew that in a certain spot a bumble bee his nest had got. the bee was out, the chance was good, but just when grabbing all he could, he heard the bee behind him humming, and only wished he'd heard him coming! [illustration] iii. in terror turned the tiny man, and now a famous fight began: the bee flew round, and buzzed and stung, the elf his prickly rose-staff swung. now fiercely here, now wildly there, he hit the bee or fought the air. at last one weighty blow descended: the bee was dead--the fight was ended. [illustration] iv. exhausted quite, he took a seat. the honey tasted doubly sweet! the thimble-full had been upset, but still there were a few drops yet. he licked his lips and blessed himself, that he was such a lucky elf, and now might hope to live in clover; but, ah! his troubles were not over! [illustration] v. for at that instant, by his side, a beast of fearful form he spied: at first he thought it was a bear, and headlong fell in dire despair. he lost one slipper in the moss, and this was not his only loss. with paws and snout the beast was nimble, and very soon cleared out the thimble. [illustration] vi. this rifling of his honey-pot awoke our elfin's wrath full hot. he made a rope of linden bast, by either end he held it fast, and creeping up behind the beast, intent upon the honey feast, before it had the slightest inkling, the rope was round it in a twinkling. [illustration] vii. the mouse shrieked "murder!" "fire!" and "thieves!" and struggled through the twigs and leaves. it pulled the reins with all its might, our hero only drew them tight. upon the mouse's back he leapt, and like a man his seat he kept. his steed was terribly affrighted, but he himself was much delighted. [illustration] viii. "gee up, my little horse!" he cried, "i mean to have a glorious ride; so bear me forth with lightning speed, a knight resolved on doughty deed. the wide world we will gallop round, and clear the hedges at one bound." the mouse set off, the hero bantered, and out into the world they cantered. [illustration] ix. at last they rode up to an inn: "good mr. host, pray who's within?" "my daughter serves the customers, before the fire the tom-cat purrs." for further news they did not wait-- the mouse sprang through the garden-gate-- they fled without a look behind them. the question is--did thomas find them? songs for music serenade. i would not have you wake for me, fair lady, though i love you! and though the night is warm, and all the stars are out above you; and though the dew's so light it could not hurt your little feet, and nightingales in yonder wood are singing passing sweet. yet may my plaintive strain unite and mingle with your dreaming, and through the visions of the night just interweave my seeming. yet no! sleep on with fancy free in that untroubled breast; no song of mine, no thought of me, deserves to break your rest! maiden with the gipsy look. maiden with the gipsy look, dusky locks and russet hue, open wide thy sybil's book, tell my fate and tell it true; shall i live? or shall i die? timely wed, or single be? maiden with the gipsy eye, read my riddle unto me! maiden with the gipsy face, if thou canst not tell me all, tell me thus much, of thy grace, should i climb, or fear to fall? should i dare, or dread to dare? should i speak, or silent be? maiden with the gipsy hair, read my riddle unto me! maiden with the gipsy hair, deep into thy mirror look, see my love and fortune there, clearer than in sybil's book: let me cross thy slender palm, let me learn my fate from thee; maiden with the gipsy charm, read my riddle unto me. ah! would i could forget. the whispering water rocks the reeds, and, murmuring softly, laps the weeds; and nurses there the falsest bloom that ever wrought a lover's doom. forget me not! forget me not! ah! would i could forget! but, crying still, "forget me not," her image haunts me yet. we wander'd by the river's brim, the day grew dusk, the pathway dim; her eyes like stars dispell'd the gloom, her gleaming fingers pluck'd the bloom. forget me not! forget me not! ah! would i could forget! but, crying still, "forget me not," her image haunts me yet. the pale moon lit her paler face, and coldly watch'd our last embrace, and chill'd her tresses' sunny hue, and stole that flower's turquoise blue. forget me not! forget me not! ah! would i could forget! but, crying still, "forget me not," her image haunts me yet. the fateful flower droop'd to death, the fair, false maid forswore her faith; but i obey a broken vow, and keep those wither'd blossoms now! forget me not! forget me not! ah! would i could forget! but, crying still, "forget me not," her image haunts me yet. sweet lips that pray'd--"forget me not!" sweet eyes that will not be forgot! recall your prayer, forego your power, which binds me by the fatal flower. forget me not! forget me not! ah! would i could forget! but, crying still, "forget me not," her image haunts me yet. madrigal. life is full of trouble, love is full of care, joy is like a bubble shining in the air, for you cannot grasp it anywhere. love is not worth getting, it doth fade so fast. life is not worth fretting which so soon is past; and you cannot bid them longer last. yet for certain fellows life seems true and strong; and with some, they tell us, love will linger long; thus they cannot understand my song. the elleree.[ ] a song of second sight. elleree! o elleree! seeing what none else may see, dost thou see the man in grey? dost thou hear the night hounds bay? elleree! o elleree! seventh son of seventh son, all thy thread of life is spun, thy little race is nearly run, and death awaits for thee! elleree! o elleree! coronach shall wail for thee; get thee shrived and get thee blest, get thee ready for thy rest, elleree! o elleree! that thou owest quickly give, what thou ownest thou must leave, and those thou lovest best shall grieve, but all in vain for thee! "bodach glas!"[ ] the chieftain said, "all my debts but one are paid, all i love have long been dead, all my hopes on heaven are stay'd, death to me can bring no dole;" thus the elleree replied;-- but with ebbing of the tide as sinks the setting sun he died;-- may christ receive his soul! [footnote : "elleree" is the name of one who has the gift of second sight.] [footnote : "bodach glas," the man in grey, appears to a highland family with the gift of second sight, presaging death.] other stars. the night is dark, and yet it is not quite: those stars are hid that other orbs may shine; twin stars, whose rays illuminate the night, and cheer her gloom, but only deepen mine; for these fair stars are not what they do seem, but vanish'd eyes remember'd in a dream. the night is dark, and yet it brings no rest; those eager eyes gaze on and banish sleep; though flaming mars has lower'd his crimson crest, and weary venus pales into the deep, these two with tender shining mock my woe from out the distant heaven of long ago. the night is dark, and yet how bright they gleam! oh! empty vision of a vanish'd light! sweet eyes! must you for ever be a dream deep in my heart, and distant from my sight? for could you shine as once you shone before, the stars might hide their rays for evermore! faded flowers. my love she sent a flower to me of tender hue and fragrance rare, and with it came across the sea a letter kind as she was fair; but when her letter met mine eyes, the flower, the little flower, was dead: and ere i touched the tender prize the hues were dim, the fragrance fled. i sent my love a letter too, in happy hope no more to roam; i bade her bless the vessel true whose gallant sails should waft me home. but ere my letter reach'd her hand, my love, my little love, was dead, and when the vessel touch'd the land, fair hope for evermore had fled. speed well. what time i left my native land, and bade farewell to my true love, she laid a flower in my hand as azure as the sky above. "speed thee well! speed well!" she softly whispered, "speed well! this flower blue be token true of my true heart's true love for you!" its tender hue is bright and pure, as heav'n through summer clouds doth show, a pledge though clouds thy way obscure, it shall not be for ever so. "speed thee well! speed well!" she softly whisper'd, "speed well! this flower blue be token true of my true heart's true love for you!" and as i toil through help and harm, and whilst on alien shores i dwell, i wear this flower as a charm, my heart repeats that tender spell: "speed thee well! speed well!" it softly whispers, "speed well! this flower blue be token true of my true heart's true love for you!" how many years ago? how many years ago, love, since you came courting me? through oak-tree wood and o'er the lea, with rosy cheeks and waistcoat gay, and mostly not a word to say,-- how many years ago, love, how many years ago? how many years ago, love, since you to father spoke? between your lips a sprig of oak: you were not one with much to say, but mother spoke for you that day,-- how many years ago, love, how many years ago? so many years ago, love, that soon our time must come to leave our girl without a home;-- she's like her mother, love, you've said: --at her age i had long been wed,-- how many years ago, love, how many years ago? for love of long-ago, love, if john has aught to say, when he comes up to us to-day, (a likely lad, though short of tongue,) remember, husband, we were young,-- how many years ago, love, how many years ago? "with a difference." i'm weary waiting here, the chill east wind is sighing, the autumn tints are sere, the summer flowers are dying. the river's sullen way winds on through vacant meadows, the dying light of day strives vainly with the shadows. a footstep stirs the leaves! the faded fields seem brighter, the sunset gilds the sheaves, the low'ring clouds look lighter. the river sparkles by, not all the flowers are falling, there's azure in the sky, and thou, my love, art calling. the lily of the lake. over wastes of blasted heather, where the pine-trees stand together, evermore my footsteps wander, evermore the shadows yonder deepen into gloom. where there lies a silent lake, no song-bird there its thirst may slake, no sunshine now to whiteness wake the water-lily's bloom. some sweet spring-time long departed, i and she, the simple-hearted, bride and bridegroom, maid and lover, did that gloomy lake discover, did those lilies see. there we wandered side by side. there it was they said she died. but ah! in this i know they lied! she will return to me! never, never since that hour has the lake brought forth a flower. ever harshly do the sedges some sad secret from its edges whisper to the shore. some sad secret i forget. the lily though will blossom yet: and when it blooms i shall have met my love for evermore. from fleeting pleasures. a requiem for one alive. from fleeting pleasures and abiding cares, from sin's seductions and from satan's snares, from woes and wrath to penitence and prayers, veni in pace! sweet absolution thy sad spirit heal; to godly cares that end in endless weal, to joys man cannot think or speak or feel, vade in pace! from this world's ways and being led by them, from floods of evil thy youth could not stem, from tents of kedar to jerusalem, veni in pace! blest be thy worldly loss to thy soul's gain, blest be the blow that freed thee from thy chain, blest be the tears that wash thy spirit's stain, vade in pace! oh, dead, and yet alive! oh, lost and found! salvation's walls now compass thee around, thy weary feet are set on holy ground. veni in pace! death gently garner thee with all the blest, in heavenly habitations be thou guest; to light perpetual and eternal rest, vade in pace! the runaway's return. it was on such a night as this, some long unreal years ago, when all within were wrapp'd in sleep, and all without was wrapp'd in snow, the full moon rising in the east, the old church standing like a ghost, that, shivering in the wintry mist, and breathless with the silent frost, a little lad, i ran to seek my fortune on the main; i marvel now with how much hope and with how little pain! it is of such a night as this, in all the lands where i have been, that memory too faithfully has painted the familiar scene. by all the shores, on every sea, in luck or loss, by night or day, my highest hope has been to see that home from which i ran away. for this i toil'd, to this i look'd through many a weary year, i marvel now with how much hope, and with how little fear. on such a night at last i came, but they were dead i loved of yore. ah, mother, then my heart felt all the pain it should have felt before! i came away, though loth to come, i clung, and yet why should i cling? when all have gone who made it home, it is the shadow, not the thing. a homeless man, once more i seek my fortune on the main: i marvel with how little hope, and with what bitter pain. fancy free. a girl's song. with bark and bound and frolic round my dog and i together run; while by our side a brook doth glide, and laugh and sparkle in the sun. we ask no more of fortune's store than thus at our sweet wills to roam: and drink heart's ease from every breeze that blows about the hills of home. as, fancy free, with game and glee, we happy three dance down the glen. and yet they say that some fine day this vagrant stream may serve a mill; my doggy guard a master's yard; my free heart choose another's will. how this may fare we little care, my dog and i, as still we run! whilst by our side the brook doth glide, and laugh and sparkle in the sun. for, fancy free, with game and glee, we happy three dance down the glen. my love's gift. you ask me what--since we must part-- you shall bring home to me; bring back a pure and faithful heart, as true as mine to thee. i ask not wealth nor fame, i only ask for thee, thyself--and that dear self the same-- my love, bring back to me! you talk of gems from foreign lands, of treasure, spoil, and prize. ah, love! i shall not search your hands, but look into your eyes. i ask not wealth nor fame, i only ask for thee, thyself--and that dear self the same-- my love, bring back to me! you speak of glory and renown, with me to share your pride, unbroken faith is all the crown i ask for as your bride. i ask not wealth nor fame, i only ask for thee, thyself--and that dear self the same-- my love, bring back to me! you bid me with hope's eager gaze behold fair fortune come. i only dream i see your face beside the hearth at home. i ask not wealth nor fame, i do but ask for thee! thyself--and that dear self the same-- may god restore to me! anemones. if i should wish hereafter that your heart should beat with one fair memory of me, may time's hard hand our footsteps guide apart, but lead yours back one spring-time to the lea. nodding anemones, wind-flowers pale, bloom with the budding trees, dancing to every breeze, mock hopes more fair than these, love's vows more frail. for then the grass we loved grows green again, and april showers make april woods more fair; but no sun dries the sad salt tears of pain, or brings back summer lights on faded hair, nodding anemones, wind-flowers pale, bloom with the budding trees, dancing to every breeze, mock hopes more frail than these, love's vows more frail. autumn leaves. the spring's bright tints no more are seen, and summer's ample robe of green is russet-gold and brown; when flowers fall to every breeze and, shed reluctant from the trees, the leaves drop down. a sadness steals about the heart, --and is it thus from youth we part, and life's redundant prime? must friends like flowers fade away, and life like nature know decay, and bow to time? and yet such sadness meets rebuke, from every copse in every nook where autumn's colours glow; how bright the sky! how full the sheaves! what mellow glories gild the leaves before they go. then let us sing the jocund praise, in this bright air, of these bright days, when years our friendships crown; the love that's loveliest when 'tis old-- when tender tints have turned to gold and leaves drop down. hymns. confirmation. long, long ago, with vows too much forgotten, the cross of christ was seal'd on every brow, ah! slow of heart, that shun the christian conflict; rise up at last! the accepted time is now. soldiers of jesus! blest who endure; stand in the battle; the victory is sure. hark! hark! the saviour's voice to each is calling-- "i bore the cross of death in pain for thee; on thee the cross of daily life is falling: children! take up the cross and follow me." soldiers of jesus! &c. strive as god's saints have striven in all ages; press those slow steps where firmer feet have trod: for us their lives adorn the sacred pages, for them a crown of glory is with god. soldiers of jesus! &c. peace! peace! sweet voices bring an ancient story, (such songs angelic melodies employ,) "hard is the strife, but unconceived the glory: short is the pain, eternal is the joy." soldiers of jesus! &c. on! christian souls, all base temptations spurning, drown coward thoughts in faith's triumphant hymn; since jesus suffer'd, our salvation earning, shall we not toil that we may rest with him? soldiers of jesus! &c. amen. whitsuntide. come down! come down! o holy ghost! as once of old thou didst come down in fiery tongues at pentecost, the apostolic heads to crown. come down! though now no flame divine, nor heaven-sent dove, our sight amaze; our church still shows the outward sign, thou truly givest inward grace. come down! come down! on infancy, the babes whom jesus deign'd to love; god give us grace by faith to see, above the font, the mystic dove. come down! come down! on kneeling bands of those who fain would strength receive; and in the laying on of hands bless us beyond what we believe. come down! not only on the saint, oh! struggle with the hard of heart, with wilful sin and inborn taint, till lust, and wrath, and pride depart. come down! come down! sweet comforter! it was the promise of the lord. come down! although we grieve thee sore, not for our merits--but his word. come down! come down! not what we would, but what we need, o bring with thee. turn life's sore riddle to our good; a little while and we shall see. amen. christmas wishes. a carol. oh, happy christmas, full of blessings, come! now bid our discords cease; here give the weary ease; let the long-parted meet again in peace; bring back the far-away; grant us a holiday; and by the hopes of christmas-tide we pray-- let love restore the fallen to his home; whilst up and down the snowy streets the christmas minstrels sing; and through the frost from countless towers the bells of christmas ring. ah, christ! and yet a happier day shall come! then bid our discords cease; there give the weary ease; let the long-parted meet again in peace; bring back the far-away; grant us a holiday; and by the hopes of christmas-tide we pray-- let love restore the fallen to his home; whilst up and down the golden streets the blessed angels sing, and evermore the heavenly chimes in heavenly cadence ring. teach me. _translated from the danish of oehlenschläger._ teach me, o wood, to fade away, as autumn's yellow leaves decay a better spring impends,-- then green and glorious shall my tree take deep root in eternity,-- whose summer never ends! teach me, o bird of passage, this, to seek, in faith a better bliss on other unknown shores! when all is winter here and ice, there ever-smiling paradise unfolds its happy doors. teach me, thou summer butterfly, to break the bonds which on me lie. with fetters all too firm. ah, soon on golden purple wing the liberated soul shall spring, which now creeps as a worm! teach me, o lord, to yonder skies to lift in hope these weary eyes with earthly sorrows worn. good friday was a bitter day, but bright the sun's eternal ray which broke on easter morn. the end. _richard clay & sons, limited, london & bungay._ _the present series of mrs. ewing's works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform edition published._ _it will consist of volumes, small crown vo, at s. d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the series will be completed within months. the device of the cover was specially designed by a friend of mrs. ewing._ _the following is a list of the books included in the series_-- . melchior's dream, and other tales. . mrs. overtheway's remembrances. . old-fashioned fairy tales. . a flat iron for a farthing. . the brownies, and other tales. . six to sixteen. . lob lie-by-the-fire, and other tales. . jan of the windmill. . verses for children, and songs. . the peace egg--a christmas mumming play--hints for private theatricals, &c. . a great emergency, and other tales. . brothers of pity, and other tales of beasts and men. . we and the world, part i. . we and the world, part ii. . jackanapes--daddy darwin's dovecote--the story of a short life. . mary's meadow, and other tales of fields and flowers. . miscellanea, including the mystery of the bloody hand--wonder stories--tales of the khoja, and other translations. . juliana horatia ewing and her books, with a selection from mrs. ewing's letters. s.p.c.k., northumberland avenue, london, w.c. ================================= [illustration: flyleaf (left)] ================================= [illustration: flyleaf (right)] ================================= [illustration] copyright all rights reserved sbn ================================= marigold garden by kate greenaway [illustration] ================================= [illustration] ================================= marigold garden pictures and rhymes by kate greenaway london frederick warne & co. ltd. & new york ================================= you little girl, you little boy, with wondering eyes, that kindly look, in honour of two noble names i send the offering of this book. [illustration] printed in u.s.a. ================================= [illustration] susan blue. oh, susan blue, how do you do? please may i go for a walk with you? where shall we go? oh, i know-- down in the meadow where the cowslips grow! ================================= [illustration] blue shoes. little blue shoes mustn't go very far alone, you know else she'll fall down, or, lose her way; fancy--what would mamma say? better put her little hand under sister's wise command. when she's a little older grown blue shoes may go quite alone. ================================= [illustration] street show. puff, puff, puff. how the trumpets blow all you little boys and girls come and see the show. one--two--three, the cat runs up the tree; but the little bird he flies away-- "she hasn't got me!" ================================= [illustration] to the sun door. they saw it rise in the morning, they saw it set at night, and they longed to go and see it, ah! if they only might. the little soft white clouds heard them, and stepped from out of the blue; and each laid a little child softly upon its bosom of dew. and they carried them higher and higher, and they nothing knew any more until they were standing waiting in front of the round gold door. and they knocked, and called, and entreated, whoever should be within; but all to no purpose, for no one would hearken to let them in. ================================= [illustration] the daisies. you very fine miss molly, what will the daisies say, if you carry home so many of their little friends to-day? perhaps you take a sister, perhaps you take a brother, or two little daisies who were fond of one another. ================================= [illustration] the dancing family. pray let me introduce you to this little dancing family; for morning, afternoon, and night they danced away so happily. they twirled round about, they turned their toes out; the people wondered what the noise could all be about. they danced from early morning, till very late at night; both in-doors and out-of-doors, with very great delight. and every sort of dance they knew, from every country far away; and so it was no wonder that they should keep dancing all the day. so dancing--dancing--dancing, in sunshine or in rain; and when they all left off, why then--they all began again. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] going to see grandmamma. little molly and damon are walking so far, for they're going to see their kind grandmamma. and they very well know, when they get there she'll take from out of her cupboard some very nice cake. and into her garden they know they may run, and pick some red currants, and have lots of fun. so damon to doggie says, "how do you do?" and asks his mamma if he may not go too. ================================= [illustration] wishes. oh, if you were a little boy, and i was a little girl-- why you would have some whiskers grow and then my hair would curl. ah! if i could have whiskers grow, i'd let you have my curls; but what's the use of wishing it-- boys never can be girls. ================================= [illustration] first arrivals. it is a party, do you know, and there they sit, all in a row, waiting till the others come, to begin to have some fun. hark! the bell rings sharp and clear, other little friends appear; and no longer all alone they begin to feel at home. to them a little hard is fate, yet better early than too late; fancy getting there forlorn, with the tea and cake all gone. wonder what they'll have for tea; hope the jam is strawberry. wonder what the dance and game; feel so very glad they came. very happy may you be, may you much enjoy your tea. ================================= [illustration] when we went out with grandmamma. when we went out with grandmamma-- mamma said for a treat-- oh, dear, how stiff we had to walk as we went down the street. one on each side we had to go, and never laugh or loll; i carried prim, her spaniard dog, and tom--her parasol. [illustration] if _i_ looked right--_if tom_ looked left-- "tom--susan--i'm ashamed; and little prim, i'm sure, is shocked, to hear such naughties named." she said we had no manners, if we ever talked or sung; "you should have seen," said grandmamma, "_me_ walk, when _i_ was young." she told us--oh, so often-- how little girls and boys, in the good days when she was young, never made any noise. she said they never wished then to play--oh, indeed! they learnt to sew and needlework, or else to write and read. she said her mother never let her speak a word at meals; "but now," said grandmamma, "you'd think that children's tongues had wheels "so fast they go--clack, clack, clack, clack; now listen well, i pray, and let me see you both improve from what i've said to-day." ================================= [illustration] to mystery land. oh, dear, how will it end? peggy and susie how naughty you are. you little know where you are, going so far, and so high, nearly up to the sky. perhaps it's a giant who lives there, and perhaps it's a lovely princess. but you very well know you've no business to go; you'll get yourselves into a mess. oh, dear, i'm sure it is true; whatever on earth can it matter to you? for you know it--oh, fie-- that it's naughty to pry into other's affairs-- into other folks houses to go, where you know you're not asked. so you'd better come back while there's time, it is plain. go home--and be never so naughty again. ================================= [illustration] [illustration] from market. oh who'll give us posies, and garlands of roses, to twine round our heads so gay? for here we come bringing you many good wishes to-day. from market--from market--from market-- we all come up from market. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] little phillis. i am a very little girl, i think that i've turned two; and if you'd like to know my name i'd like to tell it you. they always call me baby, but phillis is my name. no--no one ever gave it me, i think it only came. i've got a pretty tulip in my little flower-bed; if you would like i'll give it you-- it's yellow, striped with red. i've got a little kitten, but i can't give that away, she likes to play with me _so_ much; she's gone to sleep to-day. and i've got a nice new dolly, shall i fetch her out to you? she's got such pretty shoes on, and her bonnet's trimmed with blue. you'd like to take her home with you? oh, _no_, she mustn't go; good-bye--i want to run now, you walk along so slow. ================================= [illustration] the four princesses. four princesses lived in a green tower-- a bright green tower in the middle of the sea; and no one could think--oh, no one could think-- who the four princesses could be. one looked to the north, and one to the south, and one to the east, and one to the west; they were all so pretty, so very pretty, you could not tell which was the prettiest. their curls were golden--their eyes were blue, and their voices were sweet as a silvery bell; and four white birds around them flew, but where they came from--_who_ could tell? oh, who could tell? for no one knew, and not a word could you hear them say. but the sound of their singing, like church bells ringing, would sweetly float as they passed away. for under the sun, and under the stars, they often sailed on the distant sea; then in their green tower and roses bower they lived again--a mystery. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] when you and i grow up. when you and i grow up--polly-- i mean that you and me, shall go sailing in a big ship right over all the sea. we'll wait till we are older, for if we went to-day, you know that we might lose ourselves, and never find the way. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] in an apple tree. in september, when the apples were red, to belinda i said, "would you like to go away to heaven, or stay here in this orchard full of trees all your life?" and she said, "if you please i'll stay here--where i know, and the flowers grow." ================================= [illustration] the wedding bells. the wedding bells were ringing, and monday was the day, and all the little ladies were there so fresh and gay. and up--up--up the steps they went, the wedding fine to see; and the roses were all for the bride, so pretty--so pretty was she. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] the little london girl. in my little green house, quite content am i, when the hot sun pours down from the sky; for oh, i love the country--the beautiful country. who'd live in a london street when there's the country? i live in a london street, then i long and long to be the whole day the sweet flowers among instead of tall chimney-pots up in the sky, the joy of seeing birds and dragon flies go by. at home i lie in bed, and cannot go to sleep, for the sound of cart-wheels upon the hard street. but here my eyes close up to no sound of anything except it is to hear the nightingales sing. and then i see the chickens and the geese go walking, i hear the pigs and the ducks all talking. and the red and the spotted cows they stare at me, as if they wondered whoever i could be. i see the little lambs out with their mothers-- such pretty little white young sisters and brothers. oh, i'll stay in the country, and make a daisy chain, and never go back to london again. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] to baby. oh, what shall my blue eyes go see? shall it be pretty quack-quack to-day? or the peacock upon the yew tree? or the dear little white lambs at play? say baby. for baby is such a young petsy, and baby is such a sweet dear. and baby is growing quite old now-- she's just getting on for a year. ================================= [illustration] willy and his sister. willy said to his sister, "please may i go with you?" she said, "you must behave very nicely if you do." "please will you take me then to look at the mill?" "yes," she said, "because you are so very good--i will." "the miller he is so very white and kind; and sprinkled all over with the flour they grind. "and the big heaps of corn that lie upon the floor; he will let me play with those i am quite sure. "i like to hear the wheel make such a rushing sound, and see the pretty water go round, and round, and round. "so take me to the mill, for then you shall see what a very, very good boy i really mean to be." [illustration] ================================= [illustration] at school. five little girls, sitting on a form, five little girls, with lessons to learn, five little girls, who, i'm afraid, won't know them a bit when they have to be said. for little eyes are given to look anywhere else than on their book; and little thoughts are given to stray anywhere--ever so far away. ================================= [illustration] happy days. "are you going next week to see phillis and phoebe? phillis on monday will be just fourteen. she says we shall all have our tea in the garden, and afterwards have some nice games on the green. "i wanted a new frock, but mother said, 'no,' so i must be content with my old one you see. but then white is so pretty, and kind aunt matilda has sent down a beautiful necklace for me." [illustration] "oh, yes, i am going, and peggy is going, and mother is making us new frocks to wear; i shall have my red sash and my hat with pink ribbons-- i know all the girls will be smart who are there. "and then, too, we're going to each take a nosegay-- the larger the better--for phillis to say that all her friends love her, and wish her so happy, and bring her sweet flowers upon her birthday. "and won't it be lovely, in beautiful sunshine, the table spread under the great apple tree, to see little phillis--that dear little phillis-- look smiling all round as she pours out the tea!" ================================= [illustration] the little queen's coming. with roses--red roses, we'll pelt her with roses, and lilies--white lilies we'll drop at her feet; the little queen's coming, the people are running-- the people are running to greet and to meet. then clash out a welcome, let all the bells sound, come, to give her a welcoming proud and sweet. how her blue eyes will beam, and her golden curls gleam, when the sound of our singing rings down the street. ================================= [illustration] on the wall top. dancing and prancing to town we go, on the top of the wall of the town we go. shall we talk to the stars, or talk to the moon, or run along home to our dinner so soon? ================================= [illustration] on the wall top. so high--so high on the wall we run, the nearer the sky--why, the nearer the sun, if you give me one penny, i'll give you two, for that's the way good neighbours do. ================================= [illustration] tip-a-toe. tip-a-toe, see them go; one, two, three-- chloe, prue, and me; up and down, to the town. a lord was there, and the lady fair. and what did they sing? oh, "ring-a-ding-ding;" and the black crow flew off with the lady's ring. ================================= [illustration] mammas and babies. "my polly is so very good, belinda never cries; my baby often goes to sleep, see how she shuts her eyes. "dear mrs. lemon tell me when belinda goes to school; and what time does she go to bed?" "well, eight o'clock's the rule. "but now and then, just for a treat, i let her wait awhile; you shake your head--why, wouldn't you? do look at baby's smile!" [illustration] "dear mrs. primrose will you come one day next week to tea? of course bring rosalinda, and that darling--rosalie." "dear mrs. cowslip, you _are_ kind; my little folks, i know, will be so very pleased to come; dears--tell mrs. cowslip so. "oh, do you know--perhaps you've not heard-- she had a dreadful fright; my daisy with the measles kept me up every night. "and then i've been so worried-- clarissa had a fit; and the doctor said he couldn't in the least account for it." [illustration] ================================= [illustration] my little girlie. little girlie tell to me what your wistful blue eyes see? why you like to stand so high, looking at the far off sky. does a tiny fairy flit in the pretty blue of it? or is it that you hope so soon to see the rising yellow moon? or is it--as i think i've heard-- you're looking for a little bird to come and sit upon a spray, and sing the summer night away? ================================= [illustration] the cats have come to tea. what did she see--oh, what did she see, as she stood leaning against the tree? why all the cats had come to tea. what a fine turn out--from round about, all the houses had let them out, and here they were with scamper and shout. "mew--mew--mew!" was all they could say, and, "we hope we find you well to-day." oh, what should she do--oh, what should she do? what a lot of milk they would get through; for here they were with "mew--mew--mew!" she didn't know--oh, she didn't know, if bread and butter they'd like or no; they might want little mice, oh! oh! oh! dear me--oh, dear me, all the cats had come to tea. ================================= [illustration] the tea party. in the pleasant green garden we sat down to tea; "do you take sugar?" and "do you take milk?" she'd got a new gown on-- a smart one of silk. we all were so happy as happy could be, on that bright summer's day when she asked us to tea. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] under rose arches. under rose arches to rose town-- rose town on the top of the hill; for the summer wind blows and music goes, and the violins sound shrill. twist and twine roses and lilies, and little leaves green, fit for a queen; twist and twine roses and lilies. oh, roses shall be for her carpet, and her curtains of roses so fair; and a rosy crown, while far adown floats her long golden hair. twist and twine roses and lilies, and all the bells ring, and all the people sing; twist and twine roses and lilies. ================================= [illustration] a genteel family. some children are so naughty, and some are very good; but the genteel family did always what it should. they put on gloves when they went out, and ran not in the street; and on wet days not one of them had ever muddy feet. then they were always so polite, and always thanked you so; and never threw their toys about, as naughty children do. they always learnt their lessons when it was time they should; and liked to eat up all their crusts-- they were so very good. and then their frocks were never torn, their tuckers always clean; and their hair so very tidy-- always quite fit to be seen. then they made calls with their mamma and were so very neat; and learnt to bow becomingly when they met you in the street. and really they were everything that children ought to be; and well may be examples now for little you--and me. [illustration] ================================= [illustration] baby mine. baby mine, over the trees; baby mine, over the flowers; baby mine, over the sunshine; baby mine, over the showers. baby mine, over the land; baby mine, over the water. oh, when had a mother before such a sweet--such a sweet, little daughter! ================================= [illustration] little girls and little lambs. in the may-time flowers grow; little girls in meadows go; little lambs frisk with delight, and in the green grass sleep at night. little birds sing all the day, oh, in such a happy way! all the day the sun is bright, little stars shine all the night. the cowslip says to the primrose, "how soft the little spring wind blows!" the daisy and the buttercup sing every time that they look up. for beneath the sweet blue sky they see a pretty butterfly; the butterfly, when he looks down, says, "what a pretty flower town!" [illustration] ================================= [illustration] from wonder world. out of wonder world i think you come; for in your eyes the wonder comes with you. the stars are the windows of heaven, and sometimes i think you peep through. oh, little girl, tell us do the flowers tell you secrets when they find you all alone? or the birds and butterflies whisper of things to us unknown? or do angel voices speak to you so softly, when _we_ only hear a little wind sigh; and the peaceful dew of heaven fall upon you when _we_ only see a white cloud passing by? [illustration] ================================= [illustration] child's song. the king and the queen were riding upon a summer's day, and a blackbird flew above them, to hear what they did say. the king said he liked apples, the queen said she liked pears. and what shall we do to the blackbird who listens unawares. ================================= [illustration] miss molly and the little fishes. oh, sweet miss molly, you're so fond of fishes in a little pond. and perhaps they're glad to see you stare with such bright eyes upon them there. and when your fingers and your thumbs drop slowly in the small white crumbs i hope they're happy. only this-- when you've looked long enough, sweet miss. then, most beneficent young giver, restore them to their native river. ================================= the little jumping girls. [illustration] jump--jump--jump-- jump away from this town into the next, to-day. jump--jump--jump-- jump over the moon; jump all the morning, and all the noon. jump--jump--jump-- jump all night; won't our mothers be in a fright? jump--jump--jump-- over the sea; what wonderful wonders we shall see. jump--jump--jump-- and leave behind everything evil that we may find. jump--jump--jump-- jump far away; and all come home some other day. ================================= ring-a-ring. ring-a-ring of little boys. ring-a-ring of girls; all around--all around, twists and twirls. [illustration] you are merry children; "yes, we are." where do you come from? "not very far. "we live in the mountain, we live in the tree; and i live in the river-bed, and you won't catch me!" ================================= [illustration] on the bridge. if i could see a little fish-- that is what i just now wish! i want to see his great round eyes always open in surprise. i wish a water rat would glide slowly to the other side; or a dancing spider sit on the yellow flags a bit. i think i'll get some stones to throw, and watch the pretty circles show. or shall we sail a flower-boat, and watch it slowly--slowly float? that's nice--because you never know how far away it means to go; and when to-morrow comes, you see, it may be in the great wide sea. ================================= [illustration] ball. one--two, is one to you: one--two--three, is one to me. throw it fast or not at all, and mind you do not let it fall. fairy blue eyes and fairy brown, and dear little golden curls, look down. i say "good-bye"-- "good-bye" with no pain-- till some happy day we meet again! [illustration] ================================= [illustration] original wood block designs engraved by edmund evans limited ================================= [illustration: flyleaf (left)] ================================= [illustration: flyleaf (right)] ================================= lyra heroica a book of verse for boys selected and arranged by william ernest henley sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! to all the sensual world proclaim one crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name. _sir walter scott._ new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons *** the selections from walt whitman are published by permission of mr. whitman; and those from longfellow, lowell, whittier, and bret harte, through the courtesy of messrs. houghton, mifflin, & co., the publishers of their works. to walter blaikie artist-printer my part in this book w. e. h. edinburgh, july . preface this book of verse for boys is, i believe, the first of its kind in english. plainly, it were labour lost to go gleaning where so many experts have gone harvesting; and for what is rarest and best in english poetry the world must turn, as heretofore, to the several 'golden treasuries' of professor palgrave and mr. coventry patmore, and to the excellent 'poets' walk' of mr. mowbray morris. my purpose has been to choose and sheave a certain number of those achievements in verse which, as expressing the simpler sentiments and the more elemental emotions, might fitly be addressed to such boys--and men, for that matter--as are privileged to use our noble english tongue. to set forth, as only art can, the beauty and the joy of living, the beauty and the blessedness of death, the glory of battle and adventure, the nobility of devotion--to a cause, an ideal, a passion even--the dignity of resistance, the sacred quality of patriotism, that is my ambition here. now, to read poetry at all is to have an ideal anthology of one's own, and in that possession to be incapable of content with the anthologies of all the world besides. that is, the personal equation is ever to be reckoned withal, and i have had my preferences, as those that went before me had theirs. i have omitted much, as aytoun's 'lays,' whose absence many will resent; i have included much, as that brilliant piece of doggerel of frederick marryat's, whose presence some will regard with distress. this without reference to enforcements due to the very nature of my work. i have adopted the birth-day order: for that is the simplest. and i have begun with--not chaucer, nor spenser, nor the ballads, but--shakespeare and agincourt; for it seemed to me that a book of heroism could have no better starting-point than that heroic pair of names. as for the ballads, i have placed them, after much considering, in the gap between old and new, between classic and romantic, in english verse. the witness of sidney and drayton's example notwithstanding, it is not until , when percy publishes the 'reliques,' that the ballad spirit begins to be the master influence that wordsworth confessed it was; while as for the history of the matter, there are who hold that 'sir patrick spens,' for example, is the work of lady wardlaw, which to others, myself among them, is a thing preposterous and distraught. it remains to add that, addressing myself to boys, i have not scrupled to edit my authors where editing seemed desirable, and that i have broken up some of the longer pieces for convenience in reading. also, the help i have received while this book of 'noble numbers' was in course of growth--help in the way of counsel, suggestion, remonstrance, permission to use--has been such that it taxes gratitude and makes complete acknowledgment impossible. w. e. h. contents william shakespeare ( - ) and michael drayton ( - ). page i. agincourt introit interlude harfleur the eve the battle after sir henry wotton ( - ). ii. lord of himself ben jonson ( - ). iii. true balm iv. honour in bud john fletcher ( - ). v. the joy of battle francis beaumont ( - ). vi. in westminster abbey robert herrick ( - ). vii. going a-maying viii. to anthea, who may command him anything george herbert ( - ). ix. memento mori james shirley ( - ). x. the king of kings john milton ( - ). xi. lycidas xii. arms and the muse xiii. to the lord general xiv. the late massacre xv. on his blindness xvi. eyeless at gaza xvii. out of adversity james graham, marquis of montrose ( - ). xviii. heroic love richard lovelace ( - ). xix. going to the wars xx. from prison andrew marvell ( - ). xxi. two kings xxii. in exile john dryden ( - ). xxiii. alexander's feast samuel johnson ( - ). xxiv. the quiet life ballads xxv. chevy chase the hunting the challenge the battle the slain the tidings xxvi. sir patrick spens xxvii. brave lord willoughby xxviii. hughie the grÆme xxix. kinmont willie the capture the keeper's wrath the march the rescue xxx. the honour of bristol xxxi. helen of kirkconnell xxxii. the twa corbies thomas gray ( - ). xxxiii. the bard william cowper ( - ). xxxiv. the royal george xxxv. boadicea graham of gartmore ( - ). xxxvi. to his lady charles dibdin ( - ). xxxvii. constancy xxxviii. the perfect sailor john philpot curran ( - ). xxxix. the deserter prince hoare ( - ). xl. the arethusa william blake ( - ). xli. the beauty of terror robert burns ( - ). xlii. defiance xliii. the goal of life xliv. before parting xlv. devotion xlvi. true until death william wordsworth ( - ). xlvii. venice xlviii. destiny xlix. the mother land l. ideal li. to duty lii. two victories sir walter scott ( - ). liii. in memoriam liv. lochinvar lv. flodden the march the attack the last stand lvi. the chase lvii. the outlaw lviii. pibroch lix. the omnipotent lx. the red harlaw lxi. farewell lxii. bonny dundee samuel taylor coleridge ( - ). lxiii. romance walter savage landor ( - ). lxiv. sacrifice thomas campbell ( - ). lxv. soldier and sailor lxvi. 'ye mariners' lxvii. the battle of the baltic ebenezer elliott ( - ). lxviii. battle song allan cunningham ( - ). lxix. loyalty lxx. a sea-song bryant waller proctor ( - ). lxxi. a song of the sea george gordon, lord byron ( - ). lxxii. sennacherib lxxiii. the storming of corinth the signal the assault the magazine lxxiv. alhama lxxv. friendship lxxvi. the race with death lxxvii. the glory that was greece lxxviii. hail and farewell charles wolfe ( - ). lxxix. after corunna frederick marryat ( - ). lxxx. the old navy felicia hemans ( - ). lxxxi. casabianca lxxxii. the pilgrim fathers john keats ( - ). lxxxiii. to the adventurous thomas babington, lord macaulay ( - ). lxxxiv. horatius the trysting the trouble in rome the keeping of the bridge father tiber lxxxv. the armada lxxxvi. the last buccaneer lxxxvii. a jacobite's epitaph robert stephen hawker ( - ). lxxxviii. the song of the western men henry wadsworth longfellow ( - ). lxxxix. the building of the ship the model the builders in the ship-yard the two bridals xc. the discoverer of the north cape xci. the cumberland xcii. a dutch picture john greenleaf whittier (b. ). xciii. barbara frietchie alfred, lord tennyson (b. ). xciv. a ballad of the fleet xcv. the heavy brigade sir francis hastings doyle ( - ). xcvi. the private of the buffs xcvii. the red thread of honour robert browning ( - ). xcviii. home thoughts from the sea xcix. hervÉ riel walt whitman (b. ). c. the dying fireman ci. a sea-fight cii. beat! beat! drums! ciii. two veterans charles kingsley ( - ). civ. the pleasant isle of avÈs cv. a welcome sir henry yule ( - ). cvi. the birkenhead matthew arnold ( - ). cvii. apollo cviii. the death of sohrab the duel sohrab the recognition ruksh the horse rustum night cix. flee fro' the press william cory (b. ). cx. school fencibles cxi. the two captains george meredith (b. ). cxii. the head of bran william morris (b. ). cxiii. the slaying of the niblungs hogni gunnar gudrun the sons of giuki alfred austin (b. ). cxiv. is life worth living? sir alfred lyall (b. ). cxv. theology in extremis algernon charles swinburne (b. ). cxvi. the oblation cxvii. england cxviii. the jacobite in exile bret harte (b. ). cxix. the reveillÉ cxx. what the bullet sang austin dobson (b. ). cxxi. a ballad of the armada andrew lang (b. ). cxxii. the white pacha robert louis stevenson (b. ). cxxiii. mother and son henry charles beeching (b. ). cxxiv. prayers rudyard kipling (b. ). cxxv. a ballad of east and west cxxvi. the flag of england notes index for i trust, if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, and the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, that the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, and strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, home. _tennyson._ lyra heroica i agincourt introit o for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention, a kingdom for a stage, princes to act and monarchs to behold the swelling scene! then should the warlike harry, like himself, assume the port of mars; and at his heels, leashed in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire crouch for employment. but pardon, gentles all, the flat unraisèd spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object. can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of france? or may we cram within this wooden o the very casques that did affright the air at agincourt? o pardon! since a crooked figure may attest in little place a million, and let us, ciphers to this great accompt, on your imaginary forces work. suppose within the girdle of these walls are now confined two mighty monarchies, whose high uprearèd and abutting fronts the perilous narrow ocean parts asunder: piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; into a thousand parts divide one man, and make imaginary puissance; think, when we talk of horses, that you see them printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; for 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, carry them here and there, jumping o'er times, turning the accomplishment of many years into an hour-glass. interlude now all the youth of england are on fire, and silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought reigns solely in the breast of every man: they sell the pasture now to buy the horse, following the mirror of all christian kings, with wingèd heels, as english mercuries: for now sits expectation in the air, and hides a sword from hilts unto the point with crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, promised to harry and his followers. the french, advised by good intelligence of this most dreadful preparation, shake in their fear, and with pale policy seek to divert the english purposes. o england! model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a mighty heart, what mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, were all thy children kind and natural! but see thy fault: france hath in thee found out a nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills with treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men, one, richard earl of cambridge, and the second, henry lord scroop of masham, and the third, sir thomas grey, knight, of northumberland, have for the gilt of france--o guilt indeed!-- confirmed conspiracy with fearful france; and by their hands this grace of kings must die, if hell and treason hold their promises, ere he take ship for france, and in southampton!-- harfleur thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies in motion of no less celerity than that of thought. suppose that you have seen the well-appointed king at hampton pier embark his royalty, and his brave fleet with silken streamers the young phoebus fanning: play with your fancies, and in them behold upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; hear the shrill whistle which doth order give to sounds confused; behold the threaden sails, borne with the invisible and creeping wind draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea breasting the lofty surge. o, do but think you stand upon the rivage and behold a city on the inconstant billows dancing! for so appears this fleet majestical, holding due course to harfleur. follow, follow: grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, and leave your england, as dead midnight still, guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance; for who is he, whose chin is but enriched with one appearing hair, that will not follow these culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to france? work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege: behold the ordnance on their carriages, with fatal mouths gaping on girded harfleur. suppose the ambassador from the french comes back; tells harry that the king doth offer him katharine his daughter, and with her to dowry some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. the offer likes not: and the nimble gunner with linstock now the devilish cannon touches, and down goes all before them! the eve now entertain conjecture of a time when creeping murmur and the poring dark fills the wide vessel of the universe. from camp to camp through the foul womb of night the hum of either army stilly sounds, that the fixed sentinels almost receive the secret whispers of each other's watch: fire answers fire, and through their paly flames each battle sees the other's umbered face; steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents the armourers, accomplishing the knights, with busy hammers closing rivets up, give dreadful note of preparation. the country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, and the third hour of drowsy morning name. proud of their numbers and secure in soul, the confident and over-lusty french do the low-rated english play at dice, and chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night who like a foul and ugly witch doth limp so tediously away. the poor condemnèd english, like sacrifices, by their watchful fires sit patiently and inly ruminate the morning's danger, and their gesture sad, investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, presenteth them unto the gazing moon so many horrid ghosts. o now, who will behold the royal captain of this ruined band walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, let him cry 'praise and glory on his head!' for forth he goes and visits all his host, bids them good-morrow with a modest smile, and calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him; nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour unto the weary and all-watchèd night, but freshly looks and over-bears attaint with cheerful semblance and sweet majesty, that every wretch, pining and pale before, beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks. a largess universal like the sun his liberal eye doth give to every one, thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all, behold, as may unworthiness define, a little touch of harry in the night-- and so our scene must to the battle fly. _shakespeare._ the battle fair stood the wind for france, when we our sails advance, nor now to prove our chance longer will tarry; but putting to the main, at caux, the mouth of seine, with all his martial train, landed king harry. and taking many a fort, furnished in warlike sort, marched towards agincourt in happy hour, skirmishing day by day with those that stopped his way, where the french gen'ral lay with all his power: which, in his height of pride, king henry to deride, his ransom to provide to the king sending; which he neglects the while as from a nation vile, yet with an angry smile their fall portending. and turning to his men, quoth our brave henry then, 'though they to one be ten, be not amazèd. yet have we well begun, battles so bravely won have ever to the sun by fame been raisèd. and for myself, quoth he, this my full rest shall be: england ne'er mourn for me, nor more esteem me; victor i will remain or on this earth lie slain; never shall she sustain loss to redeem me. poitiers and cressy tell, when most their pride did swell, under our swords they fell; no less our skill is than when our grandsire great, claiming the regal seat, by many a warlike feat lopped the french lilies.' the duke of york so dread the eager vaward led; with the main henry sped, amongst his henchmen; excester had the rear, a braver man not there: o lord, how hot they were on the false frenchmen! they now to fight are gone, armour on armour shone, drum now to drum did groan, to hear was wonder; that with the cries they make the very earth did shake, trumpet to trumpet spake, thunder to thunder. well it thine age became, o noble erpingham, which did the signal aim to our hid forces! when from the meadow by, like a storm suddenly, the english archery struck the french horses. with spanish yew so strong, arrows a cloth-yard long, that like to serpents stung, piercing the weather; none from his fellow starts, but playing manly parts, and like true english hearts stuck close together. when down their bows they threw, and forth their bilbos drew, and on the french they flew, not one was tardy; arms were from shoulders sent, scalps to the teeth were rent, down the french peasants went; our men were hardy. this while our noble king, his broadsword brandishing, down the french host did ding as to o'erwhelm it, and many a deep wound lent, his arms with blood besprent, and many a cruel dent bruisèd his helmet. glo'ster, that duke so good, next of the royal blood, for famous england stood, with his brave brother; clarence, in steel so bright, though but a maiden knight, yet in that furious fight scarce such another! warwick in blood did wade, oxford the foe invade, and cruel slaughter made, still as they ran up; suffolk his axe did ply, beaumont and willoughby bare them right doughtily, ferrers and fanhope. upon saint crispin's day fought was this noble fray, which fame did not delay, to england to carry. o, when shall englishmen with such acts fill a pen, or england breed again such a king harry? _drayton._ after now we bear the king toward calais: grant him there; there seen, heave him away upon your wingèd thoughts athwart the sea. behold, the english beach pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed sea, which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king seems to prepare his way: so let him land, and solemnly see him set on to london. so swift a pace hath thought that even now you may imagine him upon blackheath; where that his lords desire him to have borne his bruisèd helmet and his bended sword before him through the city: he forbids it, being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, giving full trophy, signal and ostent, quite from himself to god. but now behold, in the quick forge and working-house of thought, how london doth pour out her citizens! the mayor and all his brethren in best sort, like to the senators of the antique rome, with the plebeians swarming at their heels, go forth and fetch their conquering cæsar in! _shakespeare._ ii lord of himself how happy is he born or taught who serveth not another's will; whose armour is his honest thought, and simple truth his highest skill; whose passions not his masters are; whose soul is still prepared for death-- not tied unto the world with care of prince's ear or vulgar breath; who hath his ear from rumours freed; whose conscience is his strong retreat; whose state can neither flatterers feed, nor ruin make oppressors great; who envies none whom chance doth raise, or vice; who never understood how deepest wounds are given with praise, nor rules of state but rules of good; who god doth late and early pray more of his grace than gifts to lend, and entertains the harmless day with a well-chosen book or friend-- this man is free from servile bands of hope to rise or fear to fall: lord of himself, though not of lands, and, having nothing, yet hath all. _wotton._ iii true balm high-spirited friend, i send nor balms nor corsives to your wound; your faith hath found a gentler and more agile hand to tend the cure of that which is but corporal, and doubtful days, which were named critical, have made their fairest flight and now are out of sight. yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind, wrapped in this paper lie, which in the taking if you misapply you are unkind. your covetous hand, happy in that fair honour it hath gained, must now be reined. true valour doth her own renown commend in one full action; nor have you now more to do than be a husband of that store. think but how dear you bought this same which you have caught-- such thoughts will make you more in love with truth 'tis wisdom, and that high, for men to use their fortune reverently, even in youth. _jonson._ iv honour in bud it is not growing like a tree in bulk doth make man better be: a lily of a day is fairer far in may: although it fall and die that night, it was the plant and flower of light. _jonson._ v the joy of battle arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. behold from yonder hill the foe appears; bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; o view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! the vanguard marches bravely. hark, the drums! dub, dub! they meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: see how the arrows fly that darken all the sky! hark how the trumpets sound! hark how the hills rebound-- tara, tara, tara, tara, tara! hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! the battle totters; now the wounds begin: o how they cry! o how they die! room for the valiant memnon, armed with thunder! see how he breaks the ranks asunder! they fly! they fly! eumenes has the chase, and brave polybius makes good his place: to the plains, to the woods, to the rocks, to the floods, they fly for succour. follow, follow, follow! hark how the soldiers hollow! hey, hey! brave diocles is dead, and all his soldiers fled; the battle's won, and lost, that many a life hath cost. _fletcher._ vi in westminster abbey mortality, behold and fear! what a change of flesh is here! think how many royal bones sleep beneath this heap of stones! here they lie had realms and lands, who now want strength to stir their hands. here from their pulpits sealed with dust they preach, 'in greatness is no trust.' here is an acre sown indeed with the richest, royall'st seed that the earth did e'er suck in, since the first man died for sin. here the bones of birth have cried, 'though gods they were, as men they died.' here are sands, ignoble things, dropt from the ruined sides of kings. here's a world of pomp and state, buried in dust, once dead by fate. _beaumont._ vii going a-maying get up, get up for shame! the blooming morn upon her wings presents the god unshorn: see how aurora throws her fair fresh-quilted colours through the air: get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see the dew-bespangled herb and tree! each flower has wept and bowed toward the east, above an hour since, yet you not drest, nay, not so much as out of bed? when all the birds have matins said, and sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, nay, profanation, to keep in, whenas a thousand virgins on this day spring sooner than the lark to fetch in may. rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen to come forth like the spring-time fresh and green, and sweet as flora. take no care for jewels for your gown or hair: fear not; the leaves will strew gems in abundance upon you: besides, the childhood of the day has kept, against you come, some orient pearls unwept. come, and receive them while the light hangs on the dew-locks of the night, and titan on the eastern hill retires himself, or else stands still till you come forth! wash, dress, be brief in praying: few beads are best when once we go a-maying. come, my corinna, come; and coming, mark how each field turns a street, each street a park, made green and trimmed with trees! see how devotion gives each house a bough or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, an ark, a tabernacle is, made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, as if here were those cooler shades of love. can such delights be in the street and open fields, and we not see 't? come, we'll abroad: and let's obey the proclamation made for may, and sin no more, as we have done, by staying, but, my corinna, come, let's go a-maying. there's not a budding boy or girl this day, but is got up and gone to bring in may. a deal of youth ere this is come back and with white-thorn laden home. some have despatched their cakes and cream, before that we have left to dream: and some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth, and chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: many a green-gown has been given, many a kiss, both odd and even: many a glance too has been sent from out the eye, love's firmament: many a jest told of the keys betraying this night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-maying. come, let us go, while we are in our prime, and take the harmless folly of the time! we shall grow old apace, and die before we know our liberty. our life is short, and our days run as fast away as does the sun. and, as a vapour or a drop of rain, once lost can ne'er be found again, so when or you or i are made a fable, song, or fleeting shade, all love, all liking, all delight, lies drowned with us in endless night. then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, come, my corinna, come, let's go a-maying. _herrick._ viii to anthea who may command him anything bid me to live, and i will live thy protestant to be; or bid me love and i will give a loving heart to thee. a heart as soft, a heart as kind, a heart as sound and free, as in the whole world thou canst find, that heart i'll give to thee. bid that heart stay, and it will stay to honour thy decree; or bid it languish quite away, and 't shall do so for thee. bid me to weep, and i will weep while i have eyes to see; and, having none, yet i will keep a heart to weep for thee. bid me despair, and i'll despair under that cypress-tree; or bid me die, and i will dare e'en death to die for thee. thou art my life, my love, my heart, the very eyes of me, and hast command of every part, to live and die for thee. _herrick._ ix memento mori sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright-- the bridal of the earth and sky-- the dew shall weep thy fall to-night, for thou must die. sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, thy root is ever in its grave, and thou must die. sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie, my music shows ye have your closes, and all must die. only a sweet and virtuous soul like seasoned timber never gives, but, though the whole world turn to coal, then chiefly lives. _herbert._ x the king of kings the glories of our birth and state are shadows, not substantial things: there is no armour against fate: death lays his icy hand on kings: sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crookèd scythe and spade. some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels when they kill, but their strong nerves at last must yield: they tame but one another still. early or late they stoop to fate, and must give up their murmuring breath when they, pale captives, creep to death. the garlands wither on their brow-- then boast no more your mighty deeds! upon death's purple altar now see where the victor-victim bleeds! all heads must come to the cold tomb: only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. _shirley._ xi lycidas yet once more, o ye laurels, and once more, ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, i come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, and with forced fingers rude shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, compels me to disturb your season due: for lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, young lycidas, and hath not left his peer: who would not sing for lycidas? he knew himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme. he must not float upon his watery bier unwept, and welter to the parching wind, without the meed of some melodious tear. begin, then, sisters of the sacred well, that from beneath the seat of jove doth spring; begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; hence with denial vain, and coy excuse: so may some gentle muse with lucky words favour my destined urn, and, as he passes, turn and bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! for we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. together both, ere the high lawns appeared under the opening eyelids of the morn, we drove afield, and both together heard what time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, oft till the star that rose at evening bright towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, tempered to the oaten flute; rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel from the glad sound would not be absent long; and old damoetas loved to hear our song. but o the heavy change, now thou art gone, now thou art gone, and never must return! thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves with wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, and all their echoes, mourn. the willows and the hazel copses green shall now no more be seen fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays, as killing as the canker to the rose, or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear when first the white-thorn blows, such, lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep closed o'er the head of your loved lycidas? for neither were ye playing on the steep where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, nor on the shaggy top of mona high, nor yet where deva spreads her wizard stream: ay me! i fondly dream 'had ye been there,' ... for what could that have done? what could the muse herself that orpheus bore, the muse herself, for her enchanting son whom universal nature did lament, when by the rout that made the hideous roar his gory visage down the stream was sent, down the swift hebrus to the lesbian shore? alas! what boots it with incessant care to tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, and strictly meditate the thankless muse? were it not better done, as others use, to sport with amaryllis in the shade or with the tangles of neæra's hair? fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (that last infirmity of noble mind) to scorn delights and live laborious days; but the fair guerdon when we hope to find, and think to burst out into sudden blaze, comes the blind fury with the abhorrèd shears, and slits the thin-spun life. 'but not the praise,' phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: 'fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, nor in the glistering foil set off to the world nor in broad rumour lies, but lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes and perfect witness of all-judging jove; as he pronounces lastly on each deed, of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' o fountain arethuse, and thou honoured flood, smooth-sliding mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, that strain i heard was of a higher mood! but now my oat proceeds, and listens to the herald of the sea that came in neptune's plea. he asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, what hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? and questioned every gust of rugged wings that blows from off each beakèd promontory: they knew not of his story, and sage hippotades their answer brings, that not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: the air was calm, and on the level brine sleek panope with all her sisters played. it was that fatal and perfidious bark, built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark, that sunk so low that sacred head of thine. next, camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, his mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 'ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge?' last came, and last did go, the pilot of the galilean lake; two massy keys he bore of metals twain (the golden opes, the iron shuts amain). he shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: 'how well could i have spared for thee, young swain, enow of such as for their bellies' sake creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! of other care they little reckoning make than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, and shove away the worthy bidden guest; blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold a sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least that to the faithful herdman's art belongs! what recks it them? what need they? they are sped; and, when they list, their lean and flashy songs grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; the hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, but, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: besides what the grim wolf with privy paw daily devours apace, and nothing said: but that two-handed engine at the door stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' return, alpheus, the dread voice is past that shrunk thy streams; return, sicilian muse, and call the vales, and bid them hither cast their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, on whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes that on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, and purple all the ground with vernal flowers. bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, the tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, the white pink and the pansy freaked with jet, the glowing violet, the musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine, with cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, and every flower that sad embroidery wears: bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, and daffadillies fill their cups with tears, to strew the laureate hearse where lycid lies. for, so to interpose a little ease, let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; whether beyond the stormy hebrides, where thou perhaps under the whelming tide visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, sleep'st by the fable of bellerus old, where the great vision of the guarded mount looks toward namancos and bayona's hold; look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth: and, o ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, for lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. so sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, and yet anon repairs his drooping head, and tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore flames in the forehead of the morning sky: so lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, through the dear might of him that walked the waves, where, other groves and other streams along, with nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, and hears the unexpressive nuptial song, in the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love there entertain him all the saints above, in solemn troops and sweet societies that sing, and singing in their glory move, and wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. now, lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; henceforth thou art the genius of the shore in thy large recompense, and shalt be good to all that wander in that perilous flood. thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, while the still morn went out with sandals grey; he touched the tender stops of various quills, with eager thought warbling his doric lay: and now the sun had stretched out all the hills, and now was dropt into the western bay: at last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue; to-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. _milton._ xii arms and the muse when the assault was intended on the city captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, if deed of honour did thee ever please, guard them, and him within protect from harms. he can requite thee; for he knows the charms that call fame on such gentle acts as these, and he can spread thy name o'er land and seas, whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. lift not thy spear against the muses' bower: the great emanthian conqueror bid spare the house of pindarus, when temple and tower went to the ground; and the repeated air of sad electra's poet had the power to save the athenian walls from ruin bare. _milton._ xiii to the lord general cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud not of war only, but detractions rude, guided by faith and matchless fortitude, to peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, and on the neck of crownèd fortune proud hast reared god's trophies, and his work pursued, while darwen stream, with blood of scots imbrued, and dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, and worcester's laureate wreath: yet much remains to conquer still; peace hath her victories no less renowned than war: new foes arise, threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. help us to save free conscience from the paw of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw. _milton._ xiv the late massacre in piedmont avenge, o lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones lie scattered on the alpine mountains cold; even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, when all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, forget not: in thy book record their groans who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold slain by the bloody piedmontese that rolled mother with infant down the rocks. their moans the vales redoubled to the hills, and they to heaven. their martyred blood and ashes sow o'er all the italian fields, where still doth sway the triple tyrant; that from these may grow a hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, early may fly the babylonian woe. _milton._ xv on his blindness when i consider how my light is spent ere half my days in this dark world and wide, and that one talent which is death to hide lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent to serve therewith my maker, and present my true account, lest he, returning, chide; 'doth god exact day-labour, light denied?' i fondly ask: but patience, to prevent that murmur soon replies: 'god doth not need either man's work or his own gifts. who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. his state is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, and post o'er land and ocean without rest; they also serve who only stand and wait.' _milton._ xvi eyeless at gaza this, this is he; softly a while; let us not break in upon him. o change beyond report, thought, or belief! see how he lies at random, carelessly diffused with languished head unpropt, as one past hope, abandonèd, and by himself given over, in slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds o'er-worn and soiled. or do my eyes misrepresent? can this be he, that heroic, that renowned, irresistible samson? whom unarmed no strength of man or fiercest wild beast could withstand; who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid; ran on embattled armies clad in iron, and, weaponless himself, made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery of brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass, chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mail adamantéan proof: but safest he who stood aloof, when insupportably his foot advanced, in scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools, spurned them to death by troops. the bold ascalonite fled from his lion ramp; old warriors turned their plated backs under his heel, or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust. _milton._ xvii out of adversity o how comely it is, and how reviving to the spirits of just men long oppressed, when god into the hands of their deliverer puts invincible might to quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, the brute and boisterous force of violent men, hardy and industrious to support tyrannic power, but raging to pursue the righteous and all such as honour truth! he all their ammunition and feats of war defeats, with plain heroic magnitude of mind and celestial vigour armed; their armouries and magazines contemns, renders them useless, while with wingèd expedition swift as the lightning glance he executes his errand on the wicked, who, surprised, lose their defence, distracted and amazed. _milton._ xviii heroic love my dear and only love, i pray that little world of thee be governed by no other sway but purest monarchy; for if confusion have a part, which virtuous souls abhor, and hold a synod in thy heart, i'll never love thee more. like alexander i will reign, and i will reign alone: my thoughts did evermore disdain a rival on my throne. he either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who dares not put it to the touch, to gain or lose it all. but, if thou wilt prove faithful then and constant of thy word, i'll make thee glorious by my pen, and famous by my sword; i'll serve thee in such noble ways was never heard before; i'll crown and deck thee all with bays and love thee more and more. _montrose._ xix going to the wars tell me not, sweet, i am unkind, that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind to war and arms i fly. true, a new mistress now i chase, the first foe in the field, and with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield. yet this inconstancy is such as you too shall adore: i could not love thee, dear, so much loved i not honour more. _lovelace._ xx from prison when love with unconfinèd wings hovers within my gates, and my divine althea brings to whisper at the grates; when i lie tangled in her hair and fettered to her eye, the gods that wanton in the air know no such liberty. when flowing cups run swiftly round with no allaying thames, our careless heads with roses crowned, our hearts with loyal flames; when thirsty grief in wine we steep, when healths and draughts go free, fishes that tipple in the deep know no such liberty. when, linnet-like confinèd, i with shriller throat shall sing the sweetness, mercy, majesty, and glories of my king; when i shall voice aloud how good he is, how great should be, enlargèd winds that curl the flood know no such liberty. stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage: if i have freedom in my love and in my soul am free, angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty. _lovelace._ xxi two kings the forward youth that would appear must now forsake his muses dear, nor in the shadows sing his numbers languishing. 'tis time to leave the books in dust, and oil the unusèd armour's rust, removing from the wall the corselet of the hall. so restless cromwell could not cease in the inglorious arts of peace, but through adventurous war urgèd his active star; and, like the three-forked lightning, first breaking the clouds where it was nurst, did thorough his own side his fiery way divide; for 'tis all one to courage high, the emulous or enemy, and with such to inclose is more than to oppose; then burning through the air he went, and palaces and temples rent; and cæsar's head at last did through his laurels blast. 'tis madness to resist or blame the face of angry heaven's flame; and if we would speak true, much to the man is due, who from his private gardens, where he lived reservèd and austere, as if his highest plot to plant the bergamot, could by industrious valour climb to ruin the great work of time, and cast the kingdoms old into another mould. though justice against fate complain, and plead the ancient rights in vain (but those do hold or break, as men are strong or weak), nature, that hated emptiness, allows of penetration less, and therefore must make room where greater spirits come. what field of all the civil war, where his were not the deepest scar? and hampton shows what part he had of wiser art, where, twining subtile fears with hope, he wove a net of such a scope that charles himself might chase to carisbrook's narrow case, that thence the royal actor borne the tragic scaffold might adorn: while round the armèd bands, did clap their bloody hands. he nothing common did or mean upon that memorable scene, but with his keener eye the axe's edge did try; nor called the gods with vulgar spite to vindicate his helpless right, but bowed his comely head down, as upon a bed. this was that memorable hour which first assured the forcèd power: so, when they did design the capitol's first line, a bleeding head, where they begun, did fright the architects to run; and yet in that the state foresaw its happy fate! and now the irish are ashamed to see themselves in one year tamed: so much one man can do that doth both act and know. they can affirm his praises best, and have, though overcome, confessed how good he is, how just, and fit for highest trust; nor yet grown stiffer with command, but still in the republic's hand (how fit he is to sway, that can so well obey!), he to the commons' feet presents a kingdom for his first year's rents, and (what he may) forbears his fame to make it theirs: and has his sword and spoils ungirt to lay them at the public's skirt. so when the falcon high falls heavy from the sky, she, having killed, no more doth search but on the next green bough to perch, where, when he first does lure, the falconer has her sure. what may not then our isle presume while victory his crest does plume? what may not others fear if thus he crowns each year? as cæsar he, ere long, to gaul, to italy an hannibal, and to all states not free shall climacteric be. the pict no shelter now shall find within his party-coloured mind, but from this valour sad shrink underneath the plaid; happy if in the tufted brake the english hunter him mistake, nor lay his hounds in near the caledonian deer. but thou, the war's and fortune's son, march indefatigably on, and for the last effect, still keep the sword erect: besides the force it has to fright the spirits of the shady night, the same arts that did gain, a power must it maintain. _marvell._ xxii in exile where the remote bermudas ride in the ocean's bosom unespied, from a small boat that rowed along the listening winds received this song. 'what should we do but sing his praise that led us through the watery maze, where he the huge sea-monsters wracks that lift the deep upon their backs, unto an isle so long unknown, and yet far kinder than our own? he lands us on a grassy stage, safe from the storms and prelates' rage: he gave us this eternal spring which here enamels everything, and sends the fowls to us in care on daily visits through the air. he hangs in shades the orange bright like golden lamps in a green night, and does in the pomegranates close jewels more rich than ormus shows: he makes the figs our mouths to meet, and throws the melons at our feet; but apples plants of such a price, no tree could ever bear them twice. with cedars chosen by his hand from lebanon he stores the land, and makes the hollow seas that roar proclaim the ambergrease on shore. he cast (of which we rather boast) the gospel's pearl upon our coast, and in these rocks for us did frame a temple where to sound his name. o let our voice his praise exalt 'till it arrive at heaven's vault, which thence (perhaps) rebounding may echo beyond the mexique bay!' thus sang they in the english boat a holy and a cheerful note: and all the way, to guide their chime, with falling oars they kept the time. _marvell._ xxiii alexander's feast 'twas at the royal feast for persia won by philip's warlike son: aloft in awful state the godlike hero sate on his imperial throne; his valiant peers were placed around, their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (so should desert in arms be crowned); the lovely thais by his side sate like a blooming eastern bride in flower of youth and beauty's pride. happy, happy, happy pair! none but the brave, none but the brave, none but the brave deserves the fair! timotheus, placed on high amid the tuneful quire, with flying fingers touched the lyre: the trembling notes ascend the sky and heavenly joys inspire. the song began from jove who left his blissful seats above, such is the power of mighty love! a dragon's fiery form belied the god; sublime on radiant spires he rode when he to fair olympia pressed, and while he sought her snowy breast, then round her slender waist he curled, and stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. the listening crowd admire the lofty sound; a present deity! they shout around: a present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: with ravished ears the monarch hears, assumes the god; affects to nod and seems to shake the spheres. the praise of bacchus then the sweet musician sung, of bacchus ever fair and ever young: the jolly god in triumph comes; sound the trumpets, beat the drums! flushed with a purple grace he shows his honest face: now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! bacchus, ever fair and young, drinking joys did first ordain; bacchus' blessings are a treasure, drinking is the soldier's pleasure: rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is pleasure after pain. soothed with the sound the king grew vain; fought all his battles o'er again, and thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! the master saw the madness rise, his glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; and while he heaven and earth defied changed his hand, and checked his pride. he chose a mournful muse soft pity to infuse: he sung darius great and good, by too severe a fate fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen from his high estate, and weltering in his blood; deserted at his utmost need by those his former bounty fed, on the bare earth exposed he lies with not a friend to close his eyes. with downcast looks the joyless victor sate, revolving in his altered soul the various turns of chance below and now and then a sigh he stole, and tears began to flow. the mighty master smiled to see that love was in the next degree; 'twas but a kindred-sound to move, for pity melts the mind to love. softly sweet, in lydian measures soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. war, he sang, is toil and trouble, honour but an empty bubble; never ending, still beginning, fighting still, and still destroying; if the world be worth thy winning, think, o think, it worth enjoying: lovely thais sits beside thee, take the good the gods provide thee. the many rend the skies with loud applause; so love was crowned, but music won the cause. the prince, unable to conceal his pain, gazed on the fair who caused his care, and sighed and looked, sighed and looked, sighed and looked, and sighed again: at length, with love and wine at once oppressed, the vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. now strike the golden lyre again: a louder yet, and yet a louder strain! break his bands of sleep asunder and rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. hark, hark! the horrid sound has raised up his head; as awaked from the dead, and amazed he stares around. revenge, revenge, timotheus cries, see the furies arise! see the snakes that they rear, how they hiss in their hair, and the sparkles that flash from their eyes! behold a ghastly band, each a torch in his hand! those are grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain and unburied remain inglorious on the plain: give the vengeance due to the valiant crew! behold how they toss their torches on high, how they point to the persian abodes and glittering temples of their hostile gods. the princes applaud with a furious joy: and the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; thais led the way to light him to his prey, and like another helen fired another troy! thus long ago, ere heaving bellows learned to blow, while organs yet were mute, timotheus, to his breathing flute and sounding lyre, could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire. at last divine cecilia came, inventress of the vocal frame; the sweet enthusiast from her sacred store enlarged the former narrow bounds, and added length to solemn sounds, with nature's mother-wit and arts unknown before let old timotheus yield the prize, or both divide the crown: he raised a mortal to the skies; she drew an angel down. _dryden._ xxiv the quiet life condemned to hope's delusive mine, as on we toil from day to day, by sudden blast or slow decline our social comforts drop away. well tried through many a varying year, see levett to the grave descend: officious, innocent, sincere, of every friendless name the friend. yet still he fills affection's eye, obscurely wise and coarsely kind; nor, lettered arrogance, deny thy praise to merit unrefined. when fainting nature called for aid, and hovering death prepared the blow, his vigorous remedy displayed the power of art without the show. in misery's darkest caverns known, his ready help was ever nigh, where hopeless anguish poured his groan, and lonely want retired to die. no summons mocked by chill delay, no petty gains disdained by pride: the modest wants of every day the toil of every day supplied. his virtues walked their narrow round, nor made a pause, nor left a void; and sure the eternal master found his single talent well employed. the busy day, the peaceful night, unfelt, uncounted, glided by; his frame was firm, his powers were bright, though now his eightieth year was nigh. then, with no throbs of fiery pain, no cold gradations of decay, death broke at once the vital chain, and freed his soul the nearest way. _johnson._ xxv chevy chace the hunting god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all; a woeful hunting once there did in chevy-chace befall; to drive the deer with hound and horn erle percy took his way; the child may rue that is unborn, the hunting of that day. the stout erle of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summer's days to take, the chiefest harts in chevy-chace to kill and bear away. these tydings to erle douglas came, in scotland where he lay: who sent erle percy present word, he wold prevent his sport. the english erle, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bow-men bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of neede to ayme their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deere: on monday they began to hunt, ere daylight did appeare; and long before high noone they had an hundred fat buckes slaine; then having dined, the drovyers went to rouse the deere againe. the bow-men mustered on the hills, well able to endure; their backsides all, with special care that day were guarded sure. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deere to take, and with their cryes the hills and dales an echo shrill did make. lord percy to the quarry went, to view the slaughtered deere: quoth he, 'erle douglas promisèd this day to meet me here, but if i thought he wold not come, no longer wold i stay.' with that, a brave younge gentleman thus to the erle did say: 'lo, yonder doth erle douglas come, his men in armour bright; full twenty hundred scottish speares all marching in our sight; all men of pleasant tivydale, fast by the river tweede': 'o, cease your sports,' erle percy said, 'and take your bowes with speede; and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance, for there was never champion yet, in scotland or in france, that ever did on horsebacke come, but if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, and with him break a speare.' the challenge erle douglas on his milke-white steede, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. 'show me,' said he, 'whose men ye be, that hunt so boldly here, that, without my consent, do chase and kill my fallow-deere.' the first man that did answer make, was noble percy he; who sayd, 'we list not to declare, nor shew whose men we be, yet we will spend our dearest blood, thy chiefest harts to slay.' then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say: 'ere thus i will out-bravèd be, one of us two shall dye: i know thee well, an erle thou art; lord percy, so am i. but trust me, percy, pittye it were, and great offence to kill any of these our guiltlesse men, for they have done no ill. let thou and i the battell trye, and set our men aside.' 'accurst be he,' erle percy said, 'by whom this is denied.' then stept a gallant squier forth, witherington was his name, who said, 'i wold not have it told to henry our king for shame, that ere my captaine fought on foote, and i stood looking on. ye be two erles,' said witherington, 'and i a squier alone: ile do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to wield my sword, ile fight with heart and hand.' the battle our english archers bent their bowes, their hearts were good and trew, at the first flight of arrowes sent, full fourscore scots they slew. yet bides erle douglas on the bent, as chieftain stout and good. as valiant captain, all unmoved the shock he firmly stood. his host he parted had in three, as leader ware and try'd, and soon his spearmen on their foes bare down on every side. throughout the english archery they dealt full many a wound; but still our valiant englishmen all firmly kept their ground, and, throwing strait their bowes away, they grasped their swords so bright, and now sharp blows, a heavy shower, on shields and helmets light. they closed full fast on every side, no slackness there was found; and many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was a griefe to see, and likewise for to heare, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there! at last these two stout erles did meet, like captaines of great might: like lions wode, they laid on lode, and made a cruel fight: they fought untill they both did sweat with swords of tempered steele; until the blood like drops of rain they trickling downe did feele. 'yield thee, lord percy,' douglas said; 'in faith i will thee bringe, where thou shalt high advancèd be by james our scottish king: thy ransome i will freely give, and this report of thee, thou art the most courageous knight, that ever i did see.' 'no, douglas,' quoth erle percy then, 'thy proffer i do scorne; i will not yield to any scot, that ever yet was borne.' with that, there came an arrow keene out of an english bow, which struck erle douglas to the heart, a deep and deadly blow: who never spake more words than these, 'fight on, my merry men all; for why, my life is at an end; lord percy sees my fall.' then leaving life, erle percy tooke the dead man by the hand; and said, 'erle douglas, for thy life wold i had lost my land! o christ! my very heart doth bleed with sorrow for thy sake, for sure, a more redoubted knight mischance could never take.' a knight amongst the scots there was, which saw erle douglas dye, who straight in wrath did vow revenge upon the lord percye. sir hugh mountgomery was he called who, with a speare most bright, well-mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight, and past the english archers all, without or dread or feare, and through erle percy's body then he thrust his hateful speare. with such a vehement force and might he did his body gore, the staff ran through the other side a large cloth-yard, and more. so thus did both these nobles dye, whose courage none could staine! an english archer then perceived the noble erle was slaine: he had a bow bent in his hand, made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth-yard long up to the head drew he; against sir hugh mountgomerye so right the shaft he set, the grey goose-winge that was thereon in his heart's bloode was wet. this fight did last from breake of day till setting of the sun; for when they rung the evening-bell, the battle scarce was done. the slain with stout erle percy, there was slaine sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james, that bold baròn; and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slaine, whose prowesse did surmount. for witherington needs must i wayle, as one in doleful dumpes; for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumpes. and with erle douglas, there was slaine sir hugh mountgomerye, sir charles murray, that from the field one foote would never flee; sir charles murray, of ratcliff, too, his sister's sonne was he; sir david lamb, so well esteemed, yet saved he could not be; and the lord maxwell in like case did with erle douglas dye: of twenty hundred scottish speares, scarce fifty-five did flye. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three: the rest were slaine in chevy-chace, under the greene woode tree. next day did many widdowes come, their husbands to bewayle; they washt their wounds in brinish teares, but all wold not prevayle; their bodyes, bathed in purple gore, they bore with them away; they kist them dead a thousand times, ere they were clad in clay. the tidings the newes was brought to eddenborrow, where scotland's king did raigne, that brave erle douglas suddenlye was with an arrow slaine: 'o heavy newes,' king james did say, 'scotland may witnesse be, i have not any captaine more of such account as he.' like tydings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland was slaine in chevy-chace: 'now god be with him,' said our king, 'sith it will no better be; i trust i have, within my realme, five hundred as good as he: yet shall not scots nor scotland say, but i will vengeance take: i'll be revengèd on them all, for brave erle percy's sake.' this vow full well the king performed after, at humbledowne; in one day, fifty knights were slayne, with lords of great renowne, and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands dye. thus endeth the hunting of chevy-chace, made by the erle percye. god save our king, and bless this land with plentye, joy, and peace, and grant henceforth that foule debate 'twixt noblemen may cease! xxvi sir patrick spens the king sits in dunfermline town, drinking the blude-red wine: 'o whaur will i get a skeely skipper to sail this new ship o' mine?' o up and spake an eldern knight, sat at the king's right knee: 'sir patrick spens is the best sailor that ever sailed the sea.' our king has written a braid letter and sealed it wi' his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spens, was walking on the strand. 'to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis thou maun bring her hame.' the first word that sir patrick read, sae loud, loud lauchèd he; the neist word that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. 'o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king of me, to send us out at this time o' year to sail upon the sea? be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis we must bring her hame.' they hoysed their sails on monday morn wi' a' the speed they may; they hae landed in noroway upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say: 'ye scottishmen spend a' our king's goud and a' our queenis fee.' 'ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, fu' loud i hear ye lie! for i brought as mickle white monie as gane my men and me, and i brought a half-fou o' gude red goud out-o'er the sea wi' me. mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'! our gude ship sails the morn.' 'now, ever alake, my master dear, i fear a deadly storm. i saw the new moon late yestreen wi' the auld moon in her arm; and, if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm.' they hadna sailed a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea. 'o where will i get a gude sailor to tak' my helm in hand, till i gae up to the tall topmast to see if i can spy land?' 'o here am i, a sailor gude, to tak' the helm in hand, till you gae up to the tall topmast; but i fear you'll ne'er spy land.' he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship, and the salt sea it came in. 'gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and wap them into our ship's side, and letna the sea come in.' they fetched a web o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and they wapped them round that gude ship's side, but still the sea cam' in. o laith, laith were our gude scots lords to weet their milk-white hands; but lang ere a' the play was ower they wat their gowden bands. o laith, laith were our gude scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shoon; but lang ere a' the play was played they wat their hats aboon. o lang, lang may the ladies sit wi' their fans intill their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! and lang, lang may the maidens sit wi' their goud kaims in their hair, a' waiting for their ain dear loves! for them they'll see nae mair. half ower, half ower to aberdour, it's fifty fathoms deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet. xxvii brave lord willoughby the fifteenth day of july, with glistering spear and shield, a famous fight in flanders was foughten in the field: the most conspicuous officers were english captains three, but the bravest man in battel was brave lord willoughby. the next was captain norris, a valiant man was he: the other, captain turner, from field would never flee. with fifteen hundred fighting men, alas! there were no more, they fought with forty thousand then upon the bloody shore. 'stand to it, noble pikeman, and look you round about: and shoot you right, you bow-men, and we will keep them out: you musquet and cailiver men, do you prove true to me, i'll be the bravest man in fight,' says brave lord willoughby. and then the bloody enemy they fiercely did assail, and fought it out most furiously, not doubting to prevail: the wounded men on both sides fell most piteous for to see, but nothing could the courage quell of brave lord willoughby. for seven hours to all men's view this fight endurèd sore, until our men so feeble grew that they could fight no more; and then upon dead horses full savourly they eat, and drank the puddle water, that could no better get. when they had fed so freely, they kneelèd on the ground, and praisèd god devoutly for the favour they had found; and bearing up their colours, the fight they did renew, and cutting tow'rds the spaniard, five thousand more they slew. the sharp steel-pointed arrows and bullets thick did fly; then did our valiant soldiers charge on most furiously: which made the spaniards waver, they thought it best to flee: they feared the stout behaviour of brave lord willoughby. then quoth the spanish general, 'come, let us march away, i fear we shall be spoilèd all if that we longer stay: for yonder comes lord willoughby with courage fierce and fell, he will not give one inch of ground for all the devils in hell.' and when the fearful enemy was quickly put to flight, our men pursued courageously to rout his forces quite; and at last they gave a shout which echoed through the sky: 'god, and st. george for england!' the conquerors did cry. this news was brought to england with all the speed might be, and soon our gracious queen was told of this same victory. 'o! this is brave lord willoughby, my love that ever won: of all the lords of honour 'tis he great deeds hath done!' to the soldiers that were maimèd, and wounded in the fray, the queen allowed a pension of fifteen pence a day, and from all costs and charges she quit and set them free: and this she did all for the sake of brave lord willoughby. then courage, noble englishmen, and never be dismayed! if that we be but one to ten, we will not be afraid to fight with foreign enemies, and set our country free. and thus i end the bloody bout of brave lord willoughby. xxviii hughie the grÆme good lord scroope to the hills is gane, hunting of the fallow deer; and he has grippit hughie the græme for stealing of the bishop's mare. 'now, good lord scroope, this may not be! here hangs a broadsword by my side; and if that thou canst conquer me, the matter it may soon be tried.' 'i ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; although thy name be hughie the græme, i'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, if god but grant me life and time.' but as they were dealing their blows so free, and both so bloody at the time, over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, all for to take bold hughie the græme. o then they grippit hughie the græme, and brought him up through carlisle town: the lads and lasses stood on the walls, crying, 'hughie the græme, thou'se ne'er gae down!' 'o loose my right hand free,' he says, 'and gie me my sword o' the metal sae fine, he's no in carlisle town this day daur tell the tale to hughie the græme.' up then and spake the brave whitefoord, as he sat by the bishop's knee, 'twenty white owsen, my gude lord, if ye'll grant hughie the græme to me.' 'o haud your tongue,' the bishop says, 'and wi' your pleading let me be; for tho' ten grahams were in his coat, they suld be hangit a' for me.' up then and spake the fair whitefoord, as she sat by the bishop's knee, 'a peck o' white pennies, my good lord, if ye'll grant hughie the græme to me.' 'o haud your tongue now, lady fair, forsooth, and so it sall na be; were he but the one graham of the name, he suld be hangit high for me.' they've ta'en him to the gallows knowe, he lookèd to the gallows tree, yet never colour left his cheek, nor ever did he blink his e'e. he lookèd over his left shoulder to try whatever he could see, and he was aware of his auld father, tearing his hair most piteouslie. 'o haud your tongue, my father dear, and see that ye dinna weep for me! for they may ravish me o' my life, but they canna banish me fro' heaven hie. and ye may gie my brither john my sword that's bent in the middle clear, and let him come at twelve o'clock, and see me pay the bishop's mare. and ye may gie my brither james my sword that's bent in the middle brown, and bid him come at four o'clock, and see his brither hugh cut down. and ye may tell my kith and kin i never did disgrace their blood; and when they meet the bishop's cloak, to mak' it shorter by the hood.' xxix kinmont willie the capture o have ye na heard o' the fause sakelde? o have ye na heard o' the keen lord scroope? how they hae ta'en bold kinmont willie, on haribee to hang him up? had willie had but twenty men, but twenty men as stout as he, fause sakelde had never the kinmont ta'en, wi' eight score in his cumpanie. they band his legs beneath the steed, they tied his hands behind his back; they guarded him fivesome on each side, and they brought him ower the liddel-rack. they led him thro' the liddel-rack, and also thro' the carlisle sands; they brought him on to carlisle castle to be at my lord scroope's commands. 'my hands are tied, but my tongue is free, and wha will dare this deed avow? or answer by the border law? or answer to the bold buccleuch?' 'now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! there's never a scot shall set thee free: before ye cross my castle yett, i trow ye shall take farewell o' me.' 'fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' willie: 'by the faith o' my body, lord scroope,' he said, 'i never yet lodged in a hostelrie but i paid my lawing before i gaed.' the keeper's wrath now word is gane to the bold keeper, in branksome ha' where that he lay, that lord scroope has ta'en the kinmont willie, between the hours of night and day. he has ta'en the table wi' his hand, he garred the red wine spring on hie: 'now a curse upon my head,' he said, 'but avengèd of lord scroope i'll be! o is my basnet a widow's curch? or my lance a wand of the willow-tree? or my arm a lady's lily hand, that an english lord should lightly me! and have they ta'en him, kinmont willie, against the truce of border tide? and forgotten that the bold buccleuch is keeper here on the scottish side? and have they e'en ta'en him, kinmont willie, withouten either dread or fear? and forgotten that the bold buccleuch can back a steed or shake a spear? o were there war between the lands, as well i wot that there is none, i would slight carlisle castle high, though it were builded of marble stone. i would set that castle in a lowe, and slocken it with english blood! there's never a man in cumberland should ken where carlisle castle stood. but since nae war's between the lands, and there is peace, and peace should be, i'll neither harm english lad or lass, and yet the kinmont freed shall be!' the march he has called him forty marchmen bold, i trow they were of his ain name, except sir gilbert elliot, called the laird of stobs, i mean the same. he has called him forty marchmen bold, were kinsmen to the bold buccleuch; with spur on heel, and splent on spauld, and gluves of green, and feathers blue. there were five and five before them a', wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright: and five and five cam' wi' buccleuch, like warden's men, arrayed for fight. and five and five like a mason gang that carried the ladders lang and hie; and five and five like broken men; and so they reached the woodhouselee. and as we crossed the 'bateable land, when to the english side we held, the first o' men that we met wi', whae suld it be but fause sakelde? 'where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?' quo' fause sakelde; 'come tell to me!' 'we go to hunt an english stag has trespassed on the scots countrie.' 'where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?' quo' fause sakelde; 'come tell me true!' 'we go to catch a rank reiver has broken faith wi' the bold buccleuch.' 'where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?' 'we gang to herry a corbie's nest that wons not far frae woodhouselee.' 'where be ye gaun, ye broken men?' quo' fause sakelde; 'come tell to me!' now dickie of dryhope led that band, and the never a word of lear had he. 'why trespass ye on the english side? row-footed outlaws, stand!' quo' he; the never a word had dickie to say, sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. then on we held for carlisle toun, and at staneshaw-bank the eden we crossed; the water was great and meikle of spait, but the never a horse nor man we lost. and when we reached the staneshaw-bank, the wind was rising loud and hie; and there the laird garred leave our steeds, for fear that they should stamp and neigh. and when we left the staneshaw-bank, the wind began full loud to blaw; but 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, when we came beneath the castle wa'. we crept on knees, and held our breath, till we placed the ladders against the wa'; and sae ready was buccleuch himsell to mount the first before us a'. he has ta'en the watchman by the throat, he flung him down upon the lead: 'had there not been peace between our lands, upon the other side thou'dst gaed! now sound out, trumpets!' quo' buccleuch; 'let's waken lord scroope right merrilie!' then loud the warden's trumpet blew _o wha dare meddle wi' me?_ the rescue then speedilie to wark we gaed, and raised the slogan ane and a', and cut a hole through a sheet of lead, and so we wan to the castle ha'. they thought king james and a' his men had won the house wi' bow and spear; it was but twenty scots and ten that put a thousand in sic a stear! wi' coulters and wi' forehammers we garred the bars bang merrilie, until we came to the inner prison, where willie o' kinmont he did lie. and when we cam' to the lower prison, where willie o' kinmont he did lie: 'o sleep ye, wake ye, kinmont willie, upon the morn that thou's to die?' 'o i sleep saft, and i wake aft; it's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me! gie my service back to my wife and bairns, and a' gude fellows that spier for me.' then red rowan has hente him up, the starkest man in teviotdale: 'abide, abide now, red rowan, till of my lord scroope i take farewell. farewell, farewell, my gude lord scroope! my gude lord scroope, farewell!' he cried; 'i'll pay you for my lodging maill, when first we meet on the border side.' then shoulder high with shout and cry we bore him down the ladder lang; at every stride red rowan made, i wot the kinmont's airns played clang. 'o mony a time,' quo' kinmont willie, 'i have ridden horse baith wild and wood; but a rougher beast than red rowan i ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. and mony a time,' quo' kinmont willie, 'i've pricked a horse out oure the furs; but since the day i backed a steed, i never wore sic cumbrous spurs!' we scarce had won the staneshaw-bank when a' the carlisle bells were rung, and a thousand men on horse and foot cam' wi' the keen lord scroope along. buccleuch has turned to eden water, even where it flowed frae bank to brim, and he has plunged in wi' a' his band, and safely swam them through the stream. he turned him on the other side, and at lord scroope his glove flung he: 'if ye like na my visit in merrie england, in fair scotland come visit me!' all sore astonished stood lord scroope, he stood as still as rock of stane; he scarcely dared to trew his eyes, when through the water they had gane. 'he is either himsell a devil frae hell, or else his mother a witch maun be; i wadna have ridden that wan water for a' the gowd in christentie.' xxx the honour of bristol attend you, and give ear awhile, and you shall understand of a battle fought upon the seas by a ship of brave command. the fight it was so glorious men's hearts it did ful-fill, and it made them cry, 'to sea, to sea, with the angel gabriel!' this lusty ship of bristol sailed out adventurously against the foes of england, her strength with them to try; well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, with good provision still, which made men cry, 'to sea, to sea, with the angel gabriel!' the captain, famous netherway (that was his noble name): the master--he was called john mines-- a mariner of fame: the gunner, thomas watson, a man of perfect skill: with many another valiant heart in the angel gabriel. they waving up and down the seas upon the ocean main, 'it is not long ago,' quoth they, 'that england fought with spain: o would the spaniard we might meet our stomachs to fulfil! we would play him fair a noble bout with our angel gabriel!' they had no sooner spoken but straight appeared in sight three lusty spanish vessels of warlike trim and might; with bloody resolution they thought our men to spill, and they vowed that they would make a prize of our angel gabriel. our gallant ship had in her full forty fighting men: with twenty piece of ordnance we played about them then, with powder, shot, and bullets right well we worked our will, and hot and bloody grew the fight with our angel gabriel. our captain to our master said, 'take courage, master bold!' our master to the seamen said, 'stand fast, my hearts of gold!' our gunner unto all the rest, 'brave hearts, be valiant still! fight on, fight on in the defence of our angel gabriel!' we gave them such a broadside, it smote their mast asunder, and tore the bowsprit off their ship, which made the spaniards wonder, and causèd them in fear to cry, with voices loud and shrill, 'help, help, or sunken we shall be by the angel gabriel!' so desperately they boarded us for all our valiant shot, threescore of their best fighting men upon our decks were got; and lo! at their first entrances full thirty did we kill, and thus we cleared with speed the deck of our angel gabriel. with that their three ships boarded us again with might and main, but still our noble englishmen cried out, 'a fig for spain!' though seven times they boarded us at last we showed our skill, and made them feel what men we were on the angel gabriel. seven hours this fight continued: so many men lay dead, with spanish blood for fathoms round the sea was coloured red. five hundred of their fighting men we there outright did kill, and many more were hurt and maimed by our angel gabriel. then, seeing of these bloody spoils, the rest made haste away: for why, they said, it was no boot the longer there to stay. then they fled into calès, where lie they must and will for fear lest they should meet again with our angel gabriel. we had within our english ship but only three men slain, and five men hurt, the which i hope will soon be well again. at bristol we were landed, and let us praise god still, that thus hath blest our lusty hearts and our angel gabriel. xxxi helen of kirkconnell i wish i were where helen lies, night and day on me she cries; o that i were where helen lies, on fair kirkconnell lea! curst be the heart that thought the thought, and curst the hand that fired the shot, when in my arms burd helen dropt, and died to succour me! o thinkna ye my heart was sair when my love dropt down, and spak' nae mair? there did she swoon wi' meikle care, on fair kirkconnell lea. as i went down the water side, none but my foe to be my guide, none but my foe to be my guide on fair kirkconnell lea; i lighted down my sword to draw, i hackèd him in pieces sma', i hackèd him in pieces sma' for her sake that died for me. o helen fair beyond compare! i'll mak' a garland o' thy hair, shall bind my heart for evermair, until the day i dee! o that i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries; out of my bed she bids me rise, says, 'haste, and come to me!' o helen fair! o helen chaste! if i were with thee i were blest, where thou lies low and takes thy rest, on fair kirkconnell lea. i wish my grave were growing green, a winding-sheet drawn ower my e'en, and i in helen's arms lying on fair kirkconnell lea. i wish i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries, and i am weary of the skies for her sake that died for me. xxxii the twa corbies as i was walking all alane, i heard twa corbies making a mane: the tane unto the tither say, 'where sall we gang and dine the day?' 'in behint yon auld fail dyke i wot there lies a new-slain knight; and naebody kens that he lies there but his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. his hound is to the hunting gane, his hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, his lady's ta'en another mate, sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, and i'll pike out his bonny blue e'en: wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair we'll theek our nest when it grows bare. mony a one for him makes mane, but nane sall ken where he is gane: o'er his white banes, when they are bare, the wind sall blaw for evermair.' xxxiii the bard 'ruin seize thee, ruthless king! confusion on thy banners wait! though fanned by conquest's crimson wing they mock the air with idle state. helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail to save thy secret soul from nightly fears, from cambria's curse, from cambria's tears!' such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride of the first edward scattered wild dismay, as down the steep of snowdon's shaggy side he wound with toilsome march his long array: stout glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; 'to arms!' cried mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. on a rock, whose haughty brow frowns o'er old conway's foaming flood, robed in the sable garb of woe with haggard eyes the poet stood (loose his beard and hoary hair streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), and with a master's hand and prophet's fire struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 'hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! o'er thee, o king! their hundred arms they wave, revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; vocal no more, since cambria's fatal day, to high-born hoel's harp or soft llewellyn's lay. 'cold is cadwallo's tongue that hushed the stormy main: brave urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: mountains, ye mourn in vain modred, whose magic song made huge plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. on dreary arvon's shore they lie smeared with gore and ghastly pale: far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; the famished eagle screams, and passes by. dear lost companions of my tuneful art, dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, ye died amidst your dying country's cries!-- no more i weep. they do not sleep. on yonder cliffs, a grisly band, i see them sit; they linger yet, avengers of their native land: with me in dreadful harmony they join, and weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 'weave the warp and weave the woof the winding-sheet of edward's race: give ample room and verge enough the characters of hell to trace. mark the year and mark the night when severn shall re-echo with affright the shrieks of death through berkeley's roof that ring, shrieks of an agonising king! she-wolf of france, with unrelenting fangs, that tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, from thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs the scourge of heaven! what terrors round him wait! amazement in his van, with flight combined, and sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. 'mighty victor, mighty lord, low on his funeral couch he lies! no pitying heart, no eye, afford a tear to grace his obsequies. is the sable warrior fled? thy son is gone. he rests among the dead. the swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? gone to salute the rising morn. fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, while proudly riding o'er the azure realm in gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: youth on the prow and pleasure at the helm: regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, that hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey. 'fill high the sparkling bowl. the rich repast prepare; reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: close by the regal chair fell thirst and famine scowl a baleful smile upon their baffled guest. heard ye the din of battle bray, lance to lance and horse to horse? long years of havoc urge their destined course, and through the kindred squadrons mow their way. ye towers of julius, london's lasting shame, with many a foul and midnight murder fed, revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, and spare the meek usurper's holy head! above, below, the rose of snow, twined with her blushing foe, we spread: the bristled boar in infant-gore wallows beneath the thorny shade. now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 'edward, lo! to sudden fate (weave we the woof; the thread is spun;) half of thy heart we consecrate. (the web is wove; the work is done.) stay, o stay! nor thus forlorn leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: in yon bright track that fires the western skies they melt, they vanish from my eyes. but o! what solemn scenes on snowdon's height descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? visions of glory, spare my aching sight, ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! no more our long-lost arthur we bewail: all hail, ye genuine kings! britannia's issue, hail! 'girt with many a baron bold sublime their starry fronts they rear; and gorgeous dames, and statesmen old in bearded majesty, appear. in the midst a form divine! her eye proclaims her of the briton-line: her lion-port, her awe-commanding face attempered sweet to virgin grace. what strings symphonious tremble in the air, what strains of vocal transport round her play? hear from the grave, great taliessin, hear; they breathe a soul to animate thy clay. bright rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, waves in the eye of heaven her many-coloured wings. 'the verse adorn again fierce war and faithful love and truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. in buskined measures move pale grief and pleasing pain, with horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. a voice as of the cherub-choir gales from blooming eden bear, and distant warblings lessen on my ear that lost in long futurity expire. fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? to-morrow he repairs the golden flood and warms the nations with redoubled ray. enough for me: with joy i see the different doom our fates assign: be thine despair and sceptred care, to triumph and to die are mine.' he spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. _gray._ xxxiv the royal george toll for the brave! the brave that are no more! all sunk beneath the wave fast by their native shore! eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, had made the vessel heel and laid her on her side. a land-breeze shook the shrouds and she was overset; down went the royal george with all her crew complete. toll for the brave! brave kempenfelt is gone; his last sea-fight is fought, his work of glory done. it was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock; she sprang no fatal leak, she ran upon no rock. his sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, when kempenfelt went down with twice four hundred men. weigh the vessel up once dreaded by our foes! and mingle with our cup the tear that england owes. her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again full charged with england's thunder, and plough the distant main: but kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; and he and his eight hundred shall plough the wave no more. _cowper._ xxxv boadicea when the british warrior queen, bleeding from the roman rods, sought with an indignant mien counsel of her country's gods, sage beneath the spreading oak sat the druid, hoary chief, every burning word he spoke full of rage, and full of grief: 'princess! if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. rome shall perish,--write that word in the blood that she has spilt; perish hopeless and abhorred, deep in ruin as in guilt. rome, for empire far renowned, tramples on a thousand states; soon her pride shall kiss the ground, hark! the gaul is at her gates! other romans shall arise heedless of a soldier's name; sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame. then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, armed with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command. regions cæsar never knew thy posterity shall sway; where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they.' such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire, bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. she with all a monarch's pride felt them in her bosom glow, rushed to battle, fought, and died, dying, hurled them at the foe: 'ruffians, pitiless as proud, heaven awards the vengeance due; empire is on us bestowed, shame and ruin wait for you.' _cowper._ xxxvi to his lady if doughty deeds my lady please right soon i'll mount my steed; and strong his arm, and fast his seat that bears frae me the meed. i'll wear thy colours in my cap thy picture at my heart; and he that bends not to thine eye shall rue it to his smart! then tell me how to woo thee, love; o tell me how to woo thee! for thy dear sake, nae care i'll take, tho' ne'er another trow me. if gay attire delight thine eye i'll dight me in array; i'll tend thy chamber door all night, and squire thee all the day. if sweetest sounds can win thine ear these sounds i'll strive to catch; thy voice i'll steal to woo thysell, that voice that nane can match. but if fond love thy heart can gain, i never broke a vow; nae maiden lays her skaith to me, i never loved but you. for you alone i ride the ring, for you i wear the blue; for you alone i strive to sing, o tell me how to woo! then tell me how to woo thee, love; o tell me how to woo thee! for thy dear sake, nae care i'll take, tho' ne'er another trow me. _graham of gartmore._ xxxvii constancy blow high, blow low, let tempests tear the mainmast by the board; my heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, and love well stored, shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, the roaring winds, the raging sea, in hopes on shore to be once more safe moored with thee! aloft while mountains high we go, the whistling winds that scud along, and surges roaring from below, shall my signal be to think on thee, and this shall be my song: blow high, blow low-- and on that night, when all the crew, the memory of their former lives o'er flowing cans of flip renew, and drink their sweethearts and their wives, i'll heave a sigh and think on thee, and, as the ship rolls through the sea, the burden of my song shall be: blow high, blow low-- _dibdin._ xxxviii the perfect sailor here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, the darling of our crew; no more he'll hear the tempest howling, for death has broached him to. his form was of the manliest beauty, his heart was kind and soft, faithful, below, he did his duty, but now he's gone aloft. tom never from his word departed, his virtues were so rare, his friends were many and true-hearted, his poll was kind and fair; and then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, ah, many's the time and oft! but mirth is turned to melancholy, for tom is gone aloft. yet shall poor tom find pleasant weather, when he, who all commands, shall give, to call life's crew together, the word to pipe all hands. thus death, who kings and tars despatches, in vain tom's life has doffed, for, though his body's under hatches his soul has gone aloft. _dibdin._ xxxix the deserter if sadly thinking, with spirits sinking, could more than drinking my cares compose, a cure for sorrow from sighs i'd borrow, and hope to-morrow would end my woes. but as in wailing there's nought availing, and death unfailing will strike the blow, then for that reason, and for a season, let us be merry before we go. to joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger, in every danger my course i've run; now hope all ending, and death befriending, his last aid lending, my cares are done: no more a rover, or hapless lover, my griefs are over, my glass runs low; then for that reason, and for a season, let us be merry before we go! _curran._ xl the arethusa come, all ye jolly sailors bold, whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, while english glory i unfold, huzza for the arethusa! she is a frigate tight and brave, as ever stemmed the dashing wave; her men are staunch to their fav'rite launch, and when the foe shall meet our fire, sooner than strike, we'll all expire on board of the arethusa. 'twas with the spring fleet she went out the english channel to cruise about, when four french sail, in show so stout bore down on the arethusa. the famed belle poule straight ahead did lie, the arethusa seemed to fly, not a sheet, or a tack, or a brace, did she slack; though the frenchman laughed and thought it stuff, but they knew not the handful of men, how tough, on board of the arethusa. on deck five hundred men did dance, the stoutest they could find in france; we with two hundred did advance on board of the arethusa. our captain hailed the frenchman, 'ho!' the frenchman then cried out 'hallo!' 'bear down, d'ye see, to our admiral's lee!' 'no, no,' says the frenchman, 'that can't be!' 'then i must lug you along with me,' says the saucy arethusa. the fight was off the frenchman's land, we forced them back upon their strand, for we fought till not a stick could stand of the gallant arethusa. and now we've driven the foe ashore never to fight with britons more, let each fill his glass to his fav'rite lass; a health to our captain and officers true, and all that belong to the jovial crew on board of the arethusa. _prince hoare._ xli the beauty of terror tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire? what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart? and when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand? and what dread feet? what the hammer? what the chain? in what furnace was thy brain? what the anvil? what dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp? when the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry? _blake._ xlii defiance farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, the wretch's destinie: m'pherson's time will not be long on yonder gallows tree. sae rantingly, sae wantonly, sae dauntingly gaed he; he played a spring and danced it round, below the gallows tree. oh, what is death but parting breath?-- on monie a bloody plain i've dared his face, and in this place i scorn him yet again! untie these bands from off my hands, and bring to me my sword! and there's no a man in all scotland, but i'll brave him at a word. i've lived a life of sturt and strife; i die by treacherie: it burns my heart i must depart and not avengèd be. now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, and all beneath the sky! may coward shame distain his name, the wretch that dares not die! sae rantingly, sae wantonly, sae dauntingly gaed he; he played a spring and danced it round, below the gallows tree. _burns._ xliii the goal of life should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to min'? should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o' lang syne? for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. and surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, and surely i'll be mine; and we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. we twa hae run about the braes, and pu'd the gowans fine; but we've wandered mony a weary foot sin' auld lang syne. we twa hae paidled i' the burn from mornin' sun till dine; but seas between us braid hae roared sin' auld lang syne. and here's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o' thine; and we'll tak a right guid-willie waught for auld lang syne. for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. _burns._ xliv before parting go fetch to me a pint o' wine, an' fill it in a silver tassie; that i may drink before i go a service to my bonnie lassie. the boat rocks at the pier o' leith, fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, the ship rides by the berwick-law, and i maun leave my bonnie mary. the trumpets sound, the banners fly, the glittering spears are rankèd ready, the shouts o' war are heard afar, the battle closes thick and bloody; but it's no the roar o' sea or shore wad mak me langer wish to tarry, nor shout o' war that's heard afar, it's leaving thee, my bonnie mary. _burns._ xlv devotion o mary, at thy window be, it is the wished, the trysted hour! those smiles and glances let me see, that mak the miser's treasure poor. how blythely wad i bide the stoure, a weary slave frae sun to sun, could i the rich reward secure, the lovely mary morison! yestreen, when to the trembling string the dance gaed through the lighted ha', to thee my fancy took its wing, i sat, but neither heard or saw; tho' this was fair, and that was braw, and yon the toast of a' the toun, i sighed, and said amang them a', 'ye are na mary morison.' o mary, canst thou wreck his peace, wha for thy sake wad gladly die? or canst thou break that heart of his whase only faut is loving thee? if love for love thou wilt na gie, at least be pity to me shown! a thought ungentle canna be the thought o' mary morison. _burns._ xlvi true until death it was a' for our rightfu' king, we left fair scotland's strand; it was a' for our rightfu' king we e'er saw irish land, my dear, we e'er saw irish land. now a' is done that men can do, and a' is done in vain; my love and native land farewell, for i maun cross the main, my dear, for i maun cross the main. he turned him right and round about upon the irish shore; and gae his bridle-reins a shake, with adieu for evermore, my dear, adieu for evermore. the sodger from the wars returns, the sailor frae the main; but i hae parted frae my love, never to meet again, my dear, never to meet again. when day is gane, and night is come, and a' folk bound to sleep; i think on him that's far awa, the lee-lang night, and weep, my dear, the lee-lang night, and weep. _burns._ xlvii venice once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee and was the safeguard of the west: the worth of venice did not fall below her birth, venice, the eldest child of liberty. she was a maiden city, bright and free; no guile seduced, no force could violate; and, when she took unto herself a mate, she must espouse the everlasting sea. and what if she had seen those glories fade, those titles vanish, and that strength decay; yet shall some tribute of regret be paid when her long life hath reached its final day: men are we, and must grieve when even the shade of that which once was great is passed away. _wordsworth._ xlviii destiny it is not to be thought of that the flood of british freedom, which, to the open sea of the world's praise, from dark antiquity hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' roused though it be full often to a mood which spurns the check of salutary bands, that this most famous stream in bogs and sands should perish; and to evil and to good be lost for ever. in our halls is hung armoury of the invincible knights of old: we must be free or die, who speak the tongue that shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold which milton held. in everything we are sprung of earth's first blood, have titles manifold. _wordsworth._ xlix the motherland when i have borne in memory what has tamed great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart when men change swords for ledgers, and desert the student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed i had, my country!--am i to be blamed? but when i think of thee, and what thou art, verily, in the bottom of my heart, of those unfilial fears i am ashamed. but dearly must we prize thee; we who find in thee a bulwark for the cause of men; and i by my affection was beguiled. what wonder if a poet now and then, among the many movements of his mind, felt for thee as a lover or a child! _wordsworth._ l ideal milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: england hath need of thee; she is a fen of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, have forfeited their ancient english dower of inward happiness. we are selfish men; oh! raise us up, return to us again; and give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, so didst thou travel on life's common way, in cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart the lowliest duties on itself did lay. _wordsworth._ li to duty stern daughter of the voice of god! o duty! if that name thou love who art a light to guide, a rod to check the erring, and reprove; thou, who art victory and law when empty terrors overawe; from vain temptations dost set free; and calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! there are who ask not if thine eye be on them; who, in love and truth, where no misgiving is, rely upon the genial sense of youth: glad hearts! without reproach or blot; who do thy work, and know it not: may joy be theirs while life shall last! and thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast! serene will be our days and bright, and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security. and they a blissful course may hold even now, who, not unwisely bold, live in the spirit of this creed; yet find that other strength, according to their need. i, loving freedom, and untried; no sport of every random gust, yet being to myself a guide, too blindly have reposed my trust: and oft, when in my heart was heard thy timely mandate, i deferred the task, in smoother walks to stray; but thee i now would serve more strictly, if i may. through no disturbance of my soul or strong compunction in me wrought, i supplicate for thy control; but in the quietness of thought: me this unchartered freedom tires; i feel the weight of chance-desires: my hopes no more must change their name, i long for a repose that ever is the same. stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear the godhead's most benignant grace; nor know we anything so fair as is the smile upon thy face: flowers laugh before thee on their beds and fragrance in thy footing treads; thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; and the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. to humbler functions, awful power! i call thee: i myself commend unto thy guidance from this hour; o let my weakness have an end! give unto me, made lowly wise, the spirit of self-sacrifice; the confidence of reason give; and in the light of truth thy bondman let me live! _wordsworth._ lii two victories i said, when evil men are strong, no life is good, no pleasure long, a weak and cowardly untruth! our clifford was a happy youth, and thankful through a weary time that brought him up to manhood's prime. again, he wanders forth at will, and tends a flock from hill to hill: his garb is humble; ne'er was seen such garb with such a noble mien; among the shepherd grooms no mate hath he, a child of strength and state! yet lacks not friends for simple glee, nor yet for higher sympathy. to his side the fallow-deer came, and rested without fear; the eagle, lord of land and sea, stooped down to pay him fealty; and both the undying fish that swim through bowscale-tarn did wait on him; the pair were servants of his eye in their immortality; and glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, moved to and fro, for his delight. he knew the rocks which angels haunt upon the mountains visitant; he hath kenned them taking wing: and into caves where faeries sing he hath entered; and been told by voices how men lived of old. among the heavens his eye can see the face of thing that is to be; and, if that men report him right, his tongue could whisper words of might. now another day is come, fitter hope, and nobler doom; he hath thrown aside his crook, and hath buried deep his book; armour rusting in his halls on the blood of clifford calls: 'quell the scot!' exclaims the lance; 'bear me to the heart of france,' is the longing of the shield; tell thy name, thou trembling field; field of death, where'er thou be, groan thou with our victory! happy day, and mighty hour, when our shepherd in his power, mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, to his ancestors restored like a reappearing star, like a glory from afar, first shall head the flock of war! _wordsworth._ liii in memoriam nelson: pitt: fox to mute and to material things new life revolving summer brings; the genial call dead nature hears, and in her glory reappears. but o my country's wintry state what second spring shall renovate? what powerful call shall bid arise the buried warlike and the wise; the mind that thought for britain's weal, the hand that grasped the victor steel? the vernal sun new life bestows even on the meanest flower that blows; but vainly, vainly may he shine, where glory weeps o'er nelson's shrine; and vainly pierce the solemn gloom, that shrouds, o pitt, thy hallowed tomb! deep graved in every british heart, o never let those names depart! say to your sons,--lo, here his grave, who victor died on gadite wave; to him, as to the burning levin, short, bright, resistless course was given. where'er his country's foes were found was heard the fated thunder's sound, till burst the bolt on yonder shore, rolled, blazed, destroyed,--and was no more. nor mourn ye less his perished worth, who bade the conqueror go forth, and launched that thunderbolt of war on egypt, hafnia, trafalgar; who, born to guide such high emprise, for britain's weal was early wise; alas! to whom the almighty gave, for britain's sins, an early grave! his worth, who in his mightiest hour a bauble held the pride of power, spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, and served his albion for herself; who, when the frantic crowd amain strained at subjection's bursting rein, o'er their wild mood full conquest gained, the pride he would not crush restrained, showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, and brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws. hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power, a watchman on the lonely tower, thy thrilling trump had roused the land, when fraud or danger were at hand; by thee, as by the beacon-light, our pilots had kept course aright; as some proud column, though alone, thy strength had propped the tottering throne now is the stately column broke, the beacon-light is quenched in smoke, the trumpet's silver sound is still, the warder silent on the hill! o think, how to his latest day, when death, just hovering, claimed his prey, with palinure's unaltered mood firm at his dangerous post he stood; each call for needful rest repelled, with dying hand the rudder held, till in his fall with fateful sway, the steerage of the realm gave way! then, while on britain's thousand plains one unpolluted church remains, whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around the bloody tocsin's maddening sound, but still, upon the hallowed day, convoke the swains to praise and pray; while faith and civil peace are dear, grace this cold marble with a tear,-- he, who preserved them, pitt, lies here! nor yet suppress the generous sigh, because his rival slumbers nigh; nor be thy _requiescat_ dumb, lest it be said o'er fox's tomb. for talents mourn, untimely lost, when best employed, and wanted most; mourn genius high, and lore profound, and wit that loved to play, not wound; and all the reasoning powers divine, to penetrate, resolve, combine; and feelings keen, and fancy's glow,-- they sleep with him who sleeps below: and, if thou mourn'st they could not save from error him who owns this grave, be every harsher thought suppressed, and sacred be the last long rest. _here_, where the end of earthly things lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; _here_, where the fretted aisles prolong the distant notes of holy song, as if some angel spoke agen, 'all peace on earth, good-will to men'; if ever from an english heart o, _here_ let prejudice depart, and, partial feeling cast aside, record, that fox a briton died! when europe crouched to france's yoke, and austria bent, and prussia broke, and the firm russian's purpose brave was bartered by a timorous slave, even then dishonour's peace he spurned, the sullied olive-branch returned, stood for his country's glory fast, and nailed her colours to the mast! heaven, to reward his firmness, gave a portion in this honoured grave, and ne'er held marble in its trust of two such wondrous men the dust. with more than mortal powers endowed, how high they soared above the crowd! theirs was no common party race, jostling by dark intrigue for place; like fabled gods, their mighty war shook realms and nations in its jar; beneath each banner proud to stand, looked up the noblest of the land, till through the british world were known the names of pitt and fox alone. spells of such force no wizard grave e'er framed in dark thessalian cave, though his could drain the ocean dry, and force the planets from the sky. these spells are spent, and, spent with these the wine of life is on the lees. genius, and taste, and talent gone, for ever tombed beneath the stone, where--taming thought to human pride!-- the mighty chiefs sleep side by side. drop upon fox's grave the tear, 'twill trickle to his rival's bier; o'er pitt's the mournful requiem sound, and fox's shall the notes rebound. the solemn echo seems to cry,-- 'here let their discord with them die. speak not for those a separate doom whom fate made brothers in the tomb; but search the land of living men, where wilt thou find their like agen?' _scott._ liv lochinvar o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, through all the wide border his steed was the best; and save his good broadsword he weapons had none, he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. he staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, he swam the eske river where ford there was none; but ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late; for a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so boldly he entered the netherby hall, among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 'o come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?' 'i long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide; and now am i come with this lost love of mine to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar.' the bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up, he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. she looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, 'now tread we a measure!' said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; and the bride-maidens whispered, ''twere better by far, to have matched our fair cousin with young lochinvar.' one touch to her hand and one word in her ear, when they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; so light to the croup the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; they'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong græmes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran: there was racing and chasing on cannobie lee, but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? _scott._ lv flodden the march next morn the baron climbed the tower, to view afar the scottish power encamped on flodden edge: the white pavilions made a show, like remnants of the winter snow, along the dusky ridge. long marmion looked: at length his eye unusual movement might descry amid the shifting lines: the scottish host drawn out appears, for flashing on the hedge of spears the eastern sunbeam shines. their front now deepening, now extending; their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, now drawing back, and now descending, the skilful marmion well could know, they watched the motions of some foe who traversed on the plain below. even so it was. from flodden ridge the scots beheld the english host leave barmore-wood, their evening post, and heedful watched them as they crossed the till by twisel bridge. high sight it is and haughty, while they dive into the deep defile; beneath the caverned cliff they fall, beneath the castle's airy wall. by rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, troop after troop are disappearing; troop after troop their banners rearing upon the eastern bank you see. still pouring down the rocky den, where flows the sullen till, and rising from the dim-wood glen, standards on standards, men on men, in slow succession still, and sweeping o'er the gothic arch, and pressing on in ceaseless march, to gain the opposing hill. that morn to many a trumpet clang, twisel! thy rocks deep echo rang; and many a chief of birth and rank, saint helen! at thy fountain drank. thy hawthorn glade, which now we see in spring-tide bloom so lavishly, had then from many an axe its doom, to give the marching columns room. and why stands scotland idly now, dark flodden! on thy airy brow, since england gains the pass the while, and struggles through the deep defile? what checks the fiery soul of james? why sits that champion of the dames inactive on his steed, and sees between him and his land, between him and tweed's southern strand, his host lord surrey lead? what 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand? o, douglas, for thy leading wand! fierce randolph, for thy speed! o for one hour of wallace wight, or well-skilled bruce, to rule the fight, and cry 'saint andrew and our right!' another sight had seen that morn, from fate's dark book a leaf been torn, and flodden had been bannockburn! the precious hour has passed in vain, and england's host has gained the plain; wheeling their march, and circling still, around the base of flodden hill. the attack 'but see! look up--on flodden bent the scottish foe has fired his tent.' and sudden, as he spoke, from the sharp ridges of the hill, all downward to the banks of till was wreathed in sable smoke. volumed and fast, and rolling far, the cloud enveloped scotland's war, as down the hill they broke; nor martial shout nor minstrel tone announced their march; their tread alone, at times one warning trumpet blown, at times a stifled hum, told england, from his mountain-throne king james did rushing come. scarce could they hear, or see their foes, until at weapon-point they close. they close in clouds of smoke and dust, with sword-sway and with lance's thrust; and such a yell was there of sudden and portentous birth, as if men fought upon the earth and fiends in upper air; o life and death were in the shout, recoil and rally, charge and rout, and triumph and despair. long looked the anxious squires; their eye could in the darkness nought descry. at length the freshening western blast aside the shroud of battle cast; and first the ridge of mingled spears above the brightening cloud appears; and in the smoke the pennons flew, as in the storm the white sea-mew. then marked they, dashing broad and far, the broken billows of the war, and plumèd crests of chieftains brave floating like foam upon the wave; but nought distinct they see: wide raged the battle on the plain; spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; fell england's arrow-flight like rain; crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, wild and disorderly. amid the scene of tumult, high they saw lord marmion's falcon fly: and stainless tunstall's banner white and edmund howard's lion bright still bear them bravely in the fight: although against them come of gallant gordons many a one, and many a stubborn badenoch-man, and many a rugged border clan, with huntly and with home. far on the left, unseen the while, stanley broke lennox and argyle; though there the western mountaineer rushed with bare bosom on the spear, and flung the feeble targe aside, and with both hands the broadsword plied. 'twas vain: but fortune, on the right, with fickle smile cheered scotland's fight. then fell that spotless banner white, the howard's lion fell; yet still lord marmion's falcon flew with wavering flight, while fiercer grew around the battle-yell. the border slogan rent the sky! a home! a gordon! was the cry: loud were the clanging blows; advanced, forced back, now low, now high, the pennon sank and rose; as bends the bark's mast in the gale, when rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, it wavered 'mid the foes. the last stand by this, though deep the evening fell, still rose the battle's deadly swell, for still the scots, around their king, unbroken, fought in desperate ring. where's now their victor vaward wing, where huntly, and where home? o for a blast of that dread horn, on fontarabian echoes borne, that to king charles did come, when roland brave, and olivier, and every paladin and peer, on roncesvalles died! such blast might warn them, not in vain, to quit the plunder of the slain, and turn the doubtful day again, while yet on flodden side afar the royal standard flies, and round it toils, and bleeds, and dies our caledonian pride! but as they left the dark'ning heath, more desperate grew the strife of death. the english shafts in volleys hailed, in headlong charge their horse assailed; front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep to break the scottish circle deep that fought around their king. but yet, though thick the shafts as snow, though charging knights like whirlwinds go, though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, unbroken was the ring; the stubborn spear-men still made good their dark impenetrable wood, each stepping where his comrade stood, the instant that he fell. no thought was there of dastard flight; linked in the serried phalanx tight, groom fought like noble, squire like knight, as fearlessly and well; till utter darkness closed her wing o'er their thin host and wounded king. then skilful surrey's sage commands led back from strife his shattered bands; and from the charge they drew, as mountain waves from wasted lands sweep back to ocean blue. then did their loss his foemen know; their king, their lords, their mightiest low, they melted from the field, as snow, when streams are swoln and south winds blow, dissolves in silent dew. tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, while many a broken band disordered through her currents dash, to gain the scottish land; to town and tower, to town and dale, to tell red flodden's dismal tale, and raise the universal wail. tradition, legend, tune, and song shall many an age that wail prolong: still from the sire the son shall hear of the stern strife and carnage drear of flodden's fatal field, where shivered was fair scotland's spear, and broken was her shield! _scott._ lvi the chase the stag at eve had drunk his fill, where danced the moon on monan's rill, and deep his midnight lair had made in lone glenartney's hazel shade; but, when the sun his beacon red had kindled on benvoirlich's head, the deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay resounded up the rocky way, and faint from farther distance borne were heard the clanging hoof and horn. as chief, who hears his warder call, 'to arms! the foemen storm the wall,' the antlered monarch of the waste sprang from his heathery couch in haste. but, ere his fleet career he took, the dew-drops from his flanks he shook; like crested leader proud and high, tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; a moment gazed adown the dale, a moment snuffed the tainted gale, a moment listened to the cry that thickened as the chase drew nigh; then, as the headmost foes appeared, with one brave bound the copse he cleared, and, stretching forward free and far, sought the wild heaths of uam-var. yelled on the view the opening pack; rock, glen, and cavern paid them back: to many a mingled sound at once the awakened mountain gave response. a hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, clattered a hundred steeds along, their peal the merry horns rang out, a hundred voices joined the shout; with hark and whoop and wild halloo no rest benvoirlich's echoes knew. far from the tumult fled the roe, close in her covert cowered the doe, the falcon from her cairn on high cast on the rout a wondering eye, till far beyond her piercing ken the hurricane had swept the glen. faint and more faint, its failing din returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, and silence settled wide and still on the lone wood and mighty hill. less loud the sounds of silvan war disturbed the heights of uam-var, and roused the cavern where, 'tis told, a giant made his den of old; for ere that steep ascent was won, high in his pathway hung the sun, and many a gallant, stayed perforce, was fain to breathe his faltering horse, and of the trackers of the deer scarce half the lessening pack was near; so shrewdly on the mountain-side had the bold burst their mettle tried. the noble stag was pausing now upon the mountain's southern brow, where broad extended, far beneath, the varied realms of fair menteith. with anxious eye he wandered o'er mountain and meadow, moss and moor, and pondered refuge from his toil by far lochard or aberfoyle. but nearer was the copsewood grey that waved and wept on loch-achray, and mingled with the pine-trees blue on the bold cliffs of benvenue. fresh vigour with the hope returned, with flying foot the heath he spurned, held westward with unwearied race, and left behind the panting chase. 'twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, as swept the hunt through cambus-more; what reins were tightened in despair, when rose benledi's ridge in air; who flagged upon bochastle's heath, who shunned to stem the flooded teith, for twice that day from shore to shore the gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. few were the stragglers, following far, that reached the lake of vennachar; and when the brigg of turk was won, the headmost horseman rode alone. alone, but with unbated zeal, that horseman plied the scourge and steel; for jaded now and spent with toil, embossed with foam and dark with soil, while every gasp with sobs he drew, the labouring stag strained full in view. two dogs of black saint hubert's breed, unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, fast on his flying traces came and all but won that desperate game; for scarce a spear's length from his haunch vindictive toiled the bloodhounds staunch; nor nearer might the dogs attain, nor farther might the quarry strain. thus up the margin of the lake, between the precipice and brake, o'er stock and rock their race they take. the hunter marked that mountain high, the lone lake's western boundary, and deemed the stag must turn to bay where that huge rampart barred the way; already glorying in the prize, measured his antlers with his eyes; for the death-wound and death-halloo mustered his breath, his whinyard drew; but thundering as he came prepared, with ready arm and weapon bared, the wily quarry shunned the shock, and turned him from the opposing rock; then, dashing down a darksome glen, soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, in the deep trosach's wildest nook his solitary refuge took. there, while close couched, the thicket shed cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, he heard the baffled dogs in vain rave through the hollow pass amain, chiding the rocks that yelled again. close on the hounds the hunter came, to cheer them on the vanished game; but, stumbling in the rugged dell, the gallant horse exhausted fell. the impatient rider strove in vain to rouse him with the spur and rein, for the good steed, his labours o'er, stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; then touched with pity and remorse he sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. 'i little thought, when first thy rein i slacked upon the banks of seine, that highland eagle e'er should feed on thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, that costs thy life, my gallant grey!' then through the dell his horn resounds, from vain pursuit to call the hounds. back limped with slow and crippled pace the sulky leaders of the chase; close to their master's side they pressed, with drooping tail and humbled crest; but still the dingle's hollow throat prolonged the swelling bugle-note. the owlets started from their dream, the eagles answered with their scream, round and around the sounds were cast, till echoes seemed an answering blast; and on the hunter hied his way, to join some comrades of the day. _scott._ lvii the outlaw o, brignall banks are wild and fair, and greta woods are green, and you may gather garlands there would grace a summer queen. and as i rode by dalton-hall, beneath the turrets high, a maiden on the castle wall was singing merrily: 'o, brignall banks are fresh and fair, and greta woods are green; i'd rather rove with edmund there than reign our english queen.' 'if, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, to leave both tower and town, thou first must guess what life lead we that dwell by dale and down. and if thou canst that riddle read, as read full well you may, then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, as blythe as queen of may.' yet sang she, 'brignall banks are fair, and greta woods are green; i'd rather rove with edmund there than reign our english queen. i read you, by your bugle-horn and by your palfrey good, i read you for a ranger sworn to keep the king's greenwood.' 'a ranger, lady, winds his horn, and 'tis at peep of light; his blast is heard at merry morn, and mine at dead of night.' yet sang she 'brignall banks are fair, and greta woods are gay; i would i were with edmund there, to reign his queen of may! with burnished brand and musketoon so gallantly you come, i read you for a bold dragoon that lists the tuck of drum.' 'i list no more the tuck of drum, no more the trumpet hear; but when the beetle sounds his hum, my comrades take the spear. and o! though brignall banks be fair, and greta woods be gay, yet mickle must the maiden dare would reign my queen of may! maiden! a nameless life i lead, a nameless death i'll die! the fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, were better mate than i! and when i'm with my comrades met, beneath the greenwood bough, what once we were we all forget, nor think what we are now. yet brignall banks are fresh and fair, and greta woods are green, and you may gather garlands there would grace a summer queen.' _scott._ lviii pibroch pibroch of donuil dhu, pibroch of donuil, wake thy wild voice anew, summon clan-conuil. come away, come away, hark to the summons! come in your war array, gentles and commons. come from deep glen and from mountains so rocky, the war-pipe and pennon are at inverlocky. come every hill-plaid and true heart that wears one, come every steel blade and strong hand that bears one. leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. come as the winds come when forests are rended, come as the waves come when navies are stranded: faster come, faster come, faster and faster, chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master. fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather. cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! pibroch of donuil dhu, knell for the onset! _scott._ lix the omnipotent 'why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, thou agèd carle so stern and grey? dost thou its former pride recall, or ponder how it passed away?' 'know'st thou not me?' the deep voice cried; 'so long enjoyed, so often misused, alternate, in thy fickle pride, desired, neglected, and accused! before my breath, like blazing flax, man and his marvels pass away! and changing empires wane and wax, are founded, flourish, and decay. redeem mine hours--the space is brief-- while in my glass the sand-grains shiver, and measureless thy joy or grief, when time and thou shalt part for ever!' _scott._ lx the red harlaw the herring loves the merry moonlight, the mackerel loves the wind, but the oyster loves the dredging sang, for they come of a gentle kind. now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, and listen, great and sma', and i will sing of glenallan's earl that fought on the red harlaw. the cronach's cried on bennachie, and doun the don and a', and hieland and lawland may mournfu' be for the sair field of harlaw. they saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, they hae bridled a hundred black, with a chafron of steel on each horse's head and a good knight upon his back. they hadna ridden a mile, a mile, a mile, but barely ten, when donald came branking down the brae wi' twenty thousand men. their tartans they were waving wide, their glaives were glancing clear, the pibrochs rang frae side to side, would deafen ye to hear. the great earl in his stirrups stood, that highland host to see: 'now here a knight that's stout and good may prove a jeopardie: what wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, that rides beside my reyne, were ye glenallan's earl the day, and i were roland cheyne? to turn the rein were sin and shame, to fight were wondrous peril: what would ye do now, roland cheyne, were ye glenallan's earl?' 'were i glenallan's earl this tide, and ye were roland cheyne, the spur should be in my horse's side, and the bridle upon his mane. if they hae twenty thousand blades, and we twice ten times ten, yet they hae but their tartan plaids, and we are mail-clad men. my horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, as through the moorland fern, then ne'er let the gentle norman blude grow cauld for highland kerne.' _scott._ lxi farewell farewell! farewell! the voice you hear has left its last soft tone with you; its next must join the seaward cheer, and shout among the shouting crew. the accents which i scarce could form beneath your frown's controlling check, must give the word, above the storm, to cut the mast and clear the wreck. the timid eye i dared not raise, the hand that shook when pressed to thine, must point the guns upon the chase, must bid the deadly cutlass shine. to all i love, or hope, or fear, honour or own, a long adieu! to all that life has soft and dear, farewell! save memory of you! _scott._ lxii bonny dundee to the lords of convention 'twas claver'se who spoke, 'ere the king's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; so let each cavalier who loves honour and me, come follow the bonnet of bonny dundee. come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, come saddle your horses, and call up your men; come open the west port, and let me gang free, and it's room for the bonnets of bonny dundee!' dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, the bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; but the provost, douce man, said, 'just e'en let him be, the gude town is weel quit of that deil of dundee.' as he rode down the sanctified bends of the bow, ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; but the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou bonny dundee! with sour-featured whigs the grassmarket was crammed, as if half the west had set tryst to be hanged; there was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, as they watched for the bonnets of bonny dundee. these cowls of kilmarnock had spits and had spears, and lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; but they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, at the toss of the bonnet of bonny dundee. he spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock, and with the gay gordon he gallantly spoke; 'let mons meg and her marrows speak twa words or three for the love of the bonnet of bonny dundee.' the gordon demands of him which way he goes: 'where'er shall direct me the shade of montrose! your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, or that low lies the bonnet of bonny dundee. there are hills beyond pentland, and lands beyond forth, if there's lords in the lowlands, there's chiefs in the north; there are wild duniewassals three thousand times three, will cry _hoigh!_ for the bonnet of bonny dundee. there's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; there's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; the brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free at a toss of the bonnet of bonny dundee. away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, ere i owe an usurper, i'll couch with the fox; and tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee, you have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!' he waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, the kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, till on ravelston's cliffs and on clermiston's lee died away the wild war-notes of bonny dundee. come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, come saddle the horses and call up the men, come open your gates, and let me gae free, for it's up with the bonnets of bonny dundee! _sir walter scott._ lxiii romance in xanadu did kubla khan a stately pleasure-dome decree: where alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea. so twice five miles of fertile ground with walls and towers were girdled round: and there were gardens bright with sinuous rills where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; and here were forests ancient as the hills, enfolding sunny spots of greenery. but o! that deep romantic chasm which slanted down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! a savage place! as holy and enchanted as e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted by woman wailing for her demon-lover! and from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, as if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, a mighty fountain momently was forced: amid whose swift half-intermitted burst huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: and 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever it flung up momently the sacred river. five miles meandering with a mazy motion through wood and dale the sacred river ran, then reached the caverns measureless to man, and sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: and 'mid this tumult kubla heard from far ancestral voices prophesying war! the shadow of the dome of pleasure floated midway on the waves; where was heard the mingled measure from the fountain and the caves. it was a miracle of rare device, a sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! a damsel with a dulcimer in a vision once i saw: it was an abyssinian maid, and on her dulcimer she played, singing of mount abora. could i revive within me her symphony and song, to such a deep delight 'twould win me, that with music loud and long, i would build that dome in air, that sunny dome! those caves of ice! and all who heard should see them there, and all should cry, beware! beware! his flashing eyes, his floating hair! weave a circle round him thrice, and close your eyes with holy dread, for he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of paradise. _coleridge._ lxiv sacrifice iphigeneia, when she heard her doom at aulis, and when all beside the king had gone away, took his right hand, and said, 'o father! i am young and very happy. i do not think the pious calchas heard distinctly what the goddess spake. old-age obscures the senses. if my nurse, who knew my voice so well, sometimes misunderstood while i was resting on her knee both arms and hitting it to make her mind my words, and looking in her face, and she in mine, might he not also hear one word amiss, spoken from so far off, even from olympus?' the father placed his cheek upon her head, and tears dropt down it, but the king of men replied not. then the maiden spake once more. 'o father! say'st thou nothing? hear'st thou not me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, listened to fondly, and awakened me to hear my voice amid the voice of birds, when it was inarticulate as theirs, and the down deadened it within the nest?' he moved her gently from him, silent still, and this, and this alone, brought tears from her, although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, 'i thought to have laid down my hair before benignant artemis, and not have dimmed her polisht altar with my virgin blood; i thought to have selected the white flowers to please the nymphs, and to have asked of each by name, and with no sorrowful regret, whether, since both my parents willed the change, i might at hymen's feet bend my clipt brow; and (after those who mind us girls the most) adore our own athena, that she would regard me mildly with her azure eyes. but, father! to see you no more, and see your love, o father! go ere i am gone.' ... gently he moved her off, and drew her back, bending his lofty head far over hers, and the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. he turned away; not far, but silent still. she now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, so long a silence seemed the approach of death, and like it. once again she raised her voice. 'o father! if the ships are now detained, and all your vows move not the gods above, when the knife strikes me there will be one prayer the less to them: and purer can there be any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer for her dear father's safety and success?' a groan that shook him shook not his resolve. an aged man now entered, and without one word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist of the pale maiden. she looked up, and saw the fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. then turned she where her parent stood, and cried, 'o father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.' _landor._ lxv soldier and sailor i love contemplating, apart from all his homicidal glory, the traits that soften to our heart napoleon's story! 'twas when his banners at boulogne armed in our island every freeman, his navy chanced to capture one poor british seaman. they suffered him, i know not how, unprisoned on the shore to roam; and aye was bent his longing brow on england's home. his eye, methinks, pursued the flight of birds to britain half-way over with envy; _they_ could reach the white dear cliffs of dover. a stormy midnight watch, he thought, than this sojourn would have been dearer, if but the storm his vessel brought to england nearer. at last, when care had banished sleep, he saw one morning--dreaming--doating, an empty hogshead from the deep come shoreward floating; he hid it in a cave, and wrought the live-long day laborious; lurking until he launched a tiny boat by mighty working. heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond description, wretched: such a wherry perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, or crossed a ferry. for ploughing in the salt-sea field, it would have made the boldest shudder; untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, no sail--no rudder. from neighb'ring woods he interlaced his sorry skiff with wattled willows; and thus equipped he would have passed the foaming billows-- but frenchmen caught him on the beach, his little argo sorely jeering; till tidings of him chanced to reach napoleon's hearing. with folded arms napoleon stood, serene alike in peace and danger; and, in his wonted attitude, addressed the stranger:-- 'rash man, that wouldst yon channel pass on twigs and staves so rudely fashioned: thy heart with some sweet british lass must be impassioned.' 'i have no sweetheart,' said the lad; 'but--absent long from one another-- great was the longing that i had to see my mother.' 'and so thou shalt,' napoleon said, 'ye've both my favour fairly won; a noble mother must have bred so brave a son.' he gave the tar a piece of gold, and, with a flag of truce, commanded he should be shipped to england old, and safely landed. our sailor oft could scantly shift to find a dinner, plain and hearty; but _never_ changed the coin and gift of bonaparté. _campbell._ lxvi 'ye mariners' ye mariners of england! that guard our native seas; whose flag has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again to match another foe! and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow. the spirits of your fathers shall start from every wave! for the deck it was their field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell your manly hearts shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow. britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain-waves, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak she quells the floods below, as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow. the meteor flag of england shall yet terrific burn; till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return. then, then, ye ocean warriors! our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow; when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. _campbell._ lxvii the battle of the baltic of nelson and the north sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone; by each gun the lighted brand in a bold determined hand, and the prince of all the land led them on. like leviathans afloat, lay their bulwarks on the brine; while the sign of battle flew on the lofty british line: it was ten of april morn by the chime: as they drifted on their path, there was silence deep as death; and the boldest held his breath, for a time. but the might of england flushed to anticipate the scene; and her van the fleeter rushed o'er the deadly space between. 'hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death-shade round the ships, like the hurricane eclipse of the sun. again! again! again! and the havoc did not slack, till a feeble cheer the dane, to our cheering sent us back;-- their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- then cease--and all is wail, as they strike the shattered sail; or, in conflagration pale light the gloom. now joy, old england, raise for the tidings of thy might, by the festal cities' blaze, whilst the wine-cup shines in light; and yet amidst that joy and uproar, let us think of them that sleep full many a fathom deep by thy wild and stormy steep, elsinore! _campbell._ lxviii battle song day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; what then? 'tis day! we sleep no more; the cock crows--hark! to arms! away! they come! they come! the knell is rung of us or them; wide o'er their march the pomp is flung of gold and gem. what collared hound of lawless sway, to famine dear, what pensioned slave of attila, leads in the rear? come they from scythian wilds afar our blood to spill? wear they the livery of the czar? they do his will. nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette, nor plume, nor torse-- no splendour gilds, all sternly met, our foot and horse. but, dark and still, we inly glow, condensed in ire! strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know our gloom is fire. in vain your pomp, ye evil powers, insults the land; wrongs, vengeance, and _the cause_ are ours, and god's right hand! madmen! they trample into snakes the wormy clod! like fire, beneath their feet awakes the sword of god! behind, before, above, below, they rouse the brave; where'er they go, they make a foe, or find a grave. _elliott._ lxix loyalty hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! when the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, the lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', the bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; but i'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, an' green it will grow in my ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save; the new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave: but the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, 'i'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.' hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! _cunningham._ lxx a sea-song a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast and fills the white and rustling sail and bends the gallant mast; and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while like the eagle free away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee. o for a soft and gentle wind! i heard a fair one cry; but give to me the snoring breeze and white waves heaving high; and white waves heaving high, my lads, the good ship tight and free-- the world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. there's tempest in yon hornèd moon, and lightning in yon cloud; but hark the music, mariners! the wind is piping loud; the wind is piping loud, my boys, the lightning flashes free-- while the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea. _cunningham._ lxxi a song of the sea the sea! the sea! the open sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free! without a mark, without a bound, it runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; it plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; or like a cradled creature lies. i'm on the sea! i'm on the sea! i am where i would ever be; with the blue above, and the blue below, and silence wheresoe'er i go; if a storm should come and awake the deep, what matter? _i_ shall ride and sleep. i love (o! _how_ i love) to ride on the fierce foaming bursting tide, when every mad wave drowns the moon, or whistles aloft his tempest tune, and tells how goeth the world below, and why the south-west blasts do blow. i never was on the dull, tame shore, but i loved the great sea more and more, and backwards flew to her billowy breast, like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; and a mother she _was_, and _is_ to me; for i was born on the open sea! the waves were white, and red the morn, in the noisy hour when i was born; and the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, and the dolphins bared their backs of gold; and never was heard such an outcry wild as welcomed to life the ocean-child! i've lived since then, in calm and strife, full fifty summers a sailor's life, with wealth to spend, and a power to range, but never have sought, nor sighed for change; and death, whenever he come to me, shall come on the wide unbounded sea! _procter._ lxxii sennacherib the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee. like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen: like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown. for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! and there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. and there lay the rider distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. and the widows of ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of baal; and the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord! _byron._ lxxiii the storming of corinth the signal the night is past, and shines the sun as if that morn were a jocund one. lightly and brightly breaks away the morning from her mantle grey, and the noon will look on a sultry day. hark to the trump, and the drum, and the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, and the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, and the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, and the clash, and the shout, 'they come! they come!' the horsetails are plucked from the ground, and the sword from its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word. tartar, and spahi, and turcoman, strike your tents, and throng to the van; mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, that the fugitive may flee in vain, when he breaks from the town; and none escape, aged or young, in the christian shape; while your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, bloodstain the breach through which they pass. the steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein; curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; white is the foam of their champ on the bit: the spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; the cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, and crush the wall they have crumbled before: forms in his phalanx each janizar; alp at their head; his right arm is bare, so is the blade of his scimitar; the khan and the pachas are all at their post; the vizier himself at the head of the host. when the culverin's signal is fired, then on; leave not in corinth a living one-- a priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, a hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. god and the prophet--alla hu! up to the skies with that wild halloo! 'there the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale; and your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail? he who first downs with the red cross may crave his heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!' thus uttered coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; the reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, and the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire:-- silence--hark to the signal--fire! the assault as the spring-tides, with heavy plash, from the cliffs invading dash huge fragments, sapped by the ceaseless flow, till white and thundering down they go, like the avalanche's snow on the alpine vales below; thus at length, outbreathed and worn, corinth's sons were downward borne by the long and oft renewed charge of the moslem multitude. in firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, heaped by the host of the infidel, hand to hand, and foot to foot: nothing there, save death, was mute: stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry for quarter or for victory, mingle there with the volleying thunder, which makes the distant cities wonder how the sounding battle goes, if with them, or for their foes; if they must mourn, or may rejoice in that annihilating voice, which pierces the deep hills through and through with an echo dread and new: you might have heard it, on that day, o'er salamis and megara; (we have heard the hearers say,) even unto piræus' bay. from the point of encountering blades to the hilt, sabres and swords with blood were gilt; but the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, and all but the after carnage done, shriller shrieks now mingling come from within the plundered dome: hark to the haste of flying feet that splash in the blood of the slippery street; but here and there, where 'vantage ground against the foe may still be found, desperate groups, of twelve or ten, make a pause, and turn again-- with banded backs against the wall, fiercely stand, or fighting fall. there stood an old man--his hairs were white, but his veteran arm was full of might: so gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, the dead before him, on that day, in a semicircle lay; still he combated unwounded, though retreating, unsurrounded. many a scar of former fight lurked beneath his corselet bright; but of every wound his body bore, each and all had been ta'en before: though aged, he was so iron of limb, few of our youth could cope with him, and the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, outnumbered his thin hairs of silver grey. from right to left his sabre swept; many an othman mother wept sons that were unborn, when dipped his weapon first in moslem gore, ere his years could count a score. of all he might have been the sire who fell that day beneath his ire: for, sonless left long years ago, his wrath made many a childless foe; and since the day, when in the strait his only boy had met his fate, his parent's iron hand did doom more than a human hecatomb. if shades by carnage be appeased, patroclus' spirit less was pleased than his, minotti's son, who died where asia's bounds and ours divide. buried he lay, where thousands before for thousands of years were inhumed on the shore; what of them is left, to tell where they lie, and how they fell? not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; but they live in the verse that immortally saves. the magazine darkly, sternly, and all alone, minotti stood o'er the altar-stone: madonna's face upon him shone, painted in heavenly hues above, with eyes of light and looks of love; and placed upon that holy shrine to fix our thoughts on things divine, when pictured there, we kneeling see her, and the boy-god on her knee, smiling sweetly on each prayer to heaven, as if to waft it there. still she smiled; even now she smiles, though slaughter streams along her aisles: minotti lifted his aged eye, and made the sign of a cross with a sigh, then seized a torch which blazed thereby; and still he stood, while with steel and flame inward and onward the mussulman came. the vaults beneath the mosaic stone contained the dead of ages gone; their names were on the graven floor, but now illegible with gore; the carvèd crests, and curious hues the varied marble's veins diffuse, were smeared, and slippery, stained, and strown with broken swords and helms o'erthrown: there were dead above, and the dead below lay cold in many a coffined row; you might see them piled in sable state, by a pale light through a gloomy grate; but war had entered their dark caves, and stored along the vaulted graves her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread in masses by the fleshless dead: here, throughout the siege, had been the christians' chiefest magazine; to these a late formed train now led, minotti's last and stern resource against the foe's o'erwhelming force. the foe came on, and few remain to strive, and those must strive in vain: for lack of further lives, to slake the thirst of vengeance now awake, with barbarous blows they gash the dead, and lop the already lifeless head, and fell the statues from their niche, and spoil the shrines of offerings rich, and from each other's rude hands wrest the silver vessels saints had blessed. to the high altar on they go; o, but it made a glorious show! on its table still behold the cup of consecrated gold; massy and deep, a glittering prize, brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: that morn it held the holy wine, converted by christ to his blood so divine, which his worshippers drank at the break of day, to shrive their souls ere they joined in the fray. still a few drops within it lay; and round the sacred table glow twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, from the purest metal cast; a spoil--the richest, and the last. so near they came, the nearest stretched to grasp the spoil he almost reached, when old minotti's hand touched with the torch the train-- 'tis fired! spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, the turbaned victors, the christian band, all that of living or dead remain, hurl'd on high with the shivered fane, in one wild roar expired! the shattered town--the walls thrown down-- the waves a moment backward bent-- the hills that shake, although unrent, as if an earthquake passed-- the thousand shapeless things all driven in cloud and flame athwart the heaven by that tremendous blast-- proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er on that too long afflicted shore: up to the sky like rockets go all that mingled there below: many a tall and goodly man, scorched and shrivelled to a span, when he fell to earth again like a cinder strewed the plain: down the ashes shower like rain; some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles with a thousand circling wrinkles; some fell on the shore, but far away scattered o'er the isthmus lay; christian or moslem, which be they? let their mother say and say! when in cradled rest they lay, and each nursing mother smiled on the sweet sleep of her child, little deemed she such a day would rend those tender limbs away. not the matrons that them bore could discern their offspring more; that one moment left no trace more of human form or face save a scattered scalp or bone: and down came blazing rafters, strown around, and many a falling stone, deeply dinted in the clay, all blackened there and reeking lay. all the living things that heard that deadly earth-shock disappeared: the wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, and howling left the unburied dead; the camels from their keepers broke; the distant steer forsook the yoke-- the nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, and burst his girth, and tore his rein; the bull-frog's note from out the marsh deep-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh; the wolves yelled on the caverned hill where echo rolled in thunder still; the jackals' troop in gathered cry bayed from afar complainingly, with a mixed and mournful sound, like crying babe, and beaten hound: with sudden wing and ruffled breast the eagle left his rocky nest, and mounted nearer to the sun, the clouds beneath him seemed so dun; their smoke assailed his startled beak, and made him higher soar and shriek-- thus was corinth lost and won! _byron._ lxxiv alhama the moorish king rides up and down, through granada's royal town; from elvira's gates to those of bivarambla on he goes. woe is me, alhama! letters to the monarch tell how alhama's city fell: in the fire the scroll he threw, and the messenger he slew. woe is me, alhama! he quits his mule, and mounts his horse, and through the street directs his course; through the street of zacatin to the alhambra spurring in. woe is me, alhama! when the alhambra walls he gained, on the moment he ordained that the trumpet straight should sound with the silver clarion round. woe is me, alhama! and when the hollow drums of war beat the loud alarm afar, that the moors of town and plain might answer to the martial strain-- woe is me, alhama!-- then the moors, by this aware, that bloody mars recalled them there one by one, and two by two, to a mighty squadron grew. woe is me, alhama! out then spake an aged moor in these words the king before, 'wherefore call on us, o king? what may mean this gathering?' woe is me, alhama! 'friends! ye have, alas! to know of a most disastrous blow; that the christians, stern and bold, have obtained alhama's hold.' woe is me, alhama! out then spake old alfaqui, with his beard so white to see, 'good king! thou art justly served, good king! this thou hast deserved. woe is me, alhama! by thee were slain, in evil hour, the abencerrage, granada's flower; and strangers were received by thee of cordova the chivalry. woe is me, alhama! and for this, o king! is sent on thee a double chastisement: thee and thine, thy crown and realm, one last wreck shall overwhelm. woe is me, alhama! he who holds no laws in awe, he must perish by the law; and granada must be won, and thyself with her undone.' woe is me, alhama! fire flashed from out the old moor's eyes, the monarch's wrath began to rise, because he answered, and because he spake exceeding well of laws. woe is me, alhama! 'there is no law to say such things as may disgust the ear of kings:' thus, snorting with his choler, said the moorish king, and doomed him dead. woe is me, alhama! moor alfaqui! moor alfaqui! though thy beard so hoary be, the king hath sent to have thee seized, for alhama's loss displeased. woe is me, alhama! and to fix thy head upon high alhambra's loftiest stone; that this for thee should be the law, and others tremble when they saw. woe is me, alhama! 'cavalier, and man of worth! let these words of mine go forth! let the moorish monarch know, that to him i nothing owe. woe is me, alhama! but on my soul alhama weighs, and on my inmost spirit preys; and if the king his land hath lost, yet others may have lost the most. woe is me, alhama! sires have lost their children, wives their lords, and valiant men their lives! one what best his love might claim hath lost, another wealth, or fame. woe is me, alhama! i lost a damsel in that hour, of all the land the loveliest flower; doubloons a hundred i would pay, and think her ransom cheap that day.' woe is me, alhama! and as these things the old moor said, they severed from the trunk his head; and to the alhambra's wall with speed 'twas carried, as the king decreed. woe is me, alhama! and men and infants therein weep their loss, so heavy and so deep; granada's ladies, all she rears within her walls, burst into tears. woe is me, alhama! and from the windows o'er the walls the sable web of mourning falls; the king weeps as a woman o'er his loss, for it is much and sore. woe is me, alhama! _byron._ lxxv friendship my boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea; but, before i go, tom moore, here's a double health to thee! here's a sigh to those who love me, and a smile to those who hate; and, whatever sky's above me, here's a heart for every fate. though the ocean roar around me, yet it still shall bear me on; though a desert should surround me, it hath springs that may be won. were 't the last drop in the well, as i gasped upon the brink, ere my fainting spirit fell, 'tis to thee that i would drink. with that water, as this wine, the libation i would pour should be, 'peace with thine and mine, and a health to thee, tom moore!' _byron._ lxxvi the race with death o venice! venice! when thy marble walls are level with the waters, there shall be a cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, a loud lament along the sweeping sea! if i, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, what should thy sons do?--anything but weep: and yet they only murmur in their sleep. in contrast with their fathers--as the slime, the dull green ooze of the receding deep, is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam that drives the sailor shipless to his home, are they to those that were; and thus they creep, crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. o agony! that centuries should reap no mellower harvest! thirteen hundred years of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears, and every monument the stranger meets, church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; and even the lion all subdued appears, and the harsh sound of the barbarian drum with dull and daily dissonance repeats the echo of thy tyrant's voice along the soft waves, once all musical to song, that heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng of gondolas and to the busy hum of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds were but the overbeating of the heart, and flow of too much happiness, which needs the aid of age to turn its course apart from the luxuriant and voluptuous flood of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. but these are better than the gloomy errors, the weeds of nations in their last decay, when vice walks forth with her unsoftened terrors, and mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; and hope is nothing but a false delay, the sick man's lightening half an hour ere death, when faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, and apathy of limb, the dull beginning of the cold staggering race which death is winning, steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, to him appears renewal of his breath, and freedom the mere numbness of his chain; and then he talks of life, and how again he feels his spirits soaring--albeit weak, and of the fresher air, which he would seek: and as he whispers knows not that he gasps, that his thin finger feels not what it clasps; and so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy chamber swims round and round, and shadows busy, at which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, and all is ice and blackness, and the earth that which it was the moment ere our birth. _byron._ lxxvii the glory that was greece the isles of greece, the isles of greece! where burning sappho loved and sung, where grew the arts of war and peace, where delos rose, and phoebus sprung! eternal summer gilds them yet, but all except their sun is set. the scian and the teian muse, the hero's harp, the lover's lute, have found the fame your shores refuse: their place of birth alone is mute to sounds which echo further west than your sires' 'islands of the blest.' the mountains look on marathon-- and marathon looks on the sea; and, musing there an hour alone, i dreamed that greece might still be free; for, standing on the persians' grave, i could not deem myself a slave. a king sate on the rocky brow which looks o'er sea-born salamis; and ships by thousands lay below, and men in nations;--all were his! he counted them at break of day, and when the sun set, where were they? and where are they? and where art thou, my country? on thy voiceless shore the heroic lay is tuneless now, the heroic bosom beats no more! and must thy lyre, so long divine, degenerate into hands like mine? 'tis something in the dearth of fame, though linked among a fettered race, to feel at least a patriot's shame, even as i sing, suffuse my face; for what is left the poet here? for greeks a blush, for greece a tear! must _we_ but weep o'er days more blest? must _we_ but blush? our fathers bled. earth! render back from out thy breast a remnant of our spartan dead! of the three hundred grant but three, to make a new thermopylæ! what, silent still? and silent all? ah! no: the voices of the dead sound like a distant torrent's fall, and answer, 'let one living head, but one arise,--we come, we come!' 'tis but the living who are dumb. in vain--in vain: strike other chords; fill high the cup with samian wine! leave battles to the turkish hordes, and shed the blood of scio's vine! hark! rising to the ignoble call, how answers each bold bacchanal! you have the pyrrhic dance as yet; where is the pyrrhic phalanx gone? of two such lessons, why forget the nobler and the manlier one? you have the letters cadmus gave; think ye he meant them for a slave? fill high the bowl with samian wine! we will not think of themes like these! it made anacreon's song divine: he served--but served polycrates: a tyrant; but our masters then were still, at least, our countrymen. the tyrant of the chersonese was freedom's best and bravest friend; _that_ tyrant was miltiades! oh! that the present hour would lend another despot of the kind! such chains as his were sure to bind. fill high the bowl with samian wine! on suli's rock and parga's shore exists the remnant of a line such as the doric mothers bore; and there, perhaps, some seed is sown the heracleidan blood might own. trust not for freedom to the franks-- they have a king who buys and sells; in native swords and native ranks the only hope of courage dwells: but turkish force and latin fraud would break your shield, however broad. fill high the bowl with samian wine! our virgins dance beneath the shade-- i see their glorious black eyes shine; but, gazing on each glowing maid, my own the burning tear-drop laves, to think such breasts must suckle slaves. place me on sunium's marbled steep, where nothing save the waves and i may hear our mutual murmurs sweep; there, swan-like, let me sing and die: a land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-- dash down yon cup of samian wine! _byron._ lxxviii hail and farewell 'tis time this heart should be unmoved, since others it hath ceased to move: yet, though i cannot be beloved, still let me love! my days are in the yellow leaf; the flowers and fruits of love are gone; the worm, the canker, and the grief are mine alone! the fire that on my bosom preys is lone as some volcanic isle; no torch is kindled at its blaze-- a funeral pile. the hope, the fear, the jealous care, the exalted portion of the pain and power of love, i cannot share, but wear the chain. but 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here, such thoughts should shake my soul, nor _now_ where glory decks the hero's bier, or binds his brow. the sword, the banner, and the field, glory and greece, around me see! the spartan borne upon his shield was not more free. awake! (not greece--she _is_ awake!) awake, my spirit! think through _whom_ thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, and then strike home! tread those reviving passions down, unworthy manhood! unto thee indifferent should the smile or frown of beauty be. if thou regrett'st thy youth, _why live?_ the lad of honourable death is here: up to the field, and give away thy breath! seek out--less often sought than found-- a soldier's grave, for thee the best; then look around, and choose thy ground, and take thy rest. _byron._ lxxix after corunna not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corse to the rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. we buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning, by the struggling moonbeam's misty light, and the lantern dimly burning. no useless coffin enclosed his breast, nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; but he lay like a warrior taking his rest with his martial cloak around him. few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow; but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. we thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed and smoothed down his lonely pillow, how the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow! lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on in the grave where a briton has laid him. but half of our heavy task was done, when the clock struck the hour for retiring; and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- but we left him alone with his glory. _wolfe._ lxxx the old navy the captain stood on the carronade: 'first lieutenant,' says he, 'send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me; i haven't the gift of the gab, my sons--because i'm bred to the sea; that ship there is a frenchman, who means to fight with we. and odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as i've been to sea, i've fought 'gainst every odds--but i've gained the victory! that ship there is a frenchman, and if we don't take _she_, 'tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture _we_; i haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun; if she's not mine in half an hour, i'll flog each mother's son. for odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as i've been to sea, i've fought 'gainst every odds--and i've gained the victory!' we fought for twenty minutes, when the frenchman had enough; 'i little thought,' said he, 'that your men were of such stuff'; our captain took the frenchman's sword, a low bow made to _he_; 'i haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite i wish to be. and odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as i've been to sea, i've fought 'gainst every odds--and i've gained the victory!' our captain sent for all of us: 'my merry men,' said he, 'i haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet i thankful be. you've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; if you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, i'd have flogged each mother's son. for odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as i'm at sea, i'll fight 'gainst every odds--and i'll gain the victory!' _marryat._ lxxxi casabianca the boy stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm: a creature of heroic blood, a proud though child-like form. the flames rolled on--he would not go without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he called aloud; 'say, father! say if yet my task is done!' he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. 'speak, father!' once again he cried, 'if i may yet be gone!' and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair; he looked from that lone post of death in still yet brave despair, and shouted but once more aloud, 'my father! must i stay?' while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and streamed above the gallant child like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder-sound-- the boy--o! where was he? ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea: with mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part! but the noblest thing which perished there was that young faithful heart. _hemans._ lxxxii the pilgrim fathers the breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast, and the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed; and the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, when a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild new england shore. not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came; not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame; not as the flying come, in silence and in fear;-- they shook the depths of the desert gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard and the sea; and the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang to the anthem of the free! the ocean eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam; and the rocking pines of the forest roared-- this was their welcome home! there were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; why had _they_ come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? there was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; there was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. what sought they thus afar? bright jewels of the mine? the wealth of seas, the spoils of war? they sought a faith's pure shrine! ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod. they have left unstained what there they found-- freedom to worship god. _hemans._ lxxxiii to the adventurous much have i travelled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen; round many western islands have i been which bards in fealty to apollo hold. oft of one wide expanse had i been told that deep-browed homer ruled as his demesne: yet did i never breathe its pure serene till i heard chapman speak out loud and bold: then felt i like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken; or like stout cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the pacific--and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise-- silent, upon a peak in darien. _keats._ lxxxiv horatius the trysting lars porsena of clusium by the nine gods he swore that the great house of tarquin should suffer wrong no more. by the nine gods he swore it, and named a trysting day, and bade his messengers ride forth east and west and south and north to summon his array. east and west and south and north the messengers ride fast, and tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast. shame on the false etruscan who lingers in his home, when porsena of clusium is on the march for rome. the horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain from many a stately market-place, from many a fruitful plain; from many a lonely hamlet which, hid by beech and pine, like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest of purple apennine; from lordly volaterræ, where scowls the far-famed hold piled by the hands of giants for godlike kings of old; from sea-girt populonia whose sentinels descry sardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky; from the proud mart of pisæ, queen of the western waves, where ride massilia's triremes heavy with fair-haired slaves; from where sweet clanis wanders through corn and vines and flowers; from where cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers. tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark auser's rill; fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the ciminian hill; beyond all streams clitumnus is to the herdsman dear; best of all pools the fowler loves the great volsinian mere. but now no stroke of woodman is heard by auser's rill; no hunter tracks the stag's green path up the ciminian hill; unwatched along clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer; unharmed the water-fowl may dip in the volsinian mere. the harvests of arretium this year old men shall reap; this year young boys in umbro shall plunge the struggling sheep; and in the vats of luna this year the must shall foam round the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have marched to rome. there be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land, who alway by lars porsena both morn and evening stand: evening and morn the thirty have turned the verses o'er, traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore. and with one voice the thirty have their glad answer given: 'go forth, go forth, lars porsena; go forth, beloved of heaven; go, and return in glory to clusium's royal dome, and hang round nurscia's altars the golden shields of rome.' and now hath every city sent up her tale of men; the foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten. before the gates of sutrium is met the great array. a proud man was lars porsena upon the trysting day! for all the etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye, and many a banished roman, and many a stout ally; and with a mighty following to join the muster came the tusculan mamilius, prince of the latian name. the trouble in rome but by the yellow tiber was tumult and affright: from all the spacious champaign to rome men took their flight. a mile around the city the throng stopped up the ways; a fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days. for aged folk on crutches, and women great with child, and mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled, and sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves, and troops of sun-burned husbandmen with reaping-hooks and staves, and droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine, and endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of kine, and endless trains of waggons that creaked beneath the weight of corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaring gate. now from the rock tarpeian could the wan burghers spy the line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky. the fathers of the city, they sat all night and day, for every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay. to eastward and to westward have spread the tuscan bands; nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in crustumerium stands. verbenna down to ostia hath wasted all the plain; astur hath stormed janiculum, and the stout guards are slain. i wis, in all the senate there was no heart so bold but sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told. forthwith up rose the consul, up rose the fathers all; in haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall. they held a council standing before the river-gate; short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate. out spake the consul roundly: 'the bridge must straight go down; for, since janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town.' just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear: 'to arms! to arms! sir consul: lars porsena is here.' on the low hills to westward the consul fixed his eye, and saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky. and nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come; and louder still and still more loud, from underneath that rolling cloud is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling, and the hum. and plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears, far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light, the long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears. and plainly and more plainly above that glimmering line now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine; but the banner of proud clusium was highest of them all, the terror of the umbrian, the terror of the gaul. and plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know, by port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike lucumo. there cilnius of arretium on his fleet roan was seen; and astur of the fourfold shield, girt with the brand none else may wield, tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark verbenna from the hold by reedy thrasymene. fast by the royal standard o'erlooking all the war, lars porsena of clusium sate in his ivory car. by the right wheel rode mamilius, prince of the latian name; and by the left false sextus, that wrought the deed of shame. but when the face of sextus was seen among the foes, a yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose. on the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him, and hissed; no child but screamed out curses, and shook its little fist. but the consul's brow was sad, and the consul's speech was low, and darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. 'their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; and if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?' then out spake brave horatius, the captain of the gate: 'to every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late; and how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods, and for the tender mother who dandled him to rest, and for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast, and for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame, to save them from false sextus that wrought the deed of shame? hew down the bridge, sir consul, with all the speed ye may; i, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. in yon strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three. now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?' then out spake spurius lartius, a ramnian proud was he: 'lo, i will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee.' and out spake strong heminius, of titian blood was he: 'i will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee.' 'horatius,' quoth the consul, 'as thou sayest, so let it be.' and straight against that great array forth went the dauntless three. for romans in rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold, nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old. then none was for a party; then all were for the state; then the great man helped the poor, and the poor man loved the great: then lands were fairly portioned; then spoils were fairly sold: the romans were like brothers in the brave days of old. now roman is to roman more hateful than a foe, and the tribunes beard the high, and the fathers grind the low. as we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold: wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old. the keeping of the bridge now while the three were tightening their harness on their backs, the consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe: and fathers mixed with commons seized hatchet, bar, and crow, and smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props below. meanwhile the tuscan army, right glorious to behold, came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like surges bright of a broad sea of gold. four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee, as that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread, rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntless three. the three stood calm and silent, and looked upon the foes, and a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose: and forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array; to earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high their shields, and flew to win the narrow way; aunus from green tifernum, lord of the hill of vines; and seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in ilva's mines; and picus, long to clusium vassal in peace and war, who led to fight his umbrian powers from that grey crag where, girt with towers, the fortress of nequinum lowers o'er the pale waves of nar. stout lartius hurled down aunus into the stream beneath: herminius struck at seius, and clove him to the teeth: at picus brave horatius darted one fiery thrust, and the proud umbrian's gilded arms clashed in the bloody dust. then ocnus of falerii rushed on the roman three; and lausulus of urgo, the rover of the sea; and aruns of volsinium, who slew the great wild boar, the great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of cosa's fen, and wasted fields, and slaughtered men, along albinia's shore. herminius smote down aruns: lartius laid ocnus low: right to the heart of lausulus horatius sent a blow. 'lie there,' he cried, 'fell pirate! no more, aghast and pale, from ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thy destroying bark. no more campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns when they spy thy thrice-accursed sail.' but now no sound of laughter was heard amongst the foes. a wild and wrathful clamour from all the vanguard rose. six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array, and for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way. but hark! the cry is astur: and lo! the ranks divide; and the great lord of luna comes with his stately stride. upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the fourfold shield, and in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield. he smiled on those bold romans a smile serene and high; he eyed the flinching tuscans, and scorn was in his eye. quoth he, 'the she-wolf's litter stands savagely at bay: but will ye dare to follow, if astur clears the way?' then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height, he rushed against horatius, and smote with all his might. with shield and blade horatius right deftly turned the blow. the blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; it missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: the tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow. he reeled, and on herminius he leaned one breathing-space; then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, sprang right at astur's face. through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped the good sword stood a handbreadth out behind the tuscan's head. and the great lord of luna fell at that deadly stroke, as falls on mount alvernus a thunder-smitten oak: far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread; and the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head. on astur's throat horatius right firmly pressed his heel, and thrice and four times tugged amain, ere he wrenched out the steel. 'and see,' he cried, 'the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here! what noble lucumo comes next to taste our roman cheer?' but at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran, mingled of wrath and shame and dread, along that glittering van. there lacked not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race; for all etruria's noblest were round the fatal place. but all etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see on the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless three: and, from the ghastly entrance where those bold romans stood, all shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to start a hare, come to the mouth of the dark lair where, growling low, a fierce old bear lies amidst bones and blood. was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack; but those behind cried 'forward!' and those before cried 'back!' and backward now and forward wavers the deep array; and on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel; and the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away. yet one man for one moment strode out before the crowd; well known was he to all the three, and they gave him greeting loud. 'now welcome, welcome, sextus! now welcome to thy home! why dost thou stay, and turn away? here lies the road to rome.' thrice looked he at the city; thrice looked he at the dead; and thrice came on in fury, and thrice turned back in dread: and, white with fear and hatred, scowled at the narrow way where, wallowing in a pool of blood, the bravest tuscans lay. but meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied; and now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. 'come back, come back, horatius!' loud cried the fathers all. 'back, lartius! back, herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!' back darted spurius lartius; herminius darted back: and, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack. but, when they turned their faces, and on the farther shore saw brave horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once more. but with a crash like thunder fell every loosened beam, and, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream: and a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of rome, as to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam. and, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein, the furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane; and burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free; and whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, and pier, rushed headlong to the sea. father tiber alone stood brave horatius, but constant still in mind; thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. 'down with him!' cried false sextus, with a smile on his pale face. 'now yield thee,' cried lars porsena, 'now yield thee to our grace.' round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see; nought spake he to lars porsena, to sextus nought spake he; but he saw on palatinus the white porch of his home; and he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of rome. 'o tiber! father tiber! to whom the romans pray, a roman's life, a roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!' so he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side, and with his harness on his back plunged headlong in the tide. no sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank; but friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes, stood gazing where he sank; and when above the surges they saw his crest appear, all rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. but fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain: and fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain, and heavy with his armour, and spent with changing blows: and oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. never, i ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place: but his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, and our good father tiber bare bravely up his chin. 'curse on him!' quoth false sextus; 'will not the villain drown? but for this stay ere close of day we should have sacked the town!' 'heaven help him!' quoth lars porsena, 'and bring him safe to shore; for such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before.' and now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands; now round him throng the fathers to press his gory hands; and now with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, he enters through the river-gate, borne by the joyous crowd. they gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right, as much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night; and they made a molten image, and set it up on high, and there it stands unto this day to witness if i lie. it stands in the comitium plain for all folk to see; horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee: and underneath is written, in letters all of gold, how valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old. and still his name sounds stirring unto the men of rome, as the trumpet-blast that cries to them to charge the volscian home; and wives still pray to juno for boys with hearts as bold as his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old. and in the nights of winter, when the cold north winds blow, and the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow; when round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din, and the good logs of algidus roar louder yet within; when the oldest cask is opened, and the largest lamp is lit; when the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns on the spit; when young and old in circle around the firebrands close; when the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping bows; when the goodman mends his armour and trims his helmet's plume; when the goodwife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom; with weeping and with laughter still is the story told, how well horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old. _macaulay._ lxxxv the armada attend, all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise; i tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain the richest spoils of mexico, the stoutest hearts of spain. it was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, there came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to plymouth bay; her crew hath seen castile's black fleet, beyond aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. at sunrise she escaped their van, by god's especial grace; and the tall pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; the beacon blazed upon the roof of edgecumbe's lofty hall; many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast, and with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. with his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums; his yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space; for there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace. and haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! so stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed picard field, bohemia's plume, and genoa's bow, and cæsar's eagle shield. so glared he when at agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, and crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: ho! gunners, fire a loud salute; ho! gallants, draw your blades: thou sun, shine on her joyously: ye breezes, waft her wide; our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our pride. the freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold; the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; night sank upon the dusky beach and on the purple sea, such night in england ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. from eddystone to berwick bounds, from lynn to milford bay, that time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; for swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, high on st. michael's mount it shone: it shone on beachy head. far on the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. the fisher left his skiff to rock on tamar's glittering waves: the rugged miners poured to war from mendip's sunless caves! o'er longleat's towers, o'er cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew: he roused the shepherds of stonehenge, the rangers of beaulieu. right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from bristol town, and ere the day three hundred horse had met on clifton down; the sentinel on whitehall gate looked forth into the night, and saw o'erhanging richmond hill the streak of blood-red light: then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, and with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. at once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; at once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; from all the batteries of the tower pealed loud the voice of fear; and all the thousand masts of thames sent back a louder cheer; and from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, and the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street; and broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, as fast from every village round the horse came spurring in. and eastward straight from wild blackheath the warlike errand went, and roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of kent. southward from surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; high on bleak hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; and on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still: all night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill: till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er darwin's rocky dales, till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy huts of wales, till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on malvern's lonely height, till streamed in crimson on the wind the wrekin's crest of light, till broad and fierce the star came forth on ely's stately fane, and tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; till belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to lincoln sent, and lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of trent; till skiddaw saw the fire that burned on gaunt's embattled pile, and the red glare on skiddaw roused the burghers of carlisle. _macaulay._ lxxxvi the last buccaneer the winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, the sky was black and drear, when the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name alongside the last buccaneer. 'whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, when all others drive bare on the seas? say, come ye from the shore of the holy salvador, or the gulf of the rich caribbees?' 'from a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound, without rudder or needle we steer; above, below, our bark dies the sea-fowl and the shark, as we fly by the last buccaneer. to-night there shall be heard on the rocks of cape de verde a loud crash and a louder roar; and to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning sweep the corpses and wreck to the shore,' the stately ship of clyde securely now may ride in the breath of the citron shades; and severn's towering mast securely now hies fast, through the seas of the balmy trades. from st jago's wealthy port, from havannah's royal fort, the seaman goes forth without fear; for since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight of the flag of the last buccaneer. _macaulay._ lxxxvii a jacobite's epitaph to my true king i offered free from stain courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. for him, i threw lands, honours, wealth, away, and one dear hope, that was more prized than they. for him i languished in a foreign clime, grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; heard on lavernia scargill's whispering trees, and pined by arno for my lovelier tees; beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, each morning started from the dream to weep; till god, who saw me tried too sorely, gave the resting-place i asked--an early grave. oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, from that proud country which was once mine own, by those white cliffs i never more must see, by that dear language which i speak like thee, forget all feuds, and shed one english tear o'er english dust. a broken heart lies here. _macaulay._ lxxxviii the song of the western men a good sword and a trusty hand! a merry heart and true! king james's men shall understand what cornish lads can do. and have they fixed the where and when? and shall trelawny die? here's twenty thousand cornish men will know the reason why! out spake their captain brave and bold, a merry wight was he: 'if london tower were michael's hold, we'll set trelawny free! we'll cross the tamar, land to land, the severn is no stay, with "one and all," and hand in hand, and who shall bid us nay? and when we come to london wall, a pleasant sight to view, come forth! come forth! ye cowards all, here's men as good as you. trelawny he's in keep and hold, trelawny he may die; but here's twenty thousand cornish bold will know the reason why!' _hawker._ lxxxix the building of the ship the model 'build me straight, o worthy master! staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, that shall laugh at all disaster, and with wave and whirlwind wrestle!' the merchant's word delighted the master heard; for his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art. a quiet smile played round his lips, as the eddies and dimples of the tide play round the bows of ships, that steadily at anchor ride. and with a voice that was full of glee, he answered, 'ere long we will launch a vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, as ever weathered a wintry sea!' and first with nicest skill and art, perfect and finished in every part, a little model the master wrought, which should be to the larger plan what the child is to the man, its counterpart in miniature; that with a hand more swift and sure the greater labour might be brought to answer to his inward thought. and as he laboured, his mind ran o'er the various ships that were built of yore, and above them all, and strangest of all, towered the great harry, crank and tall, whose picture was hanging on the wall, with bows and stern raised high in air, and balconies hanging here and there, and signal lanterns and flags afloat, and eight round towers, like those that frown from some old castle, looking down upon the drawbridge and the moat. and he said with a smile, 'our ship, i wis, shall be of another form than this!' it was of another form, indeed; built for freight, and yet for speed, a beautiful and gallant craft; broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, pressing down upon sail and mast, might not the sharp bows overwhelm; broad in the beam, but sloping aft with graceful curve and slow degrees, that she might be docile to the helm, and that the currents of parted seas, closing behind, with mighty force, might aid and not impede her course. the builders in the ship-yard stood the master, with the model of the vessel, that should laugh at all disaster, and with wave and whirlwind wrestle! covering many a rood of ground, lay the timber piled around; timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, and scattered here and there, with these, the knarred and crooked cedar knees; brought from regions far away, from pascagoula's sunny bay, and the banks of the roaring roanoke! ah! what a wondrous thing it is to note how many wheels of toil one thought, one word, can set in motion! there's not a ship that sails the ocean, but every climate, every soil, must bring its tribute, great or small, and help to build the wooden wall! the sun was rising o'er the sea, and long the level shadows lay, as if they, too, the beams would be of some great, airy argosy, framed and launched in a single day. that silent architect, the sun, had hewn and laid them every one, ere the work of man was yet begun. beside the master, when he spoke, a youth, against an anchor leaning, listened to catch his slightest meaning. only the long waves, as they broke in ripples on the pebbly beach, interrupted the old man's speech. beautiful they were, in sooth, the old man and the fiery youth! the old man, in whose busy brain many a ship that sailed the main was modelled o'er and o'er again;-- the fiery youth, who was to be the heir of his dexterity, the heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, when he had built and launched from land what the elder head had planned. 'thus,' said he, 'will we build this ship! lay square the blocks upon the slip, and follow well this plan of mine. choose the timbers with greatest care; of all that is unsound beware; for only what is sound and strong to this vessel shall belong. cedar of maine and georgia pine here together shall combine. a goodly frame, and a goodly fame, and the union be her name! for the day that gives her to the sea shall give my daughter unto thee!' the master's word enrapturèd the young man heard; and as he turned his face aside, with a look of joy and a thrill of pride, standing before her father's door, he saw the form of his promised bride. the sun shone on her golden hair, and her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, with the breath of morn and the soft sea air. like a beauteous barge was she, still at rest on the sandy beach, just beyond the billow's reach; but he was the restless, seething, stormy sea! ah! how skilful grows the hand that obeyeth love's command! it is the heart, and not the brain, that to the highest doth attain, and he who followeth love's behest far exceedeth all the rest! thus with the rising of the sun was the noble task begun, and soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds were heard the intermingled sounds of axes and of mallets, plied with vigourous arms on every side; plied so deftly and so well, that ere the shadows of evening fell, the keel of oak for a noble ship, scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, was lying ready, and stretched along the blocks, well placed upon the slip. happy, thrice happy, every one who sees his labour well begun, and not perplexed and multiplied, by idly waiting for time and tide! and when the hot, long day was o'er, the young man at the master's door sat with the maiden calm and still. and within the porch, a little more removed beyond the evening chill, the father sat, and told them tales of wrecks in the great september gales, of pirates upon the spanish main, and ships that never came back again; the chance and change of a sailor's life, want and plenty, rest and strife, his roving fancy, like the wind, that nothing can stay and nothing can bind: and the magic charm of foreign lands, with shadows of palms and shining sands, where the tumbling surf, o'er the coral reefs of madagascar, washes the feet of the swarthy lascar, as he lies alone and asleep on the turf. and the trembling maiden held her breath at the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, with all its terror and mystery, the dim, dark sea, so like unto death, that divides and yet unites mankind! and whenever the old man paused, a gleam from the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume the silent group in the twilight gloom, and thoughtful faces, as in a dream; and for a moment one might mark what had been hidden by the dark, that the head of the maiden lay at rest, tenderly, on the young man's breast! in the ship-yard day by day the vessel grew, with timbers fashioned strong and true, stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, till, framed with perfect symmetry, a skeleton ship rose up to view! and round the bows and along the side the heavy hammers and mallets plied, till after many a week, at length, wonderful for form and strength, sublime in its enormous bulk, loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! and around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething caldron that glowed, and overflowed with the black tar, heated for the sheathing. and amid the clamours of clattering hammers, he who listened heard now and then the song of the master and his men:-- 'build me straight, o worthy master, staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, that shall laugh at all disaster, and with wave and whirlwind wrestle!' with oaken brace and copper band, lay the rudder on the sand, that, like a thought, should have control over the movement of the whole; and near it the anchor, whose giant hand would reach down and grapple with the land, and immovable and fast hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! and at the bows an image stood, by a cunning artist carved in wood, with robes of white, that far behind seemed to be fluttering in the wind. it was not shaped in a classic mould, not like a nymph or goddess of old, or naiad rising from the water, but modelled from the master's daughter! on many a dreary and misty night 'twill be seen by the rays of the signal light, speeding along through the rain and the dark, like a ghost in its snow-white sark, the pilot of some phantom bark, guiding the vessel in its flight by a path none other knows aright, behold, at last, each tall and tapering mast is swung into its place; shrouds and stays holding it firm and fast! long ago, in the deer-haunted forests of maine, when upon mountain and plain lay the snow, they fell--those lordly pines! those grand, majestic pines! 'mid shouts and cheers the jaded steers, panting beneath the goad, dragged down the weary, winding road those captive kings so straight and tall, to be shorn of their streaming hair and, naked and bare, to feel the stress and the strain of the wind and the reeling main, whose roar would remind them for evermore of their native forest they should not see again. and everywhere the slender, graceful spars poise aloft in the air, and at the mast head, white, blue, and red, a flag unrolls the stripes and stars, ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, in foreign harbours shall behold that flag unrolled, 'twill be as a friendly hand stretched out from his native land, filling his heart with memories sweet and endless. the two bridals all is finished! and at length has come the bridal day of beauty and of strength. to-day the vessel shall be launched! with fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, and o'er the bay, slowly, in all his splendours dight, the great sun rises to behold the sight. the ocean old, centuries old, strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, paces restless to and fro up and down the sands of gold. his beating heart is not at rest; and far and wide, with ceaseless flow, his beard of snow heaves with the heaving of his breast. he waits impatient for his bride. there she stands, with her foot upon the sands, decked with flags and streamers gay in honour of her marriage day, her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, round her like a veil descending, ready to be the bride of the grey, old sea. on the deck another bride is standing by her lover's side. shadows from the flags and shrouds, like the shadows cast by clouds, broken by many a sunny fleck, fall around them on the deck. the prayer is said, the service read, the joyous bridegroom bows his head, and in tears the good old master shakes the brown hand of his son, kisses his daughter's glowing cheek in silence, for he cannot speak, and ever faster down his own the tears begin to run. the worthy pastor-- the shepherd of that wandering flock, that has the ocean for its wold, that has the vessel for its fold, leaping ever from rock to rock-- spake, with accents mild and clear, words of warning, words of cheer, but tedious to the bridegroom's ear. he knew the chart, of the sailor's heart, all its pleasures and its griefs, all its shallows and rocky reefs, all those secret currents that flow with such resistless undertow, and lift and drift with terrible force, the will from its moorings and its course. therefore he spake, and thus said he: 'like unto ships far off at sea, outward or homeward bound, are we. before, behind, and all around, floats and swings the horizon's bound, seems at its distant rim to rise and climb the crystal wall of the skies, and then again to turn and sink, as if we could slide from its outer brink. ah! it is not the sea, it is not the sea that sinks and shelves, but ourselves that rock and rise with endless and uneasy motion, now touching the very skies, now sinking into the depths of ocean. ah! if our souls but poise and swing like the compass in its brazen ring, ever level, and ever true to the toil and the task we have to do, we shall sail securely, and safely reach the fortunate isles, on whose shining beach the sights we see, and the sounds we hear, will be those of joy and not of fear!' then the master, with a gesture of command, waved his hand; and at the word, loud and sudden there was heard, all around them and below, the sound of hammers, blow on blow, knocking away the shores and spurs. and see! she stirs! she starts--she moves--she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel, and, spurning with her foot the ground, with one exulting, joyous bound, she leaps into the ocean's arms! and lo! from the assembled crowd there rose a shout, prolonged and loud, that to the ocean seemed to say,-- 'take her, o bridegroom, old and grey, take her to thy protecting arms, with all her youth and all her charms!' how beautiful she is! how fair she lies within those arms, that press her form with many a soft caress of tenderness and watchful care! sail forth into the sea, o ship! through wind and wave, right onward steer! the moistened eye, the trembling lip, are not the signs of doubt or fear. sail forth into the sea of life, o gentle, loving, trusting wife, and safe from all adversity upon the bosom of that sea thy comings and thy goings be! for gentleness and love and trust prevail o'er angry wave and gust; and in the wreck of noble lives something immortal still survives! thou, too, sail on, o ship of state! sail on, o union, strong and great! humanity with all its fears, with all the hopes of future years, is hanging breathless on thy fate! we know what master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, who made each mast, and sail, and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'tis of the wave and not the rock; 'tis but the flapping of the sail, and not a rent made by the gale! in spite of rock and tempest's roar, in spite of false lights on the shore, sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o'er our fears, are all with thee,--are all with thee! _longfellow._ xc the discoverer of the north cape othere, the old sea-captain, who dwelt in helgoland, to king alfred, the lover of truth, brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, which he held in his brown right hand. his figure was tall and stately, like a boy's his eye appeared; his hair was yellow as hay, but threads of a silvery grey gleamed in his tawny beard. hearty and hale was othere, his cheek had the colour of oak; with a kind of laugh in his speech, like the sea-tide on a beach, as unto the king he spoke. and alfred, king of the saxons, had a book upon his knees, and wrote down the wondrous tale of him who was first to sail into the arctic seas. 'so far i live to the northward, no man lives north of me; to the east are wild mountain-chains, and beyond them meres and plains; to the westward all is sea. so far i live to the northward, from the harbour of skeringes-hale, if you only sailed by day with a fair wind all the way, more than a month would you sail. i own six hundred reindeer, with sheep and swine beside; i have tribute from the finns, whalebone and reindeer-skins, and ropes of walrus-hide. i ploughed the land with horses, but my heart was ill at ease, for the old seafaring men came to me now and then, with their sagas of the seas;-- of iceland and of greenland, and the stormy hebrides, and the undiscovered deep;-- i could not eat nor sleep for thinking of those seas. to the northward stretched the desert, how far i fain would know; so at last i sallied forth, and three days sailed due north, as far as the whale-ships go. to the west of me was the ocean, to the right the desolate shore, but i did not slacken sail for the walrus or the whale, till after three days more. the days grew longer and longer, till they became as one, and southward through the haze i saw the sullen blaze of the red midnight sun. and then uprose before me, upon the water's edge, the huge and haggard shape of that unknown north cape, whose form is like a wedge. the sea was rough and stormy, the tempest howled and wailed, and the sea-fog, like a ghost, haunted that dreary coast, but onward still i sailed. four days i steered to eastward, four days without a night: round in a fiery ring went the great sun, o king, with red and lurid light.' here alfred, king of the saxons, ceased writing for a while; and raised his eyes from his book, with a strange and puzzled look, and an incredulous smile. but othere, the old sea-captain, he neither paused nor stirred, till the king listened, and then once more took up his pen, and wrote down every word. 'and now the land,' said othere, 'bent southward suddenly, and i followed the curving shore, and ever southward bore into a nameless sea. and there we hunted the walrus, the narwhale, and the seal; ha! 'twas a noble game! and like the lightning's flame flew our harpoons of steel. there were six of us all together, norsemen of helgoland; in two days and no more we killed of them threescore, and dragged them to the strand.' here alfred, the truth-teller, suddenly closed his book, and lifted his blue eyes, with doubt and strange surmise depicted in their look. and othere, the old sea-captain, stared at him wild and weird, then smiled till his shining teeth gleamed white from underneath his tawny, quivering beard. and to the king of the saxons, in witness of the truth, raising his noble head, he stretched his brown hand, and said, 'behold this walrus-tooth!' _longfellow._ xci the cumberland at anchor in hampton roads we lay, on board of the cumberland, sloop of war; and at times from the fortress across the bay the alarum of drums swept past, or a bugle blast from the camp on the shore. then far away to the south uprose a little feather of snow-white smoke, and we knew that the iron ship of our foes was steadily steering its course to try the force of our ribs of oak. down upon us heavily runs, silent and sullen, the floating fort; then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, and leaps the terrible death, with fiery breath, from each open port. we are not idle, but send her straight defiance back in a full broadside! as hail rebounds from a roof of slate, rebounds our heavier hail from each iron scale of the monster's hide. 'strike your flag!' the rebel cries, in his arrogant old plantation strain 'never!' our gallant morris replies; 'it is better to sink than to yield!' and the whole air pealed with the cheers of our men. then, like a kraken huge and black, she crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! down went the cumberland all a wreck, with a sudden shudder of death, and the cannon's breath for her dying gasp. next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, still floated our flag at the mainmast head. lord, how beautiful was thy day! every waft of the air was a whisper of prayer, or a dirge for the dead. ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas, ye are at peace in the troubled stream! ho! brave land! with hearts like these, thy flag that is rent in twain shall be one again, and without a seam! _longfellow._ xcii a dutch picture simon danz has come home again, from cruising about with his buccaneers; he has singed the beard of the king of spain, and carried away the dean of jaen and sold him in algiers. in his house by the maes, with its roof of tiles and weathercocks flying aloft in air, there are silver tankards of antique styles, plunder of convent and castle, and piles of carpets rich and rare. in his tulip-garden there by the town, overlooking the sluggish stream, with his moorish cap and dressing-gown, the old sea-captain, hale and brown, walks in a waking dream. a smile in his grey mustachio lurks whenever he thinks of the king of spain, and the listed tulips look like turks, and the silent gardener as he works is changed to the dean of jaen. the windmills on the outermost verge of the landscape in the haze, to him are towers on the spanish coast with whiskered sentinels at their post, though this is the river maes. but when the winter rains begin, he sits and smokes by the blazing brands, and old seafaring men come in, goat-bearded, grey, and with double chin, and rings upon their hands. they sit there in the shadow and shine of the flickering fire of the winter night; figures in colour and design like those by rembrandt of the rhine, half darkness and half light. and they talk of their ventures lost or won, and their talk is ever and ever the same, while they drink the red wine of tarragon, from the cellars of some spanish don or convent set on flame. restless at times, with heavy strides he paces his parlour to and fro; he is like a ship that at anchor rides, and swings with the rising and falling tides, and tugs at her anchor-tow. voices mysterious far and near, sound of the wind and sound of the sea, are calling and whispering in his ear, 'simon danz! why stayest thou here? come forth and follow me!' so he thinks he shall take to the sea again for one more cruise with his buccaneers, to singe the beard of the king of spain, and capture another dean of jaen and sell him in algiers. _longfellow._ xciii barbara frietchie up from the meadows rich with corn, clear in the cool september morn, the clustered spires of frederick stand green-walled by the hills of maryland. round about them orchards sweep, apple and peach tree fruited deep, fair as a garden of the lord to the eyes of the famished rebel horde on that pleasant morn of the early fall when lee marched over the mountain wall, over the mountains winding down, horse and foot into frederick town. forty flags with their silver stars, forty flags with their crimson bars, flapped in the morning wind: the sun of noon looked down, and saw not one. up rose old barbara frietchie then, bowed with her fourscore years and ten; bravest of all in frederick town, she took up the flag the men hauled down; in her attic window the staff she set, to show that one heart was loyal yet. up the street came the rebel tread, stonewall jackson riding ahead. under his slouched hat left and right he glanced; the old flag met his sight. 'halt!'--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 'fire!'--out blazed the rifle-blast. it shivered the window, pane and sash; it rent the banner with seam and gash. quick, as it fell, from the broken staff dame barbara snatched the silken scarf; she leaned far out on the window-sill, and shook it forth with a royal will. 'shoot, if you must, this old grey head, but spare your country's flag,' she said. a shade of sadness, a blush of shame, over the face of the leader came; the nobler nature within him stirred to life at that woman's deed and word: 'who touches a hair of yon grey head dies like a dog! march on!' he said. all day long through frederick street sounded the tread of marching feet: all day long that free flag tost over the heads of the rebel host. ever its torn folds rose and fell on the loyal winds that loved it well; and through the hill-gaps sunset light shone over it with a warm good-night. _whittier._ xciv a ballad of the fleet at flores in the azores sir richard grenville lay, and a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away: 'spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!' then sware lord thomas howard: ''fore god i am no coward; but i cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, and the half my men are sick. i must fly, but follow quick. we are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?' then spake sir richard grenville: 'i know you are no coward; you fly them for a moment to fight with them again. but i've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. i should count myself the coward if i left them, my lord howard, to these inquisition dogs and the devildoms of spain.' so lord howard passed away with five ships of war that day, till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; but sir richard bore in hand all the sick men from the land very carefully and slow, men of bideford in devon, and we laid them on the ballast down below; for we brought them all aboard, and they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to spain, to the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the lord. he had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, and he sailed away from flores till the spaniard came in sight, with his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 'shall we fight or shall we fly? good sir richard, tell us now, for to fight is but to die! there'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' and sir richard said again: 'we be all good english men. let us bang those dogs of seville, the children of the devil, for i never turned my back upon don or devil yet.' sir richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so the little revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, with her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; for half their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, and the little revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between. thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed, thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft running on and on, till delayed by their mountain-like san philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, and up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, took the breath from our sails, and we stayed. and while now the great san philip hung above us like a cloud whence the thunderbolt will fall long and loud, four galleons drew away from the spanish fleet that day, and two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, and the battle thunder broke from them all. but anon the great san philip, she bethought herself and went, having that within her womb that had left her ill content; and the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, for a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, and a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears when he leaps from the water to the land. and the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, but never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. for some were sunk and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more-- god of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? for he said, 'fight on! fight on!' though his vessel was all but a wreck; and it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, with a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, but a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, and himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, and he said, 'fight on! fight on!' and the night went down and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, and the spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; but they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, so they watched what the end would be. and we had not fought them in vain, but in perilous plight were we, seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, and half of the rest of us maimed for life in the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; and the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, and the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; and the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; but sir richard cried in his english pride: 'we have fought such a fight for a day and a night as may never be fought again! we have won great glory, my men! and a day less or more at sea or ashore, we die--does it matter when? sink me the ship, master gunner--sink her, split her in twain! fall into the hands of god, not into the hands of spain!' and the gunner said, 'ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply: 'we have children, we have wives, and the lord hath spared our lives. we will make the spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; we shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' and the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. and the stately spanish men to their flagship bore him then, where they laid him by the mast, old sir richard caught at last, and they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; but he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 'i have fought for queen and faith like a valiant man and true; i have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: with a joyful spirit i sir richard grenville die!' and he fell upon their decks and he died. and they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, and had holden the power and glory of spain so cheap that he dared her with one little ship and his english few; was he devil or man? he was devil for aught they knew, but they sank his body with honour down into the deep, and they manned the revenge with a swarthier alien crew, and away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own; when a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep, and the water began to heave and the weather to moan, and or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, and a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, and the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of spain, and the little revenge herself went down by the island crags to be lost evermore in the main. _tennyson._ xcv the heavy brigade the charge of the gallant three hundred, the heavy brigade! down the hill, down the hill, thousands of russians, thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley--and stayed; for scarlett and scarlett's three hundred were riding by when the points of the russian lances arose in the sky; and he called, 'left wheel into line!' and they wheeled and obeyed. then he looked at the host that had halted he knew not why, and he turned half round, and he bad his trumpeter sound to the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade to the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die-- 'follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, followed the heavy brigade. the trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight! thousands of horsemen had gathered there on the height, with a wing pushed out to the left and a wing to the right, and who shall escape if they close? but he dashed up alone through the great grey slope of men, swayed his sabre, and held his own like an englishman there and then; all in a moment followed with force three that were next in their fiery course, wedged themselves in between horse and horse, fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made-- four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill, gallopt the gallant three hundred, the heavy brigade. fell like a cannon-shot, burst like a thunderbolt, crashed like a hurricane, broke through the mass from below, drove through the midst of the foe, plunged up and down, to and fro, rode flashing blow upon blow, brave inniskillens and greys whirling their sabres in circles of light! and some of us, all in amaze, who were held for a while from the fight, and were only standing at gaze, when the dark-muffled russian crowd folded its wings from the left and the right, and rolled them around like a cloud,-- o mad for the charge and the battle were we, when our own good redcoats sank from sight, like drops of blood in a dark grey sea, and we turned to each other, whispering, all dismayed, 'lost are the gallant three hundred of scarlett's brigade!' 'lost one and all' were the words muttered in our dismay; but they rode like victors and lords through the forest of lances and swords in the heart of the russian hordes, they rode, or they stood at bay-- struck with the sword-hand and slew, down with the bridle-hand drew the foe from the saddle and threw underfoot there in the fray-- ranged like a storm or stood like a rock in the wave of a stormy day; till suddenly shock upon shock staggered the mass from without, drove it in wild disarray, for our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout, and the foemen surged, and wavered and reeled up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, and over the brow and away. glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made! glory to all the three hundred, and all the brigade! _tennyson._ xcvi the private of the buffs last night, among his fellow roughs, he jested, quaffed, and swore; a drunken private of the buffs, who never looked before. to-day, beneath the foeman's frown, he stands in elgin's place, ambassador from britain's crown and type of all her race. poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught bewildered, and alone, a heart, with english instinct fraught, he yet can call his own. ay, tear his body limb from limb, bring cord, or axe, or flame: he only knows, that not through _him_ shall england come to shame. far kentish hop-fields round him seemed, like dreams, to come and go; bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, one sheet of living snow; the smoke, above his father's door, in grey soft eddyings hung: must he then watch it rise no more, doomed by himself, so young? yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel he put the vision by. let dusky indians whine and kneel; an english lad must die. and thus, with eyes that would not shrink, with knee to man unbent, unfaltering on its dreadful brink, to his red grave he went. vain, mightiest fleets of iron frames; vain, those all-shattering guns; unless proud england keep, untamed, the strong heart of her sons. so, let his name through europe ring-- a man of mean estate, who died, as firm as sparta's king, because his soul was great. _doyle._ xcvii the red thread of honour eleven men of england a breastwork charged in vain; eleven men of england lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. slain; but of foes that guarded their rock-built fortress well, some twenty had been mastered, when the last soldier fell. whilst napier piloted his wondrous way across the sand-waves of the desert sea, then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay, lord of their wild truckee. these missed the glen to which their steps were bent, mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, and, in that glorious error, calmly went to death without a word. the robber-chief mused deeply above those daring dead; 'bring here,' at length he shouted, 'bring quick, the battle thread. let eblis blast for ever their souls, if allah will: but we must keep unbroken the old rules of the hill. before the ghiznee tiger leapt forth to burn and slay; before the holy prophet taught our grim tribes to pray; before secunder's lances pierced through each indian glen; the mountain laws of honour were framed for fearless men. still, when a chief dies bravely, we bind with green _one_ wrist-- green for the brave, for heroes one crimson thread we twist. say ye, oh gallant hillmen, for these, whose life has fled, which is the fitting colour, the green one or the red?' 'our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear their green reward,' each noble savage said; 'to these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, who dares deny the red?' thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; beneath a waning moon, each spectral height rolled back its loud acclaim. once more the chief gazed keenly down on those daring dead; from his good sword their heart's blood crept to that crimson thread. once more he cried, 'the judgment, good friends, is wise and true, but though the red _be_ given, have we not more to do? these were not stirred by anger, nor yet by lust made bold; renown they thought above them, nor did they look for gold. to them their leader's signal was as the voice of god: unmoved, and uncomplaining, the path it showed they trod. as, without sound or struggle, the stars unhurrying march, where allah's finger guides them, through yonder purple arch, these franks, sublimely silent, without a quickened breath, went in the strength of duty straight to their goal of death. 'if i were now to ask you to name our bravest man, ye all at once would answer, they called him mehrab khan. he sleeps among his fathers, dear to our native land, with the bright mark he bled for firm round his faithful hand. 'the songs they sing of rustum fill all the past with light; if truth be in their music, he was a noble knight. but were those heroes living and strong for battle still, would mehrab khan or rustum have climbed, like these, the hill?' and they replied, 'though mehrab khan was brave, as chief, he chose himself what risks to run; prince rustum lied, his forfeit life to save, which these had never done.' 'enough!' he shouted fiercely; 'doomed though they be to hell, bind fast the crimson trophy round both wrists--bind it well. who knows but that great allah may grudge such matchless men, with none so decked in heaven, to the fiends' flaming den?' then all those gallant robbers shouted a stern 'amen!' they raised the slaughtered sergeant, they raised his mangled ten. and when we found their bodies left bleaching in the wind, around both wrists in glory that crimson thread was twined. then napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, rung, like an echo, to that knightly deed, he bade its memory live for evermore, that those who run may read. _doyle._ xcviii home thoughts from the sea nobly, nobly cape st. vincent to the north-west died away; sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into cadiz bay; bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face trafalgar lay; in the dimmest north-east distance dawned gibraltar grand and grey; 'here and here did england help me: how can i help england?'--say, whoso turns as i, this evening, turn to god to praise and pray, while jove's planet rises yonder, silent over africa. _browning._ xcix hervÉ riel on the sea and at the hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, did the english fight the french,--woe to france! and, the thirty-first of may, helter-skelter thro' the blue, like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, came crowding ship on ship to st. malo on the rance, with the english fleet in view. 'twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; first and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, damfreville; close on him fled, great and small, twenty-two good ships in all; and they signalled to the place 'help the winners of a race! get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, here's the english can and will!' then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 'why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?' laughed they: 'rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, shall the _formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full beside? now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. reach the mooring? rather say, while rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay!' then was called a council straight. brief and bitter the debate: 'here's the english at our heels; would you have them take in tow all that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, for a prize to plymouth sound? better run the ships aground!' (ended damfreville his speech). not a minute more to wait! 'let the captains all and each shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! france must undergo her fate. give the word!' but no such word was ever spoke or heard; for up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --a captain? a lieutenant? a mate--first, second, third? no such man of mark, and meet with his betters to compete! but a simple breton sailor pressed by tourville for the fleet, a poor coasting-pilot he, hervé riel the croisickese. and, 'what mockery or malice have we here?' cries hervé riel: 'are you mad, you malouins? are you cowards, fools, or rogues? talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell on my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'twixt the offing here and grève where the river disembogues? are you bought by english gold? is it love the lying's for? morn and eve, night and day, have i piloted your bay, entered free and anchored fast at the foot of solidor. burn the fleet and ruin france? that were worse than fifty hogues! sirs, they know i speak the truth! sirs, believe me there's a way! only let me lead the line, have the biggest ship to steer, get this _formidable_ clear, make the others follow mine, and i lead them, most and least, by a passage i know well, right to solidor past grève, and there lay them safe and sound; and if one ship misbehave, --keel so much as grate the ground, why, i've nothing but my life,--here's my head!' cries hervé riel. not a minute more to wait. 'steer us in, then, small and great! take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!' cried his chief. 'captains, give the sailor place! he is admiral, in brief.' still the north-wind, by god's grace! see the noble fellow's face, as the big ship with a bound, clears the entry like a hound, keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! see, safe thro' shoal and rock, how they follow in a flock, not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, not a spar that comes to grief! the peril, see, is past, all are harboured to the last, and just as hervé riel hollas 'anchor!'--sure as fate up the english come, too late! so, the storm subsides to calm: they see the green trees wave on the o'erlooking grève. hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 'just our rapture to enhance, let the english take the bay, gnash their teeth and glare askance, as they cannonade away! 'neath rampired solidor pleasant riding on the rance!' how hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! out burst all with one accord, 'this is paradise for hell! let france, let france's king thank the man that did the thing!' what a shout, and all one word, 'hervé riel!' as he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue breton eyes, just the same man as before. then said damfreville, 'my friend, i must speak out at the end, though i find the speaking hard. praise is deeper than the lips: you have saved the king his ships, you must name your own reward. 'faith our sun was near eclipse! demand whate'er you will, france remains your debtor still. ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not damfreville.' then a beam of fun outbroke on the bearded mouth that spoke, as the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of breton blue: 'since i needs must say my say, since on board the duty's done, and from malo roads to croisic point, what is it but a run?-- since 'tis ask and have, i may-- since the others go ashore-- come! a good whole holiday! leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore!' that he asked and that he got,--nothing more. name and deed alike are lost: not a pillar nor a post in his croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; not a head in white and black on a single fishing smack, in memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack all that france saved from the fight whence england bore the bell. go to paris: rank on rank search the heroes flung pell-mell on the louvre, face and flank! you shall look long enough ere you come to hervé riel. so, for better and for worse, hervé riel, accept my verse! in my verse, hervé riel, do thou once more save the squadron, honour france, love thy wife, the belle aurore! _browning._ c the dying fireman i am the mashed fireman with breast-bone broken, tumbling walls buried me in their débris, heat and smoke i inspired, i heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, i heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, they have cleared the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. i lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, painless after all i lie, exhausted but not so unhappy, white and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, the kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. _whitman._ ci a sea-fight would you hear of an old-time sea-fight? would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? list to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me. 'our foe was no skulk in his ship, i tell you (said he), his was the surly english pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; along the lowered eve he came horribly raking us. we closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touched, my captain lashed fast with his own hands. we had received some eighteen-pound shots under the water, on our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, the master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves. the transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, they see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust. our frigate takes fire, the other asks if we demand quarter? if our colours are struck and the fighting done? now i laugh content, for i hear the voice of my little captain, "we have not struck," he composedly cries, "we have just begun our part of the fighting." only three guns are in use, one is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, two well served with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks. the tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, they hold out bravely during the whole of the action. not a moment's cease, the leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine. one of the pumps had been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. serene stands the little captain, he is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, his eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns. toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they surrender to us.' _whitman._ cii beat! beat! drums! beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! through the windows--through doors--burst like a ruthless force, into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, into the school where the scholar is studying; leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with his bride, nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, so fierce you whirr and pound, you drums--so shrill, you bugles, blow. beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets; are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, no bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--would they continue? would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? then rattle quicker, heavier, drums--you bugles, wilder blow. beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! make no parley--stop for no expostulation, mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer, mind not the old man beseeching the young man, let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, make even the trestle to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, so strong you thump, o terrible drums--so loud, you bugles, blow. _whitman._ ciii two veterans the last sunbeam lightly falls from the finished sabbath, on the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking down a new-made double grave. lo! the moon ascending, up from the east the silvery round moon, beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, immense and silent moon. i see a sad procession, and i hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, all the channels of the city streets they're flooding, as with voices and with tears. i hear the great drums pounding, and the small drums steady whirring, and every blow of the great convulsive drums strikes me through and through. for the son is brought with the father, (in the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, two veterans son and father dropt together, and the double grave awaits them). now nearer blow the bugles, and the drums strike more convulsive, and the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, and the strong dead-march enwraps me. in the eastern sky up-buoying, the sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, ('tis some mother's large transparent face in heaven brighter growing). o strong dead-march you please me! o moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! o my soldiers twain! o my veterans passing to burial! what i have i also give you. the moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, o my soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love. _whitman._ civ the pleasant isle of avÈs oh england is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, but england is a cruel place for such poor folks as i; and such a port for mariners i ne'er shall see again as the pleasant isle of avès, beside the spanish main. there were forty craft in avès that were both swift and stout, all furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; and a thousand men in avès made laws so fair and free to choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. thence we sailed against the spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, which he wrung with cruel tortures from indian folk of old; likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone. o the palms grew high in avès, and fruits that shone like gold, and the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; and the negro maids to avès from bondage fast did flee, to welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea. o sweet it was in avès to hear the landward breeze, a-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, with a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore. but scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; so the king's ships sailed on avès, and quite put down were we. all day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; and i fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight. nine days i floated starving, and a negro lass beside, till, for all i tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; but as i lay a-gasping, a bristol sail came by, and brought me home to england here, to beg until i die. and now i'm old and going--i'm sure i can't tell where; one comfort is, this world's so hard, i can't be worse off there: if i might but be a sea-dove, i'd fly across the main, to the pleasant isle of avès, to look at it once again. _kingsley._ cv a welcome welcome, wild north-easter. shame it is to see odes to every zephyr; ne'er a verse to thee. welcome, black north-easter! o'er the german foam; o'er the danish moorlands, from thy frozen home. tired we are of summer, tired of gaudy glare, showers soft and steaming, hot and breathless air. tired of listless dreaming, through the lazy day: jovial wind of winter turns us out to play! sweep the golden reed-beds; crisp the lazy dyke; hunger into madness every plunging pike. fill the lake with wild-fowl; fill the marsh with snipe; while on dreary moorlands lonely curlew pipe. through the black fir-forest thunder harsh and dry, shattering down the snow-flakes off the curdled sky. hark! the brave north-easter! breast-high lies the scent, on by holt and headland, over heath and bent. chime, ye dappled darlings, through the sleet and snow. who can over-ride you? let the horses go! chime, ye dappled darlings, down the roaring blast; you shall see a fox die ere an hour be past. go! and rest to-morrow, hunting in your dreams, while our skates are ringing o'er the frozen streams. let the luscious south-wind breathe in lovers' sighs, while the lazy gallants bask in ladies' eyes. what does he but soften heart alike and pen? 'tis the hard grey weather breeds hard english men. what's the soft south-wester? 'tis the ladies' breeze, bringing home their true-loves out of all the seas: but the black north-easter, through the snowstorm hurled, drives our english hearts of oak seaward round the world. come, as came our fathers, heralded by thee, conquering from the eastward, lords by land and sea. come; and strong within us stir the vikings' blood; bracing brain and sinew; blow, thou wind of god! _kingsley._ cvi the birkenhead amid the loud ebriety of war, with shouts of 'la republique' and 'la gloire,' the vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag and broadside blazing level with the wave went down erect, defiant, to their grave beneath the sea.--'twas but a frenchman's brag, yet europe rang with it for many a year. now we recount no fable; europe, hear! and when they tell thee 'england is a fen corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey for the first comer,' tell how the other day a crew of half a thousand englishmen went down into the deep in simon's bay! not with the cheer of battle in the throat, or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, but, roused from dreams of home to find their boat fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, biding god's pleasure and their chief's command. calm was the sea, but not less calm that band close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath but flinching not though eye to eye with death! heroes! who were those heroes? veterans steeled to face the king of terrors mid the scaith of many an hurricane and trenchèd field? far other: weavers from the stocking-frame; boys from the plough; cornets with beardless chin, but steeped in honour and in discipline! weep, britain, for the cape whose ill-starred name, long since divorced from hope suggests but shame, disaster, and thy captains held at bay by naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank aboard the birkenhead in simon's bay! _yule._ cvii apollo through the black, rushing smoke-bursts thick breaks the red flame; all etna heaves fiercely her forest-clothed frame. not here, o apollo! are haunts meet for thee. but, where helicon breaks down in cliff to the sea, where the moon-silvered inlets send far their light voice up the still vale of thisbe, o speed, and rejoice! on the sward at the cliff-top lie strewn the white flocks. on the cliff-side the pigeons roost deep in the rocks. in the moonlight the shepherds, soft lulled by the rills, lie wrapt in their blankets asleep on the hills. --what forms are these coming so white through the gloom? what garments out-glistening the gold-flowered broom? what sweet-breathing presence out-perfumes the thyme? what voices enrapture the night's balmy prime?-- 'tis apollo comes leading his choir, the nine. --the leader is fairest, but all are divine. they are lost in the hollows! they stream up again! what seeks on this mountain the glorified train?-- they bathe on this mountain, in the spring by the road; then on to olympus, their endless abode. --whose praise do they mention? of what is it told?-- what will be for ever; what was from of old. first hymn they the father of all things; and then, the rest of immortals, the action of men. the day in his hotness, the strife with the palm; the night in her silence, the stars in their calm. _arnold._ cviii the death of sohrab the duel he spoke, and sohrab kindled at his taunts, and he too drew his sword; at once they rushed together, as two eagles on one prey come rushing down together from the clouds, one from the east, one from the west; their shields dashed with a clang together, and a din rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters make often in the forest's heart at morn, of hewing axes, crashing trees--such blows rustum and sohrab on each other hailed. and you would say that sun and stars took part in that unnatural conflict; for a cloud grew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sun over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, and in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. in gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; for both the on-looking hosts on either hand stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, and the sun sparkled on the oxus stream. but in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes and labouring breath; first rustum struck the shield which sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, and rustum plucked it back with angry groan. then sohrab with his sword smote rustum's helm, nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest he shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, never till now defiled, sank to the dust; and rustum bowed his head; but then the gloom grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, and lightnings rent the cloud; and ruksh, the horse, who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry;-- no horse's cry was that, most like the roar of some pained desert-lion, who all day hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, and comes at night to die upon the sand. the two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, and oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. but sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, and struck again; and again rustum bowed his head; but this time all the blade, like glass, sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, and in the hand the hilt remained alone. then rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, and shouted: _rustum!_--sohrab heard that shout, and shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step, and scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; and then he stood bewildered; and he dropped his covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. he reeled, and staggering back, sank to the ground; and then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, and the bright sun broke forth, and melted all the cloud; and the two armies saw the pair-- saw rustum standing, safe upon his feet, and sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. sohrab then with a bitter smile, rustum began:-- 'sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill a persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, and bear thy trophies to afrasiab's tent. or else that the great rustum would come down himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move his heart to take a gift, and let thee go. and then that all the tartar host would praise thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, to glad thy father in his weak old age. fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man! dearer to the red jackels shalt thou be than to thy friends, and to thy father old,' and, with a fearless mien, sohrab replied:-- 'unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! no! rustum slays me, and this filial heart. for were i matched with ten such men as thee, and i were that which till to-day i was, they should be lying here, i standing there. but that beloved name unnerved my arm-- that name, and something, i confess, in thee, which troubles all my heart, and made my shield fall; and thy spear transfix an unarmed foe. and now thou boastest, and insultest my fate. but hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear: the mighty rustum shall avenge my death! my father, whom i seek through all the world, he shall avenge my death, and punish thee!' as when some hunter in the spring hath found a breeding eagle sitting on her nest, upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, and pierced her with an arrow as she rose, and followed her to find her where she fell far off;--anon her mate comes winging back from hunting, and a great way off decries his huddling young left-sole; at that he checks his pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps circles above his eyry, with loud screams chiding his mate back to her nest; but she lies dying, with the arrow in her side, in some far stony gorge out of his ken, a heap of fluttering feathers--never more shall the lake glass her, flying over it; never the black and dripping precipices echo her stormy scream as she sails by-- as that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, so rustum knew not his own loss, but stood over his dying son, and knew him not. but, with a cold, incredulous voice he said: 'what prate is this of fathers and revenge? the mighty rustum never had a son.' and with a failing voice sohrab replied: 'ah yes, he had! and that lost son am i, surely the news will one day reach his ear, reach rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, somewhere, i know not where, but far from here; and pierce him like a stab, and make him leap to arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! what will that grief, what will that vengeance be? o could i live, till i that grief had seen! yet him i pity not so much, but her, my mother, who in ader-baijan dwells with that old king, her father, who grows grey with age, and rules over the valiant koords. her most i pity, who no more will see sohrab returning from the tartar camp, with spoils and honour, when the war is done. but a dark rumour will be bruited up, from tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; and then will that defenceless woman learn that sohrab will rejoice her sight no more, but that in battle with a nameless foe, by the far-distant oxus, he is slain.' the recognition he spoke, and as he ceased he wept aloud, thinking of her he left, and his own death. he spoke; but rustum listened plunged in thought. nor did he yet believe it was his son who spoke, although he called back names he knew; for he had had sure tidings that the babe, which was in ader-baijan born to him, had been a puny girl, no boy at all-- so that sad mother sent him word, for fear rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. and as he deemed that either sohrab took, by a false boast, the style of rustum's son; or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. so deemed he; yet he listened plunged in thought; and his soul set to grief, as the vast tide of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore at the full moon; tears gathered in his eyes; for he remembered his own early youth, and all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, the shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries a far, bright city, smitten by the sun, through many rolling clouds--so rustum saw his youth; saw sohrab's mother, in her bloom; and that old king, her father, who loved well his wandering guest, and gave him his fair child with joy; and all the pleasant life they led, they three, in that long-distant summer-time-- the castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt and hound, and morn on those delightful hills in ader-baijan. and he saw that youth, of age and looks to be his own dear son, piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe of an unskilful gardener has been cut, mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, and lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, on the mown, dying grass--so sohrab lay, lovely in death, upon the common sand. and rustum gazed on him in grief, and said: 'o sohrab, thou indeed art such a son whom rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved: yet here thou errest, sohrab, or else men have told thee false--thou art not rustum's son. for rustum had no son; one child he had-- but one--a girl; who with her mother now plies some light female task, nor dreams of us-- of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.' but sohrab answered him in wrath; for now the anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, and he desirèd to draw forth the steel, and let the blood flow free, and so to die-- but first he would convince his stubborn foe; and, rising sternly on one arm, he said: 'man, who art thou who dost deny my words? truth sits upon the lips of dying men, and falsehood, while i lived, was far from mine. i tell thee, pricked upon this arm i bear that seal which rustum to my mother gave, that she might prick it on the babe she bore.' he spoke; and all the blood left rustum's cheeks, and his knees tottered, and he smote his hand against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand, that the hard iron corselet clanked aloud; and to his heart he pressed the other hand, and in a hollow voice he spake and said: 'sohrab, that were a proof that could not lie! if thou show this, then art thou rustum's son.' then with weak hasty fingers sohrab loosed his belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, and showed a sign in faint vermilion points pricked; as a cunning workman, in pekin, pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, an emperor's gift--at early morn he paints, and all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp lights up his studious forehead and thin hands-- so delicately pricked the sign appeared on sohrab's arm, the sign of rustum's seal. it was that griffin, which of old reared zal, rustum's great father, whom they left to die, a helpless babe, among the mountain rocks; him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved-- then rustum took it for his glorious sign. and sohrab bared that image on his arm, and himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, and then he touched it with his hand and said:-- 'how sayest thou? is that sign the proper sign of rustum's son, or of some other man's?' ruksh the horse he spoke; but rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry: _o boy--thy father!_--and his voice choked there. and then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, and his head swam, and he sank down to earth. but sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast his arms about his neck, and kissed his lips, and with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, trying to call him back to life; and life came back to rustum, and he oped his eyes, and they stood wide with horror; and he seized in both his hands the dust which lay around, and threw it on his head, and smirched his hair,-- his hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms; and strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, and his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword, to draw it, and for ever let life out. but sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, and with a soothing voice he spake, and said: 'father, forbear! for i but meet to-day the doom which at my birth was written down in heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand. surely my heart cried out that it was thou, when first i saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, i know it! but fate trod these promptings down under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged the strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. but let us speak no more of this! i find my father; let me feel that i have found! come, sit beside me on this sand, and take my head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, and wash them with thy tears, and say: _my son!_ quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life, and swift; for like the lightning to this field i came, and like the wind i go away-- sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. but it was writ in heaven that this should be.' so said he, and his voice released the heart of rustum and his tears broke forth; he cast his arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, and kissed him. and awe fell on both the hosts, when they saw rustum's grief; and ruksh the horse, with his head bowing to the ground and mane sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe first to the one, then to the other moved his head, as if inquiring what their grief might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, the big warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. but rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:-- 'ruksh, now thou grievest; but, o ruksh, thy feet should first have rotted on their nimble joints, or ere they brought thy master to this field!' but sohrab looked upon the horse and said: 'is this, then, ruksh? how often in past days, my mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, my terrible father's terrible horse! and said, that i should one day find thy lord and thee. come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane! o ruksh, thou art more fortunate than i; for thou hast gone where i shall never go, and snuffed the breezes of my father's home. and thou hast trod the sands of seistan, and seen the river of helmund, and the lake of zirrah; and the aged zal himself has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, corn in a golden platter soaked with wine, and said: _o ruksh! bear rustum well!_--but i have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, nor seen his lofty house in seistan, nor slaked my thirst at the clear helmund stream; but lodged among my father's foes, and seen afrasiab's cities only, samarcand, bokhara, and lone khiva in the waste, and the black toorkman tents; and only drunk the desert rivers, moorghab and tejend, kohik, and where the kalmuks feed their sheep, the northern sir; and this great oxus stream, the yellow oxus, by whose brink i die.' rustum then with a heavy groan, rustum bewailed: 'o that its waves were flowing over me! o that i saw its grains of yellow silt roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!' but with a grave mild voice, sohrab replied:-- 'desire not that, my father! thou must live. for some are born to do great deeds, and live, as some are born to be obscured, and die. do thou the deeds i die too young to do, and reap a second glory in thine age; thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. but come! thou seest this great host of men which follow me; i pray thee, slay not these! let me entreat for them; what have they done? they followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. let them all cross the oxus back in peace. but me thou must bear hence, not send with them, but carry me with thee to seistan, and place me on a bed, and mourn for me, thou, and the snow-haired zal, and all thy friends. and thou must lay me in that lovely earth, and heap a stately mound above my bones, and plant a far-seen pillar over all. that so the passing horseman on the waste may see my tomb a great way off, and cry; _sohrab, the mighty rustum's son, lies here, whom his great father did in ignorance kill!_ and i be not forgotten in my grave.' and, with a mournful voice, rustum replied: 'fear not! as thou hast said, sohrab, my son, so shall it be; for i will burn my tents, and quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, and carry thee away to seistan, and place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, with the snow-headed zal, and all my friends. and i will lay thee in that lovely earth, and heap a stately mound above thy bones, and plant a far-seen pillar over all, and men shall not forget thee in thy grave. and i will spare thy host; yea, let them go! let them all cross the oxus back in peace! what should i do with slaying any more? for would that all whom i have ever slain might be once more alive--my bitterest foes, and they who were called champions in their time, and through whose death i won that fame i have-- and i were nothing but a common man, a poor, mean soldier, and without renown, so thou mightest live too, my son, my son! or rather would that i, even i myself, might now be lying on this bloody sand, near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, not thou of mine! and i might die, not thou; and i, not thou, be borne to seistan; and zal might weep above my grave, not thine; and say: _o son, i weep thee not too sore, for willingly, i know, thou met'st thine end!_ but now in blood and battles was my youth, and full of blood and battles is my age, and i shall never end this life of blood.' then at the point of death, sohrab replied: 'a life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! but thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, when thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, thou and the other peers of kai khosroo returning home over the salt blue sea, from laying thy dear master in his grave.' night and rustum gazed in sohrab's face, and said: 'soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.' he spoke; and sohrab smiled on him, and took the spear, and drew it from his side, and eased his wound's imperious anguish; but the blood came welling from the open gash, and life flowed with the stream;--all down his cold white side the crimson torrent ran, dim now and soiled, like the soiled tissue of white violets left, freshly gathered, on their native bank, by children whom their nurses call with haste indoors from the sun's eye; his head dropped low, his limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay-- white, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, convulsed him back to life, he opened them, and fixed them feebly on his father's face; till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs unwillingly the spirit fled away, regretting the warm mansion which it left, and youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. so, on the bloody sand, sohrab lay dead; and the great rustum drew his horseman's cloak down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. as those black granite pillars once high-reared by jemshid in persepolis, to bear his house, now 'mid their broken flights of steps lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side, so in the sand lay rustum by his son. and night came down over the solemn waste, and the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, and darkened all; and a cold fog, with night, crept from the oxus. soon a hum arose, as of a great assembly loosed, and fires began to twinkle through the fog; for now both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; the persians took it on the open sands southward, the tartars by the river marge; and rustum and his son were left alone. but the majestic river floated on, out of the mist and hum of that low land, into the frosty starlight, and there moved, rejoicing, through the hushed chorasmian waste, under the solitary moon;--he flowed right for the polar star, past orgunjè, brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin to hem his watery march, and dam his streams, and split his currents; that for many a league the shorn and parcelled oxus strains along through beds of sand and matted rushy isles-- oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had in his high mountain cradle in pamere a foiled circuitous wanderer--till at last the longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide his luminous home of waters opens, bright and tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars emerge, and shine upon the aral sea. _arnold._ cix flee fro' the press o born in days when wits were fresh and clear and life ran gaily as the sparkling thames; before this strange disease of modern life, with its sick hurry, its divided aims, its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife-- fly hence, our contact fear! still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! averse, as dido did with gesture stern from her false friend's approach in hades turn, wave us away and keep thy solitude! still nursing the unconquerable hope, still clutching the inviolable shade, with a free, onward impulse brushing through, by night, the silvered branches of the glade-- far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, on some mild pastoral slope emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales freshen thy flowers as in former years with dew, or listen with enchanted ears, from the dark dingles, to the nightingales! but fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! for strong the infection of our mental strife, which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; and we should win thee from thy own fair life, like us distracted, and like us unblest. soon, soon thy cheer would die, thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers, and thy clear aims be cross and shifting made; and then thy glad perennial youth would fade, fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! as some grave tyrian trader, from the sea, descried at sunrise an emerging prow lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, the fringes of a southward-facing brow among the Ægæan isles; and saw the merry grecian coaster come, freighted with amber grapes, and chian wine, green, bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine-- and knew the intruders on his ancient home, the young light-hearted masters of the waves-- and snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail; and day and night held on indignantly o'er the blue midland waters with the gale, betwixt the syrtes and soft sicily, to where the atlantic raves outside the western straits; and unbent sails there, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, shy traffickers, the dark iberians come; and on the beach undid his corded bales. _arnold._ cx school fencibles we come in arms, we stand ten score, embattled on the castle green; we grasp our firelocks tight, for war is threatening, and we see our queen. and 'will the churls last out till we have duly hardened bones and thews for scouring leagues of swamp and sea of braggart mobs and corsair crews?' we ask; we fear not scoff or smile at meek attire of blue and grey, for the proud wrath that thrills our isle gives faith and force to this array. so great a charm is england's right, that hearts enlarged together flow, and each man rises up a knight to work the evil-thinkers woe. and, girt with ancient truth and grace, we do our service and our suit, and each can be, whate'er his race, a chandos or a montacute. thou, mistress, whom we serve to-day, bless the real swords that we shall wield, repeat the call we now obey in sunset lands, on some fair field. thy flag shall make some huron rock as dear to us as windsor's keep, and arms thy thames hath nerved shall mock the surgings of th' ontarian deep. the stately music of thy guards, which times our march beneath thy ken, shall sound, with spells of sacred bards, from heart to heart, when we are men. and when we bleed on alien earth, we'll call to mind how cheers of ours proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth amongst thy glowing orange bowers. and if for england's sake we fall, so be it, so thy cross be won, fixed by kind hands on silvered pall, and worn in death, for duty done. ah! thus we fondle death, the soldier's mate, blending his image with the hopes of youth to hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate chills not our fancies with the iron truth. death from afar we call, and death is here, to choose out him who wears the loftiest mien; and grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, breaks through the shield of love to pierce our queen. _cory._ cxi the two captains when george the third was reigning a hundred years ago, he ordered captain farmer to chase the foreign foe. 'you're not afraid of shot,' said he, 'you're not afraid of wreck, so cruise about the west of france in the frigate called _quebec_. quebec was once a frenchman's town, but twenty years ago king george the second sent a man called general wolfe, you know, to clamber up a precipice and look into quebec, as you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck. if wolfe could beat the frenchmen then so you can beat them now. before he got inside the town he died, i must allow. but since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, and you'll remember wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same.' then farmer said, 'i'll try, sir,' and farmer bowed so low that george could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. george gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, signed 'king of britain, king of france,' and sealed it with a wafer. then proud was captain farmer in a frigate of his own, and grander on his quarter-deck than george upon the throne. he'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, and twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score men. and as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs, with two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. from cape la hogue to ushant, from rochefort to belleisle, she hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel. the fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar, the lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; the east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the breton bay, and 'clear for action!' farmer shouts, and reefers yell 'hooray!' the frenchman's captain had a name i wish i could pronounce; a breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, one like those famous fellows who died by guillotine for honour and the fleurs-de-lys and antoinette the queen. the catholic for louis, the protestant for george, each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; and both were simple seamen, but both could understand how each was bound to win or die for flag and native land. the french ship was _la surveillante_, which means the watchful maid; she folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. on canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail. sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, and still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. a sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; we could not quench the rushing flames, and so the frenchman won. our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. he bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there. the guns were hushed on either side, the frenchmen lowered boats, they flung us planks and hencoops, and everything that floats. they risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. 'twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made. _la surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest, they had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of brest, and where the waves leapt lower, and the riddled ship went slower, in triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her. they dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for farmer dead; and as the wounded captives passed each breton bowed the head. then spoke the french lieutenant, ''twas fire that won, not we. you never struck your flag to us; you'll go to england free.' 'twas the sixth day of october, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, a year when nations ventured against us to combine, _quebec_ was burnt and farmer slain, by us remembered not; but thanks be to the french book wherein they're not forgot. now you, if you've to fight the french, my youngster, bear in mind those seamen of king louis so chivalrous and kind; think of the breton gentlemen who took our lads to brest, and treat some rescued breton as a comrade and a guest. _cory._ cxii the head of bran when the head of bran was firm on british shoulders, god made a man! cried all beholders. steel could not resist the weight his arm would rattle; he with naked fist has brained a knight in battle. he marched on the foe, and never counted numbers; foreign widows know the hosts he sent to slumbers. as a street you scan that's towered by the steeple, so the head of bran rose o'er his people. 'death's my neighbour,' quoth bran the blest; 'christian labour brings christian rest. from the trunk sever the head of bran, that which never has bent to man! that which never to men has bowed shall live ever to shame the shroud: shall live ever to face the foe; sever it, sever, and with one blow. be it written, that all i wrought was for britain, in deed and thought: be it written, that, while i die, "glory to britain!" is my last cry. "glory to britain!" death echoes me round. glory to britain! the world shall resound. glory to britain! in ruin and fall, glory to britain! is heard over all.' burn, sun, down the sea! bran lies low with thee. burst, morn, from the main! bran so shall rise again. blow, wind, from the field! bran's head is the briton's shield. beam, star, in the west! bright burns the head of bran the blest. crimson-footed like the stork, from great ruts of slaughter, warriors of the golden torque cross the lifting water. princes seven, enchaining hands, bear the live head homeward. lo! it speaks, and still commands; gazing far out foamward. fiery words of lightning sense down the hollows thunder; forest hostels know not whence comes the speech, and wonder. city-castles, on the steep where the faithful severn house at midnight, hear in sleep laughter under heaven. lilies, swimming on the mere, in the castle shadow, under draw their heads, and fear walks the misty meadow; tremble not, it is not death pledging dark espousal: 'tis the head of endless breath, challenging carousal! brim the horn! a health is drunk, now, that shall keep going: life is but the pebble sunk, deeds, the circle growing! fill, and pledge the head of bran! while his lead they follow, long shall heads in britain plan speech death cannot swallow. _george meredith._ cxiii the slaying of the niblungs hogni ye shall know that in atli's feast-hall on the side that joined the house were many carven doorways whose work was glorious with marble stones and gold-work, and their doors of beaten brass: lo now, in the merry morning how the story cometh to pass! --while the echoes of the trumpet yet fill the people's ears, and hogni casts by the war-horn, and his dwarf-wrought sword uprears, all those doors aforesaid open, and in pour the streams of steel, the best of the eastland champions, the bold men of atli's weal: they raise no cry of battle nor cast forth threat of woe, and their helmed and hidden faces from each other none may know: then a light in the hall ariseth, and the fire of battle runs all adown the front of the niblungs in the face of the mighty ones; all eyes are set upon them, hard drawn is every breath, ere the foremost points be mingled and death be blent with death. --all eyes save the eyes of hogni; but e'en as the edges meet, he turneth about for a moment to the gold of the kingly seat, then aback to the front of battle; there then, as the lightning-flash through the dark night showeth the city when the clouds of heaven clash, and the gazer shrinketh backward, yet he seeth from end to end the street and the merry market, and the windows of his friend, and the pavement where his footsteps yester'en returning trod, now white and changed and dreadful 'neath the threatening voice of god; so hogni seeth gudrun, and the face he used to know, unspeakable, unchanging, with white unknitted brow with half-closed lips untrembling, with deedless hands and cold laid still on knees that stir not, and the linen's moveless fold. turned hogni unto the spear-wall, and smote from where he stood, and hewed with his sword two-handed as the axe-man in a wood: before his sword was a champion, and the edges clave to the chin, and the first man fell in the feast-hall of those that should fall therein. then man with man was dealing, and the niblung host of war was swept by the leaping iron, as the rock anigh the shore by the ice-cold waves of winter: yet a moment gunnar stayed as high in his hand unblooded he shook his awful blade; and he cried: 'o eastland champions, do ye behold it here, the sword of the ancient giuki? fall on and have no fear, but slay and be slain and be famous, if your master's will it be! yet are we the blameless niblungs, and bidden guests are we: so forbear, if ye wander hood-winked, nor for nothing slay and be slain; for i know not what to tell you of the dead that live again.' so he saith in the midst of the foemen with his war-flame reared on high, but all about and around him goes up a bitter cry from the iron men of atli, and the bickering of the steel sends a roar up to the roof-ridge, and the niblung war-ranks reel behind the steadfast gunnar: but lo! have ye seen the corn, while yet men grind the sickle, by the wind-streak overborne when the sudden rain sweeps downward, and summer groweth black, and the smitten wood-side roareth 'neath the driving thunder-wrack? so before the wise-heart hogni shrank the champions of the east, as his great voice shook the timbers in the hall of atli's feast. there he smote, and beheld not the smitten, and by nought were his edges stopped; he smote, and the dead were thrust from him; a hand with its shield he lopped; there met him atli's marshal, and his arm at the shoulder he shred; three swords were upreared against him of the best of the kin of the dead; and he struck off a head to the rightward, and his sword through a throat he thrust, but the third stroke fell on his helm-crest, and he stooped to the ruddy dust, and uprose as the ancient giant, and both his hands were wet: red then was the world to his eyen, as his hand to the labour he set; swords shook and fell in his pathway, huge bodies leapt and fell, harsh grided shield and war-helm like the tempest-smitten bell, and the war-cries ran together, and no man his brother knew, and the dead men loaded the living, as he went the war-wood through; and man 'gainst man was huddled, till no sword rose to smite, and clear stood the glorious hogni in an island of the fight, and there ran a river of death 'twixt the niblung and his foes, and therefrom the terror of men and the wrath of the gods arose. gunnar now fell the sword of gunnar, and rose up red in the air, and hearkened the song of the niblung, as his voice rang glad and clear, and rejoiced and leapt at the eastmen, and cried as it met the rings of a giant of king atli and a murder-wolf of kings; but it quenched its thirst in his entrails, and knew the heart in his breast, and hearkened the praise of gunnar, and lingered not to rest, but fell upon atli's brother, and stayed not in his brain; then he fell, and the king leapt over, and clave a neck atwain, and leapt o'er the sweep of a pole-axe, and thrust a lord in the throat, and king atli's banner-bearer through shield and hauberk smote; then he laughed on the huddled east-folk, and against their war-shields drave while the white swords tossed about him, and that archer's skull he clave whom atli had bought in the southlands for many a pound of gold; and the dark-skinned fell upon gunnar, and over his war-shield rolled, and cumbered his sword for a season, and the many blades fell on, and sheared the cloudy helm-crest and rents in his hauberk won, and the red blood ran from gunnar; till that giuki's sword outburst, as the fire-tongue from the smoulder that the leafy heap hath nursed, and unshielded smote king gunnar, and sent the niblung song through the quaking stems of battle in the hall of atli's wrong: then he rent the knitted war-hedge till by hogni's side he stood, and kissed him amidst of the spear-hail, and their cheeks were wet with blood. then on came the niblung bucklers, and they drave the east-folk home, as the bows of the oar-driven long-ship beat off the waves in foam: they leave their dead behind them, and they come to the doors and the wall, and a few last spears from the fleeing amidst their shield-hedge fall: but the doors clash to in their faces, as the fleeing rout they drive, and fain would follow after; and none is left alive in the feast-hall of king atli, save those fishes of the net, and the white and silent woman above the slaughter set. then biddeth the heart-wise hogni, and men to the windows climb, and uplift the war-grey corpses, dead drift of the stormy time, and cast them adown to their people: thence they come aback and say that scarce shall ye see the houses, and no whit the wheel-worn way for the spears and shields of the eastlands that the merchant city throng; and back to the niblung burg-gate the way seemed weary-long. yet passeth hour on hour, and the doors they watch and ward but a long while hear no mail-clash, nor the ringing of the sword; then droop the niblung children, and their wounds are waxen chill, and they think of the burg by the river, and the builded holy hill, and their eyes are set on gudrun as of men who would beseech; but unlearned are they in craving, and know not dastard's speech. then doth giuki's first-begotten a deed most fair to be told, for his fair harp gunnar taketh, and the warp of silver and gold; with the hand of a cunning harper he dealeth with the strings, and his voice in their midst goeth upward, as of ancient days he sings, of the days before the niblungs, and the days that shall be yet; till the hour of toil and smiting the warrior hearts forget, nor hear the gathering foemen, nor the sound of swords aloof: then clear the song of gunnar goes up to the dusky roof, and the coming spear-host tarries, and the bearers of the woe through the cloisters of king atli with lingering footsteps go. but hogni looketh on gudrun, and no change in her face he sees, and no stir in her folded linen and the deedless hands on her knees: then from gunnar's side he hasteneth; and lo! the open door, and a foeman treadeth the pavement, and his lips are on atli's floor, for hogni is death in the doorway: then the niblungs turn on the foe, and the hosts are mingled together, and blow cries out on blow. gudrun still the song goeth up from gunnar, though his harp to earth be laid; but he fighteth exceeding wisely, and is many a warrior's aid, and he shieldeth and delivereth, and his eyes search through the hall, and woe is he for his fellows, as his battle-brethren fall; for the turmoil hideth little from that glorious folk-king's eyes, and o'er all he beholdeth gudrun, and his soul is waxen wise, and he saith: 'we shall look on sigurd, and sigmund of old days, and see the boughs of the branstock o'er the ancient volsung's praise.' woe's me for the wrath of hogni! from the door he giveth aback that the eastland slayers may enter to the murder and the wrack: then he rageth and driveth the battle to the golden kingly seat, and the last of the foes he slayeth by gudrun's very feet, that the red blood splasheth her raiment; and his own blood therewithal he casteth aloft before her, and the drops on her white hands fall: but nought she seeth or heedeth, and again he turns to fight, nor heedeth stroke nor wounding so he a foe may smite: then the battle opens before him, and the niblungs draw to his side; as death in the world first fashioned, through the feast-hall doth he stride. and so once more do the niblungs sweep that murder-flood of men from the hall of toils and treason, and the doors swing to again. then again is there peace for a little within the fateful fold; but the niblungs look about them, and but few folk they behold upright on their feet for the battle: now they climb aloft no more, nor cast the dead from the windows; but they raise a rampart of war, and its stones are the fallen east-folk, and no lowly wall is that. therein was gunnar the mighty: on the shields of men he sat, and the sons of his people hearkened, for his hand through the harp-strings ran, and he sang in the hall of his foeman of the gods and the making of man, and how season was sundered from season in the days of the fashioning, and became the summer and autumn, and became the winter and spring; he sang of men's hunger and labour, and their love and their breeding of broil. and their hope that is fostered of famine, and their rest that is fashioned of toil: fame then and the sword he sang of, and the hour of the hardy and wise, when the last of the living shall perish, and the first of the dead shall arise, and the torch shall be lit in the daylight, and god unto man shall pray, and the heart shall cry out for the hand in the fight of the uttermost day. so he sang, and beheld not gudrun, save as long ago he saw his sister, the little maiden of the face without a flaw: but wearily hogni beheld her, and no change in her face there was, and long thereon gazed hogni, and set his brows as the brass, though the hands of the king were weary, and weak his knees were grown, and he felt as a man unholpen in a waste land wending alone. the sons of giuki now the noon was long passed over when again the rumour arose, and through the doors cast open flowed in the river of foes: they flooded the hall of the murder, and surged round that rampart of dead; no war-duke ran before them, no lord to the onset led, but the thralls shot spears at adventure, and shot out shafts from afar, till the misty hall was blinded with the bitter drift of war: few and faint were the niblung children, and their wounds were waxen acold, and they saw the hell-gates open as they stood in their grimly hold: yet thrice stormed out king hogni, thrice stormed out gunnar the king, thrice fell they aback yet living to the heart of the fated ring; and they looked and their band was little, and no man but was wounded sore, and the hall seemed growing greater, such hosts of foes it bore, so tossed the iron harvest from wall to gilded wall; and they looked and the white-clad gudrun sat silent over all. then the churls and thralls of the eastland howled out as wolves accurst, but oft gaped the niblungs voiceless, for they choked with anger and thirst; and the hall grew hot as a furnace, and men drank their flowing blood, men laughed and gnawed on their shield-rims, men knew not where they stood, and saw not what was before them; as in the dark men smote, men died heart-broken, unsmitten; men wept with the cry in the throat, men lived on full of war-shafts, men cast their shields aside and caught the spears to their bosoms; men rushed with none beside, and fell unarmed on the foemen, and tore and slew in death: and still down rained the arrows as the rain across the heath; still proud o'er all the turmoil stood the kings of giuki born, nor knit were the brows of gunnar, nor his song-speech overworn; but hogni's mouth kept silence, and oft his heart went forth to the long, long day of the darkness, and the end of worldly worth. loud rose the roar of the east-folk, and the end was coming at last: now the foremost locked their shield-rims and the hindmost over them cast, and nigher they drew and nigher, and their fear was fading away, for every man of the niblungs on the shaft-strewn pavement lay, save gunnar the king and hogni: still the glorious king up-bore the cloudy shield of the niblungs set full of shafts of war; but hogni's hands had fainted, and his shield had sunk adown, so thick with the eastland spearwood was that rampart of renown; and hacked and dull were the edges that had rent the wall of foes: yet he stood upright by gunnar before that shielded close, nor looked on the foeman's faces as their wild eyes drew anear, and their faltering shield-rims clattered with the remnant of their fear; but he gazed on the niblung woman, and the daughter of his folk, who sat o'er all unchanging ere the war-cloud over them broke. now nothing might men hearken in the house of atli's weal, save the feet slow tramping onward, and the rattling of the steel, and the song of the glorious gunnar, that rang as clearly now as the speckled storm-cock singeth from the scant-leaved hawthorn-bough, when the sun is dusking over and the march snow pelts the land. there stood the mighty gunnar with sword and shield in hand, there stood the shieldless hogni with set unangry eyes, and watched the wall of war-shields o'er the dead men's rampart rise, and the white blades flickering nigher, and the quavering points of war. then the heavy air of the feast-hall was rent with a fearful roar, and the turmoil came and the tangle, as the wall together ran: but aloft yet towered the niblungs, and man toppled over man, and leapt and struggled to tear them; as whiles amidst the sea the doomed ship strives its utmost with mid-ocean's mastery, and the tall masts whip the cordage, while the welter whirls and leaps, and they rise and reel and waver, and sink amid the deeps: so before the little-hearted in king atli's murder-hall did the glorious sons of giuki 'neath the shielded onrush fall: sore wounded, bound and helpless, but living yet, they lie till the afternoon and the even in the first of night shall die. _william morris._ cxiv is life worth living is life worth living? yes, so long as spring revives the year, and hails us with the cuckoo's song, to show that she is here; so long as may of april takes, in smiles and tears, farewell, and windflowers dapple all the brakes, and primroses the dell; while children in the woodlands yet adorn their little laps with ladysmock and violet, and daisy-chain their caps; while over orchard daffodils cloud-shadows float and fleet, and ousel pipes and laverock trills, and young lambs buck and bleat; so long as that which bursts the bud and swells and tunes the rill makes springtime in the maiden's blood, life is worth living still. life not worth living! come with me, now that, through vanishing veil, shimmers the dew on lawn and lea, and milk foams in the pail; now that june's sweltering sunlight bathes with sweat the striplings lithe, as fall the long straight scented swathes over the crescent scythe; now that the throstle never stops his self-sufficing strain, and woodbine-trails festoon the copse, and eglantine the lane; now rustic labour seems as sweet as leisure, and blithe herds wend homeward with unweary feet, carolling like the birds; now all, except the lover's vow, and nightingale, is still; here, in the twilight hour, allow, life is worth living still. when summer, lingering half-forlorn, on autumn loves to lean, and fields of slowly yellowing corn are girt by woods still green; when hazel-nuts wax brown and plump, and apples rosy-red, and the owlet hoots from hollow stump, and the dormouse makes its bed; when crammed are all the granary floors, and the hunter's moon is bright, and life again is sweet indoors, and logs again alight; ay, even when the houseless wind waileth through cleft and chink, and in the twilight maids grow kind, and jugs are filled and clink; when children clasp their hands and pray 'be done thy heavenly will!' who doth not lift his voice, and say, 'life is worth living still'? is life worth living? yes, so long as there is wrong to right, wail of the weak against the strong, or tyranny to fight; long as there lingers gloom to chase, or streaming tear to dry, one kindred woe, one sorrowing face that smiles as we draw nigh; long as at tale of anguish swells the heart, and lids grow wet, and at the sound of christmas bells we pardon and forget; so long as faith with freedom reigns, and loyal hope survives, and gracious charity remains to leaven lowly lives; while there is one untrodden tract for intellect or will, and men are free to think and act life is worth living still. not care to live while english homes nestle in english trees, and england's trident-sceptre roams her territorial seas! not live while english songs are sung wherever blows the wind, and england's laws and england's tongue enfranchise half mankind! so long as in pacific main, or on atlantic strand, our kin transmit the parent strain, and love the mother-land; so long as flashes english steel, and english trumpets shrill, he is dead already who doth not feel life is worth living still. _austin._ cxv theology in extremis oft in the pleasant summer years, reading the tales of days bygone, i have mused on the story of human tears, all that man unto man has done, massacre, torture, and black despair; reading it all in my easy-chair. passionate prayer for a minute's life; tortured crying for death as rest; husband pleading for child or wife, pitiless stroke upon tender breast. was it all real as that i lay there lazily stretched on my easy-chair? could i believe in those hard old times, here in this safe luxurious age? were the horrors invented to season rhymes, or truly is man so fierce in his rage? what could i suffer, and what could i dare? i who was bred to that easy-chair. they were my fathers, the men of yore, little they recked of a cruel death; they would dip their hands in a heretic's gore, they stood and burnt for a rule of faith. what would i burn for, and whom not spare? i, who had faith in an easy-chair. now do i see old tales are true, here in the clutch of a savage foe; now shall i know what my fathers knew, bodily anguish and bitter woe, naked and bound in the strong sun's glare, far from my civilised easy-chair. now have i tasted and understood that old-world feeling of mortal hate; for the eyes all round us are hot with blood; they will kill us coolly--they do but wait; while i, i would sell ten lives, at least, for one fair stroke at that devilish priest. just in return for the kick he gave, bidding me call on the prophet's name; even a dog by this may save skin from the knife and soul from the flame; my soul! if he can let the prophet burn it, but life is sweet if a word may earn it. a bullock's death, and at thirty years! just one phrase, and a man gets off it; look at that mongrel clerk in his tears whining aloud the name of the prophet; only a formula easy to patter, and, god almighty, what _can_ it matter? 'matter enough,' will my comrade say praying aloud here close at my side, 'whether you mourn in despair alway, cursed for ever by christ denied; or whether you suffer a minute's pain all the reward of heaven to gain.' not for a moment faltereth he, sure of the promise and pardon of sin; thus did the martyrs die, i see, little to lose and muckle to win; death means heaven, he longs to receive it, but what shall i do if i don't believe it? life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh, fain would i speak one word and be spared; yet i could be silent and cheerfully die, if i were only sure god cared; if i had faith, and were only certain that light is behind that terrible curtain. but what if he listeth nothing at all, of words a poor wretch in his terror may say that mighty god who created all to labour and live their appointed day; who stoops not either to bless or ban, weaving the woof of an endless plan. he is the reaper, and binds the sheaf, shall not the season its order keep? can it be changed by a man's belief? millions of harvests still to reap; will god reward, if i die for a creed, or will he but pity, and sow more seed? surely he pities who made the brain, when breaks that mirror of memories sweet, when the hard blow falleth, and never again nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat; bitter the vision of vanishing joys; surely he pities when man destroys. here stand i on the ocean's brink, who hath brought news of the further shore? how shall i cross it? sail or sink, one thing is sure, i return no more; shall i find haven, or aye shall i be tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea? they tell fair tales of a far-off land, of love rekindled, of forms renewed; there may i only touch one hand here life's ruin will little be rued; but the hand i have pressed and the voice i have heard, to lose them for ever, and all for a word! now do i feel that my heart must break all for one glimpse of a woman's face; swiftly the slumbering memories wake odour and shadow of hour and place; one bright ray through the darkening past leaps from the lamp as it brightens last, showing me summer in western land now, as the cool breeze murmureth in leaf and flower--and here i stand in this plain all bare save the shadow of death; leaving my life in its full noonday, and no one to know why i flung it away. why? am i bidding for glory's roll? i shall be murdered and clean forgot; is it a bargain to save my soul? god, whom i trust in, bargains not; yet for the honour of english race, may i not live or endure disgrace. ay, but the word, if i could have said it, i by no terrors of hell perplext; hard to be silent and have no credit from man in this world, or reward in the next; none to bear witness and reckon the cost of the name that is saved by the life that is lost. i must be gone to the crowd untold of men by the cause which they served unknown, who moulder in myriad graves of old; never a story and never a stone tells of the martyrs who die like me, just for the pride of the old countree. _lyall._ cxvi the oblation ask nothing more of me, sweet; all i can give you i give. heart of my heart, were it more, more would be laid at your feet: love that should help you to live, song that should spur you to soar. all things were nothing to give once to have sense of you more, touch you and taste of you, sweet, think you and breathe you and live, swept of your wings as they soar, trodden by chance of your feet. i that have love and no more give you but love of you, sweet: he that hath more, let him give; he that hath wings, let him soar; mine is the heart at your feet here, that must love you to live. _swinburne._ cxvii england england, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate girdle enrings thee round, mother fair as the morning, where is now the place of thy foemen found? still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them stricken, acclaims thee crowned. time may change, and the skies grow strange with signs of treason, and fraud, and fear: foes in union of strange communion may rise against thee from far and near: sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as cankers waxing from year to year. yet, though treason and fierce unreason should league and lie and defame and smite, we that know thee, how far below thee the hatred burns of the sons of night, we that love thee, behold above thee the witness written of life in light. life that shines from thee shows forth signs that none may read not by eyeless foes: hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful now but as madness grows: love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, beholds and glows. truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, forsaking the face of truth: freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born again from thy deathless youth: faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert thou the prey of the serpent's tooth. greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to sting thee at heel in vain; craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn and murmur and plead and plain: thou art thou: and thy sunbright brow is hers that blasted the strength of spain. mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in place of thee england's place: earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of record, so clothed with grace: dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as strong or as fair of face, how shalt thou be abased? or how shalt fear take hold of thy heart? of thine, england, maiden immortal, laden with charge of life and with hopes divine? earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither behold not light in her darkness shine. england, none that is born thy son, and lives by grace of thy glory, free, lives and yearns not at heart and burns with hope to serve as he worships thee; none may sing thee: the sea-wind's wing beats down our songs as it hails the sea. _swinburne._ cxviii a jacobite in exile the weary day rins down and dies, the weary night wears through: and never an hour is fair wi' flower, and never a flower wi' dew. i would the day were night for me, i would the night were day: for then would i stand in my ain fair land, as now in dreams i may. o lordly flow the loire and seine, and loud the dark durance: but bonnier shine the braes of tyne than a' the fields of france; and the waves of till that speak sae still gleam goodlier where they glance. o weel were they that fell fighting on dark drumossie's day: they keep their hame ayont the faem and we die far away. o sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, but night and day wake we; and ever between the sea banks green sounds loud the sundering sea. and ill we sleep, sae sair we weep but sweet and fast sleep they: and the mool that haps them roun' and laps them is e'en their country's clay; but the land we tread that are not dead is strange as night by day. strange as night in a strange man's sight, though fair as dawn it be: for what is here that a stranger's cheer should yet wax blithe to see? the hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, the fields are green and gold: the hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, as ours at home of old. but hills and flowers are nane of ours, and ours are over sea: and the kind strange land whereon we stand, it wotsna what were we or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, to try what end might be. scathe and shame, and a waefu' name, and a weary time and strange, have they that seeing a weird for dreeing can die, and cannot change. shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, though sair be they to dree: but ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, mair keen than wind and sea. ill may we thole the night's watches, and ill the weary day: and the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, a waefu' gift gie they; for the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us, the morn blaws all away. on aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, the burn rins blithe and fain: there's nought wi' me i wadna gie to look thereon again. on keilder-side the wind blaws wide: there sounds nae hunting-horn that rings sae sweet as the winds that beat round banks where tyne is born. the wansbeck sings with all her springs the bents and braes give ear; but the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings i may not see nor hear; for far and far thae blithe burns are, and strange is a' thing near. the light there lightens, the day there brightens, the loud wind there lives free: nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me that i wad hear or see. but o gin i were there again, afar ayont the faem, cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed that haps my sires at hame! we'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, and the sweet grey gleaming sky, and the lordly strand of northumberland, and the goodly towers thereby; and none shall know but the winds that blow the graves wherein we lie. _swinburne._ cxix the reveillÉ hark! i hear the tramp of thousands, and of armèd men the hum; lo! a nation's hosts have gathered round the quick alarming drum,-- saying, 'come, freemen, come! ere your heritage be wasted,' said the quick alarming drum. 'let me of my heart take counsel: war is not of life the sum; who shall stay and reap the harvest when the autumn days shall come?' but the drum echoed, 'come! death shall reap the braver harvest,' said the solemn-sounding drum. 'but when won the coming battle, what of profit springs therefrom? what if conquest, subjugation, even greater ills become?' but the drum answered, 'come! you must do the sum to prove it,' said the yankee-answering drum. 'what if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, whistling shot and bursting bomb, when my brothers fall around me, should my heart grow cold and numb?' but the drum answered, 'come! better there in death united, than in life a recreant,--come!' thus they answered,--hoping, fearing, some in faith, and doubting some, till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, said, 'my chosen people, come!' then the drum, lo! was dumb, for the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 'lord, we come!' _bret harte._ cxx what the bullet sang o joy of creation to be! o rapture to fly and be free! be the battle lost or won though its smoke shall hide the sun, i shall find my love--the one born for me! i shall know him where he stands, all alone, with the power in his hands not o'erthrown; i shall know him by his face, by his god-like front and grace; i shall hold him for a space all my own! it is he--o my love! so bold! it is i--all thy love foretold! it is i. o love! what bliss! dost thou answer to my kiss? o sweetheart! what is this lieth there so cold? _bret harte._ cxxi a ballad of the armada king philip had vaunted his claims; he had sworn for a year he would sack us; with an army of heathenish names he was coming to fagot and stack us; like the thieves of the sea he would track us, and shatter our ships on the main; but we had bold neptune to back us-- and where are the galleons of spain? his carackes were christened of dames to the kirtles whereof he would tack us; with his saints and his gilded stern-frames he had thought like an egg shell to crack us; now howard may get to his flaccus, and drake to his devon again, and hawkins bowl rubbers to bacchus-- for where are the galleons of spain? let his majesty hang to st. james the axe that he whetted to hack us; he must play at some lustier games or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; to his mines of peru he would pack us to tug at his bullet and chain; alas! that his greatness should lack us!-- but where are the galleons of spain? envoy gloriana!--the don may attack us whenever his stomach be fain; he must reach us before he can rack us, ... and where are the galleons of spain? _dobson._ cxxii the white pacha vain is the dream! however hope may rave, he perished with the folk he could not save, and though none surely told us he is dead, and though perchance another in his stead, another, not less brave, when all was done, had fled unto the southward and the sun, had urged a way by force, or won by guile to streams remotest of the secret nile, had raised an army of the desert men, and, waiting for his hour, had turned again and fallen on that false prophet, yet we know gordon is dead, and these things are not so! nay, not for england's cause, nor to restore her trampled flag--for he loved honour more-- nay, not for life, revenge, or victory, would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die. he will not come again, whate'er our need, he will not come, who is happy, being freed from the deathly flesh and perishable things, and lies of statesmen and rewards of kings. nay, somewhere by the sacred river's shore he sleeps like those who shall return no more, no more return for all the prayers of men-- arthur and charles--they never come again! they shall not wake, though fair the vision seem: whate'er sick hope may whisper, vain the dream! _lang._ cxxiii mother and son it is not yours, o mother, to complain, not, mother, yours to weep, though nevermore your son again shall to your bosom creep, though nevermore again you watch your baby sleep. though in the greener paths of earth mother and child, no more we wander; and no more the birth of me whom once you bore, seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore; though as all passes, day and night, the seasons and the years, from you, o mother, this delight, this also disappears-- some profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears. the child, the seed, the grain of corn, the acorn on the hill, each for some separate end is born in season fit, and still each must in strength arise to work the almighty will. so from the hearth the children flee, by that almighty hand austerely led; so one by sea goes forth, and one by land; nor aught of all men's sons escapes from that command. so from the sally each obeys the unseen almighty nod; so till the ending all their ways blind-folded loth have trod: nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of god. and as the fervent smith of yore beat out the glowing blade, nor wielded in the front of war the weapons that he made, but in the tower at home still plied his ringing trade; so like a sword the son shall roam on nobler missions sent; and as the smith remained at home in peaceful turret pent, so sits the while at home the mother well content. _stevenson._ cxxiv prayers god who created me nimble and light of limb, in three elements free, to run, to ride, to swim: not when the sense is dim, but now from the heart of joy, i would remember him: take the thanks of a boy. jesu, king and lord, whose are my foes to fight, gird me with thy sword swift and sharp and bright. thee would i serve if i might; and conquer if i can, from day-dawn till night, take the strength of a man. spirit of love and truth, breathing in grosser clay, the light and flame of youth, delight of men in the fray, wisdom in strength's decay; from pain, strife, wrong to be free this best gift i pray, take my spirit to thee. _beeching._ cxxv a ballad of east and west kamal is out with twenty men to raise the border side, and he has lifted the colonel's mare that is the colonel's pride: he has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, and turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. then up and spoke the colonel's son that led a troop of the guides: 'is there never a man of all my men can say where kamal hides?' then up and spoke mahommed khan, the son of the ressaldar, 'if ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. at dusk he harries the abazai--at dawn he is into bonair-- but he must go by fort bukloh to his own place to fare, so if ye gallop to fort bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, by the favour of god ye may cut him off ere he win to the tongue of jagai. but if he be passed the tongue of jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, for the length and the breadth of that grisly plain are sown with kamal's men.' the colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, with the mouth of a bell and the heart of hell and the head of the gallows-tree. the colonel's son to the fort has won, they bid him stay to eat-- who rides at the tail of a border thief, he sits not long at his meat. he's up and away from fort bukloh as fast as he can fly, till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the tongue of jagai, till he was aware of his father's mare with kamal upon her back, and when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. he has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. 'ye shoot like a soldier,' kamal said. 'show now if ye can ride.' it's up and over the tongue of jagai, as blown dust-devils go, the dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. the dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, but the red mare played with the snaffle-bars as a lady plays with a glove. they have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, the dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. the dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful heap fell he,-- and kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. he has knocked the pistol out of his hand--small room was there to strive-- ''twas only by favour of mine,' quoth he, 'ye rode so long alive; there was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, but covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. if i had raised my bridle-hand, as i have held it low, the little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row; if i had bowed my head on my breast, as i have held it high, the kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.' lightly answered the colonel's son:--'do good to bird and beast, but count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. if there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. they will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, the thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. but if thou thinkest the price be fair, and thy brethren wait to sup, the hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,--howl, dog, and call them up! and if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, give me my father's mare again, and i'll fight my own way back!' kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. 'no talk shall be of dogs,' said he, 'when wolf and grey wolf meet. may i eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath. what dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with death?' lightly answered the colonel's son:--'i hold by the blood of my clan; take up the mare for my father's gift--by god she has carried a man!' the red mare ran to the colonel's son, and nuzzled her nose in his breast, 'we be two strong men,' said kamal then, 'but she loveth the younger best. so she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise studded rein, my broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.' the colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, 'ye have taken the one from a foe,' said he; 'will ye take the mate from a friend?' 'a gift for a gift,' said kamal straight; 'a limb for the risk of a limb. thy father has sent his son to me, i'll send my son to him!' with that he whistled his only son, who dropped from a mountain-crest-- he trod the ling like a buck in spring and he looked like a lance in rest. 'now here is thy master,' kamal said, 'who leads a troop of the guides, and thou must ride at his left side as shield to shoulder rides. till death or i cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, thy life is his--thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. and thou must eat the white queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, and thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the border-line, and thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power-- belike they will raise thee to ressaldar when i am hanged in peshawur.' they have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, they have taken the oath of the brother-in-blood on leavened bread and salt; they have taken the oath of the brother-in-blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, on the hilt and the haft of the khyber knife, and the wondrous names of god. the colonel's son he rides the mare and kamal's boy the dun, and two have come back to fort bukloh where there went forth but one. and when they drew to the quarter-guard, full twenty swords flew clear-- there was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. 'ha' done! ha' done!' said the colonel's son. 'put up the steel at your sides! last night ye had struck at a border thief--to-night 'tis a man of the guides!' oh, east is east, and west is west, and never the two shall meet till earth and sky stand presently at god's great judgment seat. but there is neither east nor west, border or breed or birth, when two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth. _kipling._ cxxvi the flag of england winds of the world, give answer! they are whimpering to and fro-- and what should they know of england who only england know?-- the poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, they are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the english flag. must we borrow a clout from the boer--to plaster anew with dirt? an irish liar's bandage, or an english coward's shirt? we may not speak of england; her flag's to sell or share. what is the flag of england? winds of the world, declare! the north wind blew:--'from bergen my steel-shod vanguards go; i chase your lazy whalers home from the disko floe; by the great north lights above me i work the will of god, and the liner splits on the ice-fields or the dogger fills with cod. i barred my gates with iron, i shuttered my doors with flame, because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; i took the sun from their presence, i cut them down with my blast, and they died, but the flag of england blew free ere the spirit passed. the lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long arctic night, the musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the northern light: what is the flag of england? ye have but my bergs to dare, ye have but my drifts to conquer. go forth, for it is there!' the south wind sighed:--'from the virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon. strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, i waked the palms to laughter--i tossed the scud in the breeze-- never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, but over the scud and the palm trees an english flag was flown. i have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the horn; i have chased it north to the lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn; i have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; i have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. my basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the southern cross. what is the flag of england? ye have but my reefs to dare, ye have but my seas to furrow. go forth, for it is there!' the east wind roared:--'from the kuriles, the bitter seas, i come, and me men call the home-wind, for i bring the english home. look--look well to your shipping! by the breath of my mad typhoon i swept your close-packed praya and beached your best at kowloon! the reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, i raped your richest roadstead--i plundered singapore! i set my hand on the hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, and i heaved your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake. but a soul goes out on the east wind that died for england's sake-- man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- because on the bones of the english the english flag is stayed. the desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, the scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. what is the flag of england? ye have but my sun to dare, ye have but my sands to travel. go forth, for it is there!' the west wind called:--'in squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly that bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. they make my might their porter, they make my house their path, and i loose my neck from their service and whelm them all in my wrath. i draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, they bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll: for day is a drifting terror till i raise the shroud with my breath, and they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. but whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day i heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, first of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, dipping between the rollers, the english flag goes by. the dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- the morning stars have hailed it, a fellow-star in the mist. what is the flag of england? ye have but my breath to dare, ye have but my waves to conquer. go forth, for it is there!' _kipling._ notes i this descant upon one of the most glorious feats of arms that even england has achieved is selected and pieced together from the magnificent verse assigned to the chorus--'_enter rumour painted full of tongues_'--to _king henry v._, the noble piece of pageantry produced in , and a famous number from the _poems lyrick and pastorall_ (_circ._ ) of michael drayton. 'look,' says ben jonson, in his _vision on the muses of his friend, michael drayton_:-- look how we read the spartans were inflamed with bold tyrtæus' verse; when thou art named so shall our english youths urge on, and cry an agincourt! an agincourt! or die. this, it is true, was in respect of another _agincourt_, but we need not hesitate to appropriate it to our own: in respect of which--'to the cambro-britons and their harp, his _ballad of agincourt_,' is the poet's own description--it is to note that drayton had no model for it; that it remains wellnigh unique in english letters for over two hundred years; and that, despite such lapses into doggerel as the third stanza, and some curious infelicities of diction which need not here be specified, it remains, with a certain sonnet, its author's chief title to fame. compare the ballads of _the brave lord willoughby_ and _the honour of bristol_ in the seventeenth century, the song of _the arethusa_ in the eighteenth, and in the nineteenth a choice of such tyrtæan music as _the battle of the baltic_, lord tennyson's _ballad of the fleet_, and _the red thread of honour_ of the late sir francis doyle. ii originally _the true character of a happy life_: written and printed about , and reprinted by percy ( ) from the _reliquiæ wottonianæ_ of . says drummond of ben jonson, 'sir edward (_sic_) wotton's verses of a happy life he hath by heart.' of wotton himself it was reserved for cowley to remark that he did the utmost bounds of knowledge find, and found them not so large as was his mind; * * * * * * and when he saw that he through all had passed he died--lest he should idle grow at last. see izaak walton, _lives_. iii, iv from _underwoods_ ( ). the first, _an ode_, is addressed to an innominate not yet, i believe, identified. the second is part of that _ode to the immortal memory of that heroic pair, sir lucius cary and sir henry morrison_, which is the first true pindaric in the language. gifford ascribes it to , when sir henry died, but it seems not to have been printed before . sir lucius cary is the lord falkland of clarendon and horace walpole. v from _the mad lover_ (produced about : published in ). compare the wooden imitations of dryden in _amboyna_ and elsewhere. vi first printed, mr. bullen tells me, in . compare x. (shirley, _post_, p. ), and the cry from raleigh's _history of the world_: 'o eloquent, just, and mighty death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised: thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, "_hic jacet_."' vii, viii this pair of 'noble numbers,' of brilliant and fervent lyrics, is from _hesperides, or, the works both human and divine of robert herrich, esq._ ( ). ix no. , '_vertue_,' in _the temple: sacred poems and private ejaculations_, - . compare herbert to christopher farrer, as reported by izaak walton:--'tell him that i do not repine, but am pleased with my want of health; and tell him, my heart is fixed on that place where true joy is only to be found, and that i long to be there, and do wait for my appointed change with hope and patience.' x from _the contention of ajax and ulysses_, printed . compare vi. (beaumont, _ante_, p. ), and bacon, _essays_, 'on death': 'but, above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is _nunc dimittis_, when a man hath attained worthy ends and expectations.' xi written in the november of , and printed next year in the _obsequies to the memorie of mr. edward king_. 'in this monody,' the title runs, 'the author bewails a learned friend unfortunately drowned in his passage from chester on the irish seas, . and by occasion foretells the ruine of our corrupted clergie, then in their height.' king, who died at five- or six-and-twenty, was a personal friend of milton's, but the true accents of grief are inaudible in _lycidas_, which is, indeed, an example as perfect as exists of milton's capacity for turning whatever he touched into pure poetry: an arrangement, that is, of 'the best words in the best order'; or, to go still further than coleridge, the best words in the prescribed or inevitable sequence that makes the arrangement art. for the innumerable allusions see professor masson's edition of milton (macmillan, ), i. - , and iii. - . xii the eighth sonnet (masson): 'when the assault was intended to the city.' written in , with rupert and the king at brentford, and printed in the edition of . xiii the sixteenth sonnet (masson): 'to the lord general cromwell, may, : on the proposals of certain ministers at the committee for propagation of the gospel.' printed by philips, _life of milton_, . in defence of the principle of religious voluntaryism, and against the intolerant fifteen proposals of john owen and the majority of the committee. xiv the eighteenth sonnet (masson). 'written in ,' says masson, and referring 'to the persecution instituted, in the early part of the year, by charles emmanuel ii., duke of savoy and prince of piedmont, against his protestant subjects of the valleys of the cottian alps.' in january, an edict required them to turn romanists or quit the country out of hand; it was enforced with such barbarity that cromwell took the case of the sufferers in hand; and so vigorous was his action that the edict was withdrawn and a convention was signed (august ) by which the vaudois were permitted to worship as they would. printed in . xv the nineteenth sonnet (masson) 'may have been written any time between and ,' the first years of milton's blindness, 'but it follows the sonnet on the piedmontese massacre in milton's own volume of .' xvi, xvii from the choric parts of _samson agonistes_ (i.e. the agonist, or wrestler), first printed in . xviii of uncertain date; first printed by watson - . the version given here is emerson's (which is shorter than the original), with the exception of the last stanza, which is napier's (_montrose_, i. appendices). napier is at great pains to prove that the ballad is allegorical, and that montrose's 'dear and only love' was that unhappy king whose epitaph, the famous _great, good, and just_, he is said--falsely--to have written with his sword. be this as it may, the verses have a second part, which has dropped into oblivion. for the great marquis, who reminded de retz of the men in plutarch's _lives_, was not averse from the practice of poetry, and wrote, besides these numbers, a prayer ('let them bestow on every airth a limb'), a 'pasquil,' a pleasant string of conceits in praise of woman, a set of vehement and fiery memorial stanzas on the king, and one copy of verses more. xix, xx _to lucasta going to the wars_ and _to althea from prison_ are both, i believe, from lovelace's _lucasta_ ( ). xxi first printed by captain thomson, _works_ ( ), from a copy he held, on what seems excellent authority, to be in marvell's hand. the true title is _a horatian ode on cromwell's return from ireland_ ( ). it is always ascribed to marvell (whose verse was first collected and printed by his widow in ), but there are faint doubts as to the authorship. xxii _poems_ ( ). this elegant and romantic lyric appears to have been inspired by a passage in the life of john oxenbridge, of whom, 'religionis causa oberrantem,' it is enough to note that, after migrating to bermudas, where he had a church, and being 'ejected' at the restoration from an english cure, he went to surinam ( - ), to barbadoes ( ), and to new england ( ), where he was made pastor of 'the first church of boston' ( ), and where he died in . these details are from mr. grosart's _marvell_ ( ), i. - , and ii. - . xxiii dryden's second ode for saint cecilia's day, _alexander's feast, or the power of sound_, as it is called, was written and printed in . as it was designed for music (it was set by jeremiah clarke), the closing lines of every strophe are repeated by way of chorus. i have removed these repetitions as impertinent to the effect of the poem in print, and as interrupting the rushing vehemency of the narrative. the incident described is the burning of persepolis. xxiv written early in , in memory of robert levett: 'an old and faithful friend,' says johnson, and withal 'a very useful and very blameless man.' excepting for the perfect odes of cowper (_post_, pp. , ), in these excellent and affecting verses the 'classic' note is audible for the last time in this book until we reach the _iphigeneia_ of walter savage landor, who was a lad of seven at the date of their composition. they were written seventeen years after the publication of the _reliques_ ( ), and a full quarter century after the appearance of _the bard_ ( ); but in style they proceed from the age of pope. for the rest, the augustan muse was an utter stranger to the fighting inspiration. her gait was pedestrian, her purpose didactic, her practice neat and formal: and she prosed of england's greatest captain, the victor of blenheim, as tamely as himself had been 'a parson in a tye-wig'--himself, and not the amiable man of letters who acted as her amanuensis for the nonce. xxv _chevy chase_ is here preferred to _otterbourne_ as appealing more directly to englishmen. the text is percy's, and the movement like that of all the english ballads, is jog-trot enough. sidney's confession--that he never heard it, even from a blind fiddler, but it stirred him like the sound of a trumpet--refers, no doubt, to an earlier version than the present, which appears to date from the first quarter of the seventeenth century. compare _the brave lord willoughby_ and _the honour of bristol_ (_post_, pp. , ). xxvi first printed by percy. the text i give is, with some few variants, that of the vastly better version in _the minstrelsy of the scottish border_ ( - ). of the 'history' of the ballad the less said the better. the argument is neatly summarised by mr. allingham, p. of _the ballad book_ ('golden treasury,' ). skeely = _skilful_ white monie = _silver_ gane = _would suffice_ half-fou = _the eighth part of a peck_ gurly = _rough_ lap = _sprang_ bout = _bolt_ twine = _thread_, i.e. canvas wap = _warp_ flattered = '_fluttered_, or rather, floated' (scott) kaims = _combs_ xxvii printed by percy, 'from an old black-letter copy; with some conjectural emendations.' at the suggestion of my friend, the rev. mr. hunt, i have restored the original readings, as in truer consonancy with the vainglorious, insolent, and swaggering ballad spirit. as for the hero, peregrine bertie, lord willoughby of eresby, described as 'one of the queen's best swordsmen' and 'a great master of the art military,' he succeeded leicester in the command in the low countries in , distinguished himself repeatedly in fight with the spaniards, and died in . 'both norris and turner were famous among the military men of that age' (percy). in the roxburgh ballads the full title of the broadside--which is 'printed for s. coles in vine st., near hatton garden,'--is as follows:--'_a true relation of a famous and bloudy battell fought in flanders by the noble and valiant lord willoughby with english against , spaniards, wherein the english obtained a notable victory for the glory and renown of our nation._ tune: _lord willoughby_.' xxviii first printed by tom d'urfey, _wit and mirth, etc._ ( ), vi. - ; revised by robert burns for _the scots musical magazine_, and again by allan cunningham for _the songs of scotland_; given with many differences, 'long current in selkirkshire,' in the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_. the present version is a _rifaccimento_ from burns and scott. it is worth noting that græme (pronounced 'grime'), and graham are both forms of one name, which name was originally grimm, and that, according to some, the latter orthography is the privilege of the chief of the clan. xxix first printed in the _minstrelsy_. this time the 'history' is authentic enough. it happened early in , when salkeld, the deputy warden of the western marches, seized under truce the person of william armstrong of kinmont--elsewhere described as 'will kinmonde the common thieffe'--and haled him to carlisle castle, whence he was rescued--'with shouting and crying and sound of trumpet'--by the laird of buccleuch, keeper of liddesdale, and a troop of two hundred horse. 'the queen of england,' says spottiswoode, 'having notice sent her of what was done, stormed not a little'; but see the excellent summary compiled by scott (who confesses to having touched up the ballad) for the _minstrelsy_. haribee = _the gallows hill at carlisle_ reiver = _a border thief_, one of a class which lived sparely, fought stoutly, entertained the strictest sense of honour and justice, went ever on horseback, and carried the art of cattle-lifting to the highest possible point of perfection (_national observer, th may, _) yett = _gate_ lawing = _reckoning_ basnet = _helmet_ curch = _coif or cap_ lightly = _to scorn_ in a lowe = _on fire_ slocken = _to slake_ splent = _shoulder-piece_ spauld = _shoulder_ broken men = _outlaws_ marshal men = _officers of law_ rank reiver = _common thief_ herry = _harry_ corbie = _crow_ lear = _learning_ row-footed = _rough-shod_ spait = _flood_ garred = _made_ slogan = _battle-cry_ stear = _stir_ saft = _light_ fleyed = _frightened_ bairns = _children_ spier = _ask_ hente = _lifted_, _haled_ maill = _rent_ furs = _furrows_ trew = _trust_ christentie = _christendom_ xxx communicated by mr. hunt,--who dates it about --from seyer's _memoirs, historical and topographical, of bristol and its neighbourhood_ ( - ). the full title is _the honour of bristol: shewing how the angel gabriel of bristol fought with three ships, who boarded as many times, wherein we cleared our decks and killed five hundred of their men, and wounded many more, and made them fly into cales, when we lost but three men, to the honour of the angel gabriel of bristol_. to the tune _our noble king in his progress_. cales ( ), pronounced as a dissyllable, is of course cadiz. it is fair to add that this spirited and amusing piece of doggerel has been severely edited. xxxi from the _minstrelsy_, where it is 'given, without alteration or improvement, from the most accurate copy that could be recovered.' the story runs that helen irving (or helen bell), of kirkconnell in dumfriesshire, was beloved by adam fleming, and (as some say) bell of blacket house; that she favoured the first but her people encouraged the second; that she was thus constrained to tryst with fleming by night in the churchyard, 'a romantic spot, almost surrounded by the river kirtle'; that they were here surprised by the rejected suitor, who fired at his rival from the far bank of the stream; that helen, seeking to shield her lover, was shot in his stead; and that fleming, either there and then, or afterwards in spain, avenged her death on the body of her slayer. wordsworth has told the story in a copy of verses which shows, like so much more of his work, how dreary a poetaster he could be. xxxii this epic-in-little, as tremendous an invention as exists in verse, is from the _minstrelsy_: 'as written down from tradition by a lady' (c. kirkpatrick sharpe). corbies = _crows_ fail-dyke = _wall of turf_ hause-bane = _breast-bone_ theek = _thatch_ xxxiii begun in , and finished and printed (with _the progress of poetry_) in . 'founded,' says the poet, 'on a tradition current in wales, that edward the first, when he concluded the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.' the 'agonising king' (line ) is edward ii.; the 'she-wolf of france' ( ), isabel his queen; the 'scourge of heaven' ( ), edward iii.; the 'sable warrior' ( ), edward the black prince. lines - commemorate the rise and fall of richard ii.; lines - , the wars of the roses, the murders in the tower, the 'faith' of margaret of anjou, the 'fame' of henry v., the 'holy head' of henry vi. the 'bristled boar' ( ) is symbolical of richard iii.; 'half of thy heart' ( ) of eleanor of castile, 'who died a few years after the conquest of wales.' line celebrates the accession of the house of tudor in fulfilment of the prophecies of merlin and taliessin; lines - , queen elizabeth; lines - , shakespeare; lines - , milton; and the 'distant warblings' of line , 'the succession of poets after milton's time' (gray). xxxiv, xxxv written, the one in september (in the august of which year the _royal george_ ( guns) was overset in portsmouth harbour with the loss of close on a thousand souls), and the other 'after reading hume's _history_ in ' (benham). xxxvi it is worth recalling that at one time walter scott attributed this gallant lyric, which he printed in the _minstrelsy_, to a 'greater graham'--the marquis of montrose. xxxvii, xxxviii of these, the first, _blow high, blow low_, was sung in _the seraglio_ ( ), a forgotten opera; the second, said to have been inspired by the death of the author's brother, a naval officer, in _the oddities_ ( )--a 'table-entertainment,' where dibdin was author, actor, singer, musician, accompanist, everything but audience and candle-snuffer. they are among the first in time of his sea-ditties. xxxix it is told (_life_, w. h. curran, ) that curran met a deserter, drank a bottle, and talked of his chances, with him, and put his ideas and sentiments into this song. xl the _arethusa_, mr. hannay tells me, being attached to keppel's fleet at the mouth of the channel, was sent to order the _belle poule_, which was cruising with some smaller craft in search of keppel's ships, to come under his stern. the _belle poule_ (commanded by m. chadeau de la clocheterie) refusing, the _arethusa_ (captain marshall) opened fire. the ships were fairly matched, and in the action which ensued the _arethusa_ appears to have got the worst of it. in the end, after about an hour's fighting, keppel's liners came up, and the _belle poule_ made off. she was afterwards driven ashore by a superior english force, and it is an odd coincidence that in the _arethusa_ ran ashore off brest during her action ( th march) with _l'aigrette_. as for the french captain, he lived to command _l'hercule_, de grasse's leading ship in the great sea-fight ( th april ) with rodney off dominica, where he was killed. xli from the _songs of experience_ ( ). xlii _scots musical museum_, . adapted from, or rather suggested by, the _farewell_, which macpherson, a cateran 'of great personal strength and musical accomplishment,' is said to have played and sung at the gallows foot; thereafter breaking his violin across his knee and submitting his neck to the hangman. spring = _a melody in quick time_ sturt = _molestation_ xliii _museum_, . burns told thomson and mrs. dunlop that this noble and most moving song was old; but nobody believed him then, and nobody believes him now. pint-stoup = _pint-mug_ braes = _hill-sides_ gowans = _daisies_ paidl't = _paddled_ burn = _brook_ fiere = _friend_, _companion_ guid-willie = _well-meant_, _full of good-will_ waught = _draught_ xliv the first four lines are old. the rest were written apparently in , when the poet sent this song and _auld lang syne_ to mrs. dunlop. it appeared in the _museum_, . tassie = _a cup_; _fr._ 'tasse' xlv about - : printed . 'one of my juvenile works,' says burns. 'i do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits.' but hazlitt thought the world of it, and now it passes for one of burns's masterpieces. trysted = _appointed_ stoure = _dust and din_ xlvi _museum_, . attributed, in one shape or another, to a certain captain ogilvie. sharpe, too, printed a broadside in which the third stanza (used more than once by sir walter) is found as here. but scott douglas (_burns_, iii. ) has 'no doubt that this broadside was printed after ,' and as it stands the thing is assuredly the work of burns. the refrain and the metrical structure have been used by scott (_rokeby_, iv. ), carlyle, charles kingsley (_dolcino to margaret_), and mr. swinburne (_a reiver's neck verse_) among others. xlvii-lii of the first four numbers, the high-water mark of wordsworth's achievement, all four were written in ; the second and third were published in ; the first and fourth in . the _ode to duty_ was written in , and published in , to which year belongs that _song for the feast of brougham castle_, from which i have extracted the excellent verses here called _two victories_. liii-lxii the first three numbers are from _marmion_ ( ): i. introduction; v. ; and vi. - , - , and - . the next is from _the lady of the lake_ ( ), i. - : _the outlaw_ is from _rokeby_ ( ), iii. ; the _pibroch_ was published in ; _the omnipotent_ and _the red harlaw_ are from _the antiquary_ ( ), and the _farewell_ from _the pirate_ ( ). as for _bonny dundee_, that incomparable ditty, it was written as late as . 'the air of bonny dundee running in my head to-day,' he writes under date of d december (_diary_, , i. ), 'i wrote a few verses to it before dinner, taking the key-note from the story of clavers leaving the scottish convention of estates in - . _i wonder if they are good._' see _the doom of devorgoil_ ( ), note a, act ii. sc. . lxiii this unsurpassed piece of art, in which a music the most exquisite is used to body forth a set of suggestions that seem dictated by the very spirit of romance, was produced, under the influence of 'an anodyne,' as early as . coleridge, who calls it _kubla khan: a vision within a dream_, avers that, having fallen asleep in his chair over a sentence from purchas's pilgrimage--'here the khan kubla commanded a palace to be built and a stately garden thereto; and thus ten miles of ground were enclosed with a wall,'--he remained unconscious for about three hours, 'during which time he had the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less than three hundred lines'; 'if that,' he adds, 'can be called composition, in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort.' on awakening, he proceeded to write out his 'composition,' and had set down as much of it as is printed here, when 'he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from porlock,' whose departure, an hour after, left him wellnigh oblivious of the rest. this confession, which is dated , has been generally accepted as true; but coleridge had a trick of dreaming dreams about himself which makes doubt permissible. lxiv from the _hellenics_ (written in latin, - , and translated into english at the instance of lady blessington), . see colvin, _landor_ ('english men of letters'), pp. , . lxv-lxvii of the first, 'napoleon and the british sailor' (_the pilgrim of glencoe_, ), campbell writes that the 'anecdote has been published in several public journals, both french and english.' 'my belief,' he continues, 'in its authenticity was confirmed by an englishman, long resident in boulogne, lately telling me that he remembered the circumstance to have been generally talked of in the place.' authentic or not, i have preferred the story to _hohenlinden_, as less hackneyed, for one thing, and, for another, less pretentious and rhetorical. the second (_gertrude of wyoming_, ) is truly one of 'the glories of our birth and state.' the third (_idem_) i have ventured to shorten by three stanzas: a proceeding which, however culpable it seem, at least gets rid of the chief who gave a country's wounds relief by stopping a battle, eliminates the mermaid and her song (the song that 'condoles'), and ends the lyric on as sonorous and romantic a word as even shakespeare ever used. lxviii _corn law rhymes_, . lxix from that famous and successful forgery, cromek's _remains of nithsdale and galloway song_ ( ), written when allan was a working mason in dumfriesshire. i have omitted a stanza as inferior to the rest. lxxi _english songs and other small poems_, . lxxii-lxxviii the first is from the _hebrew melodies_ ( ); the next is selected from _the siege of corinth_ ( ), - ; _alhama_ (_idem_) is a spirited yet faithful rendering of the _romance muy doloroso del sitio y toma de alhama_, which existed both in spanish and in arabic, and whose effect was such that 'it was forbidden to be sung by the moors on the pain of death in granada' (byron); no. lxxv., surely one of the bravest songs in the language, was addressed (_idem_) to thomas moore; the tremendous _race with death_ is lifted out of the _ode in venice_ ( ); for the next number see _don juan_, iii. ( ); the last of all, 'stanzas inscribed _on this day i completed my thirty-sixth year_' ( ), is the last verse that byron wrote. lxxix napier has described the terrific effect of napoleon's pursuit; but in the operations before corunna he was distanced, if not out-generalled, by sir john moore, and ere the first days of he gave his command to soult, who pressed us vainly through the hill-country between leon and gallicia, and got beaten at corunna for his pains. wolfe, who was an irish parson and died of consumption, wrote some spirited verses on the flight of busaco, but this admirable elegy--'i will show you,' said byron to shelley (medwin, ii. ) 'one you have never seen, that i consider little if at all inferior to the best, the present prolific age has brought forth'--remains his passport to immortality. it was printed, not by the author, in an irish newspaper; was copied all over britain; was claimed by liar after liar in succession; and has been reprinted more often, perhaps, than any poem of the century. lxxx from _snarleyow, or the dog fiend_ ( ). compare nelson to collingwood: '_victory_, th june, ,--may god bless you and send you alongside the _santissima trinidad_.' lxxxi, lxxxii the story of casabianca is, i believe, untrue; but the intention of the singer, alike in this number and in the next, is excellent. each indeed is, in its way, a classic. the _mayflower_ sailed from southampton in . lxxxiii this magnificent sonnet, _on first reading chapman's homer_, was printed in . the 'cortez' of the eleventh verse is a mistake; the discoverer of the pacific being nuñez de balboa. lxxxiv-lxxxvii the _lays_ are dated ; they have passed through edition after edition; and if matthew arnold disliked and contemned them (see sir f. h. doyle, _reminiscences and opinions_, pp. - ), the general is wise enough to know them by heart. but a book that is 'a catechism to fight' (in jonson's phrase) would have sinned against itself had it taken no account of them, and i have given _horatius_ in its integrity: if only, as landor puts it, to show the british youth, who ne'er will lag behind, what romans were, when all the tuscans and their lars shouted, and shook the towers of mars. as for _the armada_, i have preferred it to _the battle of naseby_, first, because it is neither vicious nor ugly, and the other is both; and, second, because it is so brilliant an outcome of that capacity for dealing with proper names which macaulay, whether poet or not, possesses in common with none but certain among the greater poets. for _the last buccaneer_ (a curious anticipation of some effects of mr. rudyard kipling), and that noble thing, the _jacobite's epitaph_, they are dated and respectively. lxxxviii _the poetical works of robert stephen hawker_ (kegan paul, ). by permission of mrs. r. s. hawker. 'with the exception of the choral lines-- and shall trelawney die? there's twenty thousand cornishmen will know the reason why!-- and which have been, ever since the imprisonment by james ii. of the seven bishops--one of them sir jonathan trelawney--a popular proverb throughout cornwall, the whole of this song was composed by me in the year . i wrote it under a stag-horned oak in sir beville's walk in stowe wood. it was sent by me anonymously to a plymouth paper, and there it attracted the notice of mr. davies gilbert, who reprinted it at his private press at eastbourne under the avowed impression that it was the original ballad. it had the good fortune to win the eulogy of sir walter scott, who also deemed it to be the ancient song. it was praised under the same persuasion by lord macaulay and mr. dickens.'--_author's note._ lxxxix-xcii from _the sea side and the fire side_, ; _birds of passage_, _flight the first_, and _flight the second_; and _flower de luce_, . of these four examples of the picturesque and taking art of longfellow, i need say no more than that all are printed in their integrity, with the exception of the first. this i leave the lighter by a moral and an application, both of which, superfluous or not, are remote from the general purpose of this book: a confession in which i may include the following number, mr. whittier's _barbara frietchie_ (_in war-time_, .) xciv _nineteenth century_, march ; _ballads and other poems_, . by permission of messrs. macmillan, to whom i am indebted for some of my choicest numbers. for the story of sir richard grenville's heroic death, 'in the last of august,' --after the revenge had endured the onset of 'fifteen several armadas,' and received some 'eight hundred shot of great artillerie,'--see hakluyt ( - ), ii. - , where you will find it told with singular animation and directness by sir walter raleigh, who held a brief against the spaniards in sir richard's case as always. to sir richard's proposal to blow up the ship the master gunner 'readily condescended,' as did 'divers others'; but the captain was of 'another opinion,' and in the end sir richard was taken aboard the ship of the spanish admiral, don alfonso de bazan, who used him well and honourably until he died: leaving to his friends the 'comfort that being dead he hath not outlived his own honour,' and that he had nobly shown how false and vain, and therefore how contrary to god's will, the 'ambitious and bloudie practices of the spaniards' were. xcv _tiresias and other poems_, . by permission of messrs. macmillan. included at lord tennyson's own suggestion. for the noble feat of arms ( th october ) thus nobly commemorated, see kinglake (v. i. - ). 'the three hundred of the heavy brigade who made this famous charge were the scots greys and the second squadron of enniskillings, the remainder of the "heavy brigade" subsequently dashing up to their support. the "three" were scarlett's aide-de-camp, elliot, and the trumpeter, and shegog the orderly, who had been close behind him.'--_author's note._ xcvi, xcvii _the return of the guards, and other poems_, . by permission of messrs. macmillan. as to the first, which deals with an incident of the war with china, and is presumably referred to in , 'some seiks and a private of the buffs (or east kent regiment) having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the chinese. on the next morning they were brought before the authorities and commanded to perform the _ko tou_. the seiks obeyed; but moyse, the english soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head and his body thrown upon a dunghill.'--quoted by the author from _the times_. the elgin of line is henry bruce, eighth lord elgin ( - ), then ambassador to china, and afterwards governor-general of india. compare _theology in extremis_ (_post_, p. ). of the second, which mr. saintsbury describes 'as one of the most lofty, insolent, and passionate things concerning this matter that our time has produced,' sir francis notes that the incident--no doubt a part of the conquest of sindh--was told him by sir charles napier, and that 'truckee' (line ) = 'a stronghold in the desert, supposed to be unassailable and impregnable.' xcviii, xcix by permission of messrs. smith, elder, and co. _dramatic lyrics_, ; _cornhill magazine_, june , and _pacchiarotto_, , works, iv. and xiv. i can find nothing about hervé riel. c-ciii the two first are from the 'song of myself,' _leaves of grass_ ( ); the others from _drum taps_ ( ). see _leaves of grass_ (philadelphia, ), pp. , - , , and . civ, cv by permission of messrs. macmillan. dated severally and . cvi _edinburgh courant_, . compare _the loss of the 'birkenhead'_ in _the return of the guards, and other poems_ (macmillan, ), pp. - . of the troopship _birkenhead_ i note that she sailed from queenstown on the th january , with close on seven hundred souls on board; that the most of these were soldiers--of the twelfth lancers, the sixtieth rifles, the second, sixth, forty-third, forty-fifth, seventy-third, seventy-fourth, and ninety-first regiments; that she struck on a rock ( th february ) off simon's bay, south africa; that the boats would hold no more than a hundred and thirty-eight, and that, the women and children being safe, the men that were left--four hundred and fifty-four, all told--were formed on deck by their officers, and went down with the ship, true to colours and discipline till the end. cvii-cix by permission of messrs. macmillan. from _empedocles on etna_ ( ). as regards the second number, it may be noted that sohrab, being in quest of his father rustum, to whom he is unknown, offers battle as one of the host of the tartar king afrasiab, to any champion of the persian kai khosroo. the challenge is accepted by rustum, who fights as a nameless knight (like wilfrid of ivanhoe at the gentle and joyous passage of ashby), and so becomes the unwitting slayer of his son. for the story of the pair the poet refers his readers to sir john malcom's _history of persia_. see _poems_, by matthew arnold (macmillan), i. , . cx, cxi _ionica_ (allen, ). by permission of the author. _school fencibles_ ( ) was 'printed, not published, in .' _the ballad for a boy_, mr. cory writes, 'was never printed till this year.' cxii by permission of the author. this ballad, which was suggested, mr. meredith tells me, by the story of bendigeid vran, the son of llyr, in the _mabinogion_ (iii. - ), is reprinted from _modern love_ ( ), but it originally appeared (_circ._ ) in _once a week_, a forgotten print the source of not a little unforgotten stuff--as _evan harrington_ and the first part of _the cloister and the hearth_. cxiii from the fourth and last book of _sigurd the volsung_, . by permission of the author. hogni and gunnar, being the guests of king atli, husband to their sister gudrun, refused to tell him the whereabouts of the treasure of fafnir, whom sigurd slew; and this is the manner of their taking and the beginning of king atli's vengeance. cxiv _english illustrated magazine_, january , and _lyrical poems_ (macmillan, ). by permission of the author: with whose sanction i have omitted four lines from the last stanza. cxv by permission of sir alfred lyall. _cornhill magazine_, september , and _verses written in india_ (kegan paul, ). the second title is: _a soliloquy that may have been delivered in india, june _; and this is further explained by the following 'extract from an indian newspaper':--'they would have spared life to any of their english prisoners who should consent to profess mahometanism by repeating the usual short formula; but only one half-caste cared to save himself that way.' then comes the description, _moriturus loquitur_, and next the poem. cxvi-cxviii from _songs before sunrise_ (chatto and windus, ), and the third series of _poems and ballads_ (chatto and windus, ). by permission of the author. cxix, cxx _the complete poetical works of bret harte_ (chatto and windus, ). by permission of author and publisher. _the reveillé_ was spoken before a union meeting at san francisco at the beginning of the civil war and appeared in a volume of the author's poems in . _what the bullet sang_ is much later work: dating, thinks mr. harte, from ' or ' . cxxi _st. james's magazine_, october , and _at the sign of the lyre_ (kegan paul, ). by permission of the author. cxxii _st. james's gazette_, th july , and _grass of parnassus_ (longmans, ). by permission of author and publisher. written in memory of gordon's betrayal and death, but while there were yet hopes and rumours of escape. cxxiii _underwoods_ (chatto and windus, ). by permission of the publishers. cxxiv _love's looking-glass_ (percival, ). by permission of the author. cxxv _macmillan's magazine_, november . by permission of the author. kamal khan is a pathan; and the scene of this exploit--which, i am told, is perfectly consonant with the history and tradition of guides and pathans both--is the north frontier country in the peshawar-kohat region, say, between abazai and bonair, behind which is stationed the punjab irregular frontier force--'the steel head of the lance couched for the defence of india.' as for the queen's own corps of guides, to the general 'god's own guides' (from its exclusiveness and gallantry), it comprehends both horse and foot, is recruited from sikhs, pathans, rajputs, afghans, all the fighting races, is officered both by natives and by englishmen, and in all respects is worthy of this admirable ballad. ressaldar = _the native leader of a _ressala_ or troop of horse_ tongue = _a barren and naked strath_--'what geologists call a fan' gut of the tongue = _the narrowest part of the strath_ dust-devils = _dust-clouds blown by a whirlwind_ cxxvi _national observer_, th april . at the burning of the court-house at cork, 'above the portico a flagstaff bearing the union jack remained fluttering in the air for some time, but ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.'--daily papers. _author's note._ index page a good sword and a trusty hand all is finished! and at length alone stood brave horatius amid the loud ebriety of war and rustum gazed in sohrab's face, and said arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in as i was walking all alane ask nothing more of me, sweet as the spring-tides, with heavy plash at anchor in hampton roads we lay at flores in the azores sir richard grenville lay attend, all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise attend you, and give ear awhile avenge, o lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones a wet sheet and a flowing sea beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! bid me to live, and i will live blow high, blow low, let tempests tear build me straight, o worthy master but by the yellow tiber but see! look up--on flodden bent by this, though deep the evening fell captain, or colonel, or knight in arms come, all ye jolly sailors bold condemned to hope's delusive mine cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud darkly, sternly, and all alone day by day the vessel grew day, like our souls, is fiercely dark eleven men of england england, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate girdle enrings thee round erle douglas on his milke-white steede fair stood the wind for france farewell! farewell! the voice you hear farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong get up! get up for shame! the blooming morn god prosper long our noble king god who created me go fetch to me a pint o' wine good lord scroope to the hills is gane hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be hark! i hear the tramp of thousands he has called him forty marchmen bold here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling he spoke, and as he ceased he wept aloud he spoke, and sohrab kindled at his taunts he spoke; but rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood high-spirited friend how happy is he born or taught i am the mashed fireman with breast-bone broken if doughty deeds my lady please if sadly thinking i love contemplating, apart in the ship-yard stood the master in xanadu did kubla khan iphigeneia, when she heard her doom i said, when evil men are strong is life worth living? yes, so long it is not growing like a tree it is not to be thought of that the flood it is not yours, o mother, to complain it was a' for our rightfu' king i wish i were where helen lies kamal is out with twenty men to raise the border side king philip had vaunted his claims lars porsena of clusium last night, among his fellow-roughs milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour mortality, behold and fear much have i travelled in the realms of gold my boat is on the shore my dear and only love, i pray next morn the baron climbed the tower nobly, nobly cape st. vincent to the north-west died away not a drum was heard, not a funeral note now all the youth of england are on fire now entertain conjecture of a time now fell the sword of gunnar, and rose up red in the air now the noon was long passed over when again the rumour arose now we bear the king now while the three were tightening now word is gane to the bold keeper o born in days when wits were fresh and clear o brignall banks are wild and fair o england is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high of nelson and the north o for a muse of fire, that would ascend oft in the pleasant summer years o have ye na heard o' the fause sakelde o how comely it is, and how reviving o joy of creation o mary, at thy window be once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee on the sea and at the hogue, sixteen hundred and ninety-two othere, the old sea-captain our english archers bent their bowes o venice! venice! when thy marble walls o, young lochinvar is come out of the west pibroch of donuil dhu ruin seize thee, ruthless king should auld acquaintance be forgot simon danz has come home again stern daughter of the voice of god still the song goeth up from gunnar, though his harp to earth be laid sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright tell me not, sweet, i am unkind the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold the boy stood on the burning deck the breaking waves dashed high the captain stood on the carronade: 'first lieutenant,' says he the charge of the gallant three hundred, the heavy brigade the fifteenth day of july the forward youth that would appear the glories of our birth and state the herring loves the merry moonlight the isles of greece, the isles of greece the king sits in dunfermline town the last sunbeam the moorish king rides up and down the newes was brought to eddenborrow the night is past, and shines the sun the sea! the sea, the open sea the stag at eve had drunk his fill the weary day rins down and dies the winds were yelling, the waves were swelling then speedilie to wark we gaed then with a bitter smile, rustum began then with a heavy groan, rustum bewailed this, this is he; softly a while through the black, rushing smoke bursts thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies tiger, tiger, burning bright 'tis time this heart should be unmoved toll for the brave to mute and to material things to my true king i offered free from stain to the lords of convention 'twas claver'se who spoke 'twas at the royal feast for persia won up from the meadows rich with corn vain is the dream! however hope may rave we come in arms, we stand ten score welcome, wild north-easter when george the third was reigning a hundred years ago when i consider how my light is spent when i have borne in memory what has tamed when love with unconfinèd wings when the british warrior queen when the head of bran where the remote bermudas ride why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall winds of the world, give answer! they are whimpering to and fro with stout erle percy, there was slaine would you hear of an old-time sea-fight ye mariners of england ye shall know that in atli's feast-hall on the side that joined the house yet once more, o ye laurels, and once more poems teachers ask for book two selected by readers of "normal instructor-primary plans" containing more than two hundred poems requested for publication in that magazine on the page "poems our readers have asked for" index of titles african chief, the _bryant_ annabel lee _poe_ annie and willie's prayer _snow_ april! april! are you here? _goodale_ april showers _wilkins_ armageddon _e. arnold_ autumn _hood_ autumn leaves _wray_ aux italiens _lytton_ awakening _sangster_ babie, the _miller_ ballad of east and west, the _kipling_ ballad of the tempest, the _fields_ battle of bunker's hill, the _cozzens_ bells of ostend, the _bowles_ bernardo del carpio _hemans_ betty and the bear bible my mother gave me, the bill's in the legislature billy's rose _sims_ bivouac of the dead, the _o'hara_ boy and girl of plymouth _smith_ boys, the _o.w. holmes_ boy who didn't pass, the boy with the hoe, the _weaver_ break, break, break _tennyson_ "brides of enderby, the." see "high tide, the" bridge builder, the broken pinion, the _butterworth_ burial of moses, the _alexander_ casabianca _hemans_ charge of pickett's brigade, the children _longfellow_ children, the _dickinson_ children we keep, the _wilson_ christmas day in the workhouse _sims_ christmas long ago, a chums _foley_ circling year, the _graham_ cleon and i _mackay_ color in the wheat _garland_ columbus _smith_ conscience and future judgment courting in kentucky courtin', the _lowell_ cradle hymn _watts_ dandelion _garabrant_ david's lament for absalom _willis_ death of the flowers, the _bryant_ don't kill the birds _colesworthy_ duty _browning_ dying newsboy, the _thornton_ echo _saxe_ encouragement _dunbar_ engineer's story, the _hall_ ensign bearer, the eve of waterloo, the _byron_ excelsior _longfellow_ finding of the lyre, the _lowell_ fireman's story, the flower of liberty, the _o.w. holmes_ flying jim's last leap _banks_ fortunate isles, the _miller_ give them the flowers now _hodges_ god _derzhavin_ god's message to men _emerson_ god's will is best _mason_ good shepherd, the _howe_ grandfather's clock _work_ grandmother's quilt graves of a household, the _hemans_ gray swan, the _a. cary_ gunga din _kipling_ hark, hark! the lark _shakespeare_ harp that once through tara's halls, the _moore_ health and wealth heartening, the _webb_ height of the ridiculous, the _o.w. holmes_ heritage, the _lowell_ he who has vision _mckenzie_ he worried about it _foss_ highland mary _burns_ high tide, the _ingelow_ his mother's song home _guest_ home they brought her warrior dead _tennyson_ house with nobody in it, the _kilmer_ how did you die? _cooke_ how salvator won _wilcox_ hullo _foss_ if all the skies _van dyke_ "if" for girls, an _otis_ if we understood i got to go to school _waterman_ i have a rendezvous with death _seeger_ i have drank my last glass inasmuch _ford_ indian names _sigourney_ inventor's wife, the _corbett_ isle of long ago, the _b.f. taylor_ jamie douglas jim brady's big brother _foley_ john maynard _alger_ john thompson's daughter _p. cary_ king and the child, the _hall_ king's ring, the _tilton_ knight's toast, the _w. scott_ ladder of st. augustine, the _longfellow_ lamb, the _blake_ land of beginning again, the _tarkington_ land where hate should die, the _mccarthy_ last leaf, the _o.w. holmes_ laugh in church, a laughing chorus, a law and liberty _cutler_ leaving the homestead legend beautiful, the _longfellow_ legend of the northland, a _p. cary_ let me walk with the men in the road _gresham_ let us be kind _childress_ life, i know not what thou art _barbauld_ lincoln, the man of the people _markham_ little bateese _drummond_ little fir-trees, the _stein_ little willie's hearing loss and gain _longfellow_ lost occasion, the _whittier_ lullaby _foley_ mad river _longfellow_ message for the year, a _hardy_ minstrel-boy, the _moore_ minuet, the _dodge_ mizpah monterey _hoffman_ more cruel than war _hawkins_ mortgage on the farm, the mother o' mine _kipling_ mothers of men _miller_ my prairies _garland_ mystic weaver, the nearer home _p. cary_ new leaf, a _rice_ newsboy, the _corbett_ new year, the _craik_ night with a wolf, a _bayard taylor_ nobody's child _case_ no sects in heaven _cleaveland_ o'grady's goat _hays_ old actor's story, the _sims_ old flag forever _stanton_ old kitchen floor, the old man dreams, the _o.w. holmes_ old man in the model church, the _yates_ old man's dreams, an _sherman_ "one, two, three!" _bunner_ our flag _sangster_ our homestead _p. cary_ our own _sangster_ our presidents _gilman_ out in the snow _moulton_ over the hill from the poor-house _carleton_ papa's letter parting of marmion and douglas _w. scott_ parts of speech, the petrified fern, the _branch_ picciola _newell_ piller fights _ellsworth_ polish boy, the _stephens_ poor little joe _proudfit_ prayer and potatoes _pettee_ prayer for a little home, a president, the _johnston_ pride of battery b _gassaway_ quangle wangle's hat, the _lear_ railroad crossing, the _strong_ rain on the roof _kinney_ rainy day, the _longfellow_ real riches, the _saxe_ red jacket, the _baker_ reply to "a woman's question" _pelham_ rhodora, the _emerson_ ring out, wild bells _tennyson_ roll call, the _shepherd_ romance of nick van stann _saxe_ rustic courtship sandman, the _vandegrift_ santa filomena _longfellow_ school-master's guest, the _carleton_ september _g. arnold_ september days _smith_ september gale, the _o.w. holmes_ sermon in rhyme, a service flag, the _herschell_ she was a phantom of delight _wordsworth_ singing leaves, the _lowell_ sin of omission, the _sangster_ sin of the coppenter man _cooke_ small beginnings _mackay_ solitude _wilcox_ somebody's darling _la coste_ song of marion's men _bryant_ song of the chattahoochee _lanier_ "'specially jim" station-master's story, the _sims_ stranger on the sill, the _read_ sunset city, the _gilman_ teacher's "if", the _gale_ there was a boy _wordsworth_ things divine, the _burt_ tin gee gee, the _cape_ "tommy" _kipling_ tommy's prayer _nicholls_ towser shall be tied to-night trailing arbutus _whittier_ trouble in the amen corner _harbaugh_ try, try again two angels, the _longfellow_ two kinds of people, the _wilcox_ two little stockings, the _hunt_ two pictures, the unawares _lent_ vagabonds, the _trowbridge_ voice of spring, the _hemans_ volunteer organist, the _foss_ warren's address to the american soldiers _pierpont_ washington _bryant_ washington's' birthday _butterworth_ water mill, the _doudney_ what the choir sang about the new bonnet _morrison_ when father carves the duck _wright_ when my ship comes in _burdette_ when papa was a boy _brininstool_ when the light goes out _chester_ which shall it be? _beers_ who stole the bird's nest? _child_ why the dog's nose is always cold wishing bridge, the _whittier_ witch's daughter, the _whittier_ with little boy blue _kennedy_ wolsey's farewell to his greatness _shakespeare_ women of mumbles head, the _c. scott_ wood-box, the _lincoln_ work: a song of triumph _morgan_ work thou for pleasure _cox_ you put no flowers on my papa's grave _c.e.l. holmes_ (an index of first lines is given on pages - ) preface in homely phrase, this is a sort of "second helping" of a dish that has pleased the taste of thousands. our first collection of _poems teachers ask for_ was the response to a demand for such a book, and this present volume is the response to a demand for "more." in book one it was impracticable to use all of the many poems entitled to inclusion on the basis of their being desired. we are constantly in receipt of requests that certain selections be printed in normal instructor-primary plans on the page "poems our readers have asked for." more than two hundred of these were chosen for book one, and more than two hundred others, as much desired as those in the earlier volume, are included in book two. because of copyright restrictions, we often have been unable to present, in magazine form, verse of large popular appeal. by special arrangement, a number of such poems were included in book one of _poems teachers ask for_, and many more are given in the pages that follow. acknowledgment is made below to publishers and authors for courteous permission to reprint in this volume material which they control: the century company--_the minuet_, from "poems and verses," by mary mapes dodge. w.b. conkey company--_solitude_, from "poems of passion," and _how salvator won_, from "kingdom of love," both by ella wheeler wilcox. dodd, mead and company, inc.--_encouragement_, by paul laurence dunbar, copyright by dodd, mead & company; _work_, by angela morgan, from "the hour has struck," copyright by angela morgan. dodge publishing company--_how did you die?_ from "impertinent poems," and _the sin of the coppenter man_, from "i rule the house," both by edmund vance cooke. george h. doran company--_the house with nobody in it_, from "trees and other poems," by joyce kilmer, copyright by george h. doran company, publishers. hamlin garland--_my prairies and color in the wheat_. isabel ambler gilman--_the sunset city_. harper & brothers--_over the hill from the poor-house_ and _the school-master's guests_, from "farm legends," by will carleton. houghton mifflin company--_the sandman_, by margaret vandegrift; _the sin of omission_ and _our own_, by margaret e. sangster; _the ballad of the tempest_, by james t. fields; also the poems by henry w. longfellow, john g. whittier, james russell lowell, alice cary, phoebe cary, oliver wendell holmes, and j.t. trowbridge, of whose works they are the authorized publishers. charles h.l. johnston--_the president_. rudyard kipling and doubleday, page & company (a.p. watt & son, london, england)--_mother o' mine_. lothrop, lee & shepard company--_hullo_ and _the volunteer organist_, both from "back country poems," by sam walter foss, and _he worried about it_, from "whiffs from wild meadows," by sam walter foss. edwin markham--_lincoln, the man of the people_. reilly & lee co.--_home_, from "a heap o' livin'," by edgar a. guest. fleming h. revell company--_our flag_, by margaret e. sangster. charles scribner's sons--_i have a rendezvous with death_, by alan seeger; _song of the chattahoochee_, by sidney lanier; _if all the skies_, by henry van dyke. harr wagner publishing company--_mothers of men_ and _the fortunate isles_, by joaquin miller. the publishers. poems teachers ask for book two * * * * * home it takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, a heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind, an' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. it don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, how much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; it ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything. home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it: within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; and gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't part with anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart; the old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door. ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh an' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that death is nigh; an' in the stillness o' the night t' see death's angel come, an' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; an' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories o' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these. ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, an' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run the way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: it takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home. _edgar a. guest._ the house with nobody in it whenever i walk to suffern along the erie track i go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black; i suppose i've passed it a hundred times, but i always stop for a minute and look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. i've never seen a haunted house, but i hear there are such things; that they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. i know that house isn't haunted and i wish it were, i do, for it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. this house on the road to suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, and somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. it needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied, but what it needs most of all is some people living inside. if i had a bit of money and all my debts were paid, i'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. i'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be, and i'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. now a new home standing empty with staring window and door looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store, but there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone for the lack of something within it that it has never known. but a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, that has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, a house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet, is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. so whenever i go to suffern along the erie track i never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, for i can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart. _joyce kilmer._ color in the wheat like liquid gold the wheat field lies, a marvel of yellow and russet and green, that ripples and runs, that floats and flies, with the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen, that play in the golden hair of a girl,-- a ripple of amber--a flare of light sweeping after--a curl in the hollows like swirling feet of fairy waltzers, the colors run to the western sun through the deeps of the ripening wheat. broad as the fleckless, soaring sky, mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea, the vast plain flames on the dazzled eye under the fierce sun's alchemy. the slow hawk stoops to his prey in the deeps; the sunflower droops to the lazy wave; the wind sleeps-- then swirling in dazzling links and loops, a riot of shadow and shine, a glory of olive and amber and wine, to the westering sun the colors run through the deeps of the ripening wheat. o glorious land! my western land, outspread beneath the setting sun! once more amid your swells, i stand, and cross your sod-lands dry and dun. i hear the jocund calls of men who sweep amid the ripened grain with swift, stern reapers; once again the evening splendor floods the plain, the crickets' chime makes pauseless rhyme, and toward the sun, the colors run before the wind's feet in the wheat! _hamlin garland._ the broken pinion i walked through the woodland meadows, where sweet the thrushes sing; and i found on a bed of mosses a bird with a broken wing. i healed its wound, and each morning it sang its old sweet strain, but the bird with a broken pinion never soared as high again. i found a young life broken by sin's seductive art; and touched with a christlike pity, i took him to my heart. he lived with a noble purpose and struggled not in vain; but the life that sin had stricken never soared as high again. but the bird with a broken pinion kept another from the snare; and the life that sin had stricken raised another from despair. each loss has its compensation, there is healing for every pain; but the bird with a broken pinion never soars as high again. _hezekiah butterworth._ jamie douglas it was in the days when claverhouse was scouring moor and glen, to change, with fire and bloody sword, the faith of scottish men. they had made a covenant with the lord firm in their faith to bide, nor break to him their plighted word, whatever might betide. the sun was well-nigh setting, when o'er the heather wild, and up the narrow mountain-path, alone there walked a child. he was a bonny, blithesome lad, sturdy and strong of limb-- a father's pride, a mother's love, were fast bound up in him. his bright blue eyes glanced fearless round, his step was firm and light; what was it underneath his plaid his little hands grasped tight? it was bannocks which, that very morn, his mother made with care. from out her scanty store of meal; and now, with many a prayer, had sent by jamie her ane boy, a trusty lad and brave, to good old pastor tammons roy, now hid in yonder cave, and for whom the bloody claverhouse had hunted long in vain, and swore they would not leave that glen till old tam roy was slain. so jamie douglas went his way with heart that knew no fear; he turned the great curve in the rock, nor dreamed that death was near. and there were bloody claverhouse men, who laughed aloud with glee, when trembling now within their power, the frightened child they see. he turns to flee, but all in vain, they drag him back apace to where their cruel leader stands, and set them face to face. the cakes concealed beneath his plaid soon tell the story plain-- "it is old tam roy the cakes are for," exclaimed the angry man. "now guide me to his hiding place and i will let you go." but jamie shook his yellow curls, and stoutly answered--"no!" "i'll drop you down the mountain-side, and there upon the stones the old gaunt wolf and carrion crow shall battle for your bones." and in his brawny, strong right hand he lifted up the child, and held him where the clefted rocks formed a chasm deep and wild so deep it was, the trees below like stunted bushes seemed. poor jamie looked in frightened maze, it seemed some horrid dream. he looked up at the blue sky above then at the men near by; had _they_ no little boys at home, that they could let him die? but no one spoke and no one stirred, or lifted hand to save from such a fearful, frightful death, the little lad so brave. "it is woeful deep," he shuddering cried, "but oh! i canna tell, so drop me down then, if you will-- it is nae so deep as hell!" a childish scream, a faint, dull sound, oh! jamie douglas true, long, long within that lonely cave shall tam roy wait for you. long for your welcome coming waits the mother on the moor, and watches and calls, "come, jamie, lad," through the half-open door. no more adown the rocky path you come with fearless tread, or, on moor or mountain, take the good man's daily bread. but up in heaven the shining ones a wondrous story tell, of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf that is nae so deep as hell. and there before the great white throne, forever blessed and glad, his mother dear and old tam roy shall meet their bonny lad. the ensign bearer never mind me, uncle jared, never mind my bleeding breast! they are charging in the valley and you're needed with the rest. all the day long from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall, you have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call; and i would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night, though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight. all along that quivering column see the death steed trampling down men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown. prithee hasten, uncle jared, what's the bullet in my breast to that murderous storm of fire raining tortures on the rest? see! the bayonets flash and falter--look! the foe begins to win; see! oh, see our falling comrades! god! the ranks are closing in. hark! there's quickening in the distance and a thundering in the air, like the roaring of a lion just emerging from his lair. there's a cloud of something yonder fast unrolling like a scroll-- quick! oh, quick! if it be succor that can save the cause a soul! look! a thousand thirsty bayonets are flashing down the vale, and a thousand thirsty riders dashing onward like a gale! raise me higher, uncle jared, place the ensign in my hand! i am strong enough to float it while you cheer that flying band; louder! louder! shout for freedom with prolonged and vigorous breath-- shout for liberty and union, and the victory over death!-- see! they catch the stirring numbers and they swell them to the breeze-- cap and plume and starry banner waving proudly through the trees. mark our fainting comrades rally, see that drooping column rise! i can almost see the fire newly kindled in their eyes. fresh for conflict, nerved to conquer, see them charging on the foe-- face to face with deadly meaning--shot and shell and trusty blow. see the thinned ranks wildly breaking--see them scatter to the sun-- i can die, uncle jared, for the glorious day is won! but there's something, something pressing with a numbness on my heart, and my lips with mortal dumbness fail the burden to impart. oh i tell you, uncle jared, there is something back of all that a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call! ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit back over life's rough, broken marches, where she's pointed out the track. ask the dear ones gathered nightly round the shining household hearth, what to them is dearer, better, than the brightest things of earth, ask that dearer one whose loving, like a ceaseless vestal flame, sets my very soul a-glowing at the mention of her name; ask her why the loved in dying feels her spirit linked with his in a union death but strengthens, she will tell you what it is. and there's something, uncle jared, you may tell her if you will-- that the precious flag she gave me, i have kept unsullied still. and--this touch of pride forgive me--where death sought our gallant host-- where our stricken lines were weakest, there it ever waved the most. bear it back and tell her fondly, brighter, purer, steadier far, 'mid the crimson tide of battle, shone my life's fast setting star. but forbear, dear uncle jared, when there's something more to tell, when her lips with rapid blanching bid you answer how i fell; teach your tongue the trick of slighting, though 'tis faithful to the rest, lest it say her brother's bullet is the bullet in my breast; but if it must be that she learn it despite your tenderest care, 'twill soothe her bleeding heart to know my bayonet pricked the air. life is ebbing, uncle jared, my enlistment endeth here; death, the conqueror, has drafted--i can no more volunteer,-- but i hear the roll call yonder and i go with willing feet-- through the shadows of the valley where victorious armies meet, raise the ensign, uncle jared, let its dear folds o'er me fall-- strength and union for my country--and god's banner over all. the real riches every coin of earthly treasure we have lavished upon earth for our simple worldly pleasure may be reckoned something worth; for the spending was not losing, tho' the purchase were but small; it has perished with the using. we have had it,--that is all! all the gold we leave behind us, when we turn to dust again, tho' our avarice may blind us, we have gathered quite in vain; since we neither can direct it, by the winds of fortune tost, nor in other worlds expect it; what we hoarded we have lost. but each merciful oblation-- seed of pity wisely sown, what we gave in self-negation, we may safely call our own; for the treasure freely given is the treasure that we hoard, since the angels keep in heaven, what is lent unto the lord. _john g. saxe._ the polish boy whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, that cut, like blades of steel, the air, causing the creeping blood to chill with the sharp cadence of despair? again they come, as if a heart were cleft in twain by one quick blow, and every string had voice apart to utter its peculiar woe. whence came they? from yon temple, where an altar, raised for private prayer, now forms the warrior's marble bed who warsaw's gallant armies led. the dim funereal tapers throw a holy luster o'er his brow, and burnish with their rays of light the mass of curls that gather bright above the haughty brow and eye of a young boy that's kneeling by. what hand is that, whose icy press clings to the dead with death's own grasp, but meets no answering caress? no thrilling fingers seek its clasp. it is the hand of her whose cry rang wildly, late, upon the air, when the dead warrior met her eye outstretched upon the altar there. with pallid lip and stony brow she murmurs forth her anguish now. but hark! the tramp of heavy feet is heard along the bloody street; nearer and nearer yet they come, with clanking arms and noiseless drum. now whispered curses, low and deep, around the holy temple creep; the gate is burst; a ruffian band rush in, and savagely demand, with brutal voice and oath profane, the startled boy for exile's chain. the mother sprang with gesture wild, and to her bosom clasped her child; then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, shouted with fearful energy, "back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread too near the body of my dead; nor touch the living boy; i stand between him and your lawless band. take _me_, and bind these arms--these hands,-- with russia's heaviest iron bands, and drag me to siberia's wild to perish, if 'twill save my child!" "peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, tearing the pale boy from her side, and in his ruffian grasp he bore his victim to the temple door. "one moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! will land or gold redeem my son? take heritage, take name, take all, but leave him free from russian thrall! take these!" and her white arms and hands she stripped of rings and diamond bands, and tore from braids of long black hair the gems that gleamed like starlight there; her cross of blazing rubies, last, down at the russian's feet she cast. he stooped to seize the glittering store;-- up springing from the marble floor, the mother, with a cry of joy, snatched to her leaping heart the boy. but no! the russian's iron grasp again undid the mother's clasp. forward she fell, with one long cry of more than mortal agony. but the brave child is roused at length, and, breaking from the russian's hold, he stands, a giant in the strength of his young spirit, fierce and bold. proudly he towers; his flashing eye, so blue, and yet so bright, seems kindled from the eternal sky, so brilliant is its light. his curling lips and crimson cheeks foretell the thought before he speaks; with a full voice of proud command he turned upon the wondering band. "ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; this hour has made the boy a man. i knelt before my slaughtered sire, nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. i wept upon his marble brow, yes, wept! i was a child; but now my noble mother, on her knee, hath done the work of years for me!" he drew aside his broidered vest, and there, like slumbering serpent's crest, the jeweled haft of poniard bright glittered a moment on the sight. "ha! start ye back? fool! coward! knave! think ye my noble father's glaive would drink the life-blood of a slave? the pearls that on the handle flame would blush to rubies in their shame; the blade would quiver in thy breast ashamed of such ignoble rest. no! thus i rend the tyrant's chain, and fling him back a boy's disdain!" a moment, and the funeral light flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; another, and his young heart's blood leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. quick to his mother's side he sprang, and on the air his clear voice rang: "up, mother, up! i'm free! i'm free! the choice was death or slavery. up, mother, up! look on thy son! his freedom is forever won; and now he waits one holy kiss to bear his father home in bliss; one last embrace, one blessing,--one! to prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. what! silent yet? canst thou not feel my warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! what! silent still? then art thou dead: --great god, i thank thee! mother, i rejoice with thee,--and thus--to die." one long, deep breath, and his pale head lay on his mother's bosom,--dead. _ann s. stephens._ the height of the ridiculous i wrote some lines once on a time in wondrous merry mood, and thought, as usual, men would say they were exceeding good. they were so queer, so very queer, i laughed as i would die; albeit, in the general way, a sober man am i. i called my servant, and he came; how kind it was of him to mind a slender man like me, he of the mighty limb! "these to the printer," i exclaimed, and, in my humorous way, i added (as a trifling jest), "there'll be the devil to pay." he took the paper, and i watched, and saw him peep within; at the first line he read, his face was all upon the grin. he read the next; the grin grew broad, and shot from ear to ear; he read the third; a chuckling noise i now began to hear. the fourth; he broke into a roar; the fifth; his waistband split; the sixth; he burst five buttons off, and tumbled in a fit. ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, i watched that wretched man, and since, i never dare to write as funny as i can. _oliver wendell holmes._ excelsior the shades of night were falling fast, as through an alpine village passed a youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, a banner with the strange device, excelsior! his brow was sad his eye beneath flashed like a falchion from its sheath, and like a silver clarion rung the accents of that unknown tongue, excelsior! in happy homes he saw the light of household fires gleam warm and bright; above, the spectral glaciers shone, and from his lips escaped a groan, excelsior! "try not the pass!" the old man said; "dark lowers the tempest overhead, the roaring torrent is deep and wide!" and loud the clarion voice replied, excelsior! "o stay," the maiden said, "and rest thy weary head upon this breast!" a tear stood in his bright blue eye, but still he answered, with a sigh, excelsior! "beware the pine-tree's withered branch! beware the awful avalanche!" this was the peasant's last good-night, a voice replied, far up the height, excelsior! at break of day, as heavenward the pious monks of saint bernard uttered the oft-repeated prayer, a voice cried through the startled air, excelsior! a traveller, by the faithful hound, half-buried in the snow was found, still grasping in his hand of ice that banner with the strange device, excelsior! there in the twilight cold and gray, lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, and from the sky, serene and far, a voice fell, like a falling star, excelsior! _henry w. longfellow._ the bivouac of the dead the muffled drum's sad roll has beat the soldier's last tattoo; no more on life's parade shall meet that brave and fallen few. on fame's eternal camping ground their silent tents are spread, and glory guards with solemn round the bivouac of the dead. no rumor of the foe's advance now swells upon the wind; no troubled thought at midnight haunts of loved ones left behind; no vision of the morrow's strife the warrior's dream alarms; no braying horn or screaming fife at dawn shall call to arms. their shivered swords are red with rust; their plumèd heads are bowed; their haughty banner, trailed in dust, is now their martial shroud; and plenteous funeral tears have washed the red stains from each brow; and the proud forms, by battle gashed, are free from anguish now. the neighing troop, the flashing blade, the bugle's stirring blast, the charge, the dreadful cannonade, the din and shout are passed. nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, shall thrill with fierce delight those breasts that nevermore shall feel the rapture of the fight. like a fierce northern hurricane that sweeps his great plateau, flushed with the triumph yet to gain, came down the serried foe, who heard the thunder of the fray break o'er the field beneath, knew well the watchword of that day was "victory or death!" full many a mother's breath hath swept o'er angostura's plain, and long the pitying sky hath wept above its moulder'd slain. the raven's scream, or eagle's flight, or shepherd's pensive lay, alone now wake each solemn height that frowned o'er that dread fray. sons of the "dark and bloody ground," ye must not slumber there, where stranger steps and tongues resound along the heedless air! your own proud land's heroic soil shall be your fitter grave; she claims from war its richest spoil,-- the ashes of her brave. thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, far from the gory field, borne to a spartan mother's breast on many a bloody shield. the sunshine of their native sky smiles sadly on them here, and kindred eyes and hearts watch by the heroes' sepulcher. rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! dear as the blood ye gave; no impious footsteps here shall tread the herbage of your grave; nor shall your glory be forgot while fame her record keeps, or honor points the hallowed spot where valor proudly sleeps. yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone in deathless song shall tell, when many a vanished year hath flown, the story how ye fell. nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, nor time's remorseless doom, can dim one ray of holy light that gilds your glorious tomb. _theodore o'hara._ children come to me, o ye children! for i hear you at your play, and the questions that perplexed me have vanished quite away. ye open the eastern windows, that look towards the sun, where thoughts are singing swallows and the brooks of morning run. in your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, in your thoughts the brooklet's flow but in mine is the wind of autumn and the first fall of the snow. ah! what would the world be to us if the children were no more? we should dread the desert behind us worse than the dark before. what the leaves are to the forest, with light and air for food, ere their sweet and tender juices have been hardened into wood,-- that to the world are children; through them it feels the glow of a brighter and sunnier climate than reaches the trunks below. come to me, o ye children! and whisper in my ear what the birds and the winds are singing in your sunny atmosphere. for what are all our contrivings, and the wisdom of our books, when compared with your caresses, and the gladness of your looks? ye are better than all the ballads that ever were sung or said; for ye are living poems, and all the rest are dead. _henry w. longfellow._ the eve of waterloo (the battle of waterloo occurred june , ) there was a sound of revelry by night, and belgium's capital had gathered then her beauty and her chivalry, and bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. a thousand hearts beat happily; and when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, and all went merry as a marriage bell; but hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. did ye not hear it?--no; 'twas but the wind, or the car rattling o'er the stony street: on with the dance! let joy be unconfined; no sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- but, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat and nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar. ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, and gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, and cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; and there were sudden partings, such as press the life from out young hearts, and choking sighs which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess if ever more should meet those mutual eyes, since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! and there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, the mustering squadron, and the clattering car went pouring forward with impetuous speed, and swiftly forming in the ranks of war; and the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; and near, the beat of the alarming drum roused up the soldier ere the morning star; while thronged the citizens with terror dumb, or whispering with white lips, "the foe! they come! they come!" last noon beheld them full of lusty life, last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, the midnight brought the signal sound of strife, the morn the marshaling in arms,--the day battle's magnificently stern array! the thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent the earth is covered thick with other clay, which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent. _lord byron._ the land where hate should die this is the land where hate should die-- no feuds of faith, no spleen of race, no darkly brooding fear should try beneath our flag to find a place. lo! every people here has sent its sons to answer freedom's call, their lifeblood is the strong cement that builds and binds the nation's wall. this is the land where hate should die-- though dear to me my faith and shrine, i serve my country when i respect the creeds that are not mine. he little loves his land who'd cast upon his neighbor's word a doubt, or cite the wrongs of ages past from present rights to bar him out. this is the land where hate should die-- this is the land where strife should cease, where foul, suspicious fear should fly before the light of love and peace. then let us purge from poisoned thought that service to the state we give, and so be worthy as we ought of this great land in which we live. _denis a. mccarthy._ trouble in the "amen corner" 'twas a stylish congregation, that of theophrastus brown, and its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, and the chorus--all the papers favorably commented on it, for 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bonnet. now in the "amen corner" of the church sat brother eyer, who persisted every sabbath-day in singing with the choir; he was poor but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, and his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. his voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, and nearly every sunday he would mispronounce the words of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, and the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. the chorus stormed and blustered, brother eyer sang too slow, and then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; at last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, that the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign. then the pastor called together in the vestry-room one day seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, and having asked god's guidance in a printed pray'r or two, they put their heads together to determine what to do. they debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear brother york," who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, rose and moved that a committee wait at once on brother eyer, and proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir." said he: "in that 'ere organ i've invested quite a pile, and we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style; our philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing fer to make god understand him when the brother tries to sing. "we've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, we pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, brother brown; but if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old-- if the choir's to be pestered, i will seek another fold." of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, with the latest style of driver, rattled up to eyer's door; and the sleek, well-dress'd committee, brothers sharkey, york and lamb, as they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb. they found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm chair, and the summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; he was singing "rock of ages" in a cracked voice and low but the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know. said york: "we're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation to discuss a little matter that affects the congregation"; "and the choir, too," said sharkey, giving brother york a nudge, "and the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge. "it was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus that it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us; if we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, it will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another. "we don't want any singing except that what we've bought! the latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught; and so we have decided--are you list'ning, brother eyer?-- that you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir." the old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, and on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear; his feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, as he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low: "i've sung the psalms of david nearly eighty years," said he; "they've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way; i'm sorry i disturb the choir, perhaps i'm doing wrong; but when my heart is filled with praise, i can't keep back a song. "i wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, in the far-off heav'nly temple, where the master i shall greet-- yes, i wonder when i try to sing the songs of god up high'r, if the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir." a silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; the carriage rattled on again, but brother eyer was dead! yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, and the master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. the choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot, a few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not. far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sang his heart's desires, where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs! _t.c. harbaugh._ duty the sweetest lives are those to duty wed, whose deeds, both great and small, are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, whose love ennobles all. the world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells; the book of life, the shining record tells. thy love shall chant its own beatitudes, after its own life-working. a child's kiss set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad; a poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; a sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; thou shalt be served thyself by every sense of service thou renderest. _robert browning._ the last leaf i saw him once before, as he passed by the door, and again the pavement stones resound, as he totters o'er the ground with his cane. they say that in his prime, ere the pruning-knife of time cut him down, not a better man was found by the crier on his round through the town. but now he walks the streets, and he looks at all he meets sad and wan, and he shakes his feeble head, that it seems as if he said "they are gone." the mossy marbles rest on the lips that he has prest in their bloom, and the names he loved to hear have been carved for many a year on the tomb. my grandmamma has said,-- poor old lady, she is dead long ago,-- that he had a roman nose, and his cheek was like a rose in the snow. but now his nose is thin, and it rests upon his chin. like a staff, and a crook is in his back, and a melancholy crack in his laugh. i know it is a sin for me to sit and grin at him here; but the old three-cornered hat, and the breeches, and all that, are so queer! and if i should live to be the last leaf upon the tree in the spring, let them smile, as i do now, at the old forsaken bough where i cling. _oliver wendell holmes._ old flag forever she's up there--old glory--where lightnings are sped; she dazzles the nations with ripples of red; and she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,-- the flag of our country forever! she's up there--old glory--how bright the stars stream! and the stripes like red signals of liberty gleam! and we dare for her, living, or dream the last dream, 'neath the flag of our country forever! she's up there--old glory--no tyrant-dealt scars, no blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars! the brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars. she's the flag of our country forever! _frank l. stanton._ the death of the flowers the melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; they rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. the robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, and from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood in brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. the rain is falling where they lie; but the cold november rain calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. the wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, and the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; but on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, and the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, and the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. and now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, to call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, when the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, and twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, the south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore, and sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. and then i think of one who in her youthful beauty died, the fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, in the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, and we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, so gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. _w.c. bryant._ the heritage the rich man's son inherits lands, and piles of brick, and stone, and gold, and he inherits soft white hands, and tender flesh that fears the cold, nor dares to wear a garment old; a heritage, it seems to me, one scarce would wish to hold in fee. the rich man's son inherits cares; the bank may break, the factory burn, a breath may burst his bubble shares, and soft white hands could hardly earn a living that would serve his turn; a heritage, it seems to me, one scarce would wish to hold in fee. the rich man's son inherits wants, his stomach craves for dainty fare; with sated heart, he hears the pants of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, and wearies in his easy-chair; a heritage, it seems to me, one scarce would wish to hold in fee. what doth the poor man's son inherit? stout muscles and a sinewy heart, a hardy frame, a hardier spirit; king of two hands, he does his part in every useful toil and art; a heritage, it seems to me, a king might wish to hold in fee. what doth the poor man's son inherit? wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, a rank, adjudged by toil-won merit, content that from employment springs, a heart that in his labor sings; a heritage, it seems to me, a king might wish to hold in fee. what doth the poor man's son inherit? a patience learned of being poor, courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, a fellow-feeling that is sure to make the outcast bless his door; a heritage, it seems to me, a king might wish to hold in fee. o rich man's son! there is a toil that with all others level stands; large charity doth never soil, but only whiten, soft white hands,-- this is the best crop from thy lands; a heritage it seems to me, worth being rich to hold in fee. o poor man's son! scorn not thy state; there is worse weariness than thine, in merely being rich and great; toil only gives the soul to shine and makes rest fragrant and benign; a heritage, it seems to me, worth being poor to hold in fee. both heirs to some six feet of sod, are equal in the earth at last; both, children of the same dear god, prove title to your heirship vast by record of a well-filled past; a heritage, it seems to me, well worth a life to hold in fee. _james russell lowell._ the ballad of east and west oh, east is east, and west is west, and never the twain shall meet, till earth and sky stand presently at god's great judgment seat; but there is neither east nor west, border, nor breed, nor birth, when two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth! kamal is out with twenty men to raise the border side, and he has lifted the colonel's mare that is the colonel's pride: he has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, and turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. then up and spoke the colonel's son that led a troop of the guides: "is there never a man of all my men can say where kamal hides?" then up and spoke mahommed khan, the son of the ressaldar, "if ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. at dust he harries the abazai--at dawn he is into bonair, but he must go by fort bukloh to his own place to fare, so if ye gallop to fort bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, by the favor of god ye may cut him off ere he win to the tongue of jagai, but if he be passed the tongue of jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, for the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with kamal's men. there is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, and ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." the colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, with the mouth of a bell and the heart of hell, and the head of the gallows-tree. the colonel's son to the fort has won, they bid him stay to eat-- who rides at the tail of a border thief, he sits not long at his meat. he's up and away from fort bukloh as fast as he can fly, till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the tongue of jagai, till he was aware of his father's mare with kamal upon her back, and when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. he has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. "ye shoot like a soldier," kamal said. "show now if ye can ride." it's up and over the tongue of jagai, as blown dust-devils go, the dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. the dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, but the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. there was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, and thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. they have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, the dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. the dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful heap fell he, and kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. he has knocked the pistol out of his hand--small room was there to strive, "'twas only by favor of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: there was not a rock of twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, but covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. if i had raised my bridle-hand, as i have held it low, the little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row: if i had bowed my head on my breast, as i have held it high, the kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." lightly answered the colonel's son: "do good to bird and beast, but count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. if there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. they will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, the thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. but if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy brethren wait to sup. the hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, howl, dog, and call them up! and if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, give me my father's mare again, and i'll fight my own way back!" kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. "no talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet. may i eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; what dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with death?" lightly answered the colonel's son: "i hold by the blood of my clan: take up the mare of my father's gift--by god, she has carried a man!" the red mare ran to the colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast, "we be two strong men," said kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. so she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, my broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." the colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, "ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend?" "a gift for a gift," said kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. thy father has sent his son to me, i'll send my son to him!" with that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest-- he trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. "now here is thy master," kamal said, "who leads a troop of the guides, and thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. till death or i cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, thy life is his--thy fate is to guard him with thy head. so thou must eat the white queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, and thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the border-line, and thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power-- belike they will raise thee to ressaldar when i am hanged in peshawur." they have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, they have taken the oath of the brother-in-blood on leavened bread and salt: they have taken the oath of the brother-in-blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, on the hilt and the haft of the khyber knife, and the wondrous names of god. the colonel's son he rides the mare and kamal's boy the dun, and two have come back to fort bukloh where there went forth but one. and when they drew to the quarter-guard, full twenty swords flew clear-- there was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. "ha' done! ha' done!" said the colonel's son. "put up the steel at your sides! last night ye had struck at a border thief--to-night 'tis a man of the guides!" oh, east is east, and west is west, and never the two shall meet, till earth and sky stand presently at god's great judgment seat; but there is neither east nor west, border, nor breed, nor birth, when two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth. _rudyard kipling._ annabel lee it was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of annabel lee; and this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me. i was a child, and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with a love that was more than love, i and my annabel lee; with a love that the winged seraphs of heaven coveted her and me. and this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful annabel lee; so that her highborn kinsmen came and bore her away from me, to shut her up in a sepulchre in this kingdom by the sea. the angels, not half so happy in heaven, went envying her and me; yes! that was the reason (as all men know, in this kingdom by the sea) that the wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my annabel lee. but our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we, of many far wiser than we; and neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful annabel lee: for the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful annabel lee; and the stars never rise, but i feel the bright eyes of the beautiful annabel lee: and so all the night-tide, i lie down by the side of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, in her sepulchre there by the sea, in her tomb by the sounding sea. _edgar allan poe._ april showers there fell an april shower, one night: next morning, in the garden-bed, the crocuses stood straight and gold: "and they have come," the children said. there fell an april shower, one night: next morning, thro' the woodland spread the mayflowers, pink and sweet as youth: "and they are come," the children said. there fell an april shower, one night: next morning, sweetly, overhead, the blue-birds sung, the blue-birds sung: "and they have come," the children said. _mary e. wilkins._ the voice of spring i come, i come! ye have called me long; i come o'er the mountains, with light and song; ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth by the winds which tell of the violet's birth, by the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, by the green leaves opening as i pass. i have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers by thousands have burst from the forest bowers, and the ancient graves and the fallen fanes are veiled with wreaths as italian plains; but it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, to speak of the ruin or the tomb! i have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north, and the larch has hung all his tassels forth; the fisher is out on the sunny sea, and the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, and the pine has a fringe of softer green, and the moss looks bright, where my step has been. i have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, and called out each voice of the deep blue sky, from the night-bird's lay through the starry time, in the groves of the soft hesperian clime, to the swan's wild note by the iceland lakes, when the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. from the streams and founts i have loosed the chain; they are sweeping on to the silvery main, they are flashing down from the mountain brows, they are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, they are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, and the earth resounds with the joy of waves. _felicia d. hemans._ the boys has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? if there has take him out, without making a noise. hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite! old time is a liar! we're twenty tonight! we're twenty! we're twenty! who says we are more? he's tipsy--young jackanapes!--show him the door! "gray temples at twenty?"--yes! _white_ if we please; where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! was it snowing i spoke of? excuse the mistake! look close--you will see not a sign of a flake! we want some new garlands for those we have shed, and these are white roses in place of the red. we've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told. of talking (in public) as if we were old; that boy we call "doctor," and this we call "judge"; it's a neat little fiction--of course it's all fudge. that fellow's the "speaker"--the one on the right; "mr. mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? that's our "member of congress," we say when we chaff; there's the "reverend" what's-his-name?--don't make me laugh. that boy with the grave mathematical look made believe he had written a wonderful book, and the royal society thought it was _true_! so they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too! there's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, that could harness a team with a logical chain; when he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, we called him "the justice," but now he's "the squire." and there's a nice youngster of excellent pith: fate tried to conceal him by naming him smith; but he shouted a song for the brave and the free-- just read on his medal, "my country," "of thee!" you hear that boy laughing? you think he's all fun; but the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. the children laugh loud as they troop to his call, and the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! yes, we're boys--always playing with tongue or with pen; and i sometimes have asked, shall we ever be men? shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay, till the last dear companion drops smiling away? then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! the stars of its winter, the dews of its may! and when we have done with our life-lasting toys, dear father, take care of thy children, the boys! _oliver wendell holmes._ the rainy day the day is cold, and dark, and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary; the vine still clings to the mouldering wall, but at every gust the dead leaves fall, and the day is dark and dreary. my life is cold, and dark, and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary; my thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, but the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, and the days are dark and dreary. be still, sad heart! and cease repining; behind the clouds is the sun still shining; thy fate is the common fate of all, into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary. _h.w. longfellow._ let me walk with the men in the road 'tis only a half truth the poet has sung of the "house by the side of the way"; our master had neither a house nor a home, but he walked with the crowd day by day. and i think, when i read of the poet's desire, that a house by the road would be good; but service is found in its tenderest form when we walk with the crowd in the road. so i say, let me walk with the men in the road, let me seek out the burdens that crush, let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weak who are falling behind in the rush. there are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend, there's a cup of cold water to give; and the man in the road by the side of his friend is the man who has learned to live. then tell me no more of the house by the road. there is only one place i can live-- it's there with the men who are toiling along, who are needing the cheer i can give. it is pleasant to live in the house by the way and be a friend, as the poet has said; but the master is bidding us, "bear ye their load, for your rest waiteth yonder ahead." i could not remain in the house by the road and watch as the toilers go on, their faces beclouded with pain and with sin, so burdened, their strength nearly gone. i'll go to their side, i'll speak in good cheer, i'll help them to carry their load; and i'll smile at the man in the house by the way, as i walk with the crowd in the road. out there in the road that goes by the house, where the poet is singing his song, i'll walk and i'll work midst the heat of the day, and i'll help falling brothers along-- too busy to live in the house by the way, too happy for such an abode. and my heart sings its praise to the master of all, who is helping me serve in the road. _walter j. gresham._ if we understood could we but draw back the curtains that surround each other's lives, see the naked heart and spirit, know what spur the action gives, often we should find it better, purer than we judged we should, we should love each other better, if we only understood. could we judge all deeds by motives, see the good and bad within, often we should love the sinner all the while we loathe the sin; could we know the powers working to o'erthrow integrity, we should judge each other's errors with more patient charity. if we knew the cares and trials, knew the effort all in vain, and the bitter disappointment, understood the loss and gain-- would the grim, eternal roughness seem--i wonder--just the same? should we help where now we hinder, should we pity where we blame? ah! we judge each other harshly, knowing not life's hidden force; knowing not the fount of action is less turbid at its source; seeing not amid the evil all the golden grains of good; oh! we'd love each other better, if we only understood. a laugh in church she sat on the sliding cushion, the dear, wee woman of four; her feet, in their shiny slippers, hung dangling over the floor. she meant to be good; she had promised, and so, with her big, brown eyes, she stared at the meeting-house windows and counted the crawling flies. she looked far up at the preacher, but she thought of the honey bees droning away at the blossoms that whitened the cherry trees. she thought of a broken basket, where, curled in a dusky heap, _three sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears lay snuggled and fast asleep._ such soft warm bodies to cuddle, such queer little hearts to beat, such swift, round tongues to kiss, such sprawling, cushiony feet; she could feel in her clasping fingers the touch of a satiny skin and a cold wet nose exploring the dimples under her chin. then a sudden ripple of laughter ran over the parted lips so quick that she could not catch it with her rosy finger-tips. the people whispered, "bless the child," as each one waked from a nap, but the dear, wee woman hid her face for shame in her mother's lap. "one, two, three!" it was an old, old, old, old lady, and a boy that was half past three; and the way that they played together was beautiful to see. she couldn't go running and jumping, and the boy, no more could he; for he was a thin little fellow, with a thin little twisted knee, they sat in the yellow sunlight, out under the maple-tree; and the game that they played i'll tell you, just as it was told to me. it was hide-and-go-seek they were playing, though you'd never have known it to be-- with an old, old, old, old lady, and a boy with a twisted knee. the boy would bend his face down on his one little sound right knee, and he'd guess where she was hiding, in guesses one, two, three! "you are in the china-closet!" he would cry, and laugh with glee-- it wasn't the china-closet; but he still had two and three. "you are up in papa's big bedroom, in the chest with the queer old key!" and she said: "you are _warm_ and _warmer_; but you're not quite right," said she. "it can't be the little cupboard where mamma's things used to be-- so it must be the clothes-press, gran'ma!" and he found her with his three. then she covered her face with her fingers, that were wrinkled and white and wee, and she guessed where the boy was hiding, with a one and a two and a three. and they never had stirred from their places, right under the maple-tree-- this old, old, old, old lady, and the boy with the lame little knee-- this dear, dear, dear old lady, and the boy who was half past three. _henry cuyler bunner._ unawares they said, "the master is coming to honor the town to-day, and none can tell at what house or home the master will choose to stay." and i thought while my heart beat wildly, what if he should come to mine, how would i strive to entertain and honor the guest divine! and straight i turned to toiling to make my house more neat; i swept, and polished, and garnished. and decked it with blossoms sweet. i was troubled for fear the master might come ere my work was done, and i hasted and worked the faster, and watched the hurrying sun. but right in the midst of my duties a woman came to my door; she had come to tell me her sorrows and my comfort and aid to implore, and i said, "i cannot listen nor help you any, to-day; i have greater things to attend to." and the pleader turned away. but soon there came another-- a cripple, thin, pale and gray-- and said, "oh, let me stop and rest a while in your house, i pray! i have traveled far since morning, i am hungry, and faint, and weak; my heart is full of misery, and comfort and help i seek." and i cried, "i am grieved and sorry, but i cannot help you to-day. i look for a great and noble guest," and the cripple went away; and the day wore onward swiftly-- and my task was nearly done, and a prayer was ever in my heart that the master to me might come. and i thought i would spring to meet him, and serve him with utmost care, when a little child stood by me with a face so sweet and fair-- sweet, but with marks of teardrops-- and his clothes were tattered and old; a finger was bruised and bleeding, and his little bare feet were cold. and i said, "i'm sorry for you-- you are sorely in need of care; but i cannot stop to give it, you must hasten otherwhere." and at the words, a shadow swept o'er his blue-veined brow,-- "someone will feed and clothe you, dear, but i am too busy now." at last the day was ended, and my toil was over and done; my house was swept and garnished-- and i watched in the dark--alone. watched--but no footfall sounded, no one paused at my gate; no one entered my cottage door; i could only pray--and wait. i waited till night had deepened, and the master had not come. "he has entered some other door," i said, "and gladdened some other home!" my labor had been for nothing, and i bowed my head and i wept, my heart was sore with longing-- yet--in spite of it all--i slept. then the master stood before me, and his face was grave and fair; "three times to-day i came to your door, and craved your pity and care; three times you sent me onward, unhelped and uncomforted; and the blessing you might have had was lost, and your chance to serve has fled." "o lord, dear lord, forgive me! how could i know it was thee?" my very soul was shamed and bowed in the depths of humility. and he said, "the sin is pardoned, but the blessing is lost to thee; for comforting not the least of mine you have failed to comfort me." _emma a. lent._ the land of beginning again i wish there were some wonderful place called the land of beginning again, where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, and all our poor, selfish griefs could be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door, and never put on again. i wish we could come on it all unaware, like the hunter who finds a lost trail; and i wish that the one whom our blindness had done the greatest injustice of all could be at the gate like the old friend that waits for the comrade he's gladdest to hail. we would find the things we intended to do, but forgot and remembered too late-- little praises unspoken, little promises broken, and all of the thousand and one little duties neglected that might have perfected the days of one less fortunate. it wouldn't be possible not to be kind. in the land of beginning again; and the ones we misjudged and the ones whom we grudged their moments of victory here, would find the grasp of our loving handclasp more than penitent lips could explain. for what had been hardest we'd know had been best, and what had seemed loss would be gain, for there isn't a sting that will not take wing when we've faced it and laughed it away; and i think that the laughter is most what we're after, in the land of beginning again. so i wish that there were some wonderful place called the land of beginning again, where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, and all our poor, selfish griefs could be dropped, like a ragged old coat, at the door, and never put on again. _louisa fletcher tarkington._ poor little joe prop yer eyes wide open, joey, fur i've brought you sumpin' great. apples? no, a derned sight better! don't you take no int'rest? wait! flowers, joe--i know'd you'd like 'em-- ain't them scrumptious? ain't them high? tears, my boy? wot's them fur, joey? there--poor little joe--don't cry! i was skippin' past a winder w'ere a bang-up lady sot, all amongst a lot of bushes-- each one climbin' from a pot; every bush had flowers on it-- pretty? mebbe not! oh, no! wish you could 'a seen 'em growin', it was such a stunnin' show. well, i thought of you, poor feller, lyin' here so sick and weak, never knowin' any comfort, and i puts on lots o' cheek. "missus," says i, "if you please, mum, could i ax you for a rose? for my little brother, missus-- never seed one, i suppose." then i told her all about you-- how i bringed you up--poor joe! (lackin' women folks to do it) sich a imp you was, you know-- till you got that awful tumble, jist as i had broke yer in (hard work, too), to earn your livin' blackin' boots for honest tin. how that tumble crippled of you, so's you couldn't hyper much-- joe, it hurted when i seen you fur the first time with yer crutch. "but," i says, "he's laid up now, mum, 'pears to weaken every day"; joe, she up and went to cuttin'-- that's the how of this bokay. say! it seems to me, ole feller, you is quite yourself to-night-- kind o' chirk--it's been a fortnit sense yer eyes has been so bright. better? well, i'm glad to hear it! yes, they're mighty pretty, joe. smellin' of 'em's made you happy? well, i thought it would, you know. never see the country, did you? flowers growin' everywhere! some time when you're better, joey, mebbe i kin take you there. flowers in heaven? 'm--i s'pose so; dunno much about it, though; ain't as fly as wot i might be on them topics, little joe. but i've heerd it hinted somewheres that in heaven's golden gates things is everlastin' cheerful-- b'lieve that's what the bible states. likewise, there folks don't git hungry: so good people, w'en they dies, finds themselves well fixed forever-- joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes? thought they looked a little sing'ler. oh, no! don't you have no fear; heaven was made fur such as you is-- joe, wot makes you look so queer? here--wake up! oh, don't look that way! joe! my boy! hold up yer head! here's yer flowers--you dropped em, joey. oh, my god, can joe be dead? _david l. proudfit (peleg arkwright)._ the ladder of st. augustine saint augustine! well hast thou said, that of our vices we can frame a ladder, if we will but tread beneath our feet each deed of shame! all common things, each day's events, that with the hour begin and end, our pleasures and our discontents, are rounds by which we may ascend. the low desire, the base design, that makes another's virtues less; the revel of the ruddy wine, and all occasions of excess; the longing for ignoble things; the strife for triumph more than truth; the hardening of the heart, that brings irreverence for the dreams of youth; all thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, that have their root in thoughts of ill; whatever hinders or impedes the action of the nobler will;-- all these must first be trampled down beneath our feet, if we would gain in the bright fields of fair renown the right of eminent domain. we have not wings, we cannot soar; but we have feet to scale and climb by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time. the mighty pyramids of stone that wedge-like cleave the desert airs, when nearer seen, and better known, are but gigantic flights of stairs, the distant mountains, that uprear their solid bastions to the skies, are crossed by pathways, that appear as we to higher levels rise. the heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight. but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night. standing on what too long we bore with shoulders bent and downcast eyes, we may discern--unseen before-- a path to higher destinies. nor deem the irrevocable past as wholly wasted, wholly vain, if, rising on its wrecks, at last to something nobler we attain. _h.w. longfellow._ loss and gain when i compare what i have lost with what i have gained, what i have missed with what attained, little room do i find for pride. i am aware how many days have been idly spent; how like an arrow the good intent has fallen short or been turned aside. but who shall dare to measure loss and gain in this wise? defeat may be victory in disguise; the lowest ebb in the turn of the tide. _h.w. longfellow._ john thompson's daughter (a parody on "lord ullin's daughter") a fellow near kentucky's clime cries, "boatman, do not tarry, and i'll give thee a silver dime to row us o'er the ferry." "now, who would cross the ohio, this dark and stormy water?" "oh, i am this young lady's beau, and she john thompson's daughter. "we've fled before her father's spite with great precipitation, and should he find us here to-night, i'd lose my reputation. "they've missed the girl and purse beside, his horsemen hard have pressed me. and who will cheer my bonny bride, if yet they shall arrest me?" out spoke the boatman then in time, "you shall not fail, don't fear it; i'll go not for your silver dime, but--for your manly spirit. "and by my word, the bonny bird in danger shall not tarry; for though a storm is coming on, i'll row you o'er the ferry." by this the wind more fiercely rose, the boat was at the landing, and with the drenching rain their clothes grew wet where they were standing. but still, as wilder rose the wind, and as the night grew drearer, just back a piece came the police, their tramping sounded nearer. "oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "it's anything but funny; i'll leave the light of loving eyes, but not my father's money!" and still they hurried in the race of wind and rain unsparing; john thompson reached the landing-place, his wrath was turned to swearing. for by the lightning's angry flash, his child he did discover; one lovely hand held all the cash, and one was round her lover! "come back, come back," he cried in woe, across the stormy water; "but leave the purse, and you may go, my daughter, oh, my daughter!" 'twas vain; they reached the other shore, (such dooms the fates assign us), the gold he piled went with his child, and he was left there, minus. _phoebe cary._ grandfather's clock my grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf, so it stood ninety years on the floor; it was taller by half than the old man himself, though it weighed not a pennyweight more. it was bought on the morn of the day that he was born, and was always his treasure and pride, but it stopped short ne'er to go again when the old man died. in watching its pendulum swing to and fro, many hours had he spent while a boy; and in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know and to share both his grief and his joy, for it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door, with a blooming and beautiful bride, but it stopped short never to go again when the old man died. my grandfather said that of those he could hire, not a servant so faithful he found, for it wasted no time and had but one desire, at the close of each week to be wound. and it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face, and its hands never hung by its side. but it stopped short never to go again when the old man died. _henry c. work._ a cradle hymn hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, holy angels guard thy bed! heavenly blessings without number gently falling on thy head. sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, house and home, thy friends provide; all without thy care or payment: all thy wants are well supplied. how much better thou'rt attended than the son of god could be, when from heaven he descended and became a child like thee! soft and easy is thy cradle: coarse and hard thy saviour lay, when his birthplace was a stable and his softest bed was hay. blessed babe! what glorious features-- spotless fair, divinely bright! must he dwell with brutal creatures? how could angels bear the sight? was there nothing but a manger cursed sinners could afford to receive the heavenly stranger? did they thus affront their lord? soft, my child: i did not chide thee, though my song might sound too hard; 'tis thy mother sits beside thee, and her arm shall be thy guard. * * * * * see the kinder shepherds round him, telling wonders from the sky! where they sought him, there they found him, with his virgin mother by. see the lovely babe a-dressing; lovely infant, how he smiled! when he wept, his mother's blessing soothed and hush'd the holy child, lo, he slumbers in a manger, where the hornèd oxen fed:-- peace, my darling, here's no danger; there's no ox anear thy bed. * * * * * may'st thou live to know and fear him, trust and love him all thy days; then go dwell forever near him, see his face, and sing his praise! _isaac watts._ if all the skies if all the skies were sunshine, our faces would be fain to feel once more upon them the cooling splash of rain. if all the world were music, our hearts would often long for one sweet strain of silence, to break the endless song. if life were always merry, our souls would seek relief, and rest from weary laughter in the quiet arms of grief. _henry van dyke._ the petrified fern in a valley, centuries ago, grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, veining delicate and fibers tender, waving when the wind crept down so low; rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it; playful sunbeams darted in and found it; drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it; but no foot of man e'er came that way; earth was young and keeping holiday. monster fishes swam the silent main; stately forests waved their giant branches; mountains hurled their snowy avalanches; mammoth creatures stalked across the plain, nature reveled in grand mysteries. but the little fern was not like these, did not number with the hills and trees, only grew and waved its sweet, wild way; no one came to note it day by day. earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion of the strong, dread currents of the ocean; moved the hills and shook the haughty wood; crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay, covered it, and hid it safe away. oh, the long, long centuries since that day; oh, the changes! oh, life's bitter cost, since the little useless fern was lost! useless? lost? there came a thoughtful man searching nature's secrets far and deep; from a fissure in a rocky steep he withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran fairy pencilings, a quaint design, leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine, and the fern's life lay in every line. so, i think, god hides some souls away, sweetly to surprise us the last day. _mary l. bolles branch._ cleon and i cleon hath ten thousand acres, ne'er a one have i; cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage, i; cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny, i, yet the poorer of the twain is cleon, and not i. cleon, true, possesseth acres, but the landscape, i; half the charms to me it yieldeth money cannot buy; cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshening vigor, i; he in velvet, i in fustian-- richer man am i. cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am i; cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have i; wealth-surrounded, care-environed, cleon fears to die; death may come--he'll find me ready, happier man am i. cleon sees no charms in nature, in a daisy, i; cleon hears no anthems ringing 'twixt the sea and sky; nature sings to me forever, earnest listener, i; state for state, with all attendants-- who would change?--not i. _charles mackay._ washington great were the hearts and strong the minds of those who framed in high debate the immortal league of love that binds our fair, broad empire, state with state. and deep the gladness of the hour when, as the auspicious task was done, in solemn trust the sword of power was given to glory's unspoiled son. that noble race is gone--the suns of fifty years have risen and set;-- but the bright links, those chosen ones, so strongly forged, are brighter yet. wide--as our own free race increase-- wide shall extend the elastic chain, and bind in everlasting peace state after state, a mighty train. _w.c. bryant._ towser shall be tied to-night a parody on "curfew shall not ring tonight." slow the kansas sun was setting, o'er the wheat fields far away, streaking all the air with cobwebs at the close of one hot day; and the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, he with whiskers short and frowsy, she with red and glistening hair, he with shut jaws stern and silent; she, with lips all cold and white, struggled to keep back the murmur, "towser shall be tied to-night." "papa," slowly spoke the daughter, "i am almost seventeen, and i have a real lover, though he's rather young and green; but he has a horse and buggy and a cow and thirty hens,-- boys that start out poor, dear papa, make the best of honest men, but if towser sees and bites him, fills his eyes with misty light, he will never come again, pa; towser must be tied to-night." "daughter," firmly spoke the farmer, (every word pierced her young heart like a carving knife through chicken as it hunts the tender part)-- "i've a patch of early melons, two of them are ripe to-day; towser must be loose to watch them or they'll all be stole away. i have hoed them late and early in dim morn and evening light; now they're grown i must not lose them; towser'll not be tied to-night." then the old man ambled forward, opened wide the kennel-door, towser bounded forth to meet him as he oft had done before. and the farmer stooped and loosed him from the dog-chain short and stout; to himself he softly chuckled, "bessie's feller must look out." but the maiden at the window saw the cruel teeth show white; in an undertone she murmured,-- "towser must be tied to-night." then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful and her breath came short and quick, till she spied the family clothesline, and she whispered, "that's the trick." from the kitchen door she glided with a plate of meat and bread; towser wagged his tail in greeting, knowing well he would be fed. in his well-worn leather collar, tied she then the clothesline tight, all the time her white lips saying: "towser shall be tied to-night," "there, old doggie," spoke the maiden, "you can watch the melon patch, but the front gate's free and open, when john henry lifts the latch. for the clothesline tight is fastened to the harvest apple tree, you can run and watch the melons, but the front gate you can't see." then her glad ears hear a buggy, and her eyes grow big and bright, while her young heart says in gladness, "towser dog is tied to-night." up the path the young man saunters with his eye and cheek aglow; for he loves the red-haired maiden and he aims to tell her so. bessie's roguish little brother, in a fit of boyish glee, had untied the slender clothesline, from the harvest apple tree. then old towser heard the footsteps, raised his bristles, fixed for fight,-- "bark away," the maiden whispers; "towser, you are tied to-night." then old towser bounded forward, passed the open kitchen door; bessie screamed and quickly followed, but john henry's gone before. down the path he speeds most quickly, for old towser sets the pace; and the maiden close behind them shows them she is in the race. then the clothesline, can she get it? and her eyes grow big and bright; and she springs and grasps it firmly: "towser shall be tied to-night." oftentimes a little minute forms the destiny of men. you can change the fate of nations by the stroke of one small pen. towser made one last long effort, caught john henry by the pants, but john henry kept on running for he thought that his last chance. but the maiden held on firmly, and the rope was drawn up tight. but old towser kept the garments, for he was not tied that night. then the father hears the racket; with long strides he soon is there, when john henry and the maiden, crouching, for the worst prepare. at his feet john tells his story, shows his clothing soiled and torn; and his face so sad and pleading, yet so white and scared and worn, touched the old man's heart with pity, filled his eyes with misty light. "take her, boy, and make her happy,-- towser shall be tied to-night." law and liberty o liberty, thou child of law, god's seal is on thy brow! o law, her mother first and last, god's very self art thou! two flowers alike, yet not alike, on the same stem that grow, two friends who cannot live apart, yet seem each other's foe. one, the smooth river's mirrored flow which decks the world with green; and one, the bank of sturdy rock which hems the river in. o daughter of the timeless past, o hope the prophets saw, god give us law in liberty and liberty in law! _e.j. cutler._ his mother's song beneath the hot midsummer sun the men had marched all day, and now beside a rippling stream upon the grass they lay. tiring of games and idle jest as swept the hours along, they cried to one who mused apart, "come, friend, give us a song." "i fear i can not please," he said; "the only songs i know are those my mother used to sing for me long years ago." "sing one of those," a rough voice cried. "there's none but true men here; to every mother's son of us a mother's songs are dear." then sweetly rose the singer's voice amid unwonted calm: "am i a soldier of the cross, a follower of the lamb? and shall i fear to own his cause?" the very stream was stilled, and hearts that never throbbed with fear, with tender thoughts were filled. ended the song, the singer said, as to his feet he rose, "thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight. god grant us sweet repose." "sing us one more," the captain begged. the soldier bent his head, then, glancing round, with smiling lips, "you'll join with me?" he said. "we'll sing that old familiar air sweet as the bugle call, 'all hail the power of jesus' name! let angels prostrate fall.'" ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell. as on the soldiers sang; man after man fell into line, and loud the voices rang. the songs are done, the camp is still, naught but the stream is heard; but, ah! the depths of every soul by those old hymns are stirred, and up from many a bearded lip, in whispers soft and low, rises the prayer that mother taught her boy long years ago. when father carves the duck we all look on with anxious eyes when father carves the duck, and mother almost always sighs when father carves the duck; then all of us prepare to rise and hold our bibs before our eyes, and be prepared for some surprise when father carves the duck. he braces up and grabs the fork, whene'er he carves the duck, and won't allow a soul to talk until he carves the duck. the fork is jabbed into the sides, across the breast the knife he slides, while every careful person hides from flying chips of duck. the platter's always sure to slip when father carves the duck, and how it makes the dishes skip-- potatoes fly amuck. the squash and cabbage leap in space, we get some gravy in our face, and father mutters hindoo grace whene'er he carves a duck. we then have learned to walk around the dining room and pluck from off the window-sills and walls our share of father's duck. while father growls and blows and jaws, and swears the knife was full of flaws, and mother laughs at him because he couldn't carve a duck. _e.v. wright._ papa's letter i was sitting in my study, writing letters when i heard, "please, dear mamma, mary told me mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. "but i'se tired of the kitty, want some ozzer fing to do. witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? tan't i wite a letter too?" "not now, darling, mamma's busy; run and play with kitty, now." "no, no, mamma, me wite letter; tan if 'ou will show me how." i would paint my darling's portrait as his sweet eyes searched my face-- hair of gold and eyes of azure, form of childish, witching grace. but the eager face was clouded, as i slowly shook my head, till i said, "i'll make a letter of you, darling boy, instead." so i parted back the tresses from his forehead high and white, and a stamp in sport i pasted 'mid its waves of golden light. then i said, "now, little letter, go away and bear good news." and i smiled as down the staircase clattered loud the little shoes. leaving me, the darling hurried down to mary in his glee, "mamma's witing lots of letters; i'se a letter, mary--see!" no one heard the little prattler, as once more he climbed the stair, reached his little cap and tippet, standing on the entry stair. no one heard the front door open, no one saw the golden hair, as it floated o'er his shoulders in the crisp october air. down the street the baby hastened till he reached the office door. "i'se a letter, mr. postman; is there room for any more? "'cause dis letter's doin' to papa, papa lives with god, 'ou know, mamma sent me for a letter, does 'ou fink 'at i tan go?" but the clerk in wonder answered, "not to-day, my little man." "den i'll find anozzer office, 'cause i must go if i tan." fain the clerk would have detained him, but the pleading face was gone, and the little feet were hastening-- by the busy crowd swept on. suddenly the crowd was parted, people fled to left and right, as a pair of maddened horses at the moment dashed in sight. no one saw the baby figure-- no one saw the golden hair, till a voice of frightened sweetness rang out on the autumn air. 'twas too late--a moment only stood the beauteous vision there, then the little face lay lifeless, covered o'er with golden hair. reverently they raised my darling, brushed away the curls of gold, saw the stamp upon the forehead, growing now so icy cold. not a mark the face disfigured, showing where a hoof had trod; but the little life was ended-- "papa's letter" was with god. who stole the bird's nest? "to-whit! to-whit! to-whee! will you listen to me? who stole four eggs i laid, and the nice nest i made?" "not i," said the cow, "moo-oo! such a thing i'd never do; i gave you a wisp of hay, but didn't take your nest away. not i," said the cow, "moo-oo! such a thing i'd never do." "to-whit! to-whit! to-whee! will you listen to me? who stole four eggs i laid, and the nice nest i made?" "not i," said the dog, "bow-wow! i wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! i gave the hairs the nest to make, but the nest i did not take. not i," said the dog, "bow-wow! i'm not so mean, anyhow." "to-whit! to-whit! to-whee! will you listen to me? who stole four eggs i laid, and the nice nest i made?" "not i," said the sheep, "oh, no! i wouldn't treat a poor bird so. i gave the wool the nest to line, but the nest was none of mine. baa! baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no! i wouldn't treat a poor bird so." "caw! caw!" cried the crow; "i should like to know what thief took away a bird's nest to-day?" "i would not rob a bird," said little mary green; "i think i never heard of anything so mean." "it is very cruel, too," said little alice neal; "i wonder if he knew how sad the bird would feel?" a little boy hung down his head, and went and hid behind the bed, for he stole that pretty nest from poor little yellow-breast; and he felt so full of shame, he didn't like to tell his name. _lydia maria child._ over the hill from the poor-house i, who was always counted, they say, rather a bad stick anyway, splintered all over with dodges and tricks, known as "the worst of the deacon's six"; i, the truant, saucy and bold, the one black sheep in my father's fold, "once on a time," as the stories say, went over the hill on a winter's day-- _over the hill to the poor-house._ tom could save what twenty could earn; but _givin'_ was somethin' he ne'er would learn; isaac could half o' the scriptur's speak-- committed a hundred verses a week; never forgot, an' never slipped; but "honor thy father and mother," he skipped; _so over the hill to the poor-house!_ as for susan, her heart was kind an' good--what there was of it, mind; nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice for one she loved; an' that 'ere one was herself, when all was said an' done; an' charley an' 'becca meant well, no doubt, but anyone could pull 'em about; an' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, save one poor fellow, an' that was me; an' when, one dark an' rainy night, a neighbor's horse went out o' sight, they hitched on me, as the guilty chap that carried one end o' the halter-strap. an' i think, myself, that view of the case wasn't altogether out o' place; my mother denied it, as mothers do, but i am inclined to believe 'twas true. though for me one thing might be said-- that i, as well as the horse, was led; and the worst of whisky spurred me on, or else the deed would have never been done. but the keenest grief i ever felt was when my mother beside me knelt, an' cried, an' prayed, till i melted down, as i wouldn't for half the horses in town. i kissed her fondly, then an' there, an' swore henceforth to be honest and square. i served my sentence--a bitter pill some fellows should take who never will; and then i decided to go "out west," concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; where, how i prospered, i never could tell, but fortune seemed to like me well; an' somehow every vein i struck was always bubbling over with luck. an', better than that, i was steady an' true, an' put my good resolutions through. but i wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, "you tell 'em, old fellow, that i am dead, an' died a christian; 'twill please 'em more, than if i had lived the same as before." but when this neighbor he wrote to me, "your mother's in the poor-house," says he, i had a resurrection straightway, an' started for her that very day. and when i arrived where i was grown, i took good care that i shouldn't be known; but i bought the old cottage, through and through, of someone charley had sold it to; and held back neither work nor gold to fix it up as it was of old. the same big fire-place, wide and high, flung up its cinders toward the sky; the old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-- i wound it an' set it a-goin' myself; an' if everything wasn't just the same, neither i nor money was to blame; _then--over the hill to the poor-house!_ one blowin', blusterin' winter's day, with a team an' cutter i started away; my fiery nags was as black as coal; (they some'at resembled the horse i stole;) i hitched, an' entered the poor-house door-- a poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; she rose to her feet in great surprise, and looked, quite startled, into my eyes; i saw the whole of her trouble's trace in the lines that marred her dear old face; "mother!" i shouted, "your sorrows is done! you're adopted along o' your horse thief son, _come over the hill from the poor-house!"_ she didn't faint; she knelt by my side, an' thanked the lord, till i fairly cried. an' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, an' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; an' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, an' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, to see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, an' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me; an' maybe we didn't live happy for years, in spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, who often said, as i have heard, that they wouldn't own a prison-bird; (though they're gettin' over that, i guess, for all of 'em owe me more or less;) but i've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man in always a-doin' the best he can; that whether on the big book, a blot gets over a fellow's name or not, whenever he does a deed that's white, it's credited to him fair and right. an' when you hear the great bugle's notes, an' the lord divides his sheep and goats, however they may settle my case, wherever they may fix my place, my good old christian mother, you'll see, will be sure to stand right up for me, with _over the hill from the poor-house!_ _will carleton._ "'specially jim" i was mighty good-lookin' when i was young, peart an' black-eyed an' slim, with fellers a-courtin' me sunday nights, 'specially jim. the likeliest one of 'em all was he, chipper an' han'som' an' trim, but i tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowds 'specially jim! i said i hadn't no 'pinion o' men, an' i wouldn't take stock in him! but they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'specially jim! i got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('specially jim!) i made up my mind i'd settle down an' take up with him. so we was married one sunday in church, 'twas crowded full to the brim; 'twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'specially jim. o'grady's goat o'grady lived in shanty row, the neighbors often said they wished that tim would move away or that his goat was dead. he kept the neighborhood in fear, and the children always vexed; they couldn't tell jist whin or where the goat would pop up next. ould missis casey stood wan day the dirty clothes to rub upon the washboard, when she dived headforemosht o'er the tub; she lit upon her back an' yelled, as she was lying flat: "go git your goon an' kill the bashte." o'grady's goat doon that. pat doolan's woife hung out the wash upon the line to dry. she wint to take it in at night, but stopped to have a cry. the sleeves av two red flannel shirts, that once were worn by pat, were chewed off almost to the neck. o'grady's goat doon that. they had a party at mccune's, an' they wor having foon, whin suddinly there was a crash an' ivrybody roon. the iseter soup fell on the floor an' nearly drowned the cat; the stove was knocked to smithereens. o'grady's goat doon that. moike dyle was coortin' biddy shea, both standin' at the gate, an' they wor just about to kiss aich oother sly and shwate. they coom togither loike two rams. an' mashed their noses flat. they niver shpake whin they goes by. o'grady's goat doon that. o'hoolerhan brought home a keg av dannymite wan day to blow a cistern in his yard an' hid the stuff away. but suddinly an airthquake coom, o'hoolerhan, house an' hat, an' ivrything in sight wint up. o'grady's goat doon that. an' there was dooley's savhin's bank, that held the byes' sphare cash. one day the news came doon the sthreet the bank had gone to smash. an' ivrybody 'round was dum wid anger and wid fear, fer on the dhoor they red the whords, "o'grady's goat sthruck here." the folks in grady's naborhood all live in fear and fright; they think it's certain death to go around there after night. an' in their shlape they see a ghost upon the air afloat, an' wake thimselves by shoutin' out: "luck out for grady's goat." _will s. hays._ the burial of moses "and he buried him in a valley in the land of moab, over against bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." by nebo's lonely mountain, on this side jordan's wave, in a vale in the land of moab there lies a lonely grave, and no man knows that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er, for the angels of god upturn'd the sod and laid the dead man there. that was the grandest funeral that ever pass'd on earth; but no man heard the trampling, or saw the train go forth-- noiselessly as the daylight comes back when night is done, and the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into the great sun. noiselessly as the springtime her crown of verdure weaves, and all the trees on all the hills open their thousand leaves; so without sound of music, or voice of them that wept, silently down from the mountain's crown the great procession swept. perchance the bald old eagle on gray beth-peor's height, out of his lonely eyrie look'd on the wondrous sight; perchance the lion, stalking, still shuns that hallow'd spot, for beast and bird have seen and heard that which man knoweth not. but when the warrior dieth, his comrades in the war, with arms reversed and muffled drum, follow his funeral car; they show the banners taken, they tell his battles won, and after him lead his masterless steed, while peals the minute gun. amid the noblest of the land we lay the sage to rest, and give the bard an honor'd place, with costly marble drest, in the great minster transept where lights like glories fall, and the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings along the emblazon'd wall. this was the truest warrior that ever buckled sword, this was the most gifted poet that ever breathed a word; and never earth's philosopher traced with his golden pen, on the deathless page, truths half so sage as he wrote down for men. and had he not high honor,-- the hillside for a pall, to lie in state while angels wait with stars for tapers tall, and the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes, over his bier to wave, and god's own hand, in that lonely land, to lay him in the grave? in that strange grave without a name, whence his uncoffin'd clay shall break again, o wondrous thought! before the judgment day, and stand with glory wrapt around on the hills he never trod, and speak of the strife that won our life with the incarnate son of god. o lonely grave in moab's land o dark beth-peor's hill, speak to these curious hearts of ours, and teach them to be still. god hath his mysteries of grace, ways that we cannot tell; he hides them deep like the hidden sleep of him he loved so well. _cecil f. alexander._ nobody's child alone in the dreary, pitiless street, with my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, all day have i wandered to and fro, hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go; the night's coming on in darkness and dread, and the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? is it because i am nobody's child? just over the way there's a flood of light, and warmth, and beauty, and all things bright; beautiful children, in robes so fair, are caroling songs in their rapture there. i wonder if they, in their blissful glee, would pity a poor little beggar like me, wandering alone in the merciless street, naked and shivering, and nothing to eat? oh! what shall i do when the night comes down in its terrible blackness all over the town? shall i lay me down 'neath the angry sky, on the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, when the beautiful children their prayers have said, and their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed? for no dear mother on me ever smiled. why is it, i wonder, i'm nobody's child? no father, no mother, no sister, not one in all the world loves me--e'en the little dogs run when i wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see how everything shrinks from a beggar like me! perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when i lie gazing far up in the dark blue sky, watching for hours some large bright star, i fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, and a host of white-robed, nameless things come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; a hand that is strangely soft and fair caresses gently my tangled hair, and a voice like the carol of some wild bird-- the sweetest voice that was ever heard-- calls me many a dear, pet name, till my heart and spirit are all aflame. they tell me of such unbounded love, and bid me come to their home above; and then with such pitiful, sad surprise they look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, and it seems to me, out of the dreary night i am going up to that world of light, and away from the hunger and storm so wild; i am sure i shall then be somebody's child. _phila h. case._ a christmas long ago like a dream, it all comes o'er me as i hear the christmas bells; like a dream it floats before me, while the christmas anthem swells; like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow, to a dear old sunny christmas in the happy long ago. and my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that intervene are but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between; and all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show, as there comes to me the picture of a christmas long ago. i can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about; i can see the smiling faces, i can hear the children shout; i can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill, e'en the shadows on the ceiling--i can see them dancing still. i can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet; i can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget. ah! that fancy! were the world mine, i would give it, if i might, to believe in old st. nicholas, and be a child to-night. just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feel for one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal. but, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow, there will never come another like that christmas long ago! for the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lain in the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again. friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow; gone the dear ones who were with us on that christmas long ago. let the children have their christmas--let them have it while they may; life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a day when st. nicholas will sadly pass on by the close-shut door, missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore; when no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room; when no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom; when the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glow shall be ghosts of those who sat there in the christmas long ago. nearer home one sweetly solemn thought comes to me o'er and o'er,-- i am nearer home to-day than i've ever been before;-- nearer my father's house where the many mansions be, nearer the great white throne, nearer the jasper sea;-- nearer the bound of life where we lay our burdens down; nearer leaving the cross, nearer gaining the crown. but lying darkly between, winding down through the night, is the dim and unknown stream that leads at last to the light. closer and closer my steps come to the dark abysm; closer death to my lips presses the awful chrism. father, perfect my trust; strengthen the might of my faith; let me feel as i would when i stand on the rock of the shore of death,-- feel as i would when my feet are slipping o'er the brink; for it may be i am nearer home, nearer now than i think. _phoebe cary._ the minuet grandma told me all about it, told me so i could not doubt it, how she danced, my grandma danced, long ago! how she held her pretty head, how her dainty skirts she spread, how she turned her little toes, smiling little human rose! grandma's hair was bright and shining, dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny! bless me, now she wears a cap, my grandma does, and takes a nap every single day; yet she danced the minuet long ago; now she sits there rocking, rocking, always knitting grandpa's stocking-- every girl was taught to knit long ago-- but her figure is so neat, and her ways so staid and sweet, i can almost see her now, bending to her partner's bow, long ago. grandma says our modern jumping, rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping, would have shocked the gentle people long ago. no, they moved with stately grace, everything in proper place, gliding slowly forward, then slowly courtesying back again. modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says, but boys were charming-- girls and boys i mean, of course--long ago, sweetly modest, bravely shy! what if all of us should try just to feel like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago. with the minuet in fashion, who could fly into a passion? all would wear the calm they wore long ago, and if in years to come, perchance, i tell my grandchild of our dance, i should really like to say, we did it in some such way, long ago. _mary mapes dodge._ the vagabonds we are two travellers, roger and i. roger's my dog--come here, you scamp! jump for the gentleman--mind your eye! over the table--look out for the lamp!-- the rogue is growing a little old; five years we've tramped through wind and weather, and slept outdoors when nights were cold, and ate, and drank--and starved together. we've learned what comfort is, i tell you: a bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, a fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, the paw he holds up there has been frozen), plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (this outdoor business is bad for strings), then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, and roger and i set up for kings! no, thank you, sir, i never drink. roger and i are exceedingly moral. aren't we, roger? see him wink. well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. he's thirsty, too--see him nod his head? what a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk; he understands every word that's said, and he knows good milk from water and chalk. the truth is, sir, now i reflect, i've been so sadly given to grog, i wonder i've not lost the respect (here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. but he sticks by through thick and thin; and this old coat with its empty pockets and rags that smell of tobacco and gin, he'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. there isn't another creature living would do it, and prove, through every disaster, so fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, to such a miserable, thankless master. no, sir! see him wag his tail and grin-- by george! it makes my old eyes water-- that is, there's something in this gin that chokes a fellow, but no matter! we'll have some music, if you're willing. and roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) shall march a little.--start, you villain! paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! 'bout face! attention! take your rifle! (some dogs have arms, you see.) now hold your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle to aid a poor old patriot soldier! march! halt! now show how the rebel shakes, when he stands up to hear his sentence; now tell me how many drams it takes to honor a jolly new acquaintance. five yelps--that's five; he's mighty knowing; the night's before us, fill the glasses;-- quick, sir! i'm ill, my brain is going!-- some brandy,--thank you;--there,--it passes! why not reform? that's easily said; but i've gone through such wretched treatment, sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, and scarce remembering what meat meant, that my poor stomach's past reform; and there are times when, mad with thinking, i'd sell out heaven for something warm to prop a horrible inward sinking. is there a way to forget to think? at your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, a dear girl's love,--but i took to drink;-- the same old story; you know how it ends. if you could have seen these classic features,-- you needn't laugh, sir; i was not then such a burning libel on god's creatures; i was one of your handsome men-- if you had seen her, so fair, so young, whose head was happy on this breast; if you could have heard the songs i sung when the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd that ever i, sir, should be straying from door to door, with fiddle and dog, ragged and penniless, and playing to you to-night for a glass of grog. she's married since,--a parson's wife, 'twas better for her that we should part; better the soberest, prosiest life than a blasted home and a broken heart. i have seen her--once; i was weak and spent on the dusty road; a carriage stopped, but little she dreamed as on she went, who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. you've set me talking, sir; i'm sorry; it makes me wild to think of the change! what do you care for a beggar's story? is it amusing? you find it strange? i had a mother so proud of me! 'twas well she died before--do you know if the happy spirits in heaven can see the ruin and wretchedness here below? another glass, and strong, to deaden this pain; then roger and i will start. i wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, aching thing, in place of a heart? he is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, no doubt, remembering things that were,-- a virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, and himself a sober, respectable cur. i'm better now; that glass was warming-- you rascal! limber your lazy feet! we must be fiddling and performing for supper and bed, or starve in the street.-- not a very gay life to lead, you think. but soon we shall go where lodgings are free, and the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;-- the sooner, the better for roger and me. _j.t. trowbridge._ the isle of long ago oh, a wonderful stream is the river of time, as it runs through the realm of tears, with a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, and a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, as it blends with the ocean of years. how the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, and the summers, like buds between; and the year in the sheaf--so they come and they go, on the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, as it glides in the shadow and sheen. there's a magical isle up the river of time, where the softest of airs are playing; there's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, and a song as sweet as a vesper chime, and the junes with the roses are staying. and the name of that isle is the long ago, and we bury our treasures there; there are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-- there are heaps of dust--but we love them so!-- there are trinkets and tresses of hair; there are fragments of song that nobody sings, and a part of an infant's prayer, there's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; there are broken vows and pieces of rings, and the garments that she used to wear. there are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore by the mirage is lifted in air; and we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, when the wind down the river is fair. oh, remembered for aye be the blessed isle, all the day of our life till night-- when the evening comes with its beautiful smile. and our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, may that "greenwood" of soul be in sight! _benjamin franklin taylor_. note: the last line of this poem needs explanation. "greenwood" is the name of a cemetery in brooklyn, n.y. "greenwood of soul" means the soul's resting place, or heaven. the dying newsboy in an attic bare and cheerless, jim the newsboy dying lay on a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day; scant the furniture about him but bright flowers were in the room, crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. on a table by the bedside open at a well-worn page, where the mother had been reading lay a bible stained by age, now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept with her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept. blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, brought upon poor jim consumption, which was eating life away, and this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost, "'ere's the morning _sun_ and _'erald_--latest news of steamship lost. papers, mister? morning papers?" then the cry fell to a moan, which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone: "black yer boots, sir? just a nickel! shine 'em like an evening star. it grows late, jack! night is coming. evening papers, here they are!" soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed; then poor jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head, "teacher," cried he, "i remember what you said the other day, ma's been reading of the saviour, and through him i see my way. he is with me! jack, i charge you of our mother take good care when jim's gone! hark! boots or papers, which will i be over there? black yer boots, sir? shine 'em right up! papers! read god's book instead, better'n papers that to die on! jack--" one gasp, and jim was dead! floating from that attic chamber came the teacher's voice in prayer, and it soothed the bitter sorrow of the mourners kneeling there, he commended them to heaven, while the tears rolled down his face, thanking god that jim had listened to sweet words of peace and grace, ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched and the poor, kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always open door; for the sick are in strange places, mourning hearts are everywhere, and such need the voice of kindness, need sweet sympathy and prayer. _emily thornton._ break, break, break break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, o sea! and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. o well for the fisherman's boy that he shouts with his sister at play! o well for the sailor lad that he sings in his boat on the bay! and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; but o for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still! break, break, break, at the foot of thy crags, o sea! but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. _alfred tennyson._ don't kill the birds don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, that sing about your door, soon as the joyous spring has come, and chilling storms are o'er. the little birds, how sweet they sing! oh! let them joyous live; and never seek to take the life that you can never give. don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, that play among the trees; 'twould make the earth a cheerless place, should we dispense with these. the little birds, how fond they play! do not disturb their sport; but let them warble forth their songs, till winter cuts them short. don't kill the birds, the happy birds, that bless the fields and grove; so innocent to look upon, they claim our warmest love. the happy birds, the tuneful birds, how pleasant 'tis to see! no spot can be a cheerless place where'er their presence be. _d.c. colesworthy._ bill's in the legislature i've got a letter, parson, from my son away out west, an' my old heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast, to think the boy whose future i had once so nicely planned should wander from the right and come to such a bitter end. i told him when he left us, only three short years ago, he'd find himself a-plowing in a mighty crooked row; he'd miss his father's counsel and his mother's prayers, too, but he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go. i know there's big temptations for a youngster in the west, but i believed our billy had the courage to resist; an' when he left i warned him of the ever waitin' snares that lie like hidden serpents in life's pathway everywheres. but bill, he promised faithful to be careful, an' allowed that he'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud. but it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind, and now he's got in trouble of the very worstest kind! his letters came so seldom that i somehow sort o' knowed that billy was a-trampin' of a mighty rocky road; but never once imagined he would bow my head in shame, and in the dust would woller his old daddy's honored name. he writes from out in denver, an' the story's mighty short-- i jess can't tell his mother!--it'll crush her poor old heart! an' so i reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her-- bill's in the legislature but he doesn't say what fur! the bridge builder an old man going a lone highway, came, at the evening cold and gray, to a chasm vast and deep and wide, the old man crossed in the twilight dim, the sullen stream had no fear for him; but he turned when safe on the other side and built a bridge to span the tide. "old man," said a fellow pilgrim near, "you are wasting your strength with building here; your journey will end with the ending day, yon never again will pass this way; you've crossed the chasm, deep and wide, why build this bridge at evening tide?" the builder lifted his old gray head; "good friend, in the path i have come," he said, "there followed after me to-day a youth whose feet must pass this way. this chasm that has been as naught to me to that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be; he, too, must cross in the twilight dim; good friend, i am building this bridge for him!" _anonymous._ song of marion's men our band is few, but true and tried, our leader frank and bold; the british soldier trembles when marion's name is told. our fortress is the good green wood, our tent the cypress tree; we know the forest round us as seamen know the sea; we know its walls of thorny vines, its glades of reedy grass, its safe and silent islands within the dark morass. woe to the english soldiery that little dread us near! on them shall light at midnight a strange and sudden fear: when, waking to their tents on fire, they grasp their arms in vain, and they who stand to face us are beat to earth again; and they who fly in terror deem a mighty host behind, and hear the tramp of thousands upon the hollow wind. then sweet the hour that brings release from danger and from toil; we talk the battle over and share the battle's spoil. the woodland rings with laugh and shout as if a hunt were up, and woodland flowers are gathered to crown the soldier's cup. with merry songs we mock the wind that in the pine-top grieves, and slumber long and sweetly on beds of oaken leaves. well knows the fair and friendly moon the band that marion leads-- the glitter of their rifles, the scampering of their steeds. 'tis life our fiery barbs to guide across the moonlight plains; 'tis life to feel the night wind that lifts their tossing manes. a moment in the british camp-- a moment--and away-- back to the pathless forest before the peep of day. grave men there are by broad santee, grave men with hoary hairs; their hearts are all with marion, for marion are their prayers. and lovely ladies greet our band with kindliest welcoming, with smiles like those of summer, and tears like those of spring. for them we wear these trusty arms, and lay them down no more till we have driven the briton forever from our shore. _william cullen bryant._ the minstrel-boy the minstrel-boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you'll find him; his father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him.-- "land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "though all the world betrays thee, one sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee!" the minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain could not bring his proud soul under; the harp he loved ne'er spoke again, for he tore its chords asunder; and said, "no chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! thy songs were made for the pure and free, they shall never sound in slavery!" _thomas moore._ our homestead our old brown homestead reared its walls, from the wayside dust aloof, where the apple-boughs could almost cast their fruitage on its roof: and the cherry-tree so near it grew, that when awake i've lain, in the lonesome nights, i've heard the limbs, as they creaked against the pane: and those orchard trees, o those orchard trees! i've seen my little brothers rocked in their tops by the summer breeze. the sweet-brier under the window-sill, which the early birds made glad, and the damask rose by the garden fence were all the flowers we had. i've looked at many a flower since then, exotics rich and rare, that to other eyes were lovelier, but not to me so fair; o those roses bright, o those roses bright! i have twined them with my sister's locks, that are hid in the dust from sight! we had a well, a deep old well, where the spring was never dry, and the cool drops down from the mossy stones were falling constantly: and there never was water half so sweet as that in my little cup, drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, which my father's hand set up; and that deep old well, o that deep old well! i remember yet the splashing sound of the bucket as it fell. our homestead had an ample hearth, where at night we loved to meet; there my mother's voice was always kind, and her smile was always sweet; and there i've sat on my father's knee, and watched his thoughtful brow, with my childish hand in his raven hair,-- that hair is silver now! but that broad hearth's light, o that broad hearth's light! and my father's look, and my mother's smile,-- they are in my heart to-night. _phoebe gary._ the ballad of the tempest we were crowded in the cabin, not a soul would dare to sleep,-- it was midnight on the waters, and a storm was on the deep. 'tis a fearful thing in winter to be shattered by the blast, and to hear the rattling trumpet thunder, "cut away the mast!" so we shuddered there in silence,-- for the stoutest held his breath, while the hungry sea was roaring and the breakers talked with death. as thus we sat in darkness, each one busy with his prayers, "we are lost!" the captain shouted, as he staggered down the stairs. but his little daughter whispered, as she took his icy hand, "isn't god upon the ocean, just the same as on the land?" then we kissed the little maiden, and we spoke in better cheer, and we anchored safe in harbor, when the morn was shining clear. _james t. fields._ santa filomena whene'er a noble deed is wrought, whene'er is spoken a noble thought, our hearts, in glad surprise, to higher levels rise. the tidal wave of deeper souls into our inmost being rolls and lifts us unawares out of all meaner cares. honor to those whose words or deeds thus help us in our daily needs, and by their overflow, raise us from what is low! thus thought i, as by night i read of the great army of the dead, the trenches cold and damp, the starved and frozen camp,-- the wounded from the battle-plain, in dreary hospitals of pain, the cheerless corridors, the cold and stony floors. lo! in that house of misery a lady with a lamp i see pass through the glimmering gloom, and flit from room to room. and slow, as in a dream of bliss, the speechless sufferer turns to kiss her shadow, as it falls upon the darkening walls. as if a door in heaven should be opened and then closed suddenly, the vision came and went, the light shone and was spent. on england's annals, through the long hereafter of her speech and song, that light its rays shall cast from portals of the past. a lady with a lamp shall stand in the great history of the land a noble type of good, heroic womanhood. nor even shall be wanting here the palm, the lily, and the spear, the symbols that of yore saint filomena bore. _henry w. longfellow._ the knight's toast the feast is o'er! now brimming wine in lordly cup is seen to shine before each eager guest; and silence fills the crowded hall, as deep as when the herald's call thrills in the loyal breast. then up arose the noble host, and, smiling, cried: "a toast! a toast! to all our ladies fair! here before all, i pledge the name of staunton's proud and beauteous dame, the ladye gundamere!" then to his feet each gallant sprung, and joyous was the shout that rung, as stanley gave the word; and every cup was raised on high, nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry till stanley's voice was heard. "enough, enough," he, smiling, said, and lowly bent his haughty head; "that all may have their due, now each in turn must play his part, and pledge the lady of his heart, like gallant knight and true!" then one by one each guest sprang up, and drained in turn the brimming cup, and named the loved one's name; and each, as hand on high he raised, his lady's grace or beauty praised, her constancy and fame. 'tis now st. leon's turn to rise; on him are fixed those countless eyes;-- a gallant knight is he; envied by some, admired by all, far famed in lady's bower and hall,-- the flower of chivalry. st. leon raised his kindling eye, and lifts the sparkling cup on high: "i drink to one," he said, "whose image never may depart, deep graven on this grateful heart, till memory be dead. "to one, whose love for me shall last when lighter passions long have past,-- so holy 'tis and true; to one, whose love hath longer dwelt, more deeply fixed, more keenly felt, than any pledged by you." each guest upstarted at the word, and laid a hand upon his sword, with fury flashing eye; and stanley said: "we crave the name, proud knight, of this most peerless dame, whose love you count so high." st. leon paused, as if he would not breathe her name in careless mood, thus lightly to another; then bent his noble head, as though to give that word the reverence due, and gently said: "my mother!" _sir walter scott._ the old man dreams o for one hour of youthful joy! give back my twentieth spring! i'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy than reign a gray-beard king; off with the spoils of wrinkled age! away with learning's crown! tear out life's wisdom-written page, and dash its trophies down! one moment let my life-blood stream from boyhood's fount of flame! give me one giddy, reeling dream of life all love and fame! my listening angel heard the prayer, and, calmly smiling, said, "if i but touch thy silvered hair, thy hasty wish hath sped. "but is there nothing in thy track to bid thee fondly stay, while the swift seasons hurry back to find the wished-for day?" ah! truest soul of womankind! without thee what were life? one bliss i cannot leave behind: i'll take--my--precious--wife! the angel took a sapphire pen and wrote in rainbow dew, "the man would be a boy again, and be a husband, too!" "and is there nothing yet unsaid before the change appears? remember, all their gifts have fled with those dissolving years!" "why, yes; for memory would recall my fond paternal joys; i could not bear to leave them all: i'll take--my--girl--and--boys!" the smiling angel dropped his pen-- "why, this will never do; the man would be a boy again, and be a father too!" and so i laughed--my laughter woke the household with its noise-- and wrote my dream, when morning broke, to please the gray-haired boys. _oliver wendell holmes._ washington's birthday the bells of mount vernon are ringing to-day, and what say their melodious numbers to the flag blooming air? list, what do they say? "the fame of the hero ne'er slumbers!" the world's monument stands the potomac beside, and what says the shaft to the river? "when the hero has lived for his country, and died, death crowns him a hero forever." the bards crown the heroes and children rehearse the songs that give heroes to story, and what say the bards to the children? "no verse can yet measure washington's glory. "for freedom outlives the old crowns of the earth, and freedom shall triumph forever, and time must long wait the true song of his birth who sleeps by the beautiful river." _hezekiah butterworth._ april! april! are you here? april! april! are you here? oh, how fresh the wind is blowing! see! the sky is bright and clear, oh, how green the grass is growing! april! april! are you here? april! april! is it you? see how fair the flowers are springing! sun is warm and brooks are clear, oh, how glad the birds are singing! april! april! is it you? april! april! you are here! though your smiling turn to weeping, though your skies grow cold and drear, though your gentle winds are sleeping, april! april! you are here! _dora read goodale._ a laughing chorus oh, such a commotion under the ground when march called, "ho, there! ho!" such spreading of rootlets far and wide, such whispering to and fro; and, "are you ready?" the snowdrop asked, "'tis time to start, you know." "almost, my dear," the scilla replied; "i'll follow as soon as you go." then, "ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came of laughter soft and low, from the millions of flowers under the ground, yes--millions--beginning to grow. o, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days, imprisoned in walls of brown, they never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud, and the sleet and the hail came down, but patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, or fashioned her beautiful crown; and now they are coming to brighten the world, still shadowed by winter's frown; and well may they cheerily laugh, "ha! ha!" in a chorus soft and low, the millions of flowers hid under the ground yes--millions--beginning to grow. the courtin' god makes sech nights, all white an' still fur 'z you can look or listen, moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, all silence an' all glisten. zekle crep' up quite unbeknown an' peeked in thru the winder. an' there sot huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender. a fireplace filled the room's one side with half a cord o' wood in-- there warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) to bake ye to a puddin'. the wa'nut logs shot sparkles out towards the pootiest, bless her, an' leetle flames danced all about the chiny on the dresser. agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, an' in amongst 'em rusted the ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther young fetched back from concord busted. the very room, coz she was in, seemed warm from floor to ceilin', an' she looked full ez rosy agin ez the apples she was peelin'. 'twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look on sech a blessed cretur, a dogrose blushin' to a brook ain't modester nor sweeter. he was six foot o' man, a , clear grit an' human natur'; none couldn't quicker pitch a ton nor dror a furrer straighter, he'd sparked it with full twenty gals, hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- all is, he couldn't love 'em, but long o' her his veins 'ould run all crinkly like curled maple, the side she breshed felt full o' sun ez a south slope in ap'il. she thought no v'ice hed sech a swing ez hisn in the choir; my! when he made ole hunderd ring, she _knowed_ the lord was nigher. an' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, when her new meetin'-bunnit felt somehow thru its crown a pair o' blue eyes sot upun it. thet night, i tell ye, she looked _some!_ she seemed to 've gut a new soul, for she felt sartin-sure he'd come, down to her very shoe-sole. she heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, a-raspin' on the scraper,-- all ways to once her feelin's flew like sparks in burnt-up paper. he kin' o' l'itered on the mat, some doubtfle o' the sekle, his heart kep' goin' pity-pat, but hern went pity zekle. an' yit she gin her cheer a jerk ez though she wished him furder, an' on her apples kep' to work, parin' away like murder. "you want to see my pa, i s'pose?" "wal--no--i come dasignin'"-- "to see my ma? she's sprinklin' clo'es agin to-morrer's i'nin'." to say why gals acts so or so, or don't, 'ould be presumin'; mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ comes nateral to women. he stood a spell on one foot fust, then stood a spell on t'other, an' on which one he felt the wust he couldn't ha' told ye nuther. says he, "i'd better call agin"; says she, "think likely, mister"; thet last work pricked him like a pin, an'--wal, he up an' kist her. when ma bimeby upon 'em slips, huldy sot pale ez ashes, all kin' o' smily roun' the lips an' teary roun' the lashes. for she was jes' the quiet kind whose naturs never vary, like streams that keep a summer mind snowhid in jenooary. the blood clost roun' her heart felt glued too tight for all expressin', tell mother see how metters stood, an' gin 'em both her blessin'. then her red come back like the tide down to the bay o' fundy. an' all i know is they was cried in meetin' come nex' sunday. _james russell lowell._ an old man's dreams it was the twilight hour; behind the western hill the sun had sunk, leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light. the air is filled with fragrance and with sound; high in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees, grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs, to still their restless brood. across the way a noisy little brook made pleasant music on the summer air, and farther on, the sweet, faint sound of whippoorwill falls rose on the air, and fell like some sweet chant at vespers. the air is heavy with the scent of mignonette and rose, and from the beds of flowers the tall white lilies point like angel fingers upward, casting on the air an incense sweet, that brings to mind the old, old story of the alabaster box that loving mary broke upon the master's feet. upon his vine-wreathed porch an old white-headed man sits dreaming happy, happy dreams of days that are no more; and listening to the quaint old song with which his daughter lulled her child to rest: "abide with me," she says; "fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens,-- lord, with me abide." and as he listens to the sounds that fill the summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up; and, for a while, he seems a boy again. with feet all bare he wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns, that wave a welcome from the other side. with those he wreathes the sunny head of little nell, a neighbor's child, companion of his sorrows and his joys. sweet, dainty nell, whose baby life seemed early linked with his, and whom he loved with all a boy's devotion. long years have flown. no longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, they stand again beside the brook, that murmurs ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, and tell the old, old story, and promise to be true till life for them shall end. again the years roll on, and they are old. the frost of age has touched the once-brown hair, and left it white as are the chaliced lilies. children, whose rosy lips once claimed a father's blessing and a mother's love, have grown to man's estate, save two whom god called early home to wait for them in heaven. and then the old man thinks how on a night like this, when faint and sweet as half-remembered dreams old whippoorwill falls did murmur soft its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies pointed up the way her christ had gone, god called the wife and mother home, and bade him wait. oh! why is it so hard for man to wait? to sit with folded hands, apart, amid the busy throng, and hear the buzz and hum of toil around; to see men reap and bind the golden sheaves of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on, and knows he may not join, but only wait till god has said, "enough!" and calls him home! and thus the old man dreams, and then awakes; awakes to hear the sweet old song just dying on the pulsing evening air: "when other helpers fail, and comforts flee, lord of the helpless, oh, abide with me!" _eliza m. sherman._ god's message to men god said: i am tired of kings; i suffer them no more; up to my ear the morning brings the outrage of the poor. think ye i have made this ball a field of havoc and war, where tyrants great and tyrants small might harry the weak and poor? my angel--his name is freedom-- choose him to be your king. he shall cut pathways east and west and fend you with his wing. i will never have a noble; no lineage counted great, fishers and choppers and plowmen shall constitute a state, and ye shall succor man, 'tis nobleness to serve; help them who cannot help again; beware from right to swerve. _ralph waldo emerson._ the sandman the rosy clouds float overhead, the sun is going down, and now the sandman's gentle tread comes stealing through the town. "white sand, white sand," he softly cries, and, as he shakes his hand, straightway there lies on babies' eyes his gift of shining sand. blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, as shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. from sunny beaches far away, yes, in another land, he gathers up, at break of day, his store of shining sand. no tempests beat that shore remote, no ships may sail that way; his little boat alone may float within that lovely bay. blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, as shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. he smiles to see the eyelids close above the happy eyes, and every child right well he knows-- oh, he is very wise! but if, as he goes through the land, a naughty baby cries, his other hand takes dull gray sand to close the wakeful eyes. blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, as shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. so when you hear the sandman's song sound through the twilight sweet, be sure you do not keep him long a-waiting in the street. lie softly down, dear little head, rest quiet, busy hands, till by your bed when good-night's said, he strews the shining sands. blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, as shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. _margaret vandegrift._ ring out, wild bells ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light: the year is dying in the night; ring out, wild bells, and let him die. ring out the old, ring in the new, ring, happy bells, across the snow: the year is going, let him go; ring out the false, ring in the true. ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that here we see no more; ring out the feud of rich and poor, ring in redress to all mankind. ring out a slowly dying cause, and ancient forms of party strife; ring in the nobler modes of life, with sweeter manners, purer laws. ring out false pride in place and blood, the civic slander and the spite; ring in the love of truth and right, ring in the common love of good. ring out old shapes of foul disease; ring out the narrowing lust of gold; ring out the thousand wars of old, ring in the thousand years of peace. ring in the valiant man and free, the larger heart, the kindlier hand; ring out the darkness of the land, ring in the christ that is to be. _alfred, lord tennyson._ the wishing bridge among the legends sung or said along our rocky shore, the wishing bridge of marblehead may well be sung once more. an hundred years ago (so ran the old-time story) all good wishes said above its span would, soon or late, befall. if pure and earnest, never failed the prayers of man or maid for him who on the deep sea sailed, for her at home who stayed. once thither came two girls from school and wished in childish glee: and one would be a queen and rule, and one the world would see. time passed; with change of hopes and fears and in the selfsame place, two women, gray with middle years, stood wondering, face to face. with wakened memories, as they met, they queried what had been: "a poor man's wife am i, and yet," said one, "i am a queen. "my realm a little homestead is, where, lacking crown and throne, i rule by loving services and patient toil alone." the other said: "the great world lies beyond me as it laid; o'er love's and duty's boundaries my feet have never strayed. "i see but common sights at home, its common sounds i hear, my widowed mother's sick-bed room sufficeth for my sphere. "i read to her some pleasant page of travel far and wide, and in a dreamy pilgrimage we wander side by side. "and when, at last, she falls asleep, my book becomes to me a magic glass: my watch i keep, but all the world i see. "a farm-wife queen your place you fill, while fancy's privilege is mine to walk the earth at will, thanks to the wishing bridge." "nay, leave the legend for the truth," the other cried, "and say god gives the wishes of our youth but in his own best way!" _john greenleaf whittier._ the things divine these are the things i hold divine: a trusting chi id's hand laid in mine, rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees, the taste of grapes and the drone of bees, a rhythmic gallop, long june days, a rose-hedged lane and lovers' lays, the welcome smile on neighbors' faces, cool, wide hills and open places, breeze-blown fields of silver rye, the wild, sweet note of the plover's cry, fresh spring showers and scent of box, the soft, pale tint of the garden phlox, lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon, a flight of geese and an autumn moon, rolling meadows and storm-washed heights, a fountain murmur on summer nights, a dappled fawn in the forest hush, simple words and the song of a thrush, rose-red dawns and a mate to share with comrade soul my gypsy fare, a waiting fire when the twilight ends, a gallant heart and the voice of friends. _jean brooks burt._ mothers of men the bravest battle that ever was fought! shall i tell you where and when? on the map of the world you will find it not, 'twas fought by the mothers of men. nay, not with cannon or battle shot, with sword or nobler pen, nay, not with eloquent words or thought from mouths of wonderful men; but deep in the walled-up woman's heart-- of woman that would not yield, but bravely, silently, bore her part-- lo, there is that battle field! no marshaling troup, no bivouac song, no banner to gleam or wave, but oh! these battles, they last so long-- from babyhood to the grave. yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, she fights in her walled-up town-- fights on and on in the endless wars, then, silent, unseen, goes down. oh, ye with banner and battle shot, and soldiers to shout and praise, i tell you the kingliest victories fought were fought in those silent ways. oh, spotless in a world of shame, with splendid and silent scorn, go back to god as white as you came-- the kingliest warrior born! _joaquin miller._ echo "i asked of echo, t'other day (whose words are often few and funny), what to a novice she could say of courtship, love and matrimony. quoth echo plainly,--'matter-o'-money!' "whom should i marry? should it be a dashing damsel, gay and pert, a pattern of inconstancy; or selfish, mercenary flirt? quoth echo, sharply,--'nary flirt!' "what if, aweary of the strife that long has lured the dear deceiver, she promise to amend her life. and sin no more; can i believe her? quoth echo, very promptly;--'leave her!' "but if some maiden with a heart on me should venture to bestow it, pray should i act the wiser part to take the treasure or forgo it? quoth echo, with decision,--'go it!' "but what if, seemingly afraid to bind her fate in hymen's fetter, she vow she means to die a maid, in answer to my loving letter? quoth echo, rather coolly,--'let her!' "what if, in spite of her disdain, i find my heart entwined about with cupid's dear, delicious chain so closely that i can't get out? quoth echo, laughingly,--'get out!' "but if some maid with beauty blest, as pure and fair as heaven can make her, will share my labor and my rest till envious death shall overtake her? quoth echo (sotto voce),-'take her!'" _john g. saxe._ life, i know not what thou art life! i know not what thou art, but know that thou and i must part; and when, or how, or where we met i own to me's a secret yet. life! we've been long together through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'tis hard to part when friends are dear-- perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; then steal away; give little warning, choose thine own time; say not good night, but in some brighter clime bid me good morning. _anna l. barbauld._ autumn leaves in the hush and the lonely silence of the chill october night, some wizard has worked his magic with fairy fingers light. the leaves of the sturdy oak trees are splendid with crimson and red. and the golden flags of the maple are fluttering overhead. through the tangle of faded grasses there are trailing vines ablaze, and the glory of warmth and color gleams through the autumn haze. like banners of marching armies that farther and farther go; down the winding roads and valleys the boughs of the sumacs glow. so open your eyes, little children, and open your hearts as well, till the charm of the bright october shall fold you in its spell. _angelina wray._ a message for the year not who you are, but what you are, that's what the world demands to know; just what you are, what you can do to help mankind to live and grow. your lineage matters not at all, nor counts one whit your gold or gear, what can you do to show the world the reason for your being here? for just what space you occupy the world requires you pay the rent; it does not shower its gifts galore, its benefits are only lent; and it has need of workers true, willing of hand, alert of brain; go forth and prove what you can do, nor wait to count o'er loss or gain. give of your best to help and cheer, the more you give the more you grow; this message evermore rings true, in time you reap whate'er you sow. no failure you have need to fear, except to fail to do your best-- what have you done, what can you do? that is the question, that the test. _elizabeth clarke hardy._ song of the chattahoochee[*] out of the hills of habersham, down the valleys of hall, i hurry amain to reach the plain, run the rapid and leap the fall, split at the rock and together again, accept my bed, or narrow or wide, and flee from folly on every side with a lover's pain to attain the plain far from the hills of habersham, far from the valleys of hall. all down the hills of habersham, all through the valleys of hall, the rushes cried "abide, abide," the wilful waterweeds held me thrall, the laving laurel turned my tide, the ferns and the fondling grass said "stay," the dewberry dipped for to work delay, and the little reeds sighed "abide, abide here in the hills of habersham, here in the valleys of hall." high o'er the hills of habersham, veiling the valleys of hall, the hickory told me manifold fair tales of shade, the poplar tall wrought me her shadowy self to hold, the chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, o'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, said, "pass not, so cold, these manifold deep shades of the hills of habersham, these glades in the valleys of hall." and oft in the hills of habersham, and oft in the valleys of hall, the white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, and many a luminous jewel lone --crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, ruby, garnet, and amethyst-- made lures with the lights of streaming stone, in the clefts of the hills of habersham, in the beds of the valleys of hall. but oh, not the hills of habersham, and oh, not the valleys of hall avail: i am fain for to water the plain. downward the voices of duty call-- downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. the dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, and a myriad flowers mortally yearn, and the lordly main from beyond the plain calls o'er the hills of habersham, calls through the valleys of hall. _sidney lanier._ [footnote *: used by special permission of the publishers, charles scribner's sons.] courting in kentucky when mary ann dollinger got the skule daown thar on injun bay i was glad, fer i like ter see a gal makin' her honest way, i heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly; but i paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell she come in her reg-lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. my jake an' her has been cronies ever since they could walk, an' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk. jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; but i sez ter myself, "look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a turk!" jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, he p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at injun bay. i remember once he was askin' for some o' my injun buns, an' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. wal, mary ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong. one day i was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree, when i heerd jake's voice a-sayin', "be ye willin' ter marry me?" an' mary ann kerrectin', "air ye willin', yeou sh'd say." our jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way. "no wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, hereafter i says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'i calk'late,' an' 'i be.' ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what i say; but i ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from injun bay; i ask you free an' final, 'be ye goin' to marry me?'" an' mary ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "i be." god's will is best whichever way the wind doth blow, some heart is glad to have it so; then blow it east, or blow it west, the wind that blows, that wind is best. my little craft sails not alone,-- a thousand fleets, from every zone, are out upon a thousand seas, and what for me were favoring breeze might dash another with the shock of doom upon some hidden rock. i leave it to a higher will to stay or speed me, trusting still that all is well, and sure that he who launched my bark will sail with me through storm and calm, and will not fail, whatever breezes may prevail, to land me, every peril past, within his haven at the last. then blow it east, or blow it west, the wind that blows, that wind is best. _caroline h. mason._ the school-master's guests i the district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk, close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque. as whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have come, his little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum. there was little tom timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth. and jolly jack gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth; there were both of the smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom, and jim jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room, with a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin, queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel joe hawkins's skin. there were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their brain, loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train; there was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate, and leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate; and set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist, as to say, "i could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!" there were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed, in a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best; a class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains, how perished brave marco bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins; and a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood, making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could. ii around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath, with many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath. a patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair, seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like damocles' sword, by a hair. there were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey; their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day. the square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming sores, till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors. white snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks; and the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs. iii now marco bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er, and the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door; and five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row, and stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow. and the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad, spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had: "we've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round, concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found; to pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about, an' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out. "the first thing i'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read you give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need; you're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han', an' you turn a stray _g_ in their _doin's_, an' tack an odd _d_ on their _an'_; there ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as i see, providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be. an' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last; it kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past. whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say, shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way." and the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, and nodded obliquely, and muttered: "them 'ere is my sentiments tew." "then as to your spellin': i've heern tell, by the mas has looked into this, that you turn the _u_ out o' your _labour_, an' make the word shorter than 'tis; an' clip the _k_ off yer _musick_, which makes my son ephraim perplexed, an' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next. they say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along; but if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong. you might just as well say that jackson didn't know all there was about war, as to say that old spellin'-book webster didn't know what them letters was for." and the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, and scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "them's my sentiments tew." "then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me, is that you have left tare an' tret out, an' also the old rule o' three; an' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please, with saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an' _w's, x's, y's_ an' _z's_. we ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached by tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached." and the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, and cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "them's my sentiments tew." "another thing, i must here mention, comes into the question to-day, concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say. my gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear, but they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this here: 'i love,' an' 'thou lovest,' an' 'he loves,' an' 'we love,' an' 'you love,' an' 'they--' an' they answered my questions: 'it's grammar'--'twas all i could get 'em to say. now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so as to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that i want to know." iv now jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before, had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor; and the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said, a joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head. the soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place and the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face. the school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books and, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks. and the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue; and the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "them's my sentiments tew." _will carleton._ mother o' mine if i were hanged on the highest hill, mother o' mine! oh, mother o' mine! i know whose love would follow me still; mother o' mine! oh, mother o' mine! if i were drowned in the deepest sea, mother o' mine! oh, mother o' mine! i know whose tears would flow down to me, mother o' mine! oh, mother o' mine! if i were damned o' body and soul, mother o' mine! oh, mother o' mine! i know whose prayers would make me whole, mother o' mine! oh, mother o' mine! _rudyard kipling._ encouragement who dat knockin' at de do'? why, ike johnson--yes, fu' sho'! come in, ike. i's mighty glad you come down. i t'ought you's mad at me 'bout de othah night, an' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. say, now, was you mad fu' true w'en i kin' o' laughed at you? speak up, ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. 'tain't no use a-lookin' sad, an' a-mekin' out you's mad; ef you's gwine to be so glum, wondah why you evah come. i don't lak nobidy 'roun' dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown-- oh, now, man, don't act a dunce! cain't you talk? i tol' you once, speak up, ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. i's done all dat i kin do-- dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; reckon i'd a' bettah wo' my ol' ragged calico. aftah all de pains i's took, cain't you tell me how i look? speak up, ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. bless my soul! i 'mos' fu'got tellin' you 'bout tildy scott. don't you know, come thu'sday night, she gwine ma'y lucius white? miss lize say i allus wuh heap sight laklier 'n huh; an' she'll git me somep'n new, ef i wants to ma'y too. speak up, ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. i could ma'y in a week, if de man i wants 'ud speak. tildy's presents 'll be fine, but dey wouldn't ekal mine. him whut gits me fu' a wife 'll be proud, you bet yo' life. i's had offers, some ain't quit; but i hasn't ma'ied yit! speak up, ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. ike, i loves you--yes, i does; you's my choice, and allus was. laffin' at you ain't no harm-- go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm? hug me closer--dah, da's right! wasn't you a awful sight, havin' me to baig you so? now ax whut you want to know-- speak up, ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. _paul laurence dunbar._ the harp that once through tara's halls the harp that once through tara's halls the soul of music shed, now hangs as mute on tara's walls as if that soul were fled. so sleeps the pride of former days, so glory's thrill is o'er, and hearts, that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no more. no more to chiefs and ladies bright the harp of tara swells: the chord alone, that breaks at night, its tale of ruin tells. thus freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives is when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives. _thomas moore._ aux italiens at paris it was, at the opera there;-- and she looked like a queen in a book that night, with the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, and the brooch on her breast so bright. of all the operas that verdi wrote, the best, to my taste, is the trovatore; and mario can soothe, with a tenor note, the souls in purgatory. the moon on the tower slept soft as snow; and who was not thrilled in the strangest way, as we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, _non ti scordar di me?_[a] the emperor there, in his box of state, looked grave, as if he had just then seen the red flag wave from the city gate, where his eagles in bronze had been. the empress, too, had a tear in her eye, you'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, for one moment, under the old blue sky, to the old glad life in spain. well, there in our front-row box we sat together, my bride betrothed and i; my gaze was fixed on my opera hat, and hers on the stage hard by. and both were silent, and both were sad. like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, with that regal, indolent air she had; so confident of her charm! i have not a doubt she was thinking then of her former lord, good soul that he was! who died the richest and roundest of men. the marquis of carabas. i hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, through a needle's eye he had not to pass; i wish him well, for the jointure given to my lady of carabas. meanwhile, i was thinking of my first love, as i had not been thinking of aught for years, till over my eyes there began to move something that felt like tears. i thought of the dress that she wore last time, when we stood 'neath the cypress trees together, in that lost land, in that soft clime, in the crimson evening weather: of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); and her warm white neck in its golden chain; and her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, and falling loose again; and the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; (oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) and the one bird singing alone to his nest; and the one star over the tower. i thought of our little quarrels and strife, and the letter that brought me back my ring; and it all seemed then, in the waste of life, such a very little thing! for i thought of her grave below the hill, which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; and i thought, "were she only living still, how i could forgive her and love her!" and i swear, as i thought of her thus, in that hour, and of how, after all, old things are best, that i smelt the smell of that jasmine flower which she used to wear in her breast. it smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, it made me creep, and it made me cold; like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet where a mummy is half unrolled. and i turned and looked: she was sitting there, in a dim box over the stage, and drest in that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, and that jasmine in her breast! i was here, and she was there; and the glittering horse-shoe curved between:-- from my bride betrothed, with her raven hair, and her sumptuous, scornful mien, to my early love, with her eyes downcast, and over her primrose face the shade, (in short, from the future back to the past,) there was but a step to be made. to my early love from my future bride one moment i looked. then i stole to the door, i traversed the passage; and down at her side i was sitting, a moment more. my thinking of her or the music's strain, or something which never will be exprest, had brought her back from the grave again, with the jasmine in her breast. she is not dead, and she is not wed! but she loves me now, and she loved me then! and the very first word that her sweet lips said, my heart grew youthful again. the marchioness there, of carabas, she is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; and but for her--well, we'll let that pass; she may marry whomever she will. but i will marry my own first love, with her primrose face, for old things are best; and the flower in her bosom, i prize it above the brooch in my lady's breast. the world is filled with folly and sin, and love must cling where it can, i say: for beauty is easy enough to win; but one isn't loved every day, and i think in the lives of most women and men, there's a moment when all would go smooth and even, if only the dead could find out when to come back, and be forgiven. but oh the smell of that jasmine flower! and oh, that music! and oh, the way that voice rang out from the donjon tower, _non ti scordar di me_, _non ti scordar di me!_ _robert bulwer lytton._ [footnote a: a line in the opera "ii trovatore" meaning "do not forget me."] my prairies i love my prairies, they are mine from zenith to horizon line, clipping a world of sky and sod like the bended arm and wrist of god. i love their grasses. the skies are larger, and my restless eyes fasten on more of earth and air than seashore furnishes anywhere. i love the hazel thickets; and the breeze, the never resting prairie winds. the trees that stand like spear points high against the dark blue sky are wonderful to me. i love the gold of newly shaven stubble, rolled a royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be the pathway of a deity. i love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds are not more thrilling to me than the herd's mad bellowing or the shadow stride of mounted herdsmen at my side. i love my prairies, they are mine from high sun to horizon line. the mountains and the cold gray sea are not for me, are not for me. _hamlin garland._ home they brought her warrior dead (_from "the princess"_) home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: all her maidens, watching, said, "she must weep or she will die." then they praised him, soft and low, call'd him worthy to be loved, truest friend and noblest foe; yet she neither spoke nor moved. stole a maiden from her place, lightly to the warrior stept, took the face-cloth from the face; yet she neither moved nor wept. rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee-- like summer tempest came her tears-- "sweet my child, i live for thee." _alfred, lord tennyson._ september sweet is the voice that calls from babbling waterfalls in meadows where the downy seeds are flying; and soft the breezes blow, and eddying come and go in faded gardens where the rose is dying. among the stubbled corn the blithe quail pipes at morn, the merry partridge drums in hidden places, and glittering insects gleam above the reedy stream, where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. at eve, cool shadows fall across the garden wall, and on the clustered grapes to purple turning; and pearly vapors lie along the eastern sky, where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. ah, soon on field and hill the wind shall whistle chill, and patriarch swallows call their flocks together, to fly from frost and snow, and seek for lands where blow the fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. the cricket chirps all day, "o fairest summer, stay!" the squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; the wild fowl fly afar above the foamy bar, and hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. now comes a fragrant breeze through the dark cedar-trees and round about my temples fondly lingers, in gentle playfulness, like to the soft caress bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. yet, though a sense of grief comes with the falling leaf, and memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, in all my autumn dreams a future summer gleams, passing the fairest glories of the present! _george arnold._ the old kitchen floor far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast to the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed. i loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall, but the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. its chairs and its tables no brighter could be and all its surroundings were sacred to me, from the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door, and i loved every crack in that old kitchen floor. i remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide and the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side out of which each thanksgiving came puddings and pies and they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes. and then old st. nicholas slyly and still came down every christmas our stockings to fill. but the dearest of memories laid up in store is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor. to-night those old musings come back at their will but the wheel and its music forever are still. the band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, and the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay. the hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then and the voices of children ring out there again. the sun at the window looks in as of yore, but it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor. rustic courtship the night was dark when sam set out to court old jones's daughter; he kinder felt as if he must, and kinder hadn't oughter. his heart against his waistcoat throbbed, his feelings had a tussle, which nearly conquered him despite six feet of bone and muscle. the candle in the window shone with a most doleful glimmer, and sam he felt his courage ooze, and through his fingers simmer. says he: "now, sam, don't be a fool, take courage, shaking doubter, go on, and pop the question right, for you can't live without her." but still, as he drew near the house, his knees got in a tremble, the beating of his heart ne'er beat his efforts to dissemble. says he: "now, sam, don't be a goose, and let the female wimmin knock all your thoughts a-skelter so, and set your heart a-swimmin'." so sam, he kinder raised the latch, his courage also raising, and in a moment he sat inside, cid jones's crops a-praising. he tried awhile to talk the farm in words half dull, half witty, not knowing that old jones well knew his only thought was--kitty. at last the old folks went to bed-- the joneses were but human; old jones was something of a man, and mrs. jones--a woman. and kitty she the pitcher took, and started for the cellar; it wasn't often that she had so promising a feller. and somehow when she came upstairs, and sam had drank his cider, there seemed a difference in the chairs, and sam was close beside her; his stalwart arm dropped round her waist, her head dropped on his shoulder, and sam--well, he had changed his tune and grown a trifle bolder. but this, if you live long enough, you surely will discover, there's nothing in this world of ours except the loved and lover. the morning sky was growing gray as sam the farm was leaving, his face was surely not the face of one half grieved, or grieving. and kitty she walked smiling back, with blushing face, and slowly; there's something in the humblest love that makes it pure and holy. and did he marry her, you ask? she stands there with the ladle a-skimming of the morning's milk-- that's sam who rocks the cradle. the red jacket 'tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar the north winds beat and clamor at the door; the drifted snow lies heaped along the street, swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; the clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend but o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, dance their weird revels fitfully alone. in lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; in happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet the weary traveler with their smiles to greet; in lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light-- "thank god for home, this bitter, bitter night!" but hark! above the beating of the storm peals on the startled ear the fire alarm. yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, and heart-beats quicken with a strange affright; from tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, the ready friend no danger can appall; fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, he hurries forth to battle and to save. from yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, devouring all they coil themselves about, the flaming furies, mounting high and higher, wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe in vain attempts their power to overthrow; with mocking glee they revel with their prey, defying human skill to check their way. and see! far up above the flame's hot breath, something that's human waits a horrid death; a little child, with waving golden hair, stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,-- her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, while sobs of terror shake her tender breast. and from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, a mother screams, "o god! my child! my child!" up goes a ladder. through the startled throng a hardy fireman swiftly moves along; mounts sure and fast along the slender way, fearing no danger, dreading but delay. the stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; but up, still up he goes! the goal is won! his strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone! gone to his death. the wily flames surround and burn and beat his ladder to the ground, in flaming columns move with quickened beat to rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, suffering humanity must thy loss deplore; henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, crowned with all honors nobleness can give. nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; behold! he quickly on the roof appears, bearing the tender child, his jacket warm flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm, up with your ladders! quick! 'tis but a chance! behold, how fast the roaring flames advance! quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly; up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die! silence! he comes along the burning road, bearing, with tender care, his living load; aha! he totters! heaven in mercy save the good, true heart that can so nobly brave! he's up again! and now he's coming fast-- one moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed-- and now he's safe! bold flames, ye fought in vain. a happy mother clasps her child again. _george m. baker._ john maynard 'twas on lake erie's broad expanse one bright midsummer day, the gallant steamer ocean queen swept proudly on her way. bright faces clustered on the deck, or, leaning o'er the side, watched carelessly the feathery foam that flecked the rippling tide. ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, that smiling bends serene, could dream that danger, awful, vast, impended o'er the scene; could dream that ere an hour had sped that frame of sturdy oak would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, blackened with fire and smoke? a seaman sought the captain's side, a moment whispered low; the captain's swarthy face grew pale; he hurried down below. alas, too late! though quick, and sharp, and clear his orders came, no human efforts could avail to quench th' insidious flame. the bad news quickly reached the deck, it sped from lip to lip, and ghastly faces everywhere looked from the doomed ship. "is there no hope, no chance of life?" a hundred lips implore; "but one," the captain made reply, "to run the ship on shore." a sailor, whose heroic soul that hour should yet reveal, by name john maynard, eastern-born, stood calmly at the wheel. "head her southeast!" the captain shouts, above the smothered roar, "head her southeast without delay! make for the nearest shore!" no terror pales the helmsman's cheek, or clouds his dauntless eye, as, in a sailor's measured tone, his voice responds, "ay! ay!" three hundred souls, the steamer's freight, crowd forward wild with fear, while at the stern the dreaded flames above the deck appear. john maynard watched the nearing flames, but still with steady hand he grasped the wheel, and steadfastly he steered the ship to land. "john maynard, can you still hold out?" he heard the captain cry; a voice from out the stifling smoke faintly responds, "ay! ay!" but half a mile! a hundred hands stretch eagerly to shore. but half a mile! that distance sped peril shall all be o'er. but half a mile! yet stay, the flames no longer slowly creep, but gather round that helmsman bold, with fierce, impetuous sweep. "john maynard!" with an anxious voice the captain cries once more, "stand by the wheel five minutes yet, and we shall reach the shore." through flame and smoke that dauntless heart responded firmly still, unawed, though face to face with death, "with god's good help i will!" the flames approach with giant strides, they scorch his hand and brow; one arm, disabled, seeks his side, ah! he is conquered now. but no, his teeth are firmly set, he crushes down his pain, his knee upon the stanchion pressed, he guides the ship again. one moment yet! one moment yet! brave heart, thy task is o'er, the pebbles grate beneath the keel, the steamer touches shore. three hundred grateful voices rise in praise to god that he hath saved them from the fearful fire, and from the engulfing sea. but where is he, that helmsman bold? the captain saw him reel, his nerveless hands released their task, he sank beside the wheel. the wave received his lifeless corse, blackened with smoke and fire. god rest him! never hero had a nobler funeral pyre! _horatio alger, jr._ piller fights piller fights is fun, i tell you; there isn't anything i'd rather do than get a big piller and hold it tight, stand up in bed and then just fight. us boys allers have our piller fights and the best night of all is pa's lodge night. soon as ever he goes, we say "good night," then go right upstairs for a piller fight. sometimes maybe ma comes to the stairs and hollers up, "boys, have you said your prayers?" and then george will holler "yes, mamma," for he always has; good deal of preacher about george, pa says. ma says "pleasant dreams," and shuts the door; if she's a-listenin' both of us snore, but as soon as ever she goes we light a light and pitch right into our piller fight. we play that the bed is bunker hill and george is americans, so he stands still. but i am the british, so i must hit as hard as ever i can to make him git. we played buena vista one night-- tell you, that was an awful hard fight! held up our pillers like they was a flag, an' hollered, "little more grape-juice, captain bragg!" that was the night that george hit the nail-- you just ought to have seen those feathers sail! i was covered as white as flour, me and him picked them up for 'most an hour; next day when our ma saw that there mess she was pretty mad, you better guess; and she told our pa, and he just said, "come right on out to this here shed." tell you, he whipped us till we were sore and made us both promise to do it no more. that was a long time ago, and now lodge nights or when pa's away we have piller fights, but in buena vista george is bound to see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round. piller fights is fun, i tell you; there isn't anything i'd rather do than get a big piller and hold it tight, stand up in bed, and then just fight. _d.a. ellsworth._ little bateese you bad leetle boy, not moche you care how busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pere tryin' to stop you ev'ry day chasin' de hen aroun' de hay. w'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay! leetle bateese! off on de fiel' you foller de plough, den we'en you're tire, you scare de cow, sickin' de dog till dey jamp de wall so de milk ain't good for not'ing at all, an' you're only five an' a half this fall-- leetle bateese! too sleepy for sayin' de prayer tonight? never min', i s'pose it'll be all right; say dem to-morrow--ah! dere he go! fas' asleep in a minute or so-- an' he'll stay lak dat till the rooster crow-- leetle bateese. den wake up right away, toute suite, lookin' for somethin' more to eat, makin' me t'ink of dem long-lag crane, soon as they swaller, dey start again; i wonder your stomach don't get no pain, leetle bateese. but see heem now lyin' dere in bed, look at de arm onderneat' hees head; if he grow lak dat till he's twenty year, i bet he'll be stronger than louis cyr and beat de voyageurs leevin' here-- leetle bateese. jus' feel de muscle along hees back,-- won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry pack on de long portage, any size canoe; dere's not many t'ings dat boy won't do, for he's got double-joint on hees body too-- leetle bateese. but leetle bateese! please don't forget we rader you're stayin' de small boy yet. so chase de chicken and mak' dem scare, an' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere, for w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere-- leetle bateese! _w.h. drummond._ conscience and future judgment i sat alone with my conscience, in a place where time had ceased, and we talked of my former living in the land where the years increased; and i felt i should have to answer the question it might put to me, and to face the question and answer throughout an eternity. the ghosts of forgotten actions came floating before my sight, and things that i thought had perished were alive with a terrible might; and the vision of life's dark record was an awful thing to face-- alone with my conscience sitting in that solemnly silent place. and i thought of a far-away warning, of a sorrow that was to be mine, in a land that then was the future, but now is the present time; and i thought of my former thinking of the judgment day to be; but sitting alone with my conscience seemed judgment enough for me. and i wondered if there was a future to this land beyond the grave; but no one gave me an answer and no one came to save. then i felt that the future was present, and the present would never go by, for it was but the thought of a future become an eternity. then i woke from my timely dreaming, and the vision passed away; and i knew the far-away warning was a warning of yesterday. and i pray that i may not forget it in this land before the grave, that i may not cry out in the future, and no one come to save. i have learned a solemn lesson which i ought to have known before, and which, though i learned it dreaming, i hope to forget no more. so i sit alone with my conscience in the place where the years increase, and i try to fathom the future, in the land where time shall cease. and i know of the future judgment, how dreadful soe'er it be, that to sit alone with my conscience will be judgment enough for me. dandelion there's a dandy little fellow, who dresses all in yellow, in yellow with an overcoat of green; with his hair all crisp and curly, in the springtime bright and early a-tripping o'er the meadow he is seen. through all the bright june weather, like a jolly little tramp, he wanders o'er the hillside, down the road; around his yellow feather, thy gypsy fireflies camp; his companions are the wood lark and the toad. but at last this little fellow doffs his dainty coat of yellow, and very feebly totters o'er the green; for he very old is growing and with hair all white and flowing, a-nodding in the sunlight he is seen. oh, poor dandy, once so spandy, golden dancer on the lea! older growing, white hair flowing, poor little baldhead dandy now is he! _nellie m. garabrant._ the inventor's wife it's easy to talk of the patience of job, humph! job hed nothin' to try him! ef he'd been married to 'bijah brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him. trials, indeed! now i'll tell you what--ef you want to be sick of your life, jest come and change places with me a spell--for i'm an inventor's wife. and such inventions! i'm never sure, when i take up my coffee-pot, that 'bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot. why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin'; and didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'? and there was his "patent peeler," too--a wonderful thing, i'll say; but it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away. as for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such trash, why, 'bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash. law! that don't worry him--not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man-- he'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan, inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, while the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' our corn. when 'bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know; our folks all thought he was dreadful smart--but that was years ago. he was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way-- i never thought that a time would come when i'd rue my weddin' day; but when i've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside, and look at bijah a-settin' there, i've jest dropped down and cried. we lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun but i counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done. so he turned it into a "burglar alarm." it ought to give thieves a fright-- 'twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night. sometimes i wonder if 'bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things. hev i told you about his bedstead yit?--'twas full of wheels and springs; it hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head; all you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said, that bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, and then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more. wa'al, 'bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, but he hadn't mor'n got into it when--dear me! sakes alive! them wheels began to whiz and whir! i heered a fearful snap! and there was that bedstead, with 'bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap! i screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then i worked that hull long night a-trying to open the pesky thing. at last i got in a fright; i couldn't hear his voice inside, and i thought he might be dyin'; so i took a crow-bar and smashed it in.--there was 'bijah peacefully lyin', inventin' a way to git out agin. that was all very well to say, but i don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if i'd left him in all day. now, sence i've told you my story, do you wonder i'm tired of life? or think it strange i often wish i warn't an inventor's wife? _mrs. e.t. corbett._ out in the snow the snow and the silence came down together, through the night so white and so still; and young folks housed from the bitter weather, housed from the storm and the chill-- heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle, coasted the hill-sides under the moon, felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle, skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon. they saw the snow when they rose in the morning, glittering ghosts of the vanished night, though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning, and the day with a frosty pomp was bright. out in the clear, cold, winter weather-- out in the winter air, like wine-- kate with her dancing scarlet feather, bess with her peacock plumage fine, joe and jack with their pealing laughter, frank and tom with their gay hallo, and half a score of roisterers after, out in the witching, wonderful snow, shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble, righting themselves with a frozen frown, grumbling at every snowy tumble; but young folks know why the snow came down. _louise chandler moulton._ give them the flowers now closed eyes can't see the white roses, cold hands can't hold them, you know; breath that is stilled cannot gather the odors that sweet from them blow. death, with a peace beyond dreaming, its children of earth doth endow; life is the time we can help them, so give them the flowers now! here are the struggles and striving, here are the cares and the tears; now is the time to be smoothing the frowns and the furrows and fears. what to closed eyes are kind sayings? what to hushed heart is deep vow? naught can avail after parting, so give them the flowers now! just a kind word or a greeting; just a warm grasp or a smile-- these are the flowers that will lighten the burdens for many a mile. after the journey is over what is the use of them; how can they carry them who must be carried? oh, give them the flowers now! blooms from the happy heart's garden, plucked in the spirit of love; blooms that are earthly reflections of flowers that blossom above. words cannot tell what a measure of blessing such gifts will allow to dwell in the lives of many, so give them the flowers now! _leigh m. hodges._ the lost occasion (written in memory of daniel webster.) some die too late and some too soon, at early morning, heat of noon, or the chill evening twilight. thou, whom the rich heavens did so endow with eyes of power and jove's own brow, with all the massive strength that fills thy home-horizon's granite hills, with rarest gifts of heart and head from manliest stock inherited-- new england's stateliest type of man, in port and speech olympian; whom no one met, at first, but took a second awed and wondering look (as turned, perchance, the eyes of greece on phidias' unveiled masterpiece); whose words, in simplest home-spun clad, the saxon strength of caedmon's had, with power reserved at need to reach the roman forum's loftiest speech, sweet with persuasion, eloquent in passion, cool in argument, or, ponderous, falling on thy foes as fell the norse god's hammer blows. crushing as if with talus' flail through error's logic-woven mail, and failing only when they tried the adamant of the righteous side,-- thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved of old friends, by the new deceived, too soon for us, too soon for thee, beside thy lonely northern sea, where long and low the marsh-lands spread, laid wearily down thy august head. thou shouldst have lived to feel below thy feet disunion's fierce upthrow,-- the late-sprung mine that underlaid thy sad concessions vainly made. thou shouldst have seen from sumter's wall the star-flag of the union fall, and armed rebellion pressing on the broken lines of washington! no stronger voice than thine had then called out the utmost might of men, to make the union's charter free and strengthen law by liberty. how had that stern arbitrament to thy gray age youth's vigor lent, shaming ambition's paltry prize before thy disillusioned eyes; breaking the spell about thee wound like the green withes that samson bound; redeeming, in one effort grand, thyself and thy imperiled land! ah cruel fate, that closed to thee, o sleeper by the northern sea, the gates of opportunity! god fills the gaps of human need, each crisis brings its word and deed. wise men and strong we did not lack; but still, with memory turning back, in the dark hours we thought of thee, and thy lone grave beside the sea. above that grave the east winds blow, and from the marsh-lands drifting slow the sea-fog comes, with evermore the wave-wash of a lonely shore, and sea-bird's melancholy cry, as nature fain would typify the sadness of a closing scene, the loss of that which should have been. but, where thy native mountains bare their foreheads to diviner air, fit emblem of enduring fame, one lofty summit keeps thy name. for thee the cosmic forces did the rearing of that pyramid, the prescient ages shaping with fire, flood, and frost thy monolith. sunrise and sunset lay thereon with hands of light their benison, the stars of midnight pause to set their jewels in its coronet. and evermore that mountain mass seems climbing from the shadowy pass to light, as if to manifest thy nobler self, they life at best! _john g. whittier._ the flower of liberty what flower is this that greets the morn, its hues from heaven so freshly born? with burning star and flaming band it kindles all the sunset land: o tell us what its name may be,-- is this the flower of liberty? it is the banner of the free, the starry flower of liberty! in savage nature's far abode its tender seed our fathers sowed; the storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, its opening leaves were streaked with blood, till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see the full-blown flower of liberty! then hail the banner of the free, the starry flower of liberty! behold its streaming rays unite, one mingling flood of braided light-- the red that fires the southern rose, with spotless white from northern snows, and, spangled o'er its azure, see the sister stars of liberty! then hail the banner of the free, the starry flower of liberty! the blades of heroes fence it round, where'er it springs is holy ground; from tower and dome its glories spread; it waves where lonely sentries tread; it makes the land as ocean free, and plants an empire on the sea! then hail the banner of the free, the starry flower of liberty! thy sacred leaves, fair freedom's flower, shall ever float on dome and tower, to all their heavenly colors true, in blackening frost or crimson dew,-- and god love us as we love thee, thrice holy flower of liberty! then hail the banner of the free, the starry flower of liberty! _oliver wendell holmes._ the lamb little lamb, who made thee? dost thou know who made thee, gave thee life, and made thee feed by the stream and o'er the mead? gave thee clothing of delight,-- softest clothing, woolly, bright? gave thee such a tender voice, making all the vales rejoice? little lamb, who made thee? dost thou know who made thee? little lamb, i'll tell thee; little lamb, i'll tell thee; he is called by thy name, for he calls himself a lamb. he is meek and he is mild; he became a little child: i a child, and thou a lamb, we are called by his name. little lamb, god bless thee! little lamb, god bless thee! _william blake._ the roll call "corporal green!" the orderly cried; "here!" was the answer, loud and clear, from the lips of the soldier standing near, and "here" was the answer the next replied. "cyrus drew!"--then a silence fell-- this time no answer followed the call, only the rear man had seen him fall, killed or wounded he could not tell. there they stood in the failing light, these men of battle, with grave dark looks, as plain to be read as open books, while slowly gathered the shades of night. the fern on the hillside was splashed with blood, and down in the corn, where the poppies grew were redder stains than the poppies knew and crimson-dyed was the river's flood. "herbert kline!" at the call there came two stalwart soldiers into the line, bearing between them herbert kline, wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. "ezra kerr!"--and a voice said "here!" "hiram kerr!"--but no man replied. they were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, and a shudder crept through the cornfield near. "ephraim deane!" then a soldier spoke; "deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; "where our ensign was shot, i left him dead, just after the enemy wavered and broke. "close by the roadside his body lies; i paused a moment and gave him a drink, he murmured his mother's name i think, and death came with it and closed his eyes." 'twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear-- for that company's roll when called that night, of a hundred men who went into the fight, numbered but twenty that answered "here!" _n.g. shepherd._ a prayer for a little home god send us a little home to come back to when we roam-- low walls and fluted tiles, wide windows, a view for miles; red firelight and deep chairs; small white beds upstairs; great talk in little nooks; dim colors, rows of books; one picture on each wall; not many things at all. god send us a little ground-- tall trees standing round, homely flowers in brown sod, overhead, thy stars, o god! god bless, when winds blow, our home and all we know. _london "spectator."_ i have drank my last glass no, comrades, i thank you--not any for me; my last chain is riven--henceforward i'm free! i will go to my home and my children to-night with no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight; and, with tears in my eyes, i will beg my poor wife to forgive me the wreck i have made of her life. _i have never refused you before?_ let that pass, for i've drank my last glass, boys, i have drank my last glass. just look at me now, boys, in rags and disgrace, with my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, bloated face; mark my faltering step and my weak, palsied hand, and the mark on my brow that is worse than cain's brand; see my crownless old hat, and my elbows and knees, alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the breeze. why, even the children will hoot as i pass;-- but i've drank my last glass, boys, i have drank my last glass. you would hardly believe, boys, to look at me now that a mother's soft hand was pressed on my brow-- when she kissed me, and blessed me, her darling, her pride, ere she lay down to rest by my dead father's side; but with love in her eyes, she looked up to the sky bidding me meet her there and whispered "good-bye." and i'll do it, god helping! your _smile_ i let pass, for i've drank my last glass, boys, i have drank my last glass. ah! i reeled home last night, it was not very late, for i'd spent my last sixpence, and landlords won't wait on a fellow who's left every cent in their till, and has pawned his last bed, their coffers to fill. oh, the torments i felt, and the pangs i endured! and i begged for one glass--just one would have cured,-- but they kicked me out doors! i let that, too, pass, for i've drank my last glass, boys, i have drank my last glass. at home, my pet susie, with her rich golden hair, i saw through the window, just kneeling in prayer; from her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves hung down, and her feet, cold and bare, shrank beneath her scant gown, and she prayed--prayed for _bread_, just a poor crust of bread, for one crust, on her knees my pet darling plead! and i heard, with no penny to buy one, alas! for i've drank my last glass, boys, i have drank my last glass. for susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old, though fainting with hunger and shivering with cold, there, on the bare floor, asked god to bless _me_! and she said, "don't cry, mamma! he will; for you see, i _believe_ what i ask for!" then sobered, i crept away from the house; and that night, when i slept, next my heart lay the pledge! you smile! let it pass, for i've drank my last glass, boys i have drank my last glass. my darling child saved me! her faith and her love are akin to my dear sainted mother's above! i will make my words true, or i'll die in the race, and sober i'll go to my last resting place; and she shall kneel there, and, weeping, thank god no _drunkard_ lies under the daisy-strewn sod! not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er pass, for i've drank my last glass, boys, i have drank my last glass. highland mary ye banks, and braes, and streams around the castle o' montgomery, green be your woods, and fair your flowers, your waters never drumlie! there simmer first unfauld her robes, and there the langest tarry; for there i took the last fareweel o' my sweet highland mary. how sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, how rich the hawthorn's blossom, as, underneath their fragrant shade, i clasp'd her to my bosom! the golden hours, on angel wings, flew o'er me and my dearie; for dear to me as light and life was my sweet highland mary! wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, our parting was fu' tender; and, pledging aft to meet again, we tore oursels asunder; but, oh, fell death's untimely frost, that nipp'd my flower sae early! now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, that wraps my highland mary! oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, i aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly! and closed for aye the sparkling glance that dwalt on me sae kindly! and mouldering now in silent dust, that heart that lo'ed me dearly; but still within my bosom's core shall live my highland mary! _robert burns._ a night with a wolf little one, come to my knee! hark, how the rain is pouring over the roof, in the pitch-black night, and the wind in the woods a-roaring! hush, my darling, and listen, then pay for the story with kisses; father was lost in the pitch-black night, in just such a storm as this is! high up on the lonely mountains, where the wild men watched and waited wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, and i on my path belated. the rain and the night together came down, and the wind came after, bending the props of the pine-tree roof, and snapping many a rafter. i crept along in the darkness, stunned, and bruised, and blinded,-- crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, and a sheltering rock behind it. there, from the blowing and raining crouching, i sought to hide me: something rustled, two green eyes shone, and a wolf lay down beside me. little one, be not frightened; i and the wolf together, side by side, through the long, long night hid from the awful weather. his wet fur pressed against me; each of us warmed the other; each of us felt, in the stormy dark, that beast and man was brother. and when the falling forest no longer crashed in warning, each of us went from our hiding-place forth in the wild, wet morning. darling, kiss me in payment! hark, how the wind is roaring; father's house is a better place when the stormy rain is pouring! _bayard taylor._ she was a phantom of delight she was a phantom of delight when first she gleamed upon my sight; a lovely apparition sent to be a moment's ornament; her eyes as stars of twilight fair; like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; but all things else about her drawn from may-time and the cheerful dawn; a dancing shape, an image gay, to haunt, to startle, and way-lay. i saw her upon nearer view, a spirit, yet a woman too! her household motions light and free, and steps of virgin-liberty; a countenance in which did meet sweet records, promises as sweet; a creature not too bright or good for human nature's daily food; for transient sorrows, simple wiles, praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. and now i see with eye serene the very pulse of the machine; a being breathing thoughtful breath, a traveler between life and death; the reason firm, the temperate will, endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; a perfect woman, nobly planned, to warn, to comfort, and command; and yet a spirit still, and bright with something of angelic light. _william wordsworth._ the rhodora (_on being asked whence is the flower_) in may, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, i found the fresh rhodora in the woods, spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, to please the desert and the sluggish brook. the purple petals, fallen in the pool, made the black water with their beauty gay; here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, and court the flower that cheapens his array. rhodora! if the sages ask thee why this charm is wasted on the earth and sky, tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, then beauty is its own excuse for being: why thou wert there, o rival of the rose! i never thought to ask, i never knew: but, in my simple ignorance, suppose the self-same power that brought me there brought you. _ralph waldo emerson._ there was a boy there was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs and islands of winander!--many a time, at evening, when the earliest stars began to move along the edges of the hills, rising or setting, would he stand alone, beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; and there, with fingers interwoven, both hands pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth uplifted, he, as through an instrument, blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, that they might answer him,--and they would shout across the watery vale, and shout again, responsive to his call,--with quivering peals, and long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild of jocund din! and, when there came a pause of silence such as baffled his best skill, then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise has carried far into his heart the voice of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene would enter unawares into his mind with all its solemn imagery, its rocks, its woods, and that uncertain heaven received into the bosom of the steady lake. this boy was taken from his mates, and died in childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. pre-eminent in beauty is the vale where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs upon a slope above the village-school; and through that church-yard when my way has led on summer-evenings, i believe, that there a long half-hour together i have stood mute--looking at the grave in which he lies! _william wordsworth._ the quangle wangle's hat on the top of the crumpetty tree the quangle wangle sat, but his face you could not see, on account of his beaver hat. for his hat was a hundred and two feet wide, with ribbons and bibbons on every side, and bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, so that nobody ever could see the face of the quangle wangle quee. the quangle wangle said to himself on the crumpetty tree, "jam, and jelly, and bread are the best of food for me! but the longer i live on this crumpetty tree the plainer than ever it seems to me that very few people come this way and that life on the whole is far from gay!" said the quangle wangle quee. but there came to the crumpetty tree mr. and mrs. canary; and they said, "did ever you see any spot so charmingly airy? may we build a nest on your lovely hat? mr. quangle wangle, grant us that! oh, please let us come and build a nest of whatever material suits you best, mr. quangle wangle quee!" and besides, to the crumpetty tree came the stork, the duck, and the owl; the snail and the bumblebee, the frog and the fimble fowl (the fimble fowl, with a corkscrew leg); and all of them said, "we humbly beg we may build our homes on your lovely hat,-- mr. quangle wangle, grant us that! mr. quangle wangle quee!" and the golden grouse came there, and the pobble who has no toes, and the small olympian bear, and the dong with a luminous nose. and the blue baboon who played the flute, and the orient calf from the land of tute, and the attery squash, and the bisky bat,-- all came and built on the lovely hat of the quangle wangle quee. and the quangle wangle said to himself on the crumpetty tree, "when all these creatures move what a wonderful noise there'll be!" and at night by the light of the mulberry moon they danced to the flute of the blue baboon, on the broad green leaves of the crumpetty tree, and all were as happy as happy could be, with the quangle wangle quee. _edward lear._ the singing leaves i "what fairings will ye that i bring?" said the king to his daughters three; "for i to vanity fair am boun, now say what shall they be?" then up and spake the eldest daughter, that lady tall and grand: "oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, and gold rings for my hand." thereafter spake the second daughter, that was both white and red: "for me bring silks that will stand alone, and a gold comb for my head." then came the turn of the least daughter, that was whiter than thistle-down, and among the gold of her blithesome hair dim shone the golden crown. "there came a bird this morning, and sang 'neath my bower eaves, till i dreamed, as his music made me, 'ask thou for the singing leaves.'" then the brow of the king swelled crimson with a flush of angry scorn: "well have ye spoken, my two eldest, and chosen as ye were born, "but she, like a thing of peasant race, that is happy binding the sheaves"; then he saw her dead mother in her face, and said, "thou shalt have thy leaves." ii he mounted and rode three days and nights till he came to vanity fair, and 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk, but no singing leaves were there. then deep in the greenwood rode he, and asked of every tree, "oh, if you have, ever a singing leaf, i pray you give it me!" but the trees all kept their counsel, and never a word said they, only there sighed from the pine-tops a music of seas far away. only the pattering aspen made a sound of growing rain, that fell ever faster and faster. then faltered to silence again. "oh, where shall i find a little foot-page that would win both hose and shoon, and will bring to me the singing leaves if they grow under the moon?" then lightly turned him walter the page, by the stirrup as he ran: "now pledge you me the truesome word of a king and gentleman, "that you will give me the first, first thing you meet at your castle-gate, and the princess shall get the singing leaves, or mine be a traitor's fate." the king's head dropt upon his breast a moment, as it might be; 'twill be my dog, he thought, and said, "my faith i plight to thee." then walter took from next his heart a packet small and thin, "now give you this to the princess anne, the singing leaves are therein." iii as the king rode in at his castle-gate, a maiden to meet him ran, and "welcome, father!" she laughed and cried together, the princess anne. "lo, here the singing leaves," quoth he, "and woe, but they cost me dear!" she took the packet, and the smile deepened down beneath the tear. it deepened down till it reached her heart, and then gushed up again, and lighted her tears as the sudden sun transfigures the summer rain. and the first leaf, when it was opened, sang: "i am walter the page, and the songs i sing 'neath thy window are my only heritage." and the second leaf sang: "but in the land that is neither on earth nor sea, my lute and i are lords of more than thrice this kingdom's fee." and the third leaf sang, "be mine! be mine!" and ever it sang, "be mine!" then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, and said, "i am thine, thine, thine!" at the first leaf she grew pale enough, at the second she turned aside, at the third,'twas as if a lily flushed with a rose's red heart's tide. "good counsel gave the bird," said she, "i have my hope thrice o'er, for they sing to my very heart," she said, "and it sings to them evermore." she brought to him her beauty and truth, but and broad earldoms three, and he made her queen of the broader lands he held of his lute in fee. _james russell lowell._ awakening never yet was a springtime, late though lingered the snow, that the sap stirred not at the whisper of the south wind, sweet and low; never yet was a springtime when the buds forgot to blow. ever the wings of the summer are folded under the mold; life that has known no dying is love's to have and to hold, till sudden, the burgeoning easter! the song! the green and the gold! _margaret e. sangster._ wolsey's farewell to his greatness _(from "king henry viii")_ farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! this is the state of man: to-day he puts forth the tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, and bears his blushing honours thick upon him: the third day comes a frost, a killing frost, and,--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely his greatness is a-ripening,--nips his root, and then he falls, as i do. i have ventured, like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, this many summers in a sea of glory, but far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride at length broke under me, and now has left me weary, and old with service, to the mercy of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. vain pomp and glory of this world, i hate ye: i feel my heart new opened. o, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! there is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have; and when he falls, he falls like lucifer, never to hope again. _william shakespeare._ the newsboy want any papers, mister? wish you'd buy 'em of me-- ten year old, an' a fam'ly, an' bizness dull, you see. fact, boss! there's tom, an' tibby, an' dad, an' mam, an' mam's cat, none on 'em earning money-- what do you think of that? _couldn't dad work?_ why yes, boss, he's workin' for gov'ment now-- they give him his board for nothin', all along of a drunken row, _an' mam?_ well, she's in the poor-house, been there a year or so, so i'm taking care of the others, doing as well as i know. _tibby my sister?_ not much, boss, she's a kitten, a real maltee; i picked her up last summer-- some boys was a drownin' of she; throw'd her inter a hogshead; but a p'liceman came along, so i jest grabbed up the kitten and put for home, right strong. and tom's my dog; he an' tibby hain't never quarreled yet-- they sleep in my bed in winter an' keeps me warm--you bet! mam's cat sleeps in the corner, with a piller made of her paw-- can't she growl like a tiger if anyone comes to our straw! _oughtn't to live so?_ why, mister, what's a feller to do? some nights, when i'm tired an' hungry, seems as if each on 'em knew-- they'll all three cuddle around me, till i get cheery, and say: well, p'raps i'll have sisters an' brothers, an' money an' clothes, too, some day. but if i do git rich, boss, (an' a lecturin' chap one night said newsboys could be presidents if only they acted right); so, if i was president, mister, the very first thing i'd do, i'd buy poor tom an' tibby a dinner--an' mam's cat, too! none o' your scraps an' leavin's, but a good square meal for all three; if you think i'd skimp my friends, boss, that shows you don't know _me_. so 'ere's your papers--come take one, gimme a lift if you can-- for now you've heard my story, you see i'm a fam'ly man! _e.t. corbett._ parting of marmion and douglas not far advanced was morning day, when marmion did his troop array to surrey's camp to ride; he had safe conduct for his band, beneath the royal seal and hand, and douglas gave a guide: the ancient earl, with stately grace, would clara on her palfrey place, and whispered in an undertone, "let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." the train from out the castle drew, but marmion stopped to bid adieu.-- "though something i might plain," he said, "of cold respect to stranger guest, sent hither by your king's behest, while in tantallon's towers i stayed, part we in friendship from your land, and, noble earl, receive my hand."-- but douglas round him drew his cloak, folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-- "my manors, halls, and bowers shall still be open, at my sovereign's will, to each one whom he lists, howe'er unmeet to be the owner's peer. my castles are my king's alone, from turret to foundation-stone,-- the hand of douglas is his own; and never shall in friendly grasp the hand of such as marmion clasp." burned marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, and shook his very frame for ire, and--"this to me!" he said,-- "an't were not for thy hoary beard, such hand as marmion's had not spared to cleave the douglas' head! and, first, i tell thee, haughty peer, he who does england's message here, even in thy pitch of pride, here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (nay, never look upon your lord, and lay your hands upon your sword,) i tell thee thou'rt defied! and if thou said'st i am not peer to any lord in scotland here, lowland or highland, far or near, lord angus, thou hast lied!"-- on the earl's cheek the flush of rage o'ercame the ashen hue of age: fierce he broke forth,--"and dar'st thou then to beard the lion in his den, the douglas in his hall? and hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? no, by st. bride of bothwell, no! up drawbridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho! let the portcullis fall."-- lord marmion turned,--well was his need!-- and dashed the rowels in his steed; like arrow through the archway sprung; the ponderous grate behind him rung; to pass there was such scanty room, the bars, descending, razed his plume. the steed along the drawbridge flies. just as it trembled on the rise; not lighter does the swallow skim along the smooth lake's level brim; and when lord marmion reached his band, he halts, and turns with clenched hand, and shout of loud defiance pours, and shook his gauntlet at the towers, "horse! horse!" the douglas cried, "and chase!" but soon he reined his fury's pace: "a royal messenger he came, though most unworthy of the name. * * * * * st. mary, mend my fiery mood! old age ne'er cools the douglas blood, i thought to slay him where he stood. 'tis pity of him too," he cried; "bold can he speak, and fairly ride: i warrant him a warrior tried." with this his mandate he recalls, and slowly seeks his castle halls. _sir walter scott._ the engineer's story han'som, stranger? yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be. clever? w'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me. what's her name? 'tis kind o' common, yit i ain't ashamed to tell, she's ole "fiddler" filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "nell." i wuz drivin' on the "central" jist about a year ago on the run from winnemucca up to reno in washoe. there's no end o' skeery places. 'taint a road fur one who dreams, with its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams. 'twuz an afternoon in august, we hed got behind an hour, an' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go, with the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below. ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild, suddenly i saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child, toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread, right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. i jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' i fa'rly held my breath, fur i felt i couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, when a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light. caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight. i jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. an' we worked with might an' main, till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, an' it rumbled on above her. how she screamed ez we rolled by, an' the river roared below us--i shall hear her till i die! then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; i ran back along the ridge an' i found her--dead? no! livin'! she wuz hangin' to the bridge where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill, an' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill! so we saved 'em. she wuz gritty. she's ez peart ez she kin be-- now we're married--she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me. an' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, i ain't ashamed to tell-- she's my wife. ther' ain't none better than ole filkin's daughter "nell." _eugene j. hall._ small beginnings a traveler on the dusty road strewed acorns on the lea; and one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe his early vows; and age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs; the dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore; it stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. a little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, a passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn; he walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink; he thought not of the deed he did, but judged that all might drink. he paused again, and lo! the well, by summer never dried, had cooled ten thousand parching tongues and saved a life beside. a dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new; a simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. it shone upon a genial mind, and, lo! its light became a lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame; the thought was small, its issue great; a watch-fire on the hill; it shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still. a nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged the daily mart, let fall a word of hope and love, unstudied from the heart; a whisper on the tumult thrown, a transitory breath-- it raised a brother from the dust, it saved a soul from death. o germ! o fount! o word of love! o thought at random cast! ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last. _charles mackay._ rain on the roof when the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, and the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 'tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, and listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead. every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, and a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; and a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, as i listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof. there in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, to survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. i can see her bending o'er me, as i listen to the strain which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, and her bright-eyed, cherub brother--a serene, angelic pair-- glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, as i listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. and another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, i forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue, i remember that i loved her as i ne'er may love again, and my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain. there is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, in the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell, as that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain! _coates kinney._ gunga din the "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in india, is often one of the most devoted subjects of the british crown, and he is much appreciated by the men. you may talk o' gin an' beer when you're quartered safe out 'ere, an' you're sent to penny-fights an' aldershot it; but if it comes to slaughter you will do your work on water, an' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. now in injia's sunny clime, where i used to spend my time a-servin' of 'er majesty the queen, of all them black-faced crew the finest man i knew was our regimental _bhisti_, gunga din. he was "din! din! din! you limping lump o' brick-dust, gunga din! hi! _slippy hitherao!_ water, get it! _panee lao!_ you squidgy-nosed, old idol, gunga din!" the uniform 'e wore was nothin' much before, an' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, for a twisty piece o' rag an' a goatskin water bag was all the field-equipment 'e could find, when the sweatin' troop-train lay in a sidin' through the day, where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, we shouted "harry by!" till our throats were bricky-dry, then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all, it was "din! din! din! you 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? you put some _juldee_ in it, or i'll _marrow_ you this minute if you don't fill up my helmet, gunga din!" 'e would dot an' carry one till the longest day was done, an' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. if we charged or broke or cut, you could bet your bloomin' nut, 'e'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. with 'is _mussick_ on 'is back, 'e would skip with our attack, an' watch us till the bugles made "retire." an' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'e was white, clear white, inside when 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! it was "din! din! din!" with the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. when the cartridges ran out, you could 'ear the front-files shout: "hi! ammunition-mules an' gunga din!" i sha'n't forgit the night when i dropped be'ind the fight with a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. i was chokin' mad with thirst, an' the man that spied me first was our good old grinnin', gruntin' gunga din. 'e lifted up my 'ead, an' 'e plugged me where i bled, an' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water--green: it was crawlin' and it stunk, but of all the drinks i've drunk, i'm gratefullest to one from gunga din. it was "din! din! din! 'ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'e's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: for gawd's sake git the water, gunga din!" 'e carried me away to where a _dooli_ lay, an' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'e put me safe inside, an', just before 'e died: "i 'ope you liked your drink," sez gunga din. so i'll meet 'im later on in the place where 'e is gone-- where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'e'll be squattin' on the coals givin' drink to pore damned souls, an' i'll get a swig in hell from gunga din! din! din! din! you lazarushian-leather gunga din! tho' i've belted you an' flayed you, by the livin' gawd that made you, you're a better man than i am, gunga din! _rudyard kipling._ "panee lao"--bring water swiftly. "harry ry"-the british soldier's equivalent of "o brother!" "put some juldee in it"--be quick. "marrow you"--hit you. "mussick"--water-skin. warren's address to the american soldiers (_bunker hill, june , _) stand! the ground's your own, my braves! will ye give it up to slaves? will ye look for greener graves? hope ye mercy still? what's the mercy despots feel? hear it in that battle peal! read it on yon bristling steel! ask it--ye who will. fear ye foes who kill for hire? will ye to your homes retire? look behind you! they're afire! and, before you, see who have done it! from the vale on they come! and will ye quail? leaden rain and iron hail let their welcome be! in the god of battles trust! die we may--and die we must; but, o where can dust to dust be consigned so well, as where heaven its dews shall shed on the martyred patriot's bed, and the rocks shall raise their head, of his deeds to tell! _john pierpont._ mad river in the white mountains _traveler_ why dost thou wildly rush and roar, mad river, o mad river? wilt thou not pause and cease to pour thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er this rocky shelf forever? what secret trouble stirs thy breast? why all this fret and flurry? dost thou not know that what is best in this too restless world is rest from overwork and worry? _the river_ what wouldst thou in these mountains seek, o stranger from the city? is it perhaps some foolish freak of thine, to put the words i speak into a plaintive ditty? _traveler_ yes; i would learn of thee thy song, with all its flowing numbers, and in a voice as fresh and strong as thine is, sing it all day long, and hear it in my slumbers. _the river_ a brooklet nameless and unknown was i at first, resembling a little child, that all alone comes venturing down the stairs of stone, irresolute and trembling. later, by wayward fancies led, for the wide world i panted; out of the forest dark and dread across the open fields i fled, like one pursued and haunted. i tossed my arms, i sang aloud, my voice exultant blending with thunder from the passing cloud, the wind, the forest bent and bowed, the rush of rain descending. i heard the distant ocean call, imploring and entreating; drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall i plunged, and the loud waterfall made answer to the greeting. and now, beset with many ills, a toilsome life i follow; compelled to carry from the hills these logs to the impatient mills below there in the hollow. yet something ever cheers and charms the rudeness of my labors; daily i water with these arms the cattle of a hundred farms, and have the birds for neighbors. men call me mad, and well they may, when, full of rage and trouble, i burst my banks of sand and clay, and sweep their wooden bridge away, like withered reeds or stubble. now go and write thy little rhyme, as of thine own creating. thou seest the day is past its prime; i can no longer waste my time; the mills are tired of waiting. _henry w. longfellow._ when papa was a boy when papa was a little boy you really couldn't find in all the country round about a child so quick to mind. his mother never called but once, and he was always there; he never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair. he never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise, and never in his life was known to fight with other boys. he always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight, and never lay abed till noon; and never sat up late. he finished latin, french and greek when he was ten year old, and knew the spanish alphabet as soon as he was told. he never, never thought of play until his work was done, he labored hard from break of day until the set of sun. he never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor, and never answered, back his ma, and never banged the door. "but, truly, i could never see," said little dick molloy, "how he could never do these things and really be a boy." _e.a. brininstool._ which shall it be? "which shall it be? which shall it be?" i looked at john,--john looked at me, (dear, patient john, who loves me yet as well as though my locks were jet.) and when i found that i must speak, my voice seemed strangely low and weak; "tell me again what robert said"; and then i listening bent my head. "this is his letter: 'i will give a house and land while you shall live, if, in return, from out your seven, one child to me for aye is given.'" i looked at john's old garments worn, i thought of all that john had borne of poverty, and work, and care, which i, though willing, could not share; of seven hungry mouths to feed, of seven little children's need, and then of this. "come john," said i, "we'll choose among them as they lie asleep"; so walking hand in hand, dear john and i surveyed our band. first to the cradle lightly stepped, where lilian, the baby, slept; her damp curls lay, like gold alight, a glory 'gainst the pillow white; softly her father stooped to lay his rough hand down in loving way, when dream or whisper made her stir, and huskily he said, "not _her_." we stooped beside the trundle-bed, and one long ray of lamp-light shed athwart the boyish faces there, in sleep so pitiful and fair. i saw on jamie's rough red cheek a tear undried; ere john could speak, "he's but a baby too," said i, and kissed him as we hurried by. pale, patient robby's angel face still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; "no, for a thousand crowns not him," he whispered, while our eyes were dim. poor dick! sad dick! our wayward son, turbulent, reckless, idle one,-- could _he_ be spared? "nay, he who gave bids us befriend him to the grave; only a mother's heart can be patient enough for such as he; and so," said john, "i would not dare to send him from her bedside prayer." then stole we softly up above, and knelt by mary, child of love; "perhaps for _her_ 'twould better be," i said to john. quite silently he lifted up a curl, that lay across her cheek in wilful way, and shook his head; "nay, love, not thee"; the while my heart beat audibly. only one more, our eldest lad, trusty and truthful, good and glad,-- so like his father: "no, john, no; i cannot, will not, let him go!" and so we wrote, in courteous way, we could not give one child away; and afterward toil lighter seemed, thinking of that of which we dreamed; happy, in truth, that not one face we missed from its accustomed place; thankful to work for all the seven, trusting then to one in heaven. _ethel lynn beers._ the battle of bunker's hill it was a starry night in june, the air was soft and still, when the "minute-men" from cambridge came, and gathered on the hill; beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet, but the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat; and every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "we will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!" "bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!" the trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word, but stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade, a thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; so still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell; we heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "all's well!" see how the morn, is breaking; the red is in the sky! the mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by; the "lively's" hall looms through the fog, and they our works have spied, for the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side; and the "falcon" and the "cerberus" make every bosom thrill, with gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill; but deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply, for we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh! up with the pine-tree banner! our gallant prescott stands amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands; up with the shout! for putnam comes upon his reeking bay, with bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray. but thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, unvanquishable warren, thou, the youngest of thy peers, wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part, and dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart! hark! from the town a trumpet! the barges at the wharf are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing off; with clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright array, behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay! and still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, like thunder clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep. and now they're forming at the point; and now the lines advance: we see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance; we hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring; quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing; but on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,-- as sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb. and so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, the old vindictive saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength; when sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst from every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed. then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire; then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire. then, staggered by the shot, he saw their serried columns reel, and fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel; and then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead,-- "hurrah! they run! the field is won! hurrah! the foe is fled!" and every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand, as his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land. thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes, and thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose; and though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies, we saw from charlestown's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise, yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight, nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height. what though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the nameless brave no sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave! what though the day to us was lost!--upon that deathless page the everlasting charter stands for every land and age! for man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust, and claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust; while through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour, o'er every nation, race and clime, on every sea and shore, such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, mid the darkest skies, he saw above a ruined world the bow of promise rise. _f.s. cozzens._ health and wealth we squander health in search of wealth; we scheme and toil and save; then squander wealth in search of health, but only find a grave. we live, and boast of what we own; we die, and only get a stone. the heartening it may be that the words i spoke to cheer him on his way, to him were vain, but i myself was braver all that day. _winifred webb._ billy's rose billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is billy's sister nell: there's a tale i know about them, were i poet i would tell; soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there. in that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day, dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient billy lay, while beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, cheering with her gentle presence billy's pathway to the tomb. many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled; tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the babel roar, lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door. then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told how beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, where, when all the pain was over,--where, when all the tears were shed,-- he would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head. then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed saviour's love, how he'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above, where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day, and where beadles and policemen never frightened them away. this was nell's idea of heaven,--just a bit of what she'd heard, with a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred. but her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand, for he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land. "yes," he whispered, "i can see it, i can see it, sister nell, oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well; i can see them there with jesus--he is playing with them, too! let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you." she was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent in the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent; where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close. but she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy, "you must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy. you must die," she whispered, "billy, and i am not even ill; but i'll come to you, dear brother,--yes, i promise that i will. "you are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast; i heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. they will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there, while i'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare." "yes, i know it," answered billy. "ah, but, sister, i don't mind, gentle jesus will not beat me; he's not cruel or unkind. but i can't help thinking, nelly, i should like to take away something, sister, that you gave me, i might look at every day. "in the summer you remember how the mission took us out to a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about, and the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land, where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand. "nell, i asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those, and he told me, i remember, that the pretty name was rose. i have never seen them since, dear--how i wish that i had one! just to keep and think of you, nell, when i'm up beyond the sun." not a word said little nelly; but at night, when billy slept, on she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept. through the silent streets of london she ran nimbly as a fawn, running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn. when the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away, all around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay. she was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet, but there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet. she had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go; she had found the famous meadow--it was wrapped in cruel snow; not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade showed its head above its prison. then she knelt her down and prayed; with her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, and she prayed to god to tell her where the roses might be found. then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim; and a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb. "oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good jesus,--just a rose to take to bill!" and as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill; and a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet; as she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at nelly's feet. just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, and the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; but the poor, half-blinded nelly thought it fallen from the skies, and she murmured, "thank you, jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize. lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away, from dirt and sin and misery up to where god's children play. lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land, and at morn they found nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand. billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is billy's sister nell; am i bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,-- that the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, and that nelly kissed her brother, and said, "billy, here's your rose"? _george r. sims._ the old actor's story mine is a wild, strange story,--the strangest you ever heard; there are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word; it's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; the scene was a ship, and the actors--were myself and my new-wed wife. you musn't mind if i ramble, and lose the thread now and then; i'm old, you know, and i wander--it's a way with old women and men, for their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, and are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day. the years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, but i see it again this evening, i can never shut out the sight. we were only a few weeks married, i and the wife, you know, when we had an offer for melbourne, and made up our minds to go. we'd acted together in england, traveling up and down with a strolling band of players, going from town to town; we played the lovers together--we were leading lady and gent-- and at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went. the parson gave us his blessing, and i gave nellie the ring, and swore that i'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. how we smiled at that part of the service when i said "i thee endow"! but as to the "love and cherish," i meant to keep that vow. we were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, when it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. we were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,-- where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade. well, at last we got to london, and did pretty well for a bit; then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,-- stepped off one sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; but our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall. we got an offer for melbourne,--got it that very week. those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek, the days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot good for a "spec," and took us as actors among his lot. we hadn't a friend in england--we'd only ourselves to please-- and we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. we went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; we hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. but use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, when misery came upon us,--came in a hideous form. my poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad that the doctor said she was dying,--i thought 'twould have sent me mad,-- dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, and the nearest land was hundreds--aye, thousands--of miles away. she raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, so still i'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath. she seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face,-- she passed away one morning, while i prayed to the throne of grace. i knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer i said, till the surgeon came and told me it was useless--my wife was dead! dead! i wouldn't believe it. they forced me away that night, for i raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. i was shut in the farthest cabin, and i beat my head on the side, and all day long in my madness, "they've murdered her!" i cried. they locked me away from my fellows,--put me in cruel chains, it seems i had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. i cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent to gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent. i spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, and my wife lay dead quite near me. i beat with my fettered fists, beat at my prison panels, and then--o god!--and then i heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men. i heard the cry, "ship afire!" caught up by a hundred throats, and over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, and the place grew hot as a furnace, i could feel it where i stood. i beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, and the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack i could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale. i dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "i will not die! die in this burning prison!"--but i caught no answering cry. then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, and their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door. i was free--with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death; i fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play, and then--o god! i can see it, and shall to my dying day. there lay my nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night; the flames flung a smile on her features,--a horrible, lurid light. god knows how i reached and touched her, but i found myself by her side; i thought she was living a moment, i forgot that my nell had died. in the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain; i heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain; oh, was there mercy in heaven? was there a god in the skies? the dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes. i cursed like a madman raving--i cried to her, "nell! my nell!" they had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell; they had left us alone to perish--forgotten me living--and she had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea. i clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; i seized her in spite of my fetters,--fear gave a giant's will. god knows how i did it, but blindly i fought through the flames and the wreck up--up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. we'd a moment of life together,--a moment of life, the time for one last word to each other,--'twas a moment supreme, sublime. from the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, and i was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife! it was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, when a shout came over the water, and i looked, and lo, there lay, right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; they had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. i shouted a prayer to heaven, then called to my wife, and she tore with new strength at my fetters--god helped her, and i was free; then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. did they save us? well, here i am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife. we were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by took us on board, and at melbourne landed us by and by. we've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, but ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship! _george b. sims._ the boy who didn't pass a sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace, there's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face; he wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hear their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer; he has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass, and his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass. in the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song, but he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong; comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play, but the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away. all alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass, and his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass. how he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer, for they've left him with the dullards--gone ahead a half a year, and he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best, but now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest. he's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too-- the little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through. oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright, and you who love a little girl who comes to you at night with smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school, turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool, and take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class, he is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass. the station-master's story yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough; i want a bit of the smooth now, for i've had my share o' rough. this berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light; i was never fit for the signals after one awful night, i'd been in the box from a younker, and i'd never felt the strain of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. one day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, and it's all through that as you find me the station-master here. i was on at the box down yonder--that's where we turn the mails, and specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails; the side's for the other traffic--the luggage and local slows. it was rare hard work at christmas, when double the traffic grows. i've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray; but i've worked the points half-sleeping--and once i slept outright, till the roar of the limited woke me, and i nearly died with fright. then i thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate had i sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late; and a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame as i fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame. i could see the bloody wreckage--i could see the mangled slain-- and the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain. that moment my nerve was shattered, for i couldn't shut out the thought of the lives i held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought. that night in our little cottage, as i kissed our sleeping child, my wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled, that johnny had made his mind up--he'd be a pointsman, too. "he says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you." i frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look; lord bless you! my little alice could read me like a book. i'd to tell her of what had happened, and i said that i must leave, for a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve. but she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, she made me give her a promise, which i swore that i'd always keep-- it was always to do my duty. "do that, and then, come what will, you'll have no worry." said alice, "if things go well or ill. there's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"-- my wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew. but i knew she was talking reason, and i said to myself, says i, "i won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by." now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town; she'd the christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown. she'd be gone for a spell, for the parley didn't come back till eight, and i knew, on a christmas eve, too, the trains would be extra late. so she settled to leave me johnny, and then she could turn the key-- for she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. he was five, was our little johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good-- he was mad to go with daddy, and i'd often promised he should. it was noon when the missus started,--her train went by my box; she could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks, i lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. but somehow i fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, of how i had slept on duty, until i grew afraid; for the thought would weigh upon me, one day i might come to lie in a felon's cell for the slaughter of those i had doomed to die. the fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed, till i rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. for a time the box had vanished--i'd worked like a mere machine-- my mind had been on the wander, and i'd neither heard nor seen, with a start i thought of johnny, and i turned the boy to seek, then i uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak; there had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight that it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white. it was all in one awful moment--i saw that the boy was lost: he had gone for a toy, i fancied, some child from a train had tossed; the local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, and the limited mail was coming, and i had the line to clear. i could hear the roar of the engine, i could almost feel its breath, and right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death; on came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line, and the hand that must wreck or save it, o merciful god, was mine! 'twas a hundred lives or johnny's. o heaven! what could i do?-- up to god's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew-- "what shall i do, o heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear on the wind came the words, "your duty," borne to my listening ear. then i set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. "my boy!" i cried, but he heard not; and then i went blind and sick; the hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, i turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar. then i sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face-- i had given my child to heaven; his life was a hundred's grace. had i held my hand a moment, i had hurled the flying mail to shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! where is my boy, my darling? o god! let me hide my eyes. how can i look--his father--on that which there mangled lies? that voice!--o merciful heaven!--'tis the child's, and he calls my name! i hear, but i cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame. i knew no more that night, sir, for i fell, as i heard the boy; the place reeled round, and i fainted,--swooned with the sudden joy. but i heard on the christmas morning, when i woke in my own warm bed with alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head, that she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad, and had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad-- she had seen him just as the engine of the limited closed my view, and she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through. she was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound; the moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and i was found with my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white: i heard the boy, and i fainted, and i hadn't my wits that night. who told me to do my duty? what voice was that on the wind? was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there god's lips behind? if i hadn't 'a' done my duty--had i ventured to disobey-- my bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day. _george r. sims._ hark, hark! the lark _(from "cymbeline")_ hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, and phoebus 'gins arise, his steeds to water at those springs on chaliced flowers that lies; and winking mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes: with every thing that pretty is, my lady sweet, arise! arise, arise! _william shakespeare._ tommy's prayer in a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, dwelt a little lad named tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame; he had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn. he was six, was little tommy, 'twas just five years ago since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. he had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care, but her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear. there he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night, starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull life bright; not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love-- for he knew not of a saviour, or a heaven up above. 'twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still; tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet. eagerly did tommy listen as the singing came-- oh! that he could see the singer! how he wished he wasn't lame. then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, and on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. 'twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, all her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; "so yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; most folks call me singing jessie; wot may your name chance to be?" "my name's tommy; i'm a cripple, and i want to hear you sing, for it makes me feel so happy--sing me something, anything," jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "i can't stay here very long, but i'll sing a hymn to please you, wot i calls the 'glory song.'" then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; but where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, and where kind and loving jesus is their sovereign and their friend. oh! how tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word as it fell from "singing jessie"--was it true, what he had heard? and so anxiously he asked her, "is there really such a place?" and a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. "tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky, and if yer will love the saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." "then," said tommy, "tell me, jessie, how can i the saviour love, when i'm down in this 'ere cellar, and he's up in heaven above?" so the little ragged maiden who had heard at sunday school all about the way to heaven, and the christian's golden rule, taught the little cripple tommy how to love, and how to pray, then she sang a "song of jesus," kissed his cheek and went away. tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; and he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, for the joy in tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. "oh! if i could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay, "jessie said that jesus listens and i think i'll try and pray"; so he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, and in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:-- "gentle jesus, please forgive me as i didn't know afore, that yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, and i never heard of heaven till that jessie came to-day and told me all about it, so i wants to try and pray. "yer can see me, can't yer, jesus? jessie told me that yer could, and i somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; and she told me if i loved you, i should see yer when i die, in the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky. "lord, i'm only just a cripple, and i'm no use here below, for i heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if i could go; and i'm cold and hungry sometimes; and i feel so lonely, too, can't yer take me, gentle jesus, up to heaven along o' you? "oh! i'd be so good and patient, and i'd never cry or fret, and your kindness to me, jesus, i would surely not forget; i would love you all i know of, and would never make a noise-- can't you find me just a corner, where i'll watch the other boys? "oh! i think yer'll do it, jesus, something seems to tell me so, for i feel so glad and happy, and i do so want to go, how i long to see yer, jesus, and the children all so bright! come and fetch me, won't yer, jesus? come and fetch me home tonight!" tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, and he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap, closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. oh, i wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face as he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place; for his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, and it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light. he had only heard of jesus from a ragged singing girl, he might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; but he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, simply trusting in the saviour, and his kind and tender care. in the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, she discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, and she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold-- he had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold. tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the angel death had come to remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end, and where jesus reigns eternally, his sovereign and his friend. _john f. nicholls._ the two pictures it was a bright and lovely summer's morn, fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, the air was redolent with perfumed balm, and nature scattered, with unsparing hand, her loveliest graces over hill and dale. an artist, weary of his narrow room within the city's pent and heated walls, had wandered long amid the ripening fields, until, remembering his neglected themes, he thought to turn his truant steps toward home. these led him through a rustic, winding lane, lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, and overarched by trees of noblest growth. but when at last he reached the farther end of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld a vision of such pure, pathetic grace, that weariness and haste were both obscured, it was a child--a young and lovely child with eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, and dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee. upon that baby brow of spotless snow, no single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, no line of bitter grief or dark despair, of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, had ever yet been written. with bated breath, and hand uplifted as in warning, swift, the artist seized his pencil, and there traced in soft and tender lines that image fair: then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, a word of holiest import--innocence. years fled and brought with them a subtle change, scattering time's snow upon the artist's brow, but leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, while all men spake in words of praise his name; for he had traced full many a noble work upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, and drawn them from the baser things of earth, toward the light and purity of heaven. one day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, he chanced upon the picture of the child, which he had sketched that bright morn long before, and then forgotten. now, as he paused to gaze, a ray of inspiration seemed to dart straight from those eyes to his. he took the sketch, placed it before his easel, and with care that seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, until all seemed to glow with life divine-- 'twas innocence personified. but still the artist could not pause. he needs must have a meet companion for his fairest theme; and so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, through miry courts of misery and guilt, seeking a face which at the last was found. within a prison cell there crouched a man-- nay, rather say a fiend--with countenance seamed and marred by all the horrid lines of sin; each mark of degradation might be traced, and every scene of horror he had known, and every wicked deed that he had done, were visibly written on his lineaments; even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, a parricide within a murderer's cell. here then the artist found him; and with hand made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, transferred unto his canvas that vile face, and also wrote beneath it just one word, a word of darkest import--it was vice. then with some inspiration not his own, thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, and wake it to repentance e'er too late, the artist told the tale of that bright morn, placed the two pictured faces side by side, and brought the wretch before them. with a shriek that echoed through those vaulted corridors, like to the cries that issue from the lips of souls forever doomed to woe, prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, and hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. "i was that child once--i, yes, even i-- in the gracious years forever fled, that innocent and happy little child! these very hands were raised to god in prayer, that now are reddened with a mother's blood. great heaven! can such things be? almighty power, send forth thy dart and strike me where i lie!" he rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm and grasped it with demoniac power, the while he cried: "go forth, i say, go forth and tell my history to the tempted youth. i looked upon the wine when it was red, i heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, i heeded not the warnings of my friends, but tasted of the wine when it was red, until it left a demon in my heart that led me onward, step by step, to this, this horrible place from which my body goes unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!" he ceased as last. the artist turned and fled; but even as he went, unto his ears were borne the awful echoes of despair, which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, cursing the demon that had brought him there. the two kinds of people there are two kinds of people on earth to-day; just two kinds of people, no more, i say. not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood, the good are half bad and the bad are half good. not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, you must first know the state of his conscience and health. not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, who puts on vain airs is not counted a man. not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years bring each man his laughter and each man his tears. no; the two kinds of people on earth i mean, are the people who lift and the people who lean. wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses are always divided in just these two classes. and, oddly enough, you will find, too, i ween, there's only one lifter to twenty who lean. in which class are you? are you easing the load of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road? or are you a leaner, who lets others share your portion of labor, and worry and care? _ella wheeler wilcox._ the sin of omission it isn't the thing you do, dear, it's the thing you leave undone that gives you a bit of a heartache at the setting of the sun. the tender word forgotten; the letter you did not write; the flowers you did not send, dear, are your haunting ghosts at night. the stone you might have lifted out of a brother's way; the bit of hearthstone counsel you were hurried too much to say; the loving touch of the hand, dear, the gentle, winning tone which you had no time nor thought for with troubles enough of your own. those little acts of kindness so easily out of mind, those chances to be angels which we poor mortals find-- they come in night and silence, each sad, reproachful wraith, when hope is faint and flagging and a chill has fallen on faith. for life is all too short, dear, and sorrow is all too great, to suffer our slow compassion that tarries until too late; and it isn't the thing you do, dear, it's the thing you leave undone which gives you a bit of a heartache at the setting of the sun, _margaret e. sangster._ the bible my mother gave me give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love, tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above. yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of ophir's gold. when a child, i've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home, and listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome, as with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien, god's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen. solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page, written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age; full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod, caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to god. men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul; who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease, still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries. i can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook, take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the book, how through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time, it was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime. how through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days the precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze. how in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough, it was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now. he tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break, though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake; how dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame, but raised up converts to the creed whence christian comfort came. that housed in caves and caverns--how it stirs our scottish blood!-- the convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood; and eloquent grows the preacher, as the sabbath sunshine falls, thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls! that still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, some bear the gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea, the glorious tidings of the book spread christ's salvation free. so i cling to my mother's bible, in its torn and tattered boards, as one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards, as in life the true consoler, and in death ere the judgment call, the guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the father waits for all. lincoln, the man of the people this poem was read by edwin markham at the dedication of the lincoln memorial at washington, d.c., may , . before reading, he said: "no oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour. nevertheless, i venture to inscribe this revised version of my lincoln poem to this stupendous lincoln memorial, to this far-shining monument of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless martyr--the consecrated statesman, the ideal american, the ever-beloved friend of humanity." when the norn mother saw the whirlwind hour greatening and darkening as it hurried on, she left the heaven of heroes and came down to make a man to meet the mortal need, she took the tried clay of the common road-- clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth, dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. into the shape she breathed a flame to light that tender, tragic, ever-changing face; and laid on him a sense of the mystic powers, moving--all husht--behind the mortal veil. here was a man to hold against the world, a man to match the mountains and the sea. the color of the ground was in him, the red earth; the smack and tang of elemental things; the rectitude and patience of the cliff; the good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; the friendly welcome of the wayside well; the courage of the bird that dares the sea; the gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; the pity of the snow that hides all scars; the secrecy of streams that make their way under the mountain to the rifted rock; the tolerance and equity of light that gives as freely to the shrinking flower as to the great oak flaring to the wind-- to the grave's low hill as to the matterhorn that shoulders out the sky. sprung from the west, he drank the valorous youth of a new world. the strength of virgin forests braced his mind, the hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. his words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts were roots that firmly gript the granite truth. up from log cabin to the capitol, one fire was on his spirit, one resolve-- to send the keen ax to the root of wrong, clearing a free way for the feet of god, the eyes of conscience testing every stroke, to make his deed the measure of a man. he built the rail-pile as he built the state, pouring his splendid strength through every blow; the grip that swung the ax in illinois was on the pen that set a people free. so came the captain with the mighty heart; and when the judgment thunders split the house, wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, he held the ridgepole up, and spikt again the rafters of the home. he held his place-- held the long purpose like a growing tree-- held on through blame and faltered not at praise. and when he fell in whirlwind, he went down as when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, goes down with a great shout upon the hills, and leaves a lonesome place against the sky. _edwin markham._ our own if i had known in the morning how wearily all the day the words unkind would trouble my mind i said when you went away, i had been more careful, darling, nor given you needless pain; but we vex "our own" with look and tone we may never take back again. for though in the quiet evening you may give me the kiss of peace, yet it might be that never for me, the pain of the heart should cease. how many go forth in the morning, that never come home at night! and hearts have broken for harsh words spoken that sorrow can ne'er set right. we have careful thoughts for the stranger, and smiles for the sometime guest, but oft for "our own" the bitter tone, though we love "our own" the best. ah, lips with the curve impatient! ah, brow with that look of scorn! 'twere a cruel fate, were the night too late to undo the work of morn. _margaret e. sangster._ how salvator won the gate was thrown open, i rode out alone, more proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne. i am but a jockey, but shout upon shout went up from the people who watched me ride out. and the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed. my heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain, as i patted my salvator's soft, silken mane; and a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand as we passed by the multitude down to the stand. the great wave of cheering came billowing back as the hoofs of brave tenny ran swift down the track, and he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle that waited us there on the smooth, shining course. my salvator, fair to the lovers of horse as a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight-- pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright-- stood taking the plaudits as only his due and nothing at all unexpected or new. and then there before us as the bright flag is spread, there's a roar from the grand stand, and tenny's ahead; at the sound of the voices that shouted, "a go!" he sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow. i tighten the reins on prince charlie's great son; he is off like a rocket, the race is begun. half-way down the furlong their heads are together, scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather; past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife, ah, salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life! i press my knees closer, i coax him, i urge, i feel him go out with a leap and a surge; i see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride, while backward, still backward, falls tenny beside. we are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed-- 'twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast; the distance elongates; still tenny sweeps on, as graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn, his awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained-- a noble opponent well born and well trained. i glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! tenny! the cost of that one second's flagging will be--the race lost; one second's yielding of courage and strength, and the daylight between us has doubled its length. the first mile is covered, the race is mine--no! for the blue blood of tenny responds to a blow; he shoots through the air like a ball from a gun, and the two lengths between us are shortened to one. my heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump, for tenny's long neck is at salvator's rump; and now with new courage grown bolder and bolder, i see him once more running shoulder to shoulder. with knees, hands and body i press my grand steed; i urge him, i coax him, i pray him to heed! o salvator! salvator! list to my calls, for the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls. there's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm, as close to the saddle leaps tenny's great form; one mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand, i lift my horse first by a nose past the stand. we are under the string now--the great race is done-- and salvator, salvator, salvator won! cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, i say; 'tis the race of a century witnessed to-day! though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men ye never will see such a grand race again. let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf, for salvator, salvator, king of the turf, he has rivaled the record of thirteen long years; he has won the first place in the vast line of peers. 'twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race, and even his enemies grant him his place. down into the dust let old records be hurled, and hang out : to the gaze of the world! _ella wheeler wilcox._ i got to go to school i'd like to hunt the injuns 't roam the boundless plain! i'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main! an' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule; but i just can't be nothin' cause i got to go to school. 'most all great men, so i have read, has been the ones 'at got the least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot; an' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool, an' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school. i'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the texas steer! i'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer! an' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool; but how can i git famous? 'cause i got to go to school. i don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake. o' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make! it ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule; life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school. i'd like to be regarded as "the terror of the plains"! i'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains! i'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool, an' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! i got to go to school. what good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls, er them there fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls? an' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll remember 'at it's all because i got to go to school. _nixon waterman._ with little boy blue (_written after the death of eugene field._) silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog-- tin toys on the little armchair, keeping their tryst through the slow going years for the hand that had stationed them there; and he said that perchance the dust and the rust hid the griefs that the toy friends knew, and his heart watched with them all the dark years, yearning ever for little boy blue. three mourners they were for little boy blue, three ere the cold winds had begun; now two are left watching--the soldier and dog; but for him the vigil is done. for him too, the angel has chanted a song a song that is lulling and true. he has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest, thrown wide by his little boy blue. god sent not the angel of death for his soul-- not the reaper who cometh for all-- but out of the shadows that curtained the day he heard his lost little one call, heard the voice that he loved, and following fast, passed on to the far-away strand; and he walks the streets of the city of peace, with little boy blue by the hand. _sarah beaumont kennedy._ the charge of pickett's brigade in gettysburg at break of day the hosts of war are held in leash to gird them for the coming fray, e'er brazen-throated monsters flame, mad hounds of death that tear and maim. ho, boys in blue, and gray so true, fate calls to-day the roll of fame. on cemetery hill was done the clangor of four hundred guns; through drifting smoke the morning sun shone down a line of battled gray where pickett's waiting soldiers lay. virginians all, heed glory's call, you die at gettysburg to-day, 'twas pickett's veteran brigade, great lee had named; he knew them well; oft had their steel the battle stayed. o warriors of the eagle plume, fate points for you the hour of doom. ring rebel yell, war cry and knell! the stars, to-night, will set in gloom. o pickett's men, ye sons of fate, awe-stricken nations bide your deeds. for you the centuries did wait, while wrong had writ her lengthening scroll and god had set the judgment roll. a thousand years shall wait in tears, and one swift hour bring to goal. the charge is done, a cause is lost; but pickett's men heed not the din of ragged columns battle tost; for fame enshrouds them on the field, and pierced, virginia, is thy shield. but stars and bars shall drape thy scars; no cause is lost till honor yield. hullo w'en you see a man in woe, walk right up and say "hullo!" say "hullo" and "how d'ye do? how's the world a-usin' you?" slap the fellow on the back; bring your hand down with a whack; walk right up, and don't go slow; grin an' shake, an' say "hullo!" is he clothed in rags? oh! sho; walk right up an' say "hullo!" rags is but a cotton roll jest for wrappin' up a soul; an' a soul is worth a true hale and hearty "how d'ye do?" don't wait for the crowd to go, walk right up and say "hullo!" when big vessels meet, they say they saloot an' sail away. jest the same are you an' me lonesome ships upon a sea; each one sailin' his own log, for a port behind the fog; let your speakin' trumpet blow; lift your horn an' cry "hullo!" say "hullo!" an' "how d'ye do?" other folks are good as you. w'en you leave your house of clay wanderin' in the far away, w'en you travel through the strange country t'other side the range, then the souls you've cheered will know who ye be, an' say "hullo." _sam walter foss._ the women of mumbles head bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! and i'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. it's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off mumbles head! maybe you have traveled in wales, sir, and know it north and south; maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at oystermouth; it happens, no doubt, that from bristol you've crossed in a casual way, and have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of swansea bay. well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, in the teeth of atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; it wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when there was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men. when in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head! so the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, and he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; going to death for duty, and trusting to god above! do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, for men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off mumbles head? it didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! and it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; and then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! but the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! "god help us now!" said the father. "it's over, my lads! good-bye"! half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, but father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves. up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, and saw in the boiling breakers a figure--a fighting form; it might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; it might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; it might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. they had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more, then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore. there by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land, 'twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, but what are a couple of women with only a man to save? what are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--and then off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went! "come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "for god's sake, girls, come back!" as they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. "come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, "if the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" "come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, "you will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!" "_come back_!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, we'll lose our lives, god willing, before that man shall drown!" "give one more knot to the shawls, bess! give one strong clutch of your hand! just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, and i'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, they caught and saved a brother alive. god bless them! you know the rest-- well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, and many a glass was tossed right off to "the women of mumbles head!" _clement scott._ the fireman's story "'a frightful face'? wal, yes, yer correct; that man on the enjine thar don't pack the han'somest countenance-- every inch of it sportin' a scar; but i tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough piled up in the national banks to buy that face, nor a single scar-- (no, i never indulges. thanks.) "yes, jim is an old-time engineer, an' a better one never war knowed! bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine war put on the quincy road; an' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug from maine to the jumpin' off place that knows more about the big iron hoss than him with the battered-up face. "'got hurt in a smash-up'? no,'twar done in a sort o' legitimate way; he got it a-trying to save a gal up yar on the road last may. i heven't much time for to spin you the yarn, for we pull out at two-twenty-five-- just wait till i climb up an' toss in some coal, so's to keep old ' ' alive. "jim war pullin' the burlin'ton passenger then, left quincy a half an hour late, an' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not to lay out no. freight. the ' ' war more than whoopin' 'em up an' a-quiverin' in every nerve! when all to once jim yelled 'merciful god!' as she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve. "i jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead 'bout two hundred paces or so stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft, an' her face jist as white as the snow; it seems she war so paralyzed with the fright that she couldn't move for'ard or back, an' when jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell right down in a heap on the track! "i'll never forgit till the day o' my death the look that cum over jim's face; he throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shot so's to slacken the ' 's' wild pace, then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash, an' out through the window he fled, an' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front, an' lay on the pilot ahead. "then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay, he grabbed a tight hold, of her arm, an' raised her right up so's to throw her one side out o' reach of danger an' harm. but somehow he slipped an' fell with his head on the rail as he throw'd the young lass, an' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face in a frightful and horrible mass! "as soon as we stopped i backed up the train to that spot where the poor fellow lay, an' there sot the gal with his head in her lap an' wipin' the warm blood away. the tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes, while she sobbed like her heart war all broke-- i tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'ar would move the tough heart of an oak! "we put jim aboard an' ran back to town, what for week arter week the boy lay a-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death, an' that gal by his bed every day. but nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around-- kinder snatched him right outer the grave-- his face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart remains just as noble an' brave. * * * * * "of course thar's a sequel--as story books say-- he fell dead in love, did this jim; but hadn't the heart to ax her to have sich a batter'd-up rooster as him. she know'd how he felt, and last new year's day war the fust o' leap year as you know, so she jist cornered jim an' proposed on the spot, an' you bet he didn't say no. "he's building a house up thar on the hill, an' has laid up a snug pile o' cash, the weddin's to be on the first o' next may-- jist a year from the day o' the smash-- the gal says he risked his dear life to save hers, an' she'll just turn the tables about, an' give him the life that he saved--thar's the bell. good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out." little willie's hearing sometimes w'en i am playin' with some fellers 'at i knows, my ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, i surpose: an' then she calls in this way: "willie! willie, dear! willee-e-ee!" an' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef i be; an' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still, w'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "your ma is callin', bill." but my hearin' don't git better, so fur as i can see, w'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "willie! willie, dear! willee-e-ee!" an' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "well, i'll allow it's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow"; an' then i keep on playin' jus' the way i did before-- i know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more. an' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "willie! willee-e-ee!" but my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be. if a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way, he can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play. but jus' w'ile i am playin', an' prob'ly i am "it," they's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' i have to up, an' git, fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee; he jus' says, "william henry!" but that's enough fer me. you'd be surprised to notice how quickly i can hear w'en my pa says, "william henry!" but never "willie, dear!" fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma, it's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa. the service flag dear little flag in the window there, hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, child of old glory, born with a star-- oh, what a wonderful flag you are! blue is your star in its field of white, dipped in the red that was born of fight; born of the blood that our forebears shed to raise your mother, the flag, o'er-head. and now you've come, in this frenzied day, to speak from a window--to speak and say: "i am the voice of a soldier son, gone, to be gone till the victory's won. "i am the flag of the service, sir: the flag of his mother--i speak for her who stands by my window and waits and fears, but hides from the others her unwept tears. "i am the flag of the wives who wait for the safe return of a martial mate-- a mate gone forth where the war god thrives, to save from sacrifice other men's wives. "i am the flag of the sweethearts true; the often unthought of--the sisters, too. i am the flag of a mother's son, who won't come home till the victory's won!" dear little flag in the window there, hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, child of old glory, born with a star-- oh, what a wonderful flag you are! _william herschell._ flying jim's last leap (_the hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer._) cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. helped by bridget's willing hands, bustled hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans. little flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air; slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore, tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before. his shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees, face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves. rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought aunt hannah to the door; parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er; wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart. "_drink_! you've had enough, you rascal. faugh! the smell now makes me sick, move, you thief! leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick." then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead, crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed, wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook, babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook, here sweet flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink; pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink; then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped, in the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped; then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt, bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want. wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "am i sane?" "look, poor man, here's food and drink. now thank our god before you take." paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake with an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down o'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown; that "our god" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known, when that human angel near him spoke of her god as his own. "is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" quickly did the wee one ask. "i'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy bible task, it may help you to forgive her: 'love your enemies and those who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'" then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground conning o'er and o'er that lesson--with a grace to him new found. sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip, finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip. hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place, gentle flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face! "thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow; off with it, and cast it down here. come! be quick about it now." as the man did not obey him, flossie's father lashed his cheek with a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep. quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay raised a knife to seek his life-blood. then there came a thought to stay all his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall: "he's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our god' reigns over all." at midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams, wild cries, "fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems; they faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean about the gray stone mansion old. now roars the wind to aid the scene; the flames yet higher, wilder play. a shudder runs through all around-- distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground sweet flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air. loud rang the father's cry: "o god! my child! my child! will no one dare for her sweet sake the flaming stair?" look, one steps forth with muffled face, leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a race with life and death--the window gains. deep silence falls on all around, till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. the ladder falls with crashing sound-- a flaming, treacherous mass. o god! she was so young and he so brave! look once again. see! see! on highest roof he stands--the fiery wave fierce rolling round--his arms enclasp the child--god help him yet to save! "for life or for eternal sleep," he cries, then makes a vaulting leap, a tree branch catches, with sure aim, and by the act proclaims his name; the air was rent, the cheers rang loud, a rough voice cried from out the crowd, "huzza, my boys, well we know him, none dares that leap but flying jim!" a jail-bird--outlaw--thief, indeed, yet o'er them all takes kingly lead. "do now your worst," his gasping cry, "do all your worst, i'm doomed to die; i've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long"; then hushed all murmurs through the throng. with reverent hands they bore him where the summer evening's cooling air came softly sighing through the trees; the child's proud father on his knees forgiveness sought of god and jim, which dying lips accorded him. a mark of whip on white face stirred to gleaming scarlet at his words. "forgive them all who use you ill, she taught me that and i fulfill; i would her hand might touch my face, though she's so pure and i so base." low flossie bent and kissed the brow, with smile of bliss transfigured now: death, the angel, sealed it there, 'twas sent to god with "mother's prayer." _emma dunning banks._ betty and the bear in a pioneer's cabin out west, so they say, a great big black grizzly trotted one day, and seated himself on the hearths and began to lap the contents of a two gallon pan of milk and potatoes,--an excellent meal,-- and then looked, about to see what he could steal. the lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, and, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, and was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. so he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau, "thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!" "a what?" "why, a bar!" "well murder him, then!" "yes, betty, i will, if you'll first venture in." so betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. while her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed, as betty then laid on the grizzly her blows. now on his forehead, and now on his nose, her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, "well done, my brave betty, now hit him agin, now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out." so, with rapping and poking, poor betty alone at last laid sir bruin as dead as a stone. now when the old man saw the bear was no more, he ventured to poke his nose out of the door, and there was the grizzly stretched on the floor, then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell all the wonderful things that that morning befell; and he published the marvellous story afar, how "me and my betty jist slaughtered a bar! o yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it, come and see what we did, me and betty, we did it." the graves of a household they grew in beauty, side by side, they filled one home with glee;--- their graves are severed, far and wide, by mount, and stream and sea. the same fond mother bent at night o'er each fair sleeping brow; she had each folded flower in sight-- where are those dreamers now? one, 'midst the forest of the west, by a dark stream is laid-- the indian knows his place of rest far in the cedar shade. the sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-- he lies where pearls lie deep; _he_ was the loved of all, yet none o'er his low bed may weep. one sleeps where southern vines are drest above the noble slain: he wrapped his colors round his breast on a blood-red field of spain. and one--o'er _her_ the myrtle showers its leaves, by soft winds fanned; she faded 'midst italian flowers-- the last of that bright band. and parted thus they rest, who play'd beneath the same green tree; whose voices mingled as they pray'd around the parent knee. they that with smiles lit up the hall, and cheer'd with song the hearth!-- alas! for love, if _thou_ wert all, and naught beyond, o earth! _felicia dorothea hemans._ the babie nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, nae stockings on her feet; her supple ankles white as snow, or early blossoms sweet. her simple dress of sprinkled pink, her double, dimpled chin; her pucker'd lip and bonny mou', with nae ane tooth between. her een sae like her mither's een, twa gentle, liquid things; her face is like an angel's face-- we're glad she has nae wings. _hugh miller._ a legend of the northland away, away in the northland, where the hours of the day are few, and the nights are so long in winter, they cannot sleep them through; where they harness the swift reindeer to the sledges, when it snows; and the children look like bears' cubs in their funny, furry clothes: they tell them a curious story-- i don't believe 't is true; and yet you may learn a lesson if i tell the tale to you once, when the good saint peter lived in the world below, and walked about it, preaching, just as he did, you know; he came to the door of a cottage, in traveling round the earth, where a little woman was making cakes, and baking them on the hearth; and being faint with fasting, for the day was almost done, he asked her, from her store of cakes, to give him a single one. so she made a very little cake, but as it baking lay, she looked at it, and thought it seemed too large to give away. therefore she kneaded another, and still a smaller one; but it looked, when she turned it over, as large as the first had done. then she took a tiny scrap of dough, and rolled, and rolled it flat; and baked it thin as a wafer-- but she couldn't part with that. for she said, "my cakes that seem too small when i eat of them myself, are yet too large to give away," so she put them on the shelf. then good saint peter grew angry, for he was hungry and faint; and surely such a woman was enough to provoke a saint. and he said, "you are far too selfish to dwell in a human form, to have both food and shelter, and fire to keep you warm. "now, you shall build as the birds do, and shall get your scanty food by boring, and boring, and boring, all day in the hard dry wood," then up she went through the chimney, never speaking a word, and out of the top flew a woodpecker. for she was changed to a bird. she had a scarlet cap on her head, and that was left the same, bat all the rest of her clothes were burned black as a coal in the flame. and every country school boy has seen her in the wood; where she lives in the woods till this very day, boring and boring for food. and this is the lesson she teaches: live not for yourself alone, lest the needs you will not pity shall one day be your own. give plenty of what is given to you, listen to pity's call; don't think the little you give is great, and the much you get is small. now, my little boy, remember that, and try to be kind and good, when you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, and see her scarlet hood. you mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live as selfishly as you can; but you will be changed to a smaller thing-- a mean and selfish man. _phoebe cary._ how did you die? did you tackle the trouble that came your way with a resolute heart and cheerful? or hide year face from the light of day with a craven soul and fearful? oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, or a trouble is what you make it, and it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, but only how did you take it? you are beaten to earth? well, well, what's that? come up with a smiling face, its nothing against you to fall down flat, but to lie there--that's disgrace. the harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce; be proud of your blackened eye! it isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; it's how did you fight--and why? and though you be done to the death, what then? if you battled the best you could, if you played your part in the world of men, why, the critic will call it good. death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, and whether he's slow or spry, it isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, but only how did you die? _edmund vance cooke._ the children when the lessons and tasks are all ended, and the school for the day is dismissed, and the little ones gather around me, to bid me good-night and be kissed,-- oh, the little white arms that encircle my neck in a tender embrace! oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, shedding sunshine and love on my face! and when they, are gone, i sit dreaming of my childhood, too lovely to last; of love that my heart will remember when it wakes to the pulse of the past; ere the world and its wickedness made me a partner of sorrow and sin; when the glory of god was about me, and the glory of gladness within. oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's and the fountains of feeling will flow, when i think of the paths, steep and stony where the feet of the dear ones must go. of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, of the tempests of fate blowing wild-- oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy as the innocent heart of a child! they are idols of hearts and of households, they are angels of god in disguise. his sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, his glory still beams in their eyes: oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, they have made me more manly and mild! and i know how jesus could liken the kingdom of god to a child. seek not a life for the dear ones all radiant, as others have done. but that life may have just enough shadow to temper the glare of the sun; i would pray god to guard them from evil, but my prayer would bound back to myself. ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, but the sinner must pray for himself. the twig is so easily bended, i have banished the rule of the rod; i have taught them the goodness of knowledge, they have taught me the goodness of god. my heart is a dungeon of darkness, where i shut them from breaking a rule; my frown is sufficient correction, my love is the law of the school. i shall leave the old house in the autumn to traverse the threshold no more, ah! how i shall sigh for the dear ones that meet me each morn at the door. i shall miss the good-nights and the kisses, and the gush of their innocent glee; the group on the green and the flowers that are brought every morning to me. i shall miss them at morn and at evening. their song in the school and the street, i shall miss the low hum of their voices and the tramp of their delicate feet. when the lessons and tasks are all ended, and death says the school is dismissed, may the little ones gather around me to bid me good-night and be kissed. _charles m. dickinson._ the king and the child the sunlight shone on walls of stone, and towers sublime and tall, king alfred sat upon his throne within his council hall. and glancing o'er the splendid throng, with grave and solemn face, to where his noble vassals stood, he saw a vacant place. "where is the earl of holderness?" with anxious look, he said. "alas, o king!" a courtier cried, "the noble earl is dead!" before the monarch could express the sorrow that he felt, a soldier, with a war-worn face, approached the throne, and knelt. "my sword," he said, "has ever been, o king, at thy command, and many a proud and haughty dane has fallen by my hand. "i've fought beside thee in the field, and 'neath the greenwood tree; it is but fair for thee to give yon vacant place to me." "it is not just," a statesman cried, "this soldier's prayer to hear, my wisdom has done more for thee than either sword or spear. "the victories of thy council hall have made thee more renown than all the triumphs of the field have given to thy crown. "my name is known in every land, my talents have been thine, bestow this earldom, then, on me, for it is justly mine." yet, while before the monarch's throne these men contending stood, a woman crossed the floor, who wore the weeds of widowhood. and slowly to king alfred's feet a fair-haired boy she led-- "o king, this is the rightful heir of holderness," she said. "helpless, he comes to claim his own, let no man do him wrong, for he is weak and fatherless, and thou art just and strong." "what strength or power," the statesman cried, "could such a judgement bring? can such a feeble child as this do aught for thee, o king? "when thou hast need of brawny arms to draw thy deadly bows, when thou art wanting crafty men to crush thy mortal foes." with earnest voice the fair young boy replied: "i cannot fight, but i can pray to god, o king, and god can give thee might!" the king bent down and kissed the child, the courtiers turned away, "the heritage is thine," he said, "let none thy right gainsay. "our swords may cleave the casques of men, our blood may stain the sod, but what are human strength and power without the help of god?" _eugene j. hall._ try, try again 'tis a lesson you should heed, try, try again; if at first you don't succeed, try, try again; then your courage shall appear, for if you will persevere, you will conquer, never fear, try, try again. once or twice though you should fail, try, try again; if at last you would prevail, try, try again; if we strive 'tis no disgrace tho' we may not win the race, what should you do in that case? try, try again. if you find your task is hard, try, try again; time will bring you your reward, try, try again; all that other folks can do, why, with patience, may not you? only keep this rule in view, try, try again. indian names ye say they all have passed away--that noble race and brave, that their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave; that,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout, but their name is on your waters--ye may not wash it out. 'tis where ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled, where strong niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world; where red missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west, and rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green virginia's breast. ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale, have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale; but their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore, your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore. old massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown, and broad ohio bears it amid his young renown; connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves, and bold kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves. wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart, and alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart; monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust; your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust. ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour, crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power; ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal, but can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal? ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow, on through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe. think ye the eternal ear is deaf? his sleepless vision dim? think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to him? _lydia h. sigourney._ more cruel than war (during the civil war, a southern prisoner at camp chase in ohio lay sick in the hospital. he confided to a friend, colonel hawkins of tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee, a nashville girl, had not written to him. the soldier died soon afterward, colonel hawkins having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. this poem is in reply to a letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly broke the engagement.) your letter, lady, came too late, for heaven had claimed its own; ah, sudden change--from prison bars unto the great white throne; and yet i think he would have stayed, to live for his disdain, could he have read the careless words which you have sent in vain. so full of patience did he wait, through many a weary hour, that o'er his simple soldier-faith not even death had power; and you--did others whisper low their homage in your ear, as though among their shallow throng his spirit had a peer? i would that you were by me now, to draw the sheet aside and see how pure the look he wore the moment when he died. the sorrow that you gave to him had left its weary trace, as 'twere the shadow of the cross upon his pallid face. "her love," he said, "could change for me the winter's cold to spring." ah, trust of fickle maiden's love, thou art a bitter thing! for when these valleys, bright in may, once more with blossoms wave, the northern violets shall blow above his humble grave. your dole of scanty words had been but one more pang to bear for him who kissed unto the last your tress of golden hair; i did not put it where he said, for when the angels come, i would not have them find the sign of falsehood in the tomb. i've read your letter, and i know the wiles that you have wrought to win that trusting heart of his, and gained it--cruel thought! what lavish wealth men sometimes give for what is worthless all! what manly bosoms beat for them in folly's falsest thrall! you shall not pity him, for now his sorrow has an end; yet would that you could stand with me beside my fallen friend! and i forgive you for his sake, as he--if he be forgiven-- may e'en be pleading grace for you before the court of heaven. to-night the cold winds whistle by, as i my vigil keep within the prison dead-house, where few mourners come to weep. a rude plank coffin holds his form; yet death exalts his face, and i would rather see him thus than clasped in your embrace. to-night your home may shine with light and ring with merry song, and you be smiling as your soul had done no deadly wrong; your hand so fair that none would think it penned these words of pain; your skin so white--would god your heart were half as free from stain. i'd rather be my comrade dead than you in life supreme; for yours the sinner's waking dread, and his the martyr's dream! whom serve we in this life we serve in that which is to come; he chose his way, you--yours; let god pronounce the fitting doom. _w.s. hawkins._ columbus a harbor in a sunny, southern city; ships at their anchor, riding in the lee; a little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy, who ever watched the waters lovingly. a group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded; strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child: of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people, of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild. and ever in the boyish soul was ringing the urging, surging challenge of the sea, to dare,--as these men dared, its wrath and danger, to learn,--as they, its charm and mystery. columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor, you dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true; thank god for men--their deeds have crowned the ages-- who once were little dreamy lads like you. _helen l. smith._ the september gale i'm not a chicken; i have seen full many a chill september, and though i was a youngster then, that gale i well remember; the day before, my kite-string snapped, and i, my kite pursuing, the wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;-- for me two storms were brewing! it came as quarrels sometimes do, when married folks get clashing; there was a heavy sigh or two, before the fire was flashing,-- a little stir among the clouds, before they rent asunder,-- a little rocking of the trees, and then came on the thunder. lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, and how the shingles rattled! and oaks were scattered on the ground, as if the titans battled; and all above was in a howl, and all below a clatter,-- the earth was like a frying-pan. or some such hissing matter. it chanced to be our washing-day, and all our things were drying: the storm came roaring through the lines, and set them all a-flying; i saw the shirts and petticoats go riding off like witches; i lost, ah! bitterly i wept,-- i lost my sunday breeches! i saw them straddling through the air, alas! too late to win them; i saw them chase the clouds, as if the devil had been in them; they were my darlings and my pride, my boyhood's only riches,-- "farewell, farewell," i faintly cried,-- "my breeches! o my breeches!" that night i saw them in my dreams, how changed from what i knew them! the dews had steeped their faded threads, the winds had whistled through them! i saw the wide and ghastly rents where demon claws had torn them; a hole was in their amplest part, as if an imp had worn them. i have had many happy years and tailors kind and clever, but those young pantaloons have gone forever and forever! and not till fate has cut the last of all my earthly stitches, this aching heart shall cease to mourn my loved, my long-lost breeches! _o.w. holmes_ when my ship comes in somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing, where the winds dance and spin; beyond the reach of my eager hailing, over the breakers' din; out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, out where the blinding fog is drifting, out where the treacherous sand is shifting, my ship is coming in. o, i have watched till my eyes were aching, day after weary day; o, i have hoped till my heart was breaking while the long nights ebbed away; could i but know where the waves had tossed her, could i but know what storms had crossed her, could i but know where the winds had lost her, out in the twilight gray! but though the storms her course have altered, surely the port she'll win, never my faith in my ship has faltered, i know she is coming in. for through the restless ways of her roaming, through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, through the white crest of the billows combing, my ship is coming in. beating the tides where the gulls are flying, swiftly she's coming in: shallows and deeps and rocks defying, bravely she's coming in. precious the love she will bring to bless me, snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, in the proud purple of kings she will dress me-- my ship that is coming in. white in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, see, where my ship comes in; at masthead and peak her colors streaming, proudly she's sailing in; love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering, music will welcome her glad appearing, and my heart will sing at her stately nearing, when my ship comes in. _robert jones burdette._ solitude laugh, and the world laughs with you, weep, and you weep alone; for the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has trouble enough of its own. sing, and the hills will answer, sigh, it is lost on the air; the echoes bound to a joyful sound, but shirk from voicing care. rejoice and men will seek you; grieve, and they turn and go; they want full measure of all your pleasure, but they do not need your woe. be glad, and your friends are many; be sad, and you lose them all, there are none to decline your nectar'd wine, but alone you must drink life's gall. feast, and your halls are crowded; fast, and the world goes by; succeed and give, and it helps you live, but no man can help you die. there is room in the halls of pleasure for a large and lordly train, but one by one we must all file on through the narrow aisle of pain. _ella wheeler wilcox._ sin of the coppenter man the coppenter man said a wicked word, when he hitted his thumb one day, en i know what it was, because i heard, en it's somethin' i dassent say. he growed us a house with rooms inside it, en the rooms is full of floors it's my papa's house, en when he buyed it, it was nothin' but just outdoors. en they planted stones in a hole for seeds, en that's how the house began, but i guess the stones would have just growed weeds, except for the coppenter man. en the coppenter man took a board and said he'd skin it and make some curls, en i hung 'em onto my ears en head, en they make me look like girls. en he squinted along one side, he did, en he squinted the other side twice, en then he told me, "you squint it, kid," 'cause the coppenter man's reel nice. but the coppenter man said a wicked word, when he hitted 'his thumb that day; he said it out loud, too, 'cause i heard, en it's something i dassent say. en the coppenter man said it wasn't bad, when you hitted your thumb, kerspat! en there'd be no coppenter men to be had, if it wasn't for words like that. _edmund vance cooke_. the bells of ostend no, i never, till life and its shadows shall end, can forget the sweet sound of the bells of ostend! the day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud, and rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud. my forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, my heart sighed in secret for those far away; when slowly the morning advanced from the east, the toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased; the peal from a land i ne'er saw, seemed to say, "let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!" yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain, i thought of those eyes i should ne'er see again; i thought of the kiss, the last kiss which i gave, and a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave; i thought of the schemes fond affection had planned, of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land. but still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air, seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear, and i never, till life and its shadows shall end, can forget the sweet sound of the bells of ostend! _w.l. bowles._ you put no flowers on my papa's grave with sable-draped banners and slow measured tread, the flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; and seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast. ended at last is the labor of love; once more through the gateway the saddened lines move-- a wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child besought him in accents with grief rendered wild: "oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave-- why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave? i know he was poor, but as kind and as true as ever marched into the battle with you; his grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, you may not have seen it. oh, say you did not! for my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, and thought him too lowly your offerings to share. he didn't die lowly--he poured his heart's blood in rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight-- and died shouting, 'onward! for god and the right!' o'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, but you haven't put _one_ on _my_ papa's grave. if mamma were here--but she lies by his side, her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!" "battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, "this young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief." then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, he lifted the maiden, while in through the gate the long line repasses, and many an eye pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. "this way, it is--here, sir, right under this tree; they lie close together, with just room for me." "halt! cover with roses each lowly green mound; a love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." "oh! thank you, kind sir! i ne'er can repay the kindness you've shown little daisy to-day; but i'll pray for you here, each day while i live, 'tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. i shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too-- i dreamed so last night, and i know 'twill come true; and they will both bless you, i know, when i say how you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; how you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest, and hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; and when the kind angels shall call _you_ to come we'll welcome you there to our beautiful home where death never comes his black banners to wave, and the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." _c.e.l. holmes._ the two little stockings two little stockings hung side by side, close to the fireside broad and wide. "two?" said saint nick, as down he came, loaded with toys and many a game. "ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun, "i'll have no cheating, my pretty one. "i know who dwells in this house, my dear, there's only one little girl lives here." so he crept up close to the chimney place, and measured a sock with a sober face; just then a wee little note fell out and fluttered low, like a bird, about. "aha! what's this?" said he, in surprise, as he pushed his specs up close to his eyes, and read the address in a child's rough plan. "dear saint nicholas," so it began, "the other stocking you see on the wall i have hung up for a child named clara hall. "she's a poor little girl, but very good, so i thought, perhaps, you kindly would fill up her stocking, too, to-night, and help to make her christmas bright. if you've not enough for both stockings there, please put all in clara's, i shall not care." saint nicholas brushed a tear from his eye, and, "god bless you, darling," he said with a sigh; then softly he blew through the chimney high a note like a bird's, as it soars on high, when down came two of the funniest mortals that ever were seen this side earth's portals. "hurry up," said saint nick, "and nicely prepare all a little girl wants where money is rare." then, oh, what a scene there was in that room! away went the elves, but down from the gloom of the sooty old chimney came tumbling low a child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe. how santa clans laughed, as he gathered them in, and fastened each one to the sock with a pin; right to the toe he hung a blue dress,-- "she'll think it came from the sky, i guess," said saint nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue, and tying the hood to the stocking, too. when all the warm clothes were fastened on, and both little socks were filled and done, then santa claus tucked a toy here and there, and hurried away to the frosty air, saying, "god pity the poor, and bless the dear child who pities them, too, on this night so wild." the wind caught the words and bore them on high till they died away in the midnight sky; while saint nicholas flew through the icy air, bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere. _sara keables hunt._ i have a rendezvous with death i have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade, when spring comes back with rustling shade and apple-blossoms fill the air-- i have a rendezvous with death when spring brings back blue days and fair. it may be he shall take my hand and lead me into his dark land and close my eyes and quench my breath-- it may be i shall pass him still. i have a rendezvous with death on some scarred slope of battered hill, when spring comes round again this year and the first meadow-flowers appear. god knows't were better to be deep pillowed in silk and scented down, where love throbs out in blissful sleep, pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath-- where hushed awakenings are dear.... but i've a rendezvous with death at midnight in some flaming town, when spring trips north again this year, and i to my pledged word am true, i shall not fail that rendezvous. _alan seeger._ let us be kind let us be kind; the way is long and lonely, and human hearts are asking for this blessing only-- that we be kind. we cannot know the grief that men may borrow, we cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow, but love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow-- let us be kind. let us be kind; this is a wealth that has no measure, this is of heaven and earth the highest treasure-- let us be kind. a tender word, a smile of love in meeting, a song of hope and victory to those retreating, a glimpse of god and brotherhood while life is fleeting-- let us be kind. let us be kind; around the world the tears of time are falling, and for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling-- let us be kind. to age and youth let gracious words be spoken; upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken, we live in vain who give no tender token-- let us be kind. let us be kind; the sunset tints will soon be in the west, too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast-- let us be kind. and when the angel guides have sought and found us, their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us, and heaven and home shall brighten all around us-- let us be kind. _w. lomax childress._ the water mill oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day, as the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away; how languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves as in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves! a solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, "the mill will never grind again with water that is past." the summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main, the sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain; the rippling stream flows on--aye, tranquil, deep and still, but never glideth back again to busy water mill; the solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast, "the mill will never grind again with water that is past." ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, for golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too; ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, for time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast-- "the mill will never grind again with water that is past." oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh; love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard. oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast-- "the mill will never grind again with water that is past." work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will, the streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill; nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, for all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day." possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last-- "the mill will never grind again with water that is past." oh! love thy god and fellowman, thyself consider last, for come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past; soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view, and heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true. ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, "the mill will never grind again with water that is past." _sarah doudney._ why the dog's nose is always cold what makes the dog's nose always cold? i'll try to tell you, curls of gold, if you will good and quiet be, and come and stand by mamma's knee. well, years and years and years ago-- how many i don't really know-- there came a rain on sea and shore, its like was never seen before or since. it fell unceasing down, till all the world began to drown; but just before it began to pour, an old, old man--his name was noah-- built him an ark, that he might save his family from a wat'ry grave; and in it also he designed to shelter two of every kind of beast. well, dear, when it was done, and heavy clouds obscured the sun, the noah folks to it quickly ran, and then the animals began to gravely march along in pairs; the leopards, tigers, wolves and bears, the deer, the hippopotamuses, the rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses, the camels, goats, cats and donkeys, the tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys, the rats, the big rhinoceroses, the dromedaries and the horses, the sheep, and mice and kangaroos, hyenas, elephants, koodoos, and hundreds more-'twould take all day, my dear, so many names to say-- and at the very, very end of the procession, by his friend and master, faithful dog was seen; the livelong time he'd helping been, to drive the crowd of creatures in; and now, with loud, exultant bark, he gaily sprang abroad the ark. alas! so crowded was the space he could not in it find a place; so, patiently, he turned about, stood half way in, half way out, and those extremely heavy showers descended through nine hundred hours and more; and, darling, at the close, 'most frozen was his honest nose; and never could it lose again the dampness of that dreadful rain. and that is what, my curls of gold, made all the doggies' noses cold. the african chief chained in the market-place he stood, a man of giant frame, amid the gathering multitude that shrunk to hear his name-- all stern of look and strong of limb, his dark eye on the ground:-- and silently they gazed on him, as on a lion bound. vainly, but well, that chief had fought, he was a captive now, yet pride, that fortune humbles not, was written on his brow. the scars his dark broad bosom wore showed warrior true and brave; a prince among his tribe before, he could not be a slave. then to his conqueror he spake: "my brother is a king; undo this necklace from my neck, and take this bracelet ring, and send me where my brother reigns, and i will fill thy hands with store of ivory from the plains, and gold-dust from the sands." "not for thy ivory nor thy gold will i unbind thy chain; that bloody hand shall never hold the battle-spear again. a price thy nation never gave shall yet be paid for thee; for thou shalt be the christian's slave, in lands beyond the sea." then wept the warrior chief and bade to shred his locks away; and one by one, each heavy braid before the victor lay. thick were the platted locks, and long, and deftly hidden there shone many a wedge of gold among the dark and crispèd hair. "look, feast thy greedy eye with gold long kept for sorest need: take it--thou askest sums untold, and say that i am freed. take it--my wife, the long, long day weeps by the cocoa-tree, and my young children leave their play, and ask in vain for me." "i take thy gold--but i have made thy fetters fast and strong, and ween that by the cocoa shade thy wife will wait thee long," strong was the agony that shook the captive's frame to hear, and the proud meaning of his look was changed to mortal fear. his heart was broken--crazed his brain; at once his eye grew wild; he struggled fiercely with his chain, whispered, and wept, and smiled; yet wore not long those fatal bands, and once, at shut of day, they drew him forth upon the sands, the foul hyena's prey. _william cullen bryant._ he who has vision _where there is no vision the people perish.--prov. : ._ he who has the vision sees more than you or i; he who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby; time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts assail his thought, but the visionary came ere the builders wrought; ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch, he, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march! he who has the vision hears more than you may hear, unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear; from the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne, drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn; time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows! he who has the vision feels more than you may feel, joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel-- for he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday, in the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away, he who has the vision lives round and all complete, and through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet. _folger mckinsey._ the children we keep the children kept coming one by one, till the boys were five and the girls were three. and the big brown house was alive with fun, from the basement floor to the old roof-tree, like garden flowers the little ones grew, nurtured and trained with tenderest care; warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew, they blossomed into beauty rare. but one of the boys grew weary one day, and leaning his head on his mother's breast, he said, "i am tired and cannot play; let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." she cradled him close to her fond embrace, she hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, and rapturous love still lightened his face when his spirit had joined the heavenly throng. then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, who stood where the "brook and the river meet," stole softly away into paradise e'er "the river" had reached her slender feet. while the father's eyes on the graves were bent, the mother looked upward beyond the skies: "our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent; our darlings were angels in earth's disguise." the years flew by, and the children began with longings to think of the world outside, and as each in turn became a man, the boys proudly went from the father's side. the girls were women so gentle and fair, that lovers were speedy to woo and to win; and with orange-blooms in their braided hair, their old home they left, new homes to begin. so, one by one the children have gone-- the boys were five, the girls were three; and the big brown house is gloomy and alone, with but two old folks for its company. they talk to each other about the past, as they sit together at eventide, and say, "all the children we keep at last are the boy and girl who in childhood died." _mrs. e.v. wilson._ the stranger on the sill between broad fields of wheat and corn is the lowly home where i was born; the peach-tree leans against the wall, and the woodbine wanders over all; there is the shaded doorway still,-- but a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. there is the barn--and, as of yore, i can smell the hay from the open door, and see the busy swallows throng, and hear the pewee's mournful song; but the stranger comes--oh! painful proof-- his sheaves are piled to the heated roof. there is the orchard--the very trees where my childhood knew long hours of ease, and watched the shadowy moments run till my life imbibed more shade than sun: the swing from the bough still sweeps the air,-- but the stranger's children are swinging there. there bubbles the shady spring below, with its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 'twas there i found the calamus root, and watched the minnows poise and shoot, and heard the robin lave his wing:-- but the stranger's bucket is at the spring. oh, ye who daily cross the sill, step lightly, for i love it still! and when you crowd the old barn eaves, then think what countless harvest sheaves have passed within' that scented door to gladden eyes that are no more. deal kindly with these orchard trees; and when your children crowd your knees, their sweetest fruit they shall impart, as if old memories stirred their heart: to youthful sport still leave the swing, and in sweet reverence hold the spring. _thomas buchanan read._ the old man in the model church well, wife, i've found the _model_ church! i worshiped there to-day! it made me think of good old times before my hair was gray; the meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago. but then i felt, when i went in, it wasn't built for show. the sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; he knew that i was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; he must have been a christian, for he led me boldly through the long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. i wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring; the preacher said, with trumpet voice: "let all the people sing!" the tune was "coronation," and the music upward rolled, till i thought i heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. my deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; i joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, and sang as in my youthful days: "let angels prostrate fall, bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him lord of all." i tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; i felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; i almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form, and anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm. _the preachin'_? well, i can't just tell all that the preacher said; i know it wasn't written; i know it wasn't read; he hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye went flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. the sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple gospel truth; it fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; 'twas full of invitations, to christ and not to creed. the preacher made sin hideous in gentiles and in jews; he shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; and--though i can't see very well--i saw the falling tear that told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near. how swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! how brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! again i longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend-- "when congregations ne'er break up, and sabbaths have no end." i hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- in that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; i doubt not i'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, the happy hour of worship in that model church today. dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won; the shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; o'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, to shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. _john h. yates._ the volunteer organist the gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, an' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, an' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. the elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, an' as we hev no substitoot, as brother moore ain't here, will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?" an' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, an' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin. then deacon purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "this man perfanes the house of god! w'y, this is sacrilege!" the tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, an' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. he then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; an' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, he slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. the organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, it swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; the ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, an' the elder shouted "glory!" an' i yelled out "hooray!!" an' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; an' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith tabby on the mat, uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' mother, an' all that! an' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven-- thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; the morning stars together sung--no soul wuz left alone-- we felt the universe wuz safe, an' god was on his throne! an' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, an' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; no luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, an' then--the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night! but we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, an' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; he had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, w'en the elder rose an' simply said: "my brethren, let up pray." _sam walter foss._ the finding of the lyre there lay upon the ocean's shore what once a tortoise served to cover; a year and more, with rush and roar, the surf had rolled it over, had played with it, and flung it by, as wind and weather might decide it, then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry cheap burial might provide it. it rested there to bleach or tan, the rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; with many a ban the fisherman had stumbled o'er and spurned it; and there the fisher-girl would stay, conjecturing with her brother how in their play the poor estray might serve some use or other. so there it lay, through wet and dry, as empty as the last new sonnet, till by and by came mercury, and, having mused upon it, "why, here," cried he, "the thing of things in shape, material, and dimension! give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, a wonderful invention!" so said, so done; the chords he strained, and, as his fingers o'er them hovered, the shell disdained a soul had gained, the lyre had been discovered. o empty world that round us lies, dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, brought we but eyes like mercury's, in thee what songs should waken! _james russel lowell._ the high tide ( ) (_or "the brides of enderby"_) the old mayor climbed the belfry tower, the ringers rang by two, by three; "pull, if ye never pulled before; good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "play uppe, play uppe o boston bells! play all your changes, all your swells, play uppe 'the brides of enderby.'" men say it was a stolen tyde-- the lord that sent it, he knows all; but in myne ears doth still abide the message that the bells let fall: and there was naught of strange, beside the flight of mews ans peewits pied by millions crouched on the old sea-wall. i sat and spun within the doore, my thread break off, i raised myne eyes; the level sun, like ruddy ore, lay sinking in the barren skies, and dark against day's golden death she moved where lindis wandereth, my sonne's faire wife, elizabeth. "cusha! cusha!" all along; ere the early dews were falling, farre away i heard her song. "cusha! cusha!" all along; where the reedy lindis floweth, floweth, floweth, from the meads where melick groweth faintly came her milking song: "cusha! cusha! cusha!" calling, "for the dews will soone be falling; leave your meadow grasses mellow, mellow, mellow; quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; come uppe whitefoot, come uppe lightfoot, quit the stalks of parsley hollow, hollow, hollow; come uppe jetty, rise and follow, from the clovers lift your head; come uppe whitefoot, come uppe lightfoot, come uppe jetty, rise and follow, jetty, to the milking shed." if it be long, ay, long ago, when i beginne to think howe long, againe i hear the lindis flow, swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; and all the aire, it seemeth mee, bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), that ring the tune of enderby. alle fresh the level pasture lay, and not a shadowe mote be seene, save where full fyve good miles away the steeple towered from out the greene; and lo! the great bell farre and wide was heard in all the country side that saturday at eventide. the swanherds where there sedges are moved on in sunset's golden breath, the shepherde lads i heard affare, and my sonne's wife, elizabeth; till floating o'er the grassy sea came down that kindly message free, the "brides of mavis enderby." then some looked uppe into the sky, and all along where lindis flows to where the goodly vessels lie, and where the lordly steeple shows, they sayde, "and why should this thing be? what danger lowers by land or sea? they ring the tune of enderby! "for evil news from mablethorpe, of pyrate galleys warping downe; for shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, they have not spared to wake the towne; but while the west bin red to see, and storms be none, and pyrates flee, why ring 'the brides of enderby'?" i looked without, and lo! my sonne came riding down with might and main: he raised a shout as he drew on, till all the welkin rang again, "elizabeth! elizabeth!" (a sweeter woman ne'er drew breath than my sonne's wife, elizabeth.) "the old sea wall (he cried) is downe, the rising tide comes on apace, and boats adrift in yonder towne go sailing uppe the market-place." he shook as one that looks on death: "god save you, mother!" straight he saith, "where is my wife, elizabeth?" "good sonne, where lindis winds away, with her two bairns i marked her long; and ere yon bells beganne to play afar i heard her milking song." he looked across the grassy lea, to right, to left, "ho, enderby!" they rang "the brides of enderby"! with that he cried and beat his breast; for, lo! along the river's bed a mighty eygre reared his crest, and uppe the lindis raging sped. it swept with thunderous noises loud; shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, or like a demon in a shroud. and rearing lindis backward pressed, shook all her trembling bankes amaine, then madly at the eygre's breast flung uppe her weltering walls again. then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- then beaten foam flew round about-- then all the mighty floods were out. so farre, so fast the eygre drave, the heart had hardly time to beat, before a shallow seething wave sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. the feet had hardly time to flee before it brake against the knee, and all the world was in the sea. upon the roofe we sat that night, the noise of bells went sweeping by; i marked the lofty beacon light stream from the church tower, red and high,-- a lurid mark and dread to see; and awesome bells they were to mee, that in the dark rang "enderby." they rang the sailor lads to guide from roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; and i--my sonne was at my side, and yet the ruddy beacon glowed; and yet he moaned beneath his breath, "oh, come in life, or come in death! oh, lost! my love, elizabeth." and didst thou visit him no more? thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; the waters laid thee at his doore, ere yet the early dawn was clear; thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, the lifted sun shone on thy face, downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. that flow strewed wrecks about the grass, that ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; a fatal ebbe and flow, alas! to manye more than myne and me: but each will mourn his own (she saith), and sweeter woman ne'er drew breath than my sonne's wife, elizabeth. i shall never hear her more by the reedy lindis shore, "cusha! cusha! cusha!" calling ere the early dews be falling; i shall never hear her song, "cusha! cusha!" all along, where the sunny lindis floweth, goeth, floweth; from the meads where melick groweth, when the water winding down, onward floweth to the town. i shall never see her more where the reeds and rushes quiver, shiver, quiver; stand beside the sobbing river, sobbing, throbbing, in its falling to the sandy lonesome shore; i shall never hear her calling, "leave your meadow grasses mellow, mellow, mellow; quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; come uppe whitefoot, come uppe lightfoot; quit your pipes of parsley hollow, hollow, hollow; come uppe lightfoot, rise and follow; lightfoot, whitefoot, from your clovers lift the head; come uppe jetty, follow, follow, jetty, to the milking-shed." _jean ingelow._ september days o month of fairer, rarer days than summer's best have been; when skies at noon are burnished blue, and winds at evening keen; when tangled, tardy-blooming things from wild waste places peer, and drooping golden grain-heads tell that harvest-time is near. though autumn tints amid the green are gleaming, here and there, and spicy autumn odors float like incense on the air, and sounds we mark as autumn's own her nearing steps betray, in gracious mood she seems to stand and bid the summer stay. though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves the sward be lightly strown, and nests deserted tell the tale of summer bird-folk flown; though white with frost the lowlands lie when lifts the morning haze, still there's a charm in every hour of sweet september days. _helen l. smith_ the new year who comes dancing over the snow, his soft little feet all bare and rosy? open the door, though the wild wind blow, take the child in and make him cozy, take him in and hold him dear, here is the wonderful glad new year. _dinah m. craik_ an "if" for girls (_with apologies to mr. rudyard kipling_.) if you can dress to make yourself attractive, yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight; if you can swim and row, be strong and active, but of the gentler graces lose not sight; if you can dance without a craze for dancing, play without giving play too strong a hold, enjoy the love of friends without romancing, care for the weak, the friendless and the old; if you can master french and greek and latin, and not acquire, as well, a priggish mien, if you can feel the touch of silk and satin without despising calico and jean; if you can ply a saw and use a hammer, can do a man's work when the need occurs, can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer, can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs; if you can make good bread as well as fudges, can sew with skill and have an eye for dust, if you can be a friend and hold no grudges, a girl whom all will love because they must; if sometime you should meet and love another and make a home with faith and peace enshrined, and you its soul--a loyal wife and mother-- you'll work out pretty nearly to my mind the plan that's been developed through the ages, and win the best that life can have in store, you'll be, my girl, the model for the sages-- a woman whom the world will bow before. _elizabeth lincoln otis._ boy and girl of plymouth little lass of plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet; primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street; homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe; skirts that reach your ankles, just as mother's do; bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl; modest little maiden,--plymouth's pilgrim girl! little lad of plymouth, stanchly trudging by; strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye; clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee; every garment fashioned as a man's might be; shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown; manly little pilgrim,--boy of plymouth town! boy and girl of plymouth, brave and blithe, and true; finer task than yours was, children never knew; sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land; hope, and help, and promise of the weary band; grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy; yours to make it brighter,--pilgrim girl and boy! _helen l. smith_. work: a song of triumph work! thank god for the might of it, the ardor, the urge, the delight of it, work that springs from the heart's desire, setting the brain and the soul on fire-- oh, what is so good as the heat of it, and what is so glad as the beat of it, and what is so kind as the stern command, challenging brain and heart and hand? work! thank god for the pride of it, for the beautiful, conquering tide of it, sweeping the life in its furious flood, thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, mastering stupor and dull despair, moving the dreamer to do and dare-- oh, what is so good as the urge of it, and what is so glad as the surge of it, and what is so strong as the summons deep, rousing the torpid soul from sleep? work! thank god for the pace of it, for the terrible, swift, keen race of it, fiery steeds in full control, nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal. work, the power that drives behind, guiding the purposes, taming the mind, holding the runaway wishes back, reining the will to one steady track, speeding the energies, faster, faster, triumphing ever over disaster; oh, what is so good as the pain of it, and what is so great as the gain of it, and what is so kind as the cruel goad, forcing us on through the rugged road? work! thank god for the swing of it, for the clamoring, hammering ring of it, passion of labor daily hurled on the mighty anvils of the world. oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? and what is so huge as the aim of it? thundering on through dearth and doubt, calling the plan of the maker out, work, the titan; work, the friend, shaping the earth to a glorious end, draining the swamps and blasting hills, doing whatever the spirit wills-- rending a continent apart, to answer the dream of the master heart. thank god for a world where none may shirk-- thank god for the splendor of work! _angela morgan._ reply to "a woman's question" (_"a woman's question" is given on page of book i, "poems teachers ask for_.") you say i have asked for the costliest thing ever made by the hand above-- a woman's heart and a woman's life, and a woman's wonderful love. that i have written your duty out, and, man-like, have questioned free-- you demand that i stand at the bar of your soul, while you in turn question me. and when i ask you to be my wife, the head of my house and home, whose path i would scatter with sunshine through life, thy shield when sorrow shall come-- you reply with disdain and a curl of the lip, and point to my coat's missing button, and haughtily ask if i want a _cook_, to serve up my _beef_ and my _mutton_. 'tis a _king_ that you look for. well, i am not he, but only a plain, earnest man, whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread, often shrink from the gulf they should span. 'tis hard to believe that the rose will fade from the cheek so full, so fair; 'twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold was ever reflected there. true, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall, and the autumn of life will come; but the heart that i give thee will be true as in may, should i make it thy shelter, thy home. thou requir'st "all things that are good and true; all things that a man should be"; ah! lady, my _truth_, in return, doubt not, for the rest, i leave it to thee. _nettie h. pelham._ the romance of nick van stann i cannot vouch my tale is true, nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; but true or false, or new or old, i think you'll find it fairly told. a frenchman, who had ne'er before set foot upon a foreign shore, weary of home, resolved to go and see what holland had to show. he didn't know a word of dutch, but that could hardly grieve him much; he thought, as frenchmen always do, that all the world could "parley-voo." at length our eager tourist stands within the famous netherlands, and, strolling gaily here and there, in search of something rich or rare, a lordly mansion greets his eyes; "how beautiful!" the frenchman cries, and, bowing to the man who sate in livery at the garden gate, "pray, mr. porter, if you please, whose very charming grounds are these? and, pardon me, be pleased to tell who in this splendid house may dwell." to which, in dutch, the puzzled man replied what seemed like "nick van stann,"[*] "thanks!" said the gaul; "the owner's taste is equally superb and chaste; so fine a house, upon my word, not even paris can afford. with statues, too, in every niche; of course monsieur van stann is rich, and lives, i warrant, like a king,-- ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!" in amsterdam the frenchman meets a thousand wonders in the streets, but most he marvels to behold a lady dressed in silk and gold; gazing with rapture on the dame, he begs to know the lady's name, and hears, to raise his wonders more, the very words he heard before! "mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, milord has got a charming wife; 'tis plain to see, this nick van stann must be a very happy man." next day our tourist chanced to pop his head within a lottery shop, and there he saw, with staring eyes, the drawing of the mammoth prize. "ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum; i wish i had as much at home: i'd like to know, as i'm a sinner, what lucky fellow is the winner?" conceive our traveler's amaze to hear again the hackneyed phrase. "what? no! not nick van stann again? faith! he's the luckiest of men. you may be sure we don't advance so rapidly as that in france: a house, the finest in the land; a lovely garden, nicely planned; a perfect angel of a wife, and gold enough to last a life; there never yet was mortal man so blest--as monsieur nick van stann!" next day the frenchman chanced to meet a pompous funeral in the street; and, asking one who stood close by what nobleman had pleased to die, was stunned to hear the old reply. the frenchman sighed and shook his head, "mon dieu! poor nick van stann is dead; with such a house, and such a wife, it must be hard to part with life; and then, to lose that mammoth prize,-- he wins, and, pop,--the winner dies! ah, well! his blessings came so fast, i greatly feared they could not last: and thus, we see, the sword of fate cuts down alike the small and great." [footnote *: nicht verstehen:--"i don't understand."] _john g. saxe._ armageddon marching down to armageddon-- brothers, stout and strong! let us cheer the way we tread on, with a soldier's song! faint we by the weary road, or fall we in the rout, dirge or pæan, death or triumph!-- let the song ring out! we are they who scorn the scorners-- love the lovers--hate none within the world's four corners-- all must share one fate; we are they whose common banner bears no badge nor sign, save the light which dyes it white-- the hope that makes it shine. we are they whose bugle rings, that all the wars may cease; we are they will pay the kings their cruel price for peace; we are they whose steadfast watchword is what christ did teach-- "each man for his brother first-- and heaven, then, for each." we are they who will not falter-- many swords or few-- till we make this earth the altar of a worship new; we are they who will not take from palace, priest or code, a meaner law than "brotherhood"-- a lower lord than god. marching down to armageddon-- brothers, stout and strong! ask not why the way we tread on is so rough and long! god will tell us when our spirits grow to grasp his plan! let us do our part to-day-- and help him, helping man! shall we even curse the madness which for "ends of state" dooms us to the long, long sadness of this human hate? let us slay in perfect pity those that must not live; vanquish, and forgive our foes-- or fall--and still forgive! we are those whose unpaid legions, in free ranks arrayed, massacred in many regions-- never once were stayed: we are they whose torn battalions, trained to bleed, not fly, make our agonies a triumph,-- conquer, while we die! therefore, down to armageddon-- brothers, bold and strong; cheer the glorious way we tread on, with this soldier song! let the armies of the old flags march in silent dread! death and life are one to us, who fight for quick and dead! _edwin arnold._ picciola it was a sergeant old and gray, well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage. went tramping in an army's wake along the turnpike of the village. for days and nights the winding host had through the little place been marching, and ever loud the rustics cheered, till every throat was hoarse and parching. the squire and farmer, maid and dame, all took the sight's electric stirring, and hats were waved and staves were sung, and kerchiefs white were countless whirring. they only saw a gallant show of heroes stalwart under banners, and, in the fierce heroic glow, 'twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas. the sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, where he behind in step was keeping; but, glancing down beside the road, he saw a little maid sit weeping. "and how is this?" he gruffly said, a moment pausing to regard her;-- "why weepest thou, my little chit?" and then she only cried the harder. "and how is this, my little chit?" the sturdy trooper straight repeated, "when all the village cheers us on, that you, in tears, apart are seated? "we march two hundred thousand strong, and that's a sight, my baby beauty, to quicken silence into song and glorify the soldier's duty." "it's very, very grand, i know," the little maid gave soft replying; "and father, mother, brother too, all say 'hurrah' while i am crying; "but think, oh, mr. soldier, think, how many little sisters' brothers are going all away to fight, and may be killed, as well as others!" "why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said, his brawny hand her curls caressing, "'tis left for little ones like thee to find that war's not all a blessing." and "bless thee!" once again he cried, then cleared his throat and looked indignant and marched away with wrinkled brow to stop the struggling tear benignant. and still the ringing shouts went up from doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; the pall behind the standard seen by one alone of all the village. the oak and cedar bend and writhe when roars the wind through gap and braken; but 'tis the tenderest reed of all that trembles first when earth is shaken. _robert henry newell._ the king's ring once in persia reigned a king who upon his signet ring graved a maxim true and wise which, if held before his eyes, gave him counsel at a glance fit for every change and chance. solemn words; and these are they: "even this shall pass away." trains of camels through the sand brought him gems from samarcand, fleets of galleys through the seas brought him pearls to match with these; but he counted not his gain-- treasurer of the mine and main, "what is wealth?" the king would say; "even this shall pass away." in the revels of his court at the zenith of the sport, when the palms of all his guests burned with clapping at his jests, he, amid his figs and wine, cried: "o loving friends of mine! pleasures come, but not to stay, even this shall pass away." fighting on a furious field once a javelin pierced his shield; soldiers with loud lament bore him bleeding to his tent, groaning with his tortured side. "pain is hard to bear," he cried; "but with patience day by day, even this shall pass away." struck with palsy, sere and old, waiting at the gates of gold, spake he with his dying breath: "life is done, but what is death?" then, in answer to the king, fell a sunbeam on his ring, showing by a heavenly ray: "even this shall pass away." _theodore tilton._ leaving the homestead you're going to leave the homestead, john, you're twenty-one to-day: and very sorry am i, john, to see you go away. you've labored late and early, john, and done the best you could; i ain't going to stop you, john, i wouldn't if i could. yet something of your feelings, john, i s'pose i'd ought to know, though many a day has passed away-- 'twas forty years ago-- when hope was high within me, john, and life lay all before, that i, with strong and measured stroke, "cut loose" and pulled from shore. the years they come and go, my boy, the years they come and go; and raven locks and tresses brown grow white as driven snow. my life has known its sorrows, john, its trials and troubles sore; yet god withal has blessed me, john, "in basket and in store." but one thing let me tell you, john, before you make a start, there's more in being honest, john, twice o'er than being smart. though rogues may seem to flourish, john, and sterling worth to fail, oh! keep in view the good and true; 'twill in the end prevail. don't think too much of money, john, and dig and delve and plan, and rake and scrape in every shape, to hoard up all you can. though fools may count their riches, john, in dollars and in cents, the best of wealth is youth and health, and good sound common sense. and don't be mean and stingy, john, but lay a little by of what you earn; you soon will learn how fast 'twill multiply. so when old age comes creeping on, you'll have a goodly store of wealth to furnish all your needs-- and maybe something more. there's shorter cuts to fortune, john, we see them every day; but those who save their self-respect climb up the good old way. "all is not gold that glitters," john, and makes the vulgar stare, and those we deem the richest, john, have oft the least to spare. don't meddle with your neighbors, john, their sorrows or their cares; you'll find enough to do, my boy, to mind your own affairs. the world is full of idle tongues-- you can afford to shirk! there's lots of people ready, john, to do such dirty work. and if amid the race for fame you win a shining prize, the humbler work of honest men you never should despise; for each one has his mission, john, in life's unchanging plan-- though lowly be his station, john, he is no less a man. be good, be pure, be noble, john; be honest, brave, be true; and do to others as you would that they should do to you; and put your trust in god, my boy, though fiery darts be hurled; then you can smile at satan's rage, and face a frowning world. good-by! may heaven guard and bless your footsteps day by day; the old house will be lonesome, john, when you are gone away. the cricket's song upon the hearth will have a sadder tone; the old familiar spots will be so lonely when you're gone. bernardo del carpio king alphonso of asturias had imprisoned the count saldana, about the time of the birth of the count's son bernardo. in an effort to secure his father's release, bernardo, when old enough, took up arms. finally the king offered bernardo possession of his father's person, in exchange for the castle of carpio and all the king's subjects there imprisoned. the cruel trick played by the king on bernardo is here described. the warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, and sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "i bring thee here my fortress-keys, i bring my captive train, i pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh break my father's chain!" "rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; mount thy good horse; and thou and i will meet him on his way." then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, and urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. and lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, with one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: "now haste, bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, the father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." his dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went; he reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; a lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took-- what was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? that hand was cold,--a frozen thing,--it dropped from his like lead! he looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead! a plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white, he met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight! up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? they hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze. they might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, for the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. "father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then; talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! he thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; he flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow: "no more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; my king is false, my hope betrayed, my father--oh, the worth, the glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! i thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! i would that there our kindred blood on spain's free soil had met! thou wouldst have known my spirit then;--for thee my fields were won; and thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train; and, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, and sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead: "came i not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? the voice, the glance, the heart i sought--give answer, where are they? if thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire; bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire. give me back him for whom i strove, for whom my blood was shed! thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head." he loosed the steed--his slack hand fell; upon the silent face he cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place. his hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain; his banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of spain. _felicia hemans._ mizpah go thou thy way, and i go mine, apart--but not afar. only a thin veil hangs between the pathways where we are, and god keep watch 'tween thee and me this is my prayer. he looks thy way--he looketh mine and keeps us near. i know not where thy road may lie nor which way mine will be, if thine will lead through parching sands and mine beside the sea. yet god keeps watch 'tween thee and me, so never fear. he holds thy hand--he claspeth mine and keeps us near. should wealth and fame perchance be thine and my lot lowly be, or you be sad and sorrowful and glory be for me, yet god keep watch 'tween thee and me, both are his care. one arm round me and one round thee will keep us near. i sigh sometimes to see thy face but since this may not be i leave thee to the love of him who cares for thee and me. "i'll keep ye both beneath my wings," this comforts--dear. one wing o'er thee--and one o'er me, so we are near. and though our paths be separate and thy way be not mine-- yet coming to the mercy seat my soul shall meet with thine. and "god keep watch 'tween thee and me" i'll whisper there. he blesses me--he blesses thee and we are near. god o thou eternal one! whose presence bright all space doth occupy, all motion guide-- unchanged through time's all-devastating flight! thou only god--there is no god beside! being above all beings! mighty one, whom none can comprehend and none explore, who fill'st existence with thyself alone-- embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,-- being whom we call god, and know no more! in its sublime research, philosophy may measure out the ocean-deep--may count the sands or the sun's rays--but, god! for thee there is no weight nor measure; none can mount up to thy mysteries:* reason's brightest spark, though kindled by thy light, in vain would try to trace thy counsels, infinite and dark: and thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, even like past moments in eternity. thou from primeval nothingness didst call first chaos, then existence--lord! in thee eternity had its foundation; all sprung forth from thee--of light, joy, harmony, sole origin--all life, all beauty thine; thy word created all, and doth create; thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; thou art and wert and shalt be! glorious! great! light-giving, life-sustaining potentate! thy chains the unmeasured universe surround-- upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath! thou the beginning with the end hast bound, and beautifully mingled life and death! as sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, so suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee; and as the spangles in the sunny rays shine round the silver snow, the pageantry of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. a million torches, lighted by thy hand, wander unwearied through the blue abyss-- they own thy power, accomplish thy command, all gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. what shall we call them? piles of crystal light-- a glorious company of golden streams-- lamps of celestial ether burning bright-- suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? but thou to these art as the noon to night. yes! as a drop of water in the sea, all this magnificence in thee is lost:-- what are ten thousand worlds compared to thee? and what am i then?--heaven's unnumbered host, though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed in all the glory of sublimest thought, is but an atom in the balance, weighed against thy greatness--is a cipher brought against infinity! what am i then? naught! naught! but the effluence of thy light divine, pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; yes! in my spirit doth thy spirit shine as shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. naught! but i live, and on hope's pinions fly eager toward thy presence; for in thee i live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, even to the throne of thy divinity. i am, o god! and surely thou must be! thou art!--directing, guiding all--thou art! direct my understanding then to thee; control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; though but an atom midst immensity, still i am something, fashioned by thy hand! i hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth-- on the last verge of mortal being stand. close to the realm where angels have their birth, just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! the chain of being is complete in me-- in me is matter's last gradation lost, and the next step is spirit--deity! i can command the lightning, and am dust! a monarch and a slave--a worm, a god! whence came i here, and how? so marvelously constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod lives surely through some higher energy; for from itself alone it could not be! creator, yes! thy wisdom and thy word created me! thou source of life and good! thou spirit of my spirit, and my lord! thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude filled me with an immortal soul, to spring over the abyss of death; and bade it wear the garments of eternal day, and wing its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, even to its source--to thee--its author there. o thoughts ineffable! o visions blest! though worthless our conceptions all of thee, yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast. and waft its homage to thy deity. god! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, thus seek thy presence--being wise and good! midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore; and when the tongue is eloquent no more the soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. _gabriel somanovitch derzhavin._ casabianca the boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm; a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though childlike form. the flames roll'd on--he would not go without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he called aloud: "say, father, say if yet my task is done?" he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. "speak, father!" once again he cried, "if i may yet be gone!" and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames roll'd on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair; and looked from that lone post of death in still, yet brave despair. and shouted but once more aloud, "my father! must i stay?" while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendor wild, they caught the flag on high, and streamed above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder sound-- the boy--oh! where was he? ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea! with mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part-- but the noblest thing that perished there was that young, faithful heart. _felicia hemans._ monterey we were not many,--we who stood before the iron sleet that day; yet many a gallant spirit would give half his years if he but could have been with us at monterey. now here, now there, the shot it hailed in deadly drifts of fiery spray, yet not a single soldier quailed when wounded comrades round them wailed their dying shout at monterey. and on, still on our column kept, through walls of flame, its withering way; where fell the dead, the living stept, still charging on the guns which swept the slippery streets of monterey. the foe himself recoiled aghast, when, striking where he strongest lay, we swooped his flanking batteries past, and braving full their murderous blast, stormed home the towers of monterey. our banners on those turrets wave, and there our evening bugles play; where orange boughs above their grave keep green the memory of the brave who fought and fell at monterey. we are not many, we who pressed beside the brave who fell that day; but who of us has not confessed he'd rather share their warrior rest, than not have been at monterey? _charles fenno hoffman._ the teacher's "if" if you can take your dreams into the classroom, and always make them part of each day's work-- if you can face the countless petty problems nor turn from them nor ever try to shirk-- if you can live so that the child you work with deep in his heart knows you to be a man-- if you can take "i can't" from out his language and put in place a vigorous "i can"-- if you can take love with you to the classroom, and yet on firmness never shut the door-- if you can teach a child the love of nature so that he helps himself to all her store-- if you can teach him life is what we make it, that he himself can be his only bar-- if you can tell him something of the heavens, or something of the wonder of a star-- if you, with simple bits of truth and honor, his better self occasionally reach-- and yet not overdo nor have him dub you as one who is inclined to ever preach-- if you impart to him a bit of liking for all the wondrous things we find in print-- yet have him understand that to be happy, play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint-- if you can give of all the best that's in you, and in the giving always happy be-- if you can find the good that's hidden somewhere deep in the heart of every child you see-- if you can do these things and all the others that teachers everywhere do every day-- you're in the work that you were surely meant for; take hold of it! know it's your place and stay! _r.j. gale._ the good shepherd there were ninety and nine of a flock, sleek and fine in a sheltering cote in the vale; but a lamb was away, on the mountain astray, unprotected within the safe pale. then the sleet and the rain on the mountain and plain, and the wind fiercely blowing a gale, and the night's growing dark, and the wolf's hungry bark stir the soul of the shepherd so hale. and he says, "hireling, go; for a lamb's in the snow and exposed to the wild hungry beast; 'tis no time to keep seat, nor to rest weary feet, nor to sit at a bounteous feast." then the hireling replied, "here you have at your side all your flock save this one little sheep. are the ninety and nine, all so safe and so fine, not enough for the shepherd to keep?" then the shepherd replied, "ah! this lamb from my side presses near, very near, to my heart. not its value in pay makes me urge in this way, but the longings and achings of heart." "let me wait till the day, o good shepherd, i pray; for i shudder to go in the dark on the mountain so high and its precipice nigh 'mong the wolves with their frightening bark." then the shepherd said, "no; surely some one must go who can rescue my lamb from the cold, from the wolf's hungry maw and the lion's fierce paw and restore it again to the fold." then the shepherd goes out with his cloak girt about and his rod and his staff in his hand. what cares he for the cold if his sheep to the fold he can bring from the dark mountain land? you can hear his clear voice as the mountains rejoice, "sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" up the hillside so steep, into caverns so deep, "sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" now he hears its weak "baa," and he answers it, "ah! sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" then its answering bleat hurries on his glad feet, and his arms gather up his lost sheep. wet and cold on his breast the lost lamb found its rest as he bore it adown to the fold. and the ninety and nine bleat for joy down the line, that it's safe from the wolf and the cold. then he said to his friends, "now let joy make amends for the steeps and the deeps i have crossed-- for the pelting of sleet and my sore, weary feet, for i've found the dear lamb that was lost." let the hirelings upbraid for the nights that he stayed on the mountains so rugged and high. surely never a jeer from my lips shall one hear, for--that poor lonely lambkin--was--i. while the eons shall roll o'er my glad ransomed soul i will praise the good shepherd above, for a place on his breast, for its comfort and rest, for his wonderful, wonderful love. _d. n. howe._ a sermon in rhyme if you have a friend worth loving, love him. yes, and let him know that you love him ere life's evening tinge his brow with sunset glow; why should good words ne'er be said of a friend--till he is dead? if you hear a song that thrills you, sung by any child of song, praise it. do not let the singer wait deserved praises long; why should one that thrills your heart lack that joy it may impart? if you hear a prayer that moves you by its humble pleading tone, join it. do not let the seeker bow before his god alone; why should not your brother share the strength of "two or three" in prayer? if you see the hot tears falling from a loving brother's eyes, share them, and by sharing, own your kinship with the skies; why should anyone be glad, when his brother's heart is sad? if a silver laugh goes rippling through the sunshine on his face, share it. 'tis the wise man's saying, for both grief and joy a place; there's health and goodness in the mirth in which an honest laugh has birth. if your work is made more easy by a friendly helping hand, say so. speak out brave and truly, ere the darkness veil the land. should a brother workman dear falter for a word of cheer? scatter thus your seed of kindness, all enriching as you go-- leave them, trust the harvest-giver; he will make each seed to grow. so, until its happy end, your life shall never lack a friend. the fortunate isles you sail and you seek for the fortunate isles, the old greek isles of the yellow bird's song? then steer right on through the watery miles, straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong. nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right; but on, straight on, and the isles are in sight, the fortunate isles, where the yellow birds sing and life lies girt with a golden ring. these fortunate isles, they are not far; they lie within reach of the lowliest door; you can see them gleam by the twilight star; you can hear them sing by the moon's white shore, nay, never look back! those leveled gravestones, they were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones of glory for souls that have sailed before and have set white feet on the fortunate shore. and what are the names of the fortunate isles? why, duty and love and a large content. lo! there are the isles of the watery miles that god let down from the firmament; lo! duty and love, and a true man's trust; your forehead to god and your feet in the dust; lo! duty and love, and a sweet babe's smiles, and there, o friend, are the fortunate isles. _joaquin miller._ what the choir sang about the new bonnet a foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, with a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it; and that the other maidens of the little town might know it, she thought she'd go to meeting the next sunday just to show it. but though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, the getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; so when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, and when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing. so this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; and she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before. "hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head. "hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said. this made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, that she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; for she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, with the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it. and she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, but pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair, till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it, had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet. which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find in every sabbath service but an echo of your mind; and the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers. _m. t. morrison._ work thou for pleasure work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve the thing thou lovest, though the body starve. who works for glory misses oft the goal; who works for money coins his very soul. work for work's sake then, and it well may be that these things shall be added unto thee. _kenyon cox._ the tin gee gee i was strolling one day down the lawther arcade, that place for children's toys, where you can purchase a dolly or spade for your good little girls and boys. and as i passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me: o, i am a colonel in a little cocked hat, and i ride on a tin gee gee; o, i am a colonel in a little cocked hat, and i ride on a tin gee gee. then i looked and a little tin soldier i saw, in his little cocked hat so fine. he'd a little tin sword that shone in the light as he led a glittering line of tin hussars, whose sabers flashed in a manner à la military. and that little tin soldier he rode at their head, so proud on his tin gee gee. then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed, so i patted his little tin head. what vexes your little tin soul? said i, and this is what he said: i've been on this stall a very long time, and i'm marked twenty-nine, as you see; whilst just on the shelf above my head, there's a fellow marked sixty-three. now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse, and i'm quite as good as he. so why mark me at twenty-nine, and him at sixty-three? there's a pretty little dolly girl over there, and i'm madly in love with she. but now that i'm only marked twenty-nine, she turns up her nose at me, she turns up her little wax nose at me, and carries on with sixty-three. and, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress; it's a dress i do admire, she has pearly blue eyes that open and shut when worked inside by a wire, and once on a time when the folks had gone, she used to ogle at me. but now that i'm only marked twenty-nine, she turns up her nose at me. she turns up her little snub nose at me, and carries on with sixty-three. cheer up, my little tin man, said i, i'll see what i can do. you're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame that she should so treat you. so i took down the label from the shelf above, and i labeled him sixty-three, and i marked the other one twenty-nine, which was _very, very_ wrong of me, but i felt so sorry for that little tin soul, as he rode on his tin gee gee. now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride, at being marked sixty-three, and that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more, for he'd risen in life, do you see? and it's so in this world; for i'm in love with a maiden of high degree; but i am only marked twenty-nine, and the other chap's sixty-three-- and a girl never looks at twenty-nine with a possible sixty-three! _fred cape._ "tommy" i went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, the publican 'e up an' sez, "we serve no red-coats here." the girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, i outs into the street again, an' to myself sez i: o it's tommy this, an' tommy that, an' "tommy go away"; but it's "thank you, mister atkins," when the band begins to play, the band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, o it's "thank you, mister atkins," when the band begins to play. i went into a theater as sober as could be, they give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; they sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, but when it comes to fightin', lord! they'll shove me in the stalls. for it's tommy this, an' tommy that, an' "tommy wait outside"; but it's "special train for atkins," when the trooper's on the tide, the troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc. o makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; an' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. then it's tommy this, an' tommy that, an' "tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" but it's "thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, the drums begin to roll, my boys, etc. we aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, but single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; an' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints. while it's tommy this, an' tommy that, an' "tommy fall be'ind"; but it's "please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. there's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc. you talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: we'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face, the widow's uniform[ ] is not the soldierman's disgrace. for it's tommy this, an' tommy that, an' "chuck him out, the brute!" but it's "saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; an' it's tommy this, an' tommy that, an' anything you please; an' tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that tommy sees! _rudyard kipling._ [footnote : "widow's uniform"--i. e., uniform of a soldier of queen victoria, who was often affectionately called "the widow of windsor."] the mystic weaver the weaver at his loom is sitting, throws his shuttle to and fro; foot and treadle, hand and pedal, upward, downward, hither, thither, how the weaver makes them go: as the weaver wills they go. up and down the web is plying, and across the woof is flying; what a rattling! what a battling! what a shuffling! what a scuffling! as the weaver makes his shuttle hither, thither, scud and scuttle. threads in single, threads in double; how they mingle, what a trouble! every color, what profusion! every motion, what confusion! while the web and woof are mingling, signal bells above are jingling,-- telling how each figure ranges, telling when the color changes, as the weaver makes his shuttle hither, thither, scud and scuttle. the weaver at his loom is sitting, throws his shuttle to and fro; 'mid the noise and wild confusion, well the weaver seems to know, as he makes his shuttle go, what each motion and commotion, what each fusion and confusion, in the grand result will show. weaving daily, singing gaily, as he makes his busy shuttle hither, thither, scud and scuttle. the weaver at his loom is sitting, throws his shuttle to and fro; see you not how shape and order from the wild confusion grow, as he makes his shuttle go?-- as the web and woof diminish, grows beyond the beauteous finish,-- tufted plaidings, shapes, and shadings; all the mystery now is history;-- and we see the reason subtle, why the weaver makes his shuttle hither, thither, scud and scuttle. see the mystic weaver sitting high in heaven--his loom below; up and down the treadles go; takes for web the world's long ages, takes for woof its kings and sages, takes the nobles and their pages, takes all stations and all stages,-- thrones are bobbins in his shuttle; armies make them scud and scuttle; web into the woof must flow, up and down the nations go, as the weaver wills they go; men are sparring, powers are jarring, upward, downward, hither, thither just like puppets in a show. up and down the web is plying, and across the woof is flying, what a battling! what a rattling! what a shuffling! what a scuffling! as the weaver makes his shuttle hither, thither, scud and scuttle. calmly see the mystic weaver throw his shuttle to and fro; 'mid the noise and wild confusion. well the weaver seems to know what each motion and commotion, what each fusion and confusion, in the grand result will show, as the nations, kings and stations, upward, downward, hither, thither, as in mystic dances, go. in the present all is mystery; in the past, 'tis beauteous history. o'er the mixing and the mingling, how the signal bells are jingling! see you not the weaver leaving finished work behind, in weaving? see you not the reason subtle, as the web and woof diminish, changing into beauteous finish, _why_ the weaver makes his shuttle, hither, thither, scud and scuttle? glorious wonder! what a weaving! to the dull beyond believing! such, no fabled ages know. only _faith_ can see the mystery, how, along the aisle of history where the feet of sages go, loveliest to the purest eyes, grand the mystic tapet lies,-- soft and smooth, and even spreading every figure has its plaidings, as if made for angels' treading; tufted circles touching ever, inwrought figures fading never; brighter form and softer shadings; each illumined,--what a riddle from a cross that gems the middle. 'tis a saying--some reject it-- that its light is all reflected; that the tapet's hues are given by a sun that shines in heaven! 'tis believed, by all believing, that great god himself is weaving,-- bringing out the world's dark mystery, in the light of truth and history; and as web and woof diminish, comes the grand and glorious finish; when begin the golden ages long foretold by seers and sages. the mortgage on the farm 'tis gone at last, and i am glad; it stayed a fearful while, and when the world was light and gay, i could not even smile; it stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm; no matter where i looked, i saw the mortgage on the farm. i'll tell you how it happened, for i want the world to know how glad i am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow; i'm just as happy as a lark. no cause for rude alarm confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm. the children they were growing up and they were smart and trim. to some big college in the east we'd sent our youngest, jim; and every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed he tacked some latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read. the girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes, they said the house was out of style and far behind the times; they suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm-- another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm. we took a cranky notion, hannah jane and me one day, while we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way; the old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears. we built it o'er and when 'twas done, i wish you could have seen it, it was a most tremendous thing--i really didn't mean it; why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town and not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down. i bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile, but, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while; no matter what they played for me, their music had no charm, for every tune said plainly: "there's a mortgage on the farm!" i worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slave to meet that grisly interest; i tried hard to be brave, and oft when i came home at night with tired brain and arm, the chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.-- but we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row, the girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go; and when from college came our jim with laurels on his brow, i led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow. he something said in latin which i didn't understand, but it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land; and when the year had ended and empty were the cribs, we found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs. to-day i harnessed up the team and thundered off to town, and in the lawyer's sight i planked the last bright dollar down; and when i trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm, the old red rooster crowed his best: "no mortgage on the farm!" i'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day, the skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away. the girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm, and jim can go to congress, with no mortgage on the farm! the legend beautiful "hadst thou stayed, i must have fled!" that is what the vision said. in his chamber all alone, kneeling on the floor of stone, prayed the monk in deep contrition for his sins of indecision, prayed for greater self-denial in temptation and in trial; it was noonday by the dial, and the monk was all alone. suddenly, as if it lightened, an unwonted splendor brightened all within him and without him in that narrow cell of stone; and he saw the blessed vision of our lord, with light elysian like a vesture wrapped about him, like a garment round him thrown. not as crucified and slain not in agonies of pain, not with bleeding hands and feet, did the monk his master see; but as in the village street, in the house or harvest field, halt and lame and blind he healed, when he walked in galilee. in as attitude imploring, hands upon his bosom crossed, wondering, worshiping, adoring, knelt the monk, in rapture lost, lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, who am i that thus thou deignest to reveal thyself to me? who am i, that from the center of thy glory thou shouldst enter this poor cell, my guest to be? then amid his exaltation, loud the convent bell appalling, from its belfrey calling, calling, rang through court and corridor with persistent iteration, he had never heard before. it was now the appointed hour when alike in shine or shower, winter's cold or summer's heat, to the convent portals came all the blind and halt and lame, all the beggars of the street, for their daily dole of food dealt them by the brotherhood; and their almoner was he who upon his bended knees rapt in silent ecstasy of divinest self-surrender, saw the vision and the splendor. deep distress and hesitation mingled with his adoration; should he go, or should he stay? should he leave the poor to wait hungry at the convent gate, till the vision passed away? should he slight his radiant guest, slight this visitant celestial for a crowd of ragged, bestial beggars at the convent gate? would the vision there remain? would the vision come again? then a voice within his breast whispered audible and clear, as if to the outward ear: "do thy duty; that is best; leave unto thy lord the rest!" straightway to his feet he started, and with longing look intent on the blessed vision bent, slowly from his cell departed, slowly on his errand went. at the gate the poor were waiting, looking through the iron grating, with that terror in the eye that is only seen in those who amid their wants and woes hear the sound of doors that close. and of feet that pass them by: grown familiar with disfavor, grown familiar with the savor of the bread by which men die; but to-day, they knew not why, like the gate of paradise seemed the convent gate to rise, like a sacrament divine seemed to them the bread and wine. in his heart the monk was praying, thinking of the homeless poor, what they suffer and endure; what we see not, what we see; and the inward voice was saying: "whatsoever thing thou doest to the least of mine and lowest, that thou doest unto me." unto me! but had the vision come to him in beggar's clothing, come a mendicant imploring, would he then have knelt adoring, or have listened with derision, and have turned away with loathing? thus his conscience put the question, full of troublesome suggestion, as at length, with hurried pace, toward his cell he turned his face, and beheld the convent bright with a supernatural light, like a luminous cloud expanding over floor and wall and ceiling. but he paused with awe-struck feeling at the threshold of his door, for the vision still was standing as he left it there before, when the convent bell appalling, from its belfry calling, calling, summoned him to feed the poor. through the long hour intervening it had waited his return, and he felt his bosom burn, comprehending all the meaning, when the blessed vision said: "hadst thou stayed, i must have fled." _henry w. longfellow._ somebody's darling into a ward of the whitewashed halls, where the dead and dying lay, wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, somebody's darling was borne one day-- somebody's darling, so young and so brave, wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, the lingering light of his boyhood's grace. matted and damp are the curls of gold, kissing the snow of the fair young brow, pale are the lips of delicate mold-- somebody's darling is dying now. back from his beautiful blue-veined brow brush all the wandering waves of gold, cross his hands on his bosom now-- somebody's darling is still and cold. kiss him once for somebody's sake, murmur a prayer both soft and low; one bright curl from its fair mates take-- they were somebody's pride, you know. somebody's hand hath rested there-- was it a mother's, soft and white? and have the lips of a sister fair been baptized in their waves of light? god knows best! he was somebody's love; somebody's heart enshrined him there; somebody wafted his name above, night and morn on the wings of prayer. somebody wept when he marched away, looking so handsome, brave, and grand; somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, somebody clung to his parting hand. somebody's waiting and watching for him-- yearning to hold him again to her heart; and there he lies with his blue eyes dim, and the smiling, child-like lips apart. tenderly bury the fair young dead, pausing to drop on his grave a tear; carve in the wooden slab at his head, "somebody's darling slumbers here." _maria la coste._ the pride of battery b south mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, and over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. at last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan; at last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began. when, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood. a tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, (of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.) and as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head in grave salute. "and who are _you_?" at length the sergeant said. "and where's your home?" he growled again. she lisped out, "who is me? why, don't you know? i'm little jane, the pride of battery b. my home? why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead; and so i ride the guns all day along with sergeant ned. and i've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too; and i march beside the drummer boy on sundays at review. but now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke, and so they're cross--why, even ned won't play with me and joke. and the big colonel said to-day--i hate to hear him swear-- he'd give a leg for a good pipe like the yanks had over there. and so i thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still, i'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill and beg, good mister yankee men, you'd give me some 'lone jack.' please do: when we get some again, i'll surely bring it back. indeed i will, for ned--says he,--if i do what i say, i'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay." we brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh as each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half. to kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men, until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'tention squad!" and then we gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid, and watched her toddle out of sight--or else 'twas tears that hid her tiny form--nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word, till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard! we sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around; a baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound. that's all--save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell, and through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell, our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of battery b. _frank h. gassaway._ the wood-box it was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide, and the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside, and the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear, seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near. flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid, and a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid, and it hadn't any bottom--or, at least, it seemed that way when you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play. when the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still, and the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill, and the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll, and you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"-- louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar, you could hear the wood-box holler, "come and fill me up once more!" and the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop, like it said, "another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!" in the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm, and the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm, and your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam-- then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream, came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee, "would you like to sleep this mornin'? you git up and 'tend to me!" land! how plain it is this minute--shed and barn and drifted snow, and the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row. never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball, but that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all; you might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay, but jest start an injun story, and 'twas empty right away. seemed as if a spite was in it, and although i might forgit all the other chores that plagued me, i can hate that wood-box yit: and when i look back at boyhood--shakin' off the cares of men-- still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "fill me up again!" _joseph c. lincoln._ inasmuch good deacon roland--"may his tribe increase!"-- awoke one sabbath morn feeling at peace with god and all mankind. his wants supplied, he read his bible and then knelt beside the family altar, and uplifted there his voice to god in fervent praise and prayer; in praise for blessings past, so rich and free, and prayer for benedictions yet to be. then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence, he sat him down complacently, and thence surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain, his flocks and herds and fields of golden grain; his meadows waving like the billowy seas, and orchards filled with over-laden trees, quoth he: "how vast the products of my lands; abundance crowns the labor of my hands, great is my substance; god indeed is good, who doth in love provide my daily food." while thus he sat in calm soliloquy, a voice aroused him from his reverie,-- a childish voice from one whose shoeless feet brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat; "please mister, i have eaten naught to-day; if i had money i would gladly pay for bread; but i am poor, and cannot buy my breakfast; mister, would you mind if i should ask for something, just for what you call cold pieces from your table, that is all?" the deacon listened to the child's request, the while his penetrating eye did rest on him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed the agitation of the heart concealed within the breast of one unskilled in ruse, who asked not alms like one demanding dues. then said the deacon: "i am not inclined to give encouragement to those who find it easier to beg for bread betimes, than to expend their strength in earning dimes wherewith to purchase it. a parent ought to furnish food for those whom he has brought into this world, where each one has his share of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care. i sympathize with you, my little lad, your destitution makes me feel so sad; but, for the sake of those who should supply your wants, i must your earnest plea deny; and inasmuch as giving food to you would be providing for your parents, too, thus fostering vagrancy and idleness, i cannot think such charity would bless who gives or takes; and therefore i repeat, i cannot give you anything to eat." before this "vasty deep" of logic stood the child nor found it satisfying food. nor did he tell the tale he might have told of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould, but quickly shrank away to find relief in giving vent to his rekindled grief, while deacon roland soon forgot the appeal in meditating on his better weal. ere long the sabbath bells their peals rang out to summon worshippers, with hearts devout, to wait on god and listen to his word; and then the deacon's pious heart was stirred; and in the house of god he soon was found engaged in acts of worship most profound. wearied, however, with his week-day care, he fell asleep before the parson's prayer was ended; then he dreamed he died and came to heaven's grand portal, and announced his name: "i'm deacon roland, called from earth afar, to join the saints; please set the gates ajar, that i may 'join the everlasting song,' and mingle ever with the ransomed throng." then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim: "depart from me! you cannot enter here! i never knew you, for indeed, howe'er you may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act--" the deacon woke to find it all a dream just as the minister announced his theme: "my text," said he, "doth comfort only such as practice charity; for 'inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these my little ones' saith he who holds the keys of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,' and i will give you immortality." straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew, and from the church in sudden haste withdrew, and up the highway ran, on love's swift feet to overtake the child of woe, and greet him as the worthy representative of christ the lord and to him freely give all needful good, that thus he might atone for the neglect which he before had shown. thus journeying, god directed all his way, o'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay beside the road bemoaning his sad fate. and then the deacon said, "my child, 'tis late; make haste and journey with me to my home; to guide you thither, i myself have come; and you shall have the food you asked in vain, for god himself hath made my duty plain; if he demand it, all i have is thine; shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine." and as they journeyed toward the deacon's home, the child related how he came to roam, until the listening deacon understood the touching story of his orphanhood. then, finding in the little waif a gem worthy to deck the saviour's diadem, he drew him to his loving breast, and said, "my child, you shall by me be clothed and fed; nor shall you go from hence again to roam while god in love provides for us a home." and as the weeks and months roll on apace, the deacon held the lad in love's embrace; and being childless did on him confer the boon of sonship. thus the almoner of god's great bounty to the destitute the deacon came to be; and as the fruit of having learned to keep the golden rule his charity became all-bountiful; and from thenceforth he lived to benefit mankind; and when in life's great book were writ their names who heeded charity's request, lo! deacon roland's "name led all the rest." _s.v.r. ford._ no sects in heaven talking of sects quite late one eve, what one and another of saints believe, that night i stood in a troubled dream by the side of a darkly-flowing stream. and a "churchman" down to the river came, when i heard a strange voice call his name, "good father, stop; when you cross this tide you must leave your robes on the other side." but the aged father did not mind, and his long gown floated out behind as down to the stream his way he took, his hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book. "i'm bound for heaven, and when i'm there i shall want my book of common prayer, and though i put on a starry crown, i should feel quite lost without my gown." then he fixed his eye on the shining track, but his gown was heavy and held him back, and the poor old father tried in vain, a single step in the flood to gain. i saw him again on the other side, but his silk gown floated on the tide, and no one asked, in that blissful spot, if he belonged to "the church" or not. then down to the river a quaker strayed; his dress of a sober hue was made, "my hat and coat must be all of gray, i cannot go any other way." then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin and staidly, solemnly, waded in, and his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight over his forehead, so cold and white. but a strong wind carried away his hat, and he sighed a few moments over that, and then, as he gazed to the farther shore the coat slipped off and was seen no more. poor, dying quaker, thy suit of gray is quietly sailing--away--away, but thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow, whether thy brim be broad or narrow. next came dr. watts with a bundle of psalms tied nicely up in his aged arms, and hymns as many, a very wise thing, that the people in heaven, "all round," might sing. but i thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, as he saw that the river ran broad and high, and looked rather surprised, as one by one, the psalms and hymns in the wave went down. and after him, with his mss., came wesley, the pattern of godliness, but he cried, "dear me, what shall i do? the water has soaked them through and through." and there, on the river, far and wide, away they went on the swollen tide, and the saint, astonished, passed through alone, without his manuscripts, up to the throne. then gravely walking, two saints by name, down to the stream together came, but as they stopped at the river's brink, i saw one saint from the other shrink. "sprinkled or plunged--may i ask you, friend, how you attained to life's great end?" "_thus_, with a few drops on my brow"; "but i have been _dipped_, as you'll see me now. "and i really think it will hardly do, as i'm 'close communion,' to cross with you. you're bound, i know, to the realms of bliss, but you must go that way, and i'll go this." and straightway plunging with all his might, away to the left--his friend at the right, apart they went from this world of sin, but how did the brethren "enter in"? and now where the river was rolling on, a presbyterian church went down; of women, there seemed an innumerable throng, but the men i could count as they passed along. and concerning the road they could never agree, the _old_ or the _new_ way, which it could be; nor ever a moment paused to think that both would lead to the river's brink. and a sound of murmuring long and loud came ever up from the moving crowd, "you're in the old way, and i'm in the new, that is the false, and this is the true": or, "i'm in the old way, and you're in the new, _that_ is the false, and _this_ is the true." but the brethren only seemed to speak, modest the sisters walked, and meek, and if ever one of them chanced to say what troubles she met with on the way, how she longed to pass to the other side, nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, a voice arose from the brethren then, "let no one speak but the 'holy men,' for have ye not heard the words of paul? 'oh, let the women keep silence all.'" i watched them long in my curious dream. till they stood by the border of the stream, then, just as i thought, the two ways met. but all the brethren were talking yet, and would talk on, till the heaving tide carried them over, side by side; side by side, for the way was one, the toilsome journey of life was done, and priest and quaker, and all who died, came out alike on the other side; no forms or crosses, or books had they, no gowns of silk, or suits of gray, no creeds to guide them, or mss., for all had put on "christ's righteousness." _elizabeth h. jocelyn cleaveland._ the railroad crossing i can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick; but 'pears to me i got a most outlandish heavy lick: it broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out. but take a seat: i'll try and tell jest how it kem about. you see, i'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine, a-haulin' down a load o' corn to ebenezer kline, and drivin' slow; for, jest about a day or two before, the off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore. you know the railroad cuts across the road at martin's hole: well, thar i seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole; i thought i'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said, and so i stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, and read. i ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so i had to spell, i started kinder cautious like, with r-a-i and l; and that spelt "rail" as clear as mud; r-o-a-d was "road." i lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and that 'ere much i knowed. c-r-o and double s, with i-n-g to boot, made "crossing" jest as plain as noah webster dared to do't. "railroad crossing"--good enough!--l double-o-k, "look"; and i wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a book. o-u-t spelt "out" just right; and there it was, "look out," i's kinder cur'us like, to know jest what't was all about; f-o-r and t-h-e; 'twas then "look out for the--" and then i tried the next word; it commenced with e-n-g. i'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful whack; a thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the track; the hosses went to davy jones, the wagon went to smash, and i was histed seven yards above the tallest ash. i didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two; but, though i'm crippled up a heap, i sorter struggled through; it ain't the pain, nor 'taint the loss o' that 'ere team of mine; but, stranger, how i'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign! _hezekiah strong._ the sunset city i turn back the leaves of history. on yon pacific shore a world-known city's fall and rise shall thrill your hearts once more. 'twas april; nineteen-six the year; old san francisco lay effulgent in the splendor of the dying orb of day that bathed in flood of crimson light mount tamalpais' lonely height and kissed the sister towns "goodnight" across the misty bay. it burst in glory on the hills, lit up the princely homes, and gleamed from lofty towers and spires and flashed from gilded domes; it glorified the massive blocks caught in its widening flow, engulfed the maze of streets and parks that stretched away below, till marble white and foliage green and vales of gray, and silvery sheen of ocean's surface vast, serene, were tinted by its glow. the tranquil murmurs of the deep were borne on balmy air all odorous with lily breath and roses sweet and rare. the zephyrs sang a lullaby as the slow, fiery ball ended its trail of gorgeousness behind horizon's wall. then gray absorbed each rainbow hue and dark the beauteous landscape grew as shadowy evening softly drew her curtain over all. ii that night around the festal board, 'mid incandescence gay, sat pomp and pride and wealth and power, in sumptuous array, that night the happy, careless throng were all on pleasure bent, and beauty in her jewelled robes to ball and opera went. 'mid feasting, laughter, song and jest; by music's soothing tones caressed; the sunset city sank to rest in peace, secure, content. iii unconscious of approaching doom, old san francisco sleeps while from the east, all smilingly, the april morning creeps. see! playful sunbeams tinge with gold the mountains in the sky, and hazy clouds of gray unfold--but, hark! what means that cry? the ground vibrates with sadden shock. the buildings tremble, groan and rock. wild fears the waking senses mock, and some wake but to die. a frightful subterranean force the earth's foundation shakes; the city quivers in the throes of fierce, successive quakes, and massive structures thrill like giant oaks before the blast; into the streets with deafening crash the frailer ones are cast. half garbed, the multitude rush out in frantic haste, with prayer and shout, to join the panic stricken rout. ho! death is marching past. a rumbling noise! the streets upheave, and sink again, like waves; and shattered piles and shapeless wrecks are strewn with human graves. danger at every corner lurks. destruction fills the air. death-laden showers of mortar, bricks, are falling everywhere. iv "_fire! fire!_" and lo! the dread fiend starts. mothers with babes clasped to their hearts are struggling for the open parts in frenzy of despair. a hundred tiny tongues of flame forth from the ruins burst. no water! god! what shall we do to slake their quenchless thirst? the shocks have broken all the mains! "_use wine!_" the people cry. the red flames laugh like drunken fiends; they stagger as to die, then up again in fury spring, on high their crimson draperies fling; from block to block they leap and swing, and smoke clouds hide the sky. ha! from the famed presidio that guards the golden gate come funston and his regulars to match their strength with fate. the soldiers and the citizens are fighting side by side to check that onslaught of red wrath, to stem destruction's tide. with roar, and boom, and blare, and blast, an open space is cleared at last. the fiends of fury gallop past with flanks outstretched and wide; around the city's storehouses they wreathe and twine and dance, and wealth and splendor shrivel up before their swift advance. before their devastating breath the stricken people flee. "mine, mine your treasures are!" cried death, and laughs in fiendish glee. into that vortex of red hell sink church and theatre, store, hotel. with thunderous roar and hissing yell on sweeps the crimson sea. again with charge of dynamite the lurid clouds are riven; again with heat and sulphur smoke the troops are backward driven. all day, all night, all day again, with that infernal host they strive in vain for mastery. each vantage gained is lost,-- on comes the bellowing flood of flame in furious wrath its own to claim; resistless in its awful aim each space is bridged and crossed. ah god! the miles and miles of waste! one half the city gone! and westward now--toward van ness--the roaring flames roll on. "blow up that mile of palaces!" it is the last command, and there, at broad van ness, the troops make their heroic stand. the fight is now for life--sweet life, for helpless babe and homeless wife-- the culmination of the strife spectacularly grand. on sweeps the hurricane of fire. the fatal touch is given. the detonation of the blast goes shrieking up to heaven. the mansions of bonanza kings are tottering to their doom; that swirling tide of fiery fate halts at the gaping tomb. beyond the cataclysm's brink, the multitude, too dazed to think, behold the red waves rise and--sink into the smoldering gloom. v the fire has swept the waterfront and burned the mission down, the business section--swallowed up, and wiped out chinatown-- full thirty thousand homes destroyed, nob hill in ashes lies, and ghastly skeletons of steel on market street arise. a gruesome picture everywhere! 'tis desolation grim and bare waits artisan and millionaire beneath rank sulphurous skies. to-night, within the city parks, famished, benumbed and mute, two hundred thousand refugees, homeless and destitute! upon the hard, cold ground they crouch--the wrecks of pomp and pride; milady and the city waifs are huddled side by side. and there, 'neath shelter rude and frail, we hear the new-born infants wail, while' nations read the tragic tale--how san francisco died. vi prophecy-- not dead! though maimed, her soul yet lives--indomitable will-- the faith, the hope, the spirit bold nor quake nor fire can kill. to-morrow hearts shall throb again with western enterprise, and from the ruins of to-day a city shall arise-- a monument of beauty great reared by the conquerors of fate-- the city of the golden gate and matchless sunset skies! vii fulfillment-- reborn, rebuilt, she rose again, far vaster in expanse-- a radiant city smiling from the ashes of romance! a san francisco glorified, more beauteous than of yore, enthroned upon her splendid hills, queen of the sunset shore; her flags of industry unfurled, her portals open to the world! thus, in the book of destiny, she lives for evermore. _isabel ambler gilman._ autumn a dirge the autumn is old; the sere leaves are flying; he hath gathered up gold, and now he is dying: old age, begin sighing! the vintage is ripe; the harvest is heaping; but some that have sowed have no riches for reaping:-- poor wretch, fall a-weeping! the year's in the wane; there is nothing adorning; the night has no eve, and the day has no morning; cold winter gives warning. the rivers run chill; the red sun is sinking; and i am grown old, and life is fast shrinking; here's enow for sad thinking! _thomas hood_. grandmother's quilt why, yes, dear, we can put it by. it does seem out of place on top of these down comforts and this spread of silk and lace, you see, i'm used to having it lie so, across my feet, but maybe i won't need it here, with this nice furnace heat; i made it? yes, dear, long ago. 'twas lots of work, you think? oh, not so much. my rose quilt, now, all white and green and pink, is really handsome. this is just a plain, log cabin block, pieced out of odds and ends; but still--now that's your papa's frock before he walked, and this bit here is his first little suit. i trimmed it up with silver braid. my, but he did look cute! that red there in the centers, was your aunt ruth's for her name, her grandmother almost clothed the child, before the others came. those plaids? the younger girls', they were. i dressed them just alike. and this was baby winnie's sack--the precious little tyke! ma wore this gown to visit me (they drove the whole way then). and little edson wore this waist. he never came again. this lavender par'matta was your great-aunt jane's--poor dear! mine was a sprig, with the lilac ground; see, in the corner here. such goods were high in war times. ah, that scrap of army blue; your bright eyes spied it! yes, dear child, that has its memories, too. they sent him home on furlough once--our soldier brother ned; but somewhere, now, the dear boy sleeps among the unknown dead. that flowered patch? well, now, to think you'd pick that from the rest! why, dearie--yes, it's satin ribbed--that's grandpa's wedding vest! just odds and ends! no great for looks. my rose quilt's nicer, far, or the one in basket pattern, or the double-pointed star. but, somehow--what! we'll leave it here? the bed won't look so neat, but i think i would sleep better with it so, across my feet. the two angels two angels, one of life and one of death, passed o'er our village as the morning broke; the dawn was on their faces, and beneath, the sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. their attitude and aspect were the same, alike their features and their robes of white; but one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, and one with asphodels, like flakes of light. i saw them pause on their celestial way; then said i, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray the place where thy beloved are at rest!" and he who wore the crown of asphodels, descending, at my door began to knock, and my soul sank within me, as in wells the waters sink before an earthquake's shock. i recognized the nameless agony, the terror and the tremor and the pain, that oft before had filled or haunted me, and now returned with threefold strength again. the door i opened to my heavenly guest, and listened, for i thought i heard god's voice; and, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. then with a smile, that filled the house with light, "my errand is not death, but life," he said; and ere i answered, passing out of sight, on his celestial embassy he sped. 'twas at thy door, o friend! and not at mine, the angel with the amaranthine wreath, pausing, descended, and with, voice divine, whispered a word that had a sound like death. then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, a shadow on those features fair and thin; and softly, from that hushed and darkened room, two angels issued, where but one went in. all is of god! if he but waves his hand, the mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, till, with a smile of light on sea and land, lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. angels of life and death alike are his; without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, against his messengers to shut the door? _henry w. longfellow._ the witch's daughter it was the pleasant harvest-time, when cellar-bins are closely stowed, and garrets bend beneath their load, and the old swallow-haunted barns-- brown-gabled, long, and full of seams through which the moted sunlight streams-- and winds blow freshly in, to shake the red plumes of the roosted cocks, and the loose hay-mow's scented locks-- are filled with summer's ripened stores, its odorous grass and barley sheaves, from their low scaffolds to their eaves. on esek harden's oaken floor, with many an autumn threshing worn, lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. and thither came young men and maids, beneath a moon that, large and low, lit that sweet eve of long ago, they took their places; some by chance, and others by a merry voice or sweet smile guided to their choice. how pleasantly the rising moon, between the shadow of the mows, looked on them through the great elm-boughs!-- on sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, on girlhood with its solid curves of healthful strength and painless nerves! and jests went round, and laughs that made the house-dog answer with his howl, and kept astir the barn-yard fowl. and quaint old songs their fathers sung, in derby dales and yorkshire moors, ere norman william trod their shores; and tales, whose merry license shook the fat sides of the saxon thane, forgetful of the hovering dane! but still the sweetest voice was mute that river-valley ever heard from lip of maid or throat of bird; for mabel martin sat apart, and let the hay-mow's shadow 'fall upon the loveliest face of all. she sat apart, as one forbid, who knew that none would condescend to own the witch-wife's child a friend. the seasons scarce had gone their round, since curious thousands thronged to see her mother on the gallows-tree; and mocked the palsied limbs of age, that faltered on the fatal stairs, and wan lip trembling with its prayers! few questioned of the sorrowing child, or, when they saw the mother die, dreamed of the daughter's agony. they went up to their homes that day, as men and christians justified: god willed it, and the wretch had died! dear god and father of us all, forgive our faith in cruel lies,-- forgive the blindness that denies! forgive thy creature when he takes, for the all-perfect love thou art, some grim creation of his heart. cast down our idols, overturn our bloody altars; let us see thyself in thy humanity! poor mabel from her mother's grave crept to her desolate hearth-stone, and wrestled with her fate alone; with love, and anger, and despair, the phantoms of disordered sense, the awful doubts of providence! the school-boys jeered her as they passed, and, when she sought the house of prayer, her mother's curse pursued her there. and still o'er many a neighboring door she saw the horseshoe's curved charm, to guard against her mother's harm;-- that mother, poor, and sick, and lame, who daily, by the old arm-chair, folded her withered hands in prayer;-- who turned, in salem's dreary jail, her worn old bible o'er and o'er, when her dim eyes could read no more! sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept her faith, and trusted that her way, so dark, would somewhere meet the day. and still her weary wheel went round, day after day, with no relief: small leisure have the poor for grief. so in the shadow mabel sits; untouched by mirth she sees and hears, her smile is sadder than her tears. but cruel eyes have found her out, and cruel lips repeat her name, and taunt her with her mother's shame. she answered not with railing words, but drew her apron o'er her face, and, sobbing, glided from the place. and only pausing at the door, her sad eyes met the troubled gaze of one who, in her better days, had been her warm and steady friend, ere yet her mother's doom had made even esek harden half afraid. he felt that mute appeal of tears, and, starting, with an angry frown hushed all the wicked murmurs down, "good neighbors mine," he sternly said, "this passes harmless mirth or jest; i brook no insult to my guest. "she is indeed her mother's child; but god's sweet pity ministers unto no whiter soul than hers. let goody martin rest in peace; i never knew her harm a fly, and witch or not, god knows,--not i. i know who swore her life away; and, as god lives, i'd not condemn an indian dog on word of them." poor mabel, in her lonely home, sat by the window's narrow pane, white in the moonlight's silver rain. the river, on its pebbled rim, made music such as childhood knew; the door-yard tree was whispered through by voices such as childhood's ear had heard in moonlights long ago; and through the willow boughs below she saw the rippled waters shine; beyond, in waves of shade and light the hills rolled off into the night. sweet sounds and pictures mocking so the sadness of her human lot, she saw and heard, but heeded not. she strove to drown her sense of wrong, and, in her old and simple way, to teach, her bitter heart to pray. poor child! the prayer, began in faith, grew to a low, despairing cry of utter misery: "let me die! oh! take me from the scornful eyes, and hide me where the cruel speech and mocking finger may not reach! "i dare not breathe my mother's name; a daughter's right i dare not crave to weep above her unblest grave! let me not live until my heart, with few to pity, and with none to love me, hardens into stone. o god! have mercy on thy child, whose faith in thee grows weak and small, and take me ere i lose it all." the broadest lands in all the town, the skill to guide, the power to awe, were harden's; and his word was law. none dared withstand him to his face, but one sly maiden spake aside: "the little witch is evil-eyed! her mother only killed a cow, or witched a churn or dairy-pan; but she, forsooth, must charm a man!" a shadow on the moonlight fell, and murmuring wind and wave became a voice whose burden was her name. had then god heard her? had he sent his angel down? in flesh and blood, before her esek harden stood! he laid his hand upon her arm: "dear mabel, this no more shall be; who scoffs at you, must scoff at me. you know rough esek harden well; and if he seems no suitor gay, and if his hair is mixed with gray, the maiden grown shall never find his heart less warm than when she smiled upon his knees, a little child!" her tears of grief were tears of joy, as folded in his strong embrace, she looked in esek harden's face. "o truest friend of all!" she said, "god bless you for your kindly thought, and make me worthy of my lot!" he led her through his dewy fields, to where the swinging lanterns glowed, and through the doors the huskers showed. "good friends and neighbors!" esek said, "i'm weary of this lonely life; in mabel see my chosen wife! "she greets you kindly, one and all: the past is past, and all offence falls harmless from her innocence. henceforth she stands no more alone; you know what esek harden is;-- he brooks no wrong to him or his." now let the merriest tales be told, and let the sweetest songs be sung, that ever made the old heart young! for now the lost has found a home; and a lone hearth shall brighter burn, as all the household joys return! oh, pleasantly the harvest moon, between the shadow of the mows, looked on them through the great elm-boughs! on mabel's curls of golden hair, on esek's shaggy strength it fell; and the wind whispered, "it is well!" _john g. whittier._ david's lament for absalom king david's limbs were weary. he had fled from far jerusalem; and now he stood with his faint people for a little rest upon the shore of jordan. the light wind of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow to its refreshing breath; for he had worn the mourner's covering, and he had not felt that he could see his people until now. they gathered round him on the fresh green bank and spoke their kindly words, and as the sun rose up in heaven he knelt among them there, and bowed his head upon his hands to pray. oh! when the heart is full--where bitter thoughts come crowding thickly up for utterance, and the poor common words of courtesy,-- are such a mockery--how much the bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! he prayed for israel--and his voice went up strongly and fervently. he prayed for those whose love had been his shield--and his deep tones grew tremulous. but, oh! for absalom, for his estranged, misguided absalom-- the proud, bright being who had burst away in all his princely beauty to defy the heart that cherished him--for him he prayed, in agony that would not be controll'd, strong supplication, and forgave him there before his god for his deep sinfulness. the pall was settled. he who slept beneath was straightened for the grave, and as the folds sank to their still proportions, they betrayed the matchless symmetry of absalom, the mighty joab stood beside the bier and gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, as if he feared the slumberer might stir. a slow step startled him. he grasped his blade as if a trumpet rang, but the bent form of david entered; and he gave command in a low tone to his few followers, and left him with the dead. the king stood still till the last echo died; then, throwing off the sackcloth from his brow, and laying back the pall from the still features of his child. he bowed his head upon him and broke forth in the resistless eloquence of woe: "alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die! thou who were made so beautifully fair! that death should settle in thy glorious eye, and leave his stillness in this clustering hair! how could he mark thee for the silent tomb, my proud boy, absalom! "cold is thy brow, my son! and i am chill as to my bosom i have tried to press thee! how was i wont to feel my pulses thrill like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, and hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb and cold lips, absalom! "but death is on thee! i shall hear the gush of music, and the voices of the young; and life will pass me in the mantling blush, and the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;-- but thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come to meet me, absalom! "and oh! when i am stricken, and my heart, like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, how will its love for thee, as i depart, yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! it were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, to see thee, absalom! "and now, farewell! 'tis hard to give thee up, with death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- and thy dark sin! oh! i could drink the cup, if from this woe its bitterness had won thee. may god have called thee, like a wanderer, home, my lost boy, absalom!" he covered up his face, and bowed himself a moment on his child; then, giving him a look of melting tenderness, he clasped his hands convulsively, as if in prayer, and, as if strength were given him of god, he rose up calmly, and composed the pall firmly and decently--and left him there, as if his rest had been a breathing sleep. _n.p. willis_. christmas day in the workhouse it is christmas day in the workhouse, and the cold bare walls are bright with garlands of green and holly, and the place is a pleasant sight: for with clean-washed hands and faces, in a long and hungry line the paupers sit at the tables, for this is the hour they dine. and the guardians and their ladies, although the wind is east, have come in their furs and wrappers to watch their charges feast; to smile and be condescending, put pudding on pauper plates, to be hosts at the workhouse banquet they've paid for--with the rates. oh, the paupers are meek and lowly with their "thank'ee kindly, mum's"; so long as they fill their stomachs, what matter whence it comes? but one of the old men mutters, and pushes his plate aside: "great god!" he cries; "but it chokes me; for this is the day _she_ died." the guardians gazed in horror, the master's face went white: "did a pauper refuse their pudding?" "could their ears believe aright?" then the ladies clutched their husbands thinking the man would die, struck by a bolt, or something, by the outraged one on high. but the pauper sat for a moment, then rose 'mid a silence grim, for the others had ceased to chatter, and trembled in every limb. he looked at the guardians' ladies, then, eyeing their lords, he said: "i eat not the food of villains whose hands are foul and red, "whose victims cry for vengeance from their dark unhallowed graves." "he's drunk!" said the workhouse master, "or else he's mad, and raves." "not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, "but only a hunted beast, who, torn by the hounds and mangled, declines the vulture's feast. "i care not a curse for the guardians, and i won't be dragged away. just let me have the fit out, it's only on christmas day that the black past comes to goad me, and prey on my burning brain, i'll tell you the rest in a whisper,-- i swear i won't shout again, "keep your hands off me, curse you! hear me right out to the end, you come here to see how paupers the season of christmas spend. you come here to watch us feeding, as they watch the captured beast, hear why a penniless pauper spits on your palfry feast. "do you think i will take your bounty, and let you smile and think you're doing a noble action with the parish's meat and drink? where is my wife, you traitors-- the poor old wife you slew? yes, by the god above us, my nance was killed by you! "last winter my wife lay dying, starved in a filthy den; i had never been to the parish,-- i came to the parish then. i swallowed my pride in coming, for, ere the ruin came. i held up my head as a trader, and i bore a spotless name. "i came to the parish, craving bread for a starving wife, bread for the woman who'd loved me through fifty years of life; and what do you think they told me, mocking my awful grief? that 'the house' was open to us, but they wouldn't give 'out relief.' "i slunk to the filthy alley-- 'twas a cold, raw christmas eve-- and the bakers' shops were open, tempting a man to thieve: but i clenched my fists together, holding my head awry, so i came to her empty-handed and mournfully told her why. "then i told her 'the house' was open; she had heard of the ways of _that_, for her bloodless cheeks went crimson, and up in her rags she sat, crying, 'bide the christmas here, john, we've never had one apart; i think i can bear the hunger,-- the other would break my heart.' "all through that eve i watched her, holding her hand in mine, praying the lord, and weeping till my lips were salt as brine. i asked her once if she hungered, and as she answered 'no,' the moon shone in at the window set in a wreath of snow. "then the room was bathed in glory, and i saw in my darling's eyes the far-away look of wonder that comes when the spirit flies; and her lips were parched and parted, and her reason came and went, for she raved of our home in devon where our happiest years were spent. "and the accents, long forgotten, came back to the tongue once more, for she talked like the country lassie i woo'd by the devon shore. then she rose to her feet and trembled, and fell on the rags and moaned, and, 'give me a crust--i'm famished-- for the love of god!' she groaned. "i rushed from the room like a madman, and flew to the workhouse gate, crying 'food for a dying woman?' and the answer came, 'too late.' they drove me away with curses; then i fought with a dog in the street, and tore from the mongrel's clutches a crust he was trying to eat. "back, through the filthy by-lanes! back, through the trampled slush! up to the crazy garret, wrapped in an awful hush. my heart sank down at the threshold, and i paused with a sudden thrill, for there in the silv'ry moonlight my nance lay, cold and still. "up to the blackened ceiling the sunken eyes were cast-- i knew on those lips all bloodless my name had been the last: she'd called for her absent husband-- o god! had i but known!-- had called in vain, and in anguish had died in that den--_alone_. "yes, there, in a land of plenty, lay a loving woman dead, cruelly starved and murdered for a loaf of the parish bread. at yonder gate, last christmas, i craved for a human life. you, who would feast us paupers, _what of my murdered wife!_ * * * * * "there, get ye gone to you dinners; don't mind me in the least; think of the happy paupers eating your christmas feast; and when you recount their blessings in your snug, parochial way, say what you did for _me_, too, only last christmas day." _george r. sims._ our presidents--a memory rhyme first on the list is washington, virginia's proudest name; john adams next, the federalist, from massachusetts came; three sons of old virginia into the white house go-- 'twas jefferson, and madison, and then came james monroe. massachusetts for one term sent adams called john q., and tennessee a democrat, brave jackson staunch and true. martin van buren of new york, and harrison we see, and tyler of virginia, and polk of tennessee. louisiana taylor sent; new york millard fillmore; new hampshire gave us franklin pierce; when his term was o'er the keystone state buchanan sent. war thunders shook the realm abe lincoln wore a martyr's crown, and johnson took the helm. then u.s. grant of illinois who ruled with sword and pen; and hayes, and garfield who was shot, two noble buckeye men. chester arthur from new york, and grover cleveland came; ben harrison served just four years, then cleveland ruled again. mckinley--shot at buffalo--the nation plunged in grief, and "teddy" roosevelt of new york served seven years as chief. taft of ohio followed him. then woodrow wilson came-- new jersey's learned democrat; war set the world aflame; and when the tide of strife and hate its baneful course had run, the country went republican and warren harding won. no duty would he shirk,--he died while on a western trip; coolidge of massachusetts then assumed the leadership. _isabel ambler gilman._ annie and willie's prayer 'twas the eve before christmas; "good night" had been said, and annie and willie had crept into bed; there were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, and each little bosom was heaving with sighs, for to-night their stern father's command had been given that they should retire precisely at seven instead of at eight; for they troubled him more with questions unheard of than ever before; he had told them he thought this delusion a sin, no such being as santa claus ever had been, and he hoped, after this, he should never more hear how he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year, and this was the reason that two little heads so restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds. eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten; not a word had been spoken by either till then; when willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, and whispered, "dear annie, is oo fast asleep?" "why, no, brother willie," a sweet voice replies, "i've tried it in vain, but i can't shut my eyes; for somehow, it makes me so sorry because dear papa has said there is no santa claus; now we know there is, and it can't be denied, for he came every year before mamma died; but then i've been thinking that she used to pray, and god would hear everything mamma would say; and perhaps she asked him to send santa claus here with the sacks full of presents he brought every year." "well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then, and ask him to send him with presents aden?" "i've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more, four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, and four little knees the soft carpet pressed, and two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. "now, willie, you know we must firmly believe that the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; you must wait just as still till i say the 'amen,' and by that you will know that your turn has come then. dear jesus, look down on my brother and me. and grant as the favor we are asking of thee! i want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, and an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring. bless papa, dear jesus, and cause him to see that santa claus loves us far better than he; don't let him get fretful and angry again at dear brother willie, and annie, amen!" "peas desus 'et santa taus tum down to-night, and bing us some pesents before it is 'ight; i want he should div me a nice ittle sed, with bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed; a box full of tandy, a book and a toy-- amen--and then desus, i'll be a dood boy." their prayers being ended they raised up their heads, and with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds; they were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep, and with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. eight, nine, and the little french clock had struck ten ere the father had thought of his children again; he seems now to hear annie's half suppressed sighs, and to see the big tears stand in willie's blue eyes. "i was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, "and should not have sent them so early to bed; but then i was troubled,--my feelings found vent, for bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. but of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, and that i denied them the thrice asked-for kiss; but just to make sure i'll steal up to their door, for i never spoke harsh to my darlings before." so saying, he softly ascended the stairs, and arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. his annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears, and willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. "strange, strange i'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, "how i longed when a child to have christmas draw nigh. i'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, "by answering their prayers, ere i sleep in my bed." then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown; donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, a millionaire facing the cold driving sleet, nor stopped he until he had bought everything, from the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. indeed he kept adding so much to his store that the various presents outnumbered a score; then homeward he turned with his holiday load and with aunt mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. miss dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree, by the side of a table spread out for a tea; a work-box well filled in the centre was laid, and on it the ring for which annie had prayed; a soldier in uniform stood by a sled with bright shining runners, and all painted red; there were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, and birds of all colors--were perched in the tree, while santa claus, laughing, stood up in the top, as if getting ready more presents to drop. and as the fond father the picture surveyed, he thought for his trouble he had amply been paid; and he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, "i'm happier to-night than i've been for a year, i've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before-- what care i if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more. hereafter i'll make it a rule, i believe, to have santa claus visit us each christmas eve." so thinking he gently extinguished the light, and tripped down the stairs to retire for the night. as soon as the beams of the bright morning sun put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one, four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, and at the same moment the presents espied; then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, and the very gifts prayed for were all of them found; they laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, and shouted for papa to come quick and see what presents old santa claus brought in the night (just the things that they wanted) and left before light; "and now," added annie, in a voice soft and low, "you'll believe there's a santa, clans, papa, i know"; while dear little willie climbed up on his knee, determined no secret between them should be, and told in soft whispers how annie had said that their blessed mamma, so long ago dead, used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, and that god, up in heaven, had answered her prayer! "then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould, and dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?" "i should say that he was if he sent you all these, and knew just what presents my children would please. well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, 'twould be cruel to tell him i did it myself." blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent, and the hasty word spoken so soon to repent? 'twas the being who made you steal softly upstairs, and made you his agent to answer their prayers. _sophia p. snow._ trailing arbutus i wandered lonely where the pine-trees made against the bitter east their barricade, and, guided by its sweet perfume, i found, within a narrow dell, the trailing spring flower tinted like a shell amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet. from under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines lifted their glad surprise, while yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees his feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, and snow-drifts lingered under april skies. as, pausing, o'er the lonely flower i bent, i thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent, which yet find room, through care and cumber, coldness and decay, to lend a sweetness to the ungenial day and make the sad earth happier for their bloom. _j.g. whittier._ when the light goes out tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light, an' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright; tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days-- father time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze. so it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to do ter put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through; ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about-- you've lost ther chance to do it when the light goes out. speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise, ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days; she likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you, and it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due. don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low, afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago-- now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout-- you've lost ther chance to do it when the light goes out. don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead-- to-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead; don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more-- sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core. don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and still because you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will-- now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout-- you've lost ther chance to do it when the light goes out. i'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people say that i had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way; no words above my restin' place from any tongue or pen would hev a deeper meanin' than "he helped his fellow-men." so ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor, don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more; ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about-- yer record keeps on burnin' when the light goes out. _harry s. chester._ prayer and potatoes an old lady sat in her old arm-chair, with wrinkled visage and disheveled hair, and pale and hunger-worn features; for days and for weeks her only fare, as she sat there in her old arm-chair, had been potatoes. but now they were gone; of bad or good. not one was left for the old lady's food of those potatoes; and she sighed and said, "what shall i do? where shall i send, and to whom shall i go for more potatoes?" and she thought of the deacon over the way, the deacon so ready to worship and pray, whose cellar was full of potatoes; and she said: "i will send for the deacon to come; he'll not mind much to give me some of such a store of potatoes." and the deacon came over as fast as he could, thinking to do the old lady some good, but never thought of potatoes; he asked her at once what was her chief want, and she, simple soul, expecting a grant, immediately answered, "potatoes." but the deacon's religion didn't lie that way; he was more accustomed to preach and pray than to give of his hoarded potatoes; so, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said, he rose to pray with uncovered head, but _she_ only thought of potatoes. he prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace, but when he prayed, "lord, give her peace," she audibly sighed "give potatoes"; and at the end of each prayer which he said, he heard, or thought that he heard in its stead, the same request for potatoes. the deacon was troubled; knew not what to do; 'twas very embarrassing to have her act so about "those carnal potatoes." so, ending his prayer, he started for home; as the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, "oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" and that groan followed him all the way home; in the midst of the night it haunted his room-- "oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" he could bear it no longer; arose and dressed; from his well-filled cellar taking in haste a bag of his best potatoes. again he went to the widow's lone hut; her sleepless eyes she had not shut; but there she sat in that old arm-chair, with the same wan features, the same sad air, and, entering in, he poured on the floor a bushel or more from his goodly store of choicest potatoes. the widow's cup was running o'er, her face was haggard and wan no more. "now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?" "yes," said the widow, "_now_ you may." and he kneeled him down on the sanded floor, where he had poured his goodly store, and such a prayer the deacon prayed as never before his lips essayed; no longer embarrassed, but free and full, he poured out the voice of a liberal soul, and the widow responded aloud "amen!" but spake no more of potatoes. and would you, who hear this simple tale, pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"? then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds; search out the poor, their wants and their needs; pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food, for wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,-- _but don't forget the potatoes_. _j.t. pettee._ the parts of speech three little words you often see are articles _a_, _an_, and _the_. a noun's the name of anything, as _house_ or _garden_, _hoop_ or _swing_. instead of nouns the pronouns stand-- _her_ head, _your_ face, _his_ arm, _my_ hand. adjectives tell the kind of noun, as _great_, _small_, _pretty_, _white_ or _brown_. verbs tell something to be done-- to _read_, _count_, _sing_, _laugh_ or _run_. how things are done the adverbs tell, as _slowly_, _quickly_, _ill_ or _well_. conjunctions join the words together, as men _and_ women, wind _or_ weather. the preposition stands before a noun, as _in_ or _through_ a door. the interjection shows surprise, as _oh!_ how pretty, _ah!_ how wise. the whole are called nine parts of speech, which reading, writing, speaking teach. a new leaf he came to my desk with, quivering lip-- the lesson was done. "dear teacher, i want a new leaf," he said, "i have spoiled this one." i took the old leaf, stained and blotted, and gave him a new one all unspotted, and into his sad eyes smiled, "do better, now, my child." i went to the throne with a quivering soul-- the old year was done. "dear father, hast thou a new leaf for me? i have spoiled this one." he took the old leaf, stained and blotted, and gave me a new one all unspotted, and into my sad heart smiled, "do better, now, my child." _carrie shaw rice._ the boy with the hoe how are you hoeing your row, my boy? say, how are you hoeing your row? do you hoe it fair? do you hoe it square? do you hoe it the best that you know? do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do? do you plant what is beautiful there? for the harvest, you know, will be just what you sow; are you working it on the square? say, are you killing the weeds, my boy? are you hoeing your row neat and clean? are you going straight at a hustling gait? are you cutting out all that is mean? do you whistle and sing as you toil along? are you finding your work a delight? if you do it this way you will gladden the day, and your row will be tended right. hoeing your row with a will, my boy, and giving it thought and care, will insure success and your efforts bless, as the crop to the garner you bear; for the world will look on as you hoe your row, and will judge you by that which you do; therefore, try for first prize, though your utmost it tries, for the harvest depends on you. _t.b. weaver._ our flag fling it from mast and steeple, symbol o'er land and sea of the life of a happy people, gallant and strong and free. proudly we view its colors, flag of the brave and true, with the clustered stars and the steadfast bars, the red, the white, and the blue. flag of the fearless-hearted, flag of the broken chain, flag in a day-dawn started, never to pale or wane. dearly we prize its colors, with the heaven light breaking through, the clustered stars and the steadfast bars, the red, the white, and the blue. flag of the sturdy fathers, flag of the loyal sons, beneath its folds it gathers earth's best and noblest ones. boldly we wave its colors, our veins are thrilled anew by the steadfast bars, the clustered stars, the red, the white, and the blue. _margaret e. sangster._ the little fir-trees hey! little evergreens, sturdy and strong, summer and autumn-time hasten along. harvest the sunbeams, then, bind them in sheaves, range them and change them to tufts of green leaves. delve in the mellow-mold, far, far below. and so, little evergreens, grow! grow! grow! grow, little evergreens, grow! up, up so airily, to the blue sky, lift up your leafy tips stately and high; clasp tight your tiny cones, tawny and brown, by and by buffeting rains will pelt down. by and by bitterly chill winds will blow, and so, little evergreens, grow! grow! grow! grow, little evergreens, grow! gather all uttermost beauty, because,-- hark, till i tell it now! how santa claus, out of the northern land, over the seas, soon shall come seeking you, evergreen trees! seek you with reindeer soon, over the snow: and so, little evergreens, grow! grow! grow! grow, little evergreens, grow! what if the maple flare flaunting and red, you shall wear waxen white taper instead. what if now, otherwhere, birds are beguiled, you shall yet nestle the little christ-child. ah! the strange splendor the fir-trees shall know! and so, little evergreens, grow! grow! grow! grow, little evergreens, grow! _evaleen stein._ he worried about it the sun's heat will give out in ten million years more-- and he worried about it. it will sure give out then, if it doesn't before-- and he worried about it. it will surely give out, so the scientists said in all scientifical books he had read, and the whole boundless universe then will be dead-- and he worried about it. and some day the earth will fall into the sun-- and he worried about it-- just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun-- and he worried about it. when strong gravitation unbuckles her straps, "just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse! it will come in a few million ages, perhaps"-- and he worried about it. and the earth will become much too small for the race-- and he worried about it-- when we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space-- and he worried about it. the earth will be crowded so much, without doubt, that there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out, nor room for one's thought to wander about-- and he worried about it. and the gulf stream will curve, and new england grow torrider-- and he worried about it-- than was ever the climate of southernmost florida-- and he worried about it. our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens, and crocodiles block up our mowing-machines, and we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans-- and he worried about it. and in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt-- and he worried about it-- our supply of lumber and coal will give out-- and he worried about it. just then the ice-age will return cold and raw, frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe, as if vainly beseeching a general thaw-- and he worried about it. his wife took in washing--half a dollar a day-- he didn't worry about it-- his daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay-- he didn't worry about it. while his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub on the washboard drum of her old wooden tub, he sat by the stoves and he just let her rub-- he didn't worry about it. _sam walter foss._ the president no gilt or tinsel taints the dress of him who holds the natal power, no weighty helmet's fastenings press on brow that shares columbia's dower, no blaring trumpets mark the step of him with mind on peace intent, and so--hats off! here comes the state, a modest king: the president. no cavalcade with galloping squads surrounds this man, whose mind controls the actions of the million minds whose hearts the starry banner folds; instead, in simple garb he rides, the king to whom grim fate has lent her dower of righteousness and faith to guide his will: the president. the ancient lands are struck with awe, here stands a power at which they scoffed, kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states. are dazed,--at columbia they mocked; yet human wills have forged new states, their wills on justice full intent, and fashioned here a lowly king, the people's choice: the president. war-ravaged, spent, and torn--old worlds with hatred rent, turn to the west, "give help!" they cry--"our souls are wracked, on every side our kingdom's pressed." and see! columbia hastens forth, her healing hand to peace is lent, her sword unsheathed has forged the calm, her sons sent by the president. full many a storm has tossed the barque since first it had its maiden trip, full many a conflagration's spark has scorched and seared the laboring ship; and yet it ploughs a straightway course, through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent, on sails the troubled ship of state, steered forward by the president. stand up! hats off! he's coming by, no roll of drums peals at his course, now give a cheer! he's part of you, your will with his: the nation's force. and--as he passes--breathe a prayer, may justice to his mind be lent, and may the grace of heaven be with the man who rules: our president. _charles h.l. johnston._ lullaby sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming, with their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow, winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming, hear the rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go. laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing in the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, creep! creep! creep! time to go to sleep! baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! cricket in the thicket with the oddest little clatter sings his rattling little, prattling little, tattling little tune; fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter, as they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon. beaming little, gleaming little fireflies go dreaming to the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies. creep! creep! creep! time to go to sleep! baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver in the mushy little, rushy little, weedy, reedy bogs, droning little, moaning little chorus by the river, in the croaking little, joking little cadence of the frogs. eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming where the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise, creep! creep! creep! time to go to sleep! baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! _j.w. foley._ chums if we should be shipwrecked together and only had water for one, and it was the hottest of weather right out in the boiling sun, he'd tell me--no matter how bad he might want it--to take a drink first; and then he would smile--oh, so glad he had saved me!--and perish from thirst! or, if we were lost on the prairie and only had food for a day, he'd come and would give me the share he had wrapped up and hidden away; and after i ate it with sadness he'd smile with his very last breath, and lay himself down full of gladness to save me--and starve right to death. and if i was wounded in battle and out where great danger might be, he'd come through the roar and the rattle of guns and of bullets to me, he'd carry me out, full of glory, no matter what trouble he had, and then he would fall down, all gory with wounds, and would die--but be glad! we're chums--that's the reason he'd do it; and that's what a chum ought to be. and if it was fire he'd go through it, if i should call him to me. you see other fellows may know you, and friends that you have go and come; but a boy has one boy he can go to, for help all the time--that's his chum. _j.w. foley._ jim brady's big brother jim brady's big brother's a wonderful lad, and wonderful, wonderful muscles he had; he swung by one arm from the limb of a tree and hung there while jim counted up forty-three just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound across a wide creek and lit square on the ground just as light as a deer; and the things he can do, so jimmy told us, you would hardly think true. jim brady's big brother could throw a fly ball from center to home just like nothing at all; and often while playing a game he would stand and take a high fly with just only one hand; jim brady showed us where he knocked a home run and won the big game when it stood three to one against the home team, and jim brady, he showed the place where it lit in the old wagon road! jim brady's big brother could bat up a fly that you hardly could see, for it went up so high; he'd bring up his muscle and break any string that you tied on his arm like it wasn't a thing! he used to turn handsprings, and cartwheels, and he could jump through his hands just as slick as could be, and circuses often would want him to go and be in the ring, but his mother said no. jim brady's big brother would often make bets with boys that he'd turn two complete summersets from off of the spring-board before he would dive, and you'd hardly think he would come up alive; and nobody else who went there to swim could do it, but it was just easy for him; and they'd all be scared, so jim said, when he'd stay in under and come up a half mile away. jim brady's big brother, so jim said, could run five miles in a race just as easy as one. right often he walked on his hands half a block and could have walked more if he'd wanted to walk! and jimmy says wait till he comes home from school, where he is gone now, and some day, when it's cool, he'll get him to prove everything to be true that jimmy told us his big brother could do! _j.w. foley._ the gray swan "oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, is my little lad, my elihu, a-sailing with your ship?" the sailor's eyes were dim with dew,-- "your little lad, your elihu?" he said with trembling lip,-- "what little lad? what ship?" "what little lad! as if there could be another such a one as he! what little lad, do you say? why, elihu, that took to the sea the moment i put him off my knee! it was just the other day the _gray swan_ sailed away." "the other day?" the sailor's eyes stood open with a great surprise,-- "the other day? the _swan?_" his heart began in his throat to rise. "ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies the jacket he had on." "and so your lad is gone?" "gone with the _swan_." "and did she stand with her anchor clutching hold of the sand, for a month, and never stir?" "why, to be sure! i've seen from the land, like a lover kissing his lady's hand, the wild sea kissing her,-- a sight to remember, sir." "but, my good mother, do you know all this was twenty years ago? i stood on the _gray swan's_ deck, and to that lad i saw you throw, taking it off, as it might be, so, the kerchief from your neck." "ay, and he'll bring it back!" "and did the little lawless lad that has made you sick and made you sad, sail with the _gray swan's_ crew?" "lawless! the man is going mad! the best boy ever mother had,-- be sure he sailed with the crew! what would you have him do?" "and he has never written line, nor sent you word, nor made you sign to say he was alive?" "hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; besides, he may be in the brine, and could he write from the grave? tut, man, what would you have?" "gone twenty years,--a long, long cruise, 'twas wicked thus your love to abuse; but if the lad still live, and come back home, think you you can forgive him?"--"miserable man, you're mad as the sea,--you rave,-- what have i to forgive?" the sailor twitched his shirt so blue, and from within his bosom drew the kerchief. she was wild. "my god! my father! is it true my little lad, my elihu? my blessed boy, my child! my dead,--my living child!" _alice cary._ the circling year spring the joys of living wreathe my face, my heart keeps time to freshet's race; of balmy airs i drink my fill-- why, there's a yellow daffodil! along the stream a soft green tinge gives hint of feathery willow fringe; methinks i heard a robin's "cheer"-- i'm glad spring's here! summer an afternoon of buzzing flies. heat waves that sear, and quivering rise; the long white road, the plodding team, the deep, cool grass in which to dream; the distant cawing of the crows, tall, waving grain, long orchard rows; the peaceful cattle in the stream-- midsummer's dream! autumn a cold, gray day, a lowering sky, a lonesome pigeon wheeling by; the soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades, the shivering crane that flaps and wades; dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree, the peace the river sings to me; the chill aloofness of the fall-- i love it all! winter a sheet of ice, the ring of steel, the crunch of snow beneath the heel; loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh, a restless pair that prance and neigh; the early coming of the night, red glowing logs, a shaded light; the firelit realm of books is mine-- oh, winter's fine! _ramona graham._ index of first lines a fellow near kentucky's clime a foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet 'a frightful face'? wal, yes, yer correct a harbor in a sunny, southern city alone in the dreary, pitiless street among the legends sung or said an old lady sat in her old arm-chair an old man going a lone highway april! april! are you here? a sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace at paris it was, at the opera there a traveler on the dusty road away, away in the northland beneath the hot midsummer sun between broad fields of wheat and corn billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is billy's sister nell break, break, break bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! by nebo's lonely mountain chained in the market-place he stood cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen cleon hath ten thousand acres closed eyes can't see the white roses come to me, o ye children! "corporal green!" the orderly cried could we but draw back the curtains dear little flag in the window there did you tackle the trouble that came your way don't kill the birds, the pretty birds every coin of earthly treasure far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! first on the list is washington, virginia's proudest name fling it from mast and steeple give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love god makes sech nights, all white an' still god said: i am tired of kings god send us a little home good deacon roland--"may his tribe increase!" go thou thy way, and i go mine grandma told me all about it great were the hearts and strong the minds "hadst thou stayed, i must have fled!" han'some, stranger? yes, she's purty an' ez peart as she kin be hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? he came to my desk with quivering lip he who has the vision sees more than you or i hey! little evergreens home they brought her warrior dead how are you hoeing your row, my boy? hush! my dear, lie still and slumber i asked of echo, t'other day i cannot vouch my tale is true i can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick i come, i come! ye have called me long i'd like to hunt the injuns 't roam the boundless plain! if all the skies were sunshine if i had known in the morning if i were hanged on the highest hill if we should be shipwrecked together if you can dress to make yourself attractive if you can take your dreams into the classroom if you have a friend worth loving i have a rendezvous with death i love my prairies, they are mine i'm not a chicken; i have seen in a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came in an attic bare and cheerless, jim the newsboy dying lay in a pioneer's cabin out west, so they say in a valley, centuries ago in gettysburg at break of day in may, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes in the hush and the lonely silence into a ward of the whitewashed halls i sat alone with my conscience i saw him once before it is christmas day in the workhouse it isn't the thing you do, dear it may be that the words i spoke it's easy to talk of the patience of job it takes a heap o' livin' in a houst t' make it home it was a bright and lovely summer's morn it was an old, old, old, old lady it was a sergeant old and gray it was a starry night in june, the air was soft and still it was in the days when claverhouse it was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide it was many and many a year ago it was the pleasant harvest-time it was the twilight hour i've got a letter, parson, from my son away out west i walked through the woodland meadows i wandered lonely where the pine-trees made i was mighty good-lookin' when i was young i was sitting in my study i was strolling one day down the lawther arcade i went into a public 'ouse to get a pint of beer i, who was always counted, they say i wish there were some wonderful place i wrote some lines once on a time jim brady's big brother's a wonderful lad king david's limbs were weary. he had fled laugh, and the world laughs with you let us be kind life! i know not what thou art like a dream, it all comes o'er me as i hear the christmas bells like liquid gold the wheat field lies little lamb, who made thee? little lass of plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet little one, come to my knee! marching down to armageddon mine is a wild, strange story,--the strangest you ever heard my grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf nae shoon to hide her tiny taes never mind me, uncle jared, never mind my bleeding breast never yet was a springtime no, comrades, i thank you--not any for me no gilt or tinsel taints the dress no, i never, till life and its shadows shall end not far advanced was morning day not who you are, but what you are o for one hour of youthful joy! o'grady lived in shanty row oh, a wonderful stream is the river of time oh, east is east, and west is west oh! listen to the water mill through all the livelong day oh, such a commotion under the ground "oh tell me, sailor, tell me true" o liberty, thou child of law o month of fairer, rarer days once in persia reigned a king one sweetly solemn thought on the top of the crumpetty tree o thou eternal one! whose presence bright our band is few, but true and tried our old brown homestead reared its walls out of the hills of habersham piller fights is fun, i tell you prop yer eyes wide open, joey ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky saint augustine! well hast thou said she sat on the sliding cushion she's up there--old glory--where lightnings are sped she was a phantom of delight silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming slow the kansas sun was setting some die too late and some too soon sometimes w'en i am playin' with some fellers 'at i knows somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing south mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay stand! the ground's your own, my braves! sweet is the voice that called talking of sects quite late one eve the autumn is old the bells of mount vernon are ringing to-day the boy stood on the burning deck the bravest battle that ever was fought the children kept coming one by one the coppenter man said a wicked word the day is cold, and dark, and dreary the district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk the feast is o'er! now brimming wine the gate was thrown open, i rode out alone the gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloath an' of silk the harp that once through tara's halls the joys of living wreathe my face the melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year the minstrel-boy to the war is gone the muffled drum's sad roll has beat the night was dark when sam set out the old mayor climbed the belfry tower there are two kinds of people on earth to-day there fell an april shower, one night there lay upon the ocean's shore there's a dandy little fellow there was a boy; you knew him well, ye cliffs there was a sound of revelry by night there were ninety and nine the rich man's son inherits lands the rosy clouds float overhead these are the things i hold divine the shades of night were falling fast the snow and the silence came down together the sunlight shone on walls of stone the sun's heat will give out in ten million years more the sweetest lives are those to duty wed the warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire the weaver at this loom is sitting they grew in beauty, side by side they said, "the master is coming" this is the land where hate should die tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light three little words you often see 'tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar 'tis a lesson you should heed 'tis gone at last, and i am glad; it stayed a fearful while 'tis only a half truth the poet has sung "to-whit! to-whit! to-whee!" turn back the leaves of history. on yon pacific shore 'twas a stylish congregation, that of theophrastus brown 'twas on lake erie's broad expanse 'twas the eve before christmas; "good-night" had been said two angels, one of life and one of death two little stockings hung side by side want any papers, mister? we all look on with anxious eyes we are two travellers, roger and i well, wife, i found the _model_ church! i worshipped there to-day w'en you see a man in woe we squander health in search of wealth we were crowded in the cabin we were not many,--we who stood "what fairings will ye that i bring?" what flower is this that greets the morn what makes the dog's nose always cold? whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill whene'er a noble deed is wrought whenever i walk to suffern along the erie track when i compare when mary ann dollinger got the skule daown thar on injun bay when papa was a little boy you really couldn't find when the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres when the lessons and tasks are all ended when the norn mother saw the whirlwind hour whichever way the wind doth blow "which shall it be? which shall it be?" who comes dancing over the snow who dat knockin' at de do'? why dost thou wildly rush and roar why, yes, dear, we can put it by. it does seem out of place with sable-draped banners and slow measured tread work! thank god for the might of it work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve ye banks, and braes, and streams around ye say that all have passed away--that noble race and brave yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough you bad leetle boy, not moche you care you may talk o' gin an' beer you're going to leave the homestead, john your letter, lady, came too late you sail and you seek for the fortunate isles you say i have asked for the costliest thing transcriber's note: the poem "try try again" is not credited with an author in the table of contents. the author of this poem is _william e. hickerson_. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) a child's garden of verses by robert louis stevenson illustrated by myrtle sheldon m. a. donohue & co. chicago copyright by m. a. donohue and company by way of introduction [illustration] nothing has ever been written that appeals to a child's nature more than "a child's garden of verses." it is written in a simple verse that a child can readily understand. it was one of the earlier efforts of the author, robert louis stevenson, a scotchman by birth, who, owing to ill-health, became a world traveler. during his travels he visited the united states, spending a year among our famous resorts. later he visited australia and the south sea islands, which climate agreed with him to such an extent that he finally settled down and made his home on the island of samoa. he continued his travels from that point, often visiting the hawaiian islands, australia and new zealand. he formed a strong friendship for the natives of samoa, and did a great deal to improve their conditions. he died on the island, and at his own request was buried on the top of one of its beautiful mountains, with the following lines upon his tomb: _here he lies, where he longed to be; home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill._ [illustration] contents [illustration] bed in summer young night thought pirate story farewell to the farm the land of counterpane fairy bread escape at bedtime a good play marching song where go the boats the hayloft auntie's skirts the moon the cow foreign lands system at the seaside happy thought the land of nod windy nights time to rise rain foreign children looking forward my shadow the sun's travels looking-glass river the lamplighter singing travel my bed is a boat keepsake mill the unseen playmate my ship and i the wind a good boy good and bad children picture-books in winter the swing a thought armies in the fire my kingdom shadow march winter-time the little land in port night and day nest eggs the flowers from a railway carriage my treasures block city the gardener a child's garden of verses [illustration] bed in summer in winter i get up at night, and dress by yellow candle light. in summer quite the other way, i have to go to bed by day. i have to go to bed and see the birds still hopping on the tree, or hear the grown-up people's feet, still going past me in the street. [illustration] and does it not seem hard to you, when all the sky is clear and blue, and i should like so much to play, to have to go to bed by day? young night thought all night long and every night, when my mamma puts out the light i see the people marching by, as plain as day, before my eye. armies and emperors and kings, all carrying different kinds of things, and marching in so grand a way, you never saw the like by day. so fine a show was never seen at the great circus on the green; for every kind beast and man is marching in that caravan. at first they move a little slow, but still the faster on they go, and still beside them close i keep until we reach the town of sleep. [illustration] pirate story three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing. three of us aboard in the basket on the lea. winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, and waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea. where shall we adventure, to-day that we're afloat, wary of the weather and steering by a star? shall it be to africa, a-steering of the boat, to providence, or babylon, or off to malabar? hi! but here's a squadron a-rowing on the sea-- cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! quick, and we'll escape them, they're as mad as they can be, the wicket is the harbor and the garden is the shore. [illustration] [illustration] farewell to the farm the coach is at the door at last; the eager children, mounting fast and kissing hands, in chorus sing: good-bye, good-bye, to everything! to house and garden, field and lawn, the meadow-gates we swung upon, to pump and stable, tree and swing, good-bye, good-bye, to everything! and fare you well for evermore, o ladder at the hayloft door, o hayloft where the cobwebs cling, good-bye, good-bye, to everything! crack goes the whip, and off we go; the trees and houses smaller grow; last, round the woody turn we swing: good-bye, good-bye, to everything! [illustration] [illustration] the land of counterpane when i was sick and lay a-bed, i had two pillows at my head, and all my toys beside me lay to keep me happy all the day. and sometimes for an hour or so i watched my leaden soldiers go, with different uniforms and drills, among the bed-clothes, through the hills. and sometimes sent my ships in fleets all up and down among the sheets; or brought my trees and houses out, and planted cities all about. i was the giant great and still that sits upon the pillow-hill, and sees before him, dale and plain the pleasant land of counterpane. [illustration] come up here, o dusty feet! here is fairy bread to eat here in my retiring room, children, you may dine on the golden smell of broom and the shade of pine and when you have eaten well, fairy stories hear and tell. [illustration] escape at bedtime the lights from the parlor and kitchen shone out through the blinds and the windows and bars; and high over head and all moving about, there were thousands of millions of stars. there ne'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree, nor of people in church or the park, as the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me, and that glittered and winked in the dark. the dog, and the plough, and the hunter and all, and the star of the sailor, and mars, these shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall would be half full of water and stars. they saw me at last, and they chased me with cries, and they soon had me packed into bed; but the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes, and the stars going round in my head. [illustration] [illustration] a good play we built a ship upon the stairs all made of the back-bedroom chairs, and filled it full of sofa pillows to go a-sailing on the billows. we took a saw and several nails, and water in the nursery pails; and tom said, "let us also take an apple and a slice of cake;"-- which was enough for tom and me to go a-sailing on, till tea. we sailed along for days and days, and had the very best of plays; but tom fell out and hurt his knee, so there was no one left but me. [illustration] marching song bring the comb and play upon it! marching, here we come! willie cocks his highland bonnet, johnnie beats the drum. mary jane commands the party, peter leads the rear; feet in time, alert and hearty, each a grenadier! all in the most martial manner marching double-quick; while the napkin like a banner waves upon the stick! here's enough of fame and pillage, great commander jane! now that we've been round the village, let's go home again. [illustration: "_boats of mine a-boating_"] where go the boats? dark brown is the river, golden is the sand. it flows along for ever, with trees on either hand. green leaves a-floating, castles of the foam, boats of mine a-boating-- where will all come home? on goes the river and out past the mill, away down the valley, away down the hill. away down the river, a hundred miles or more, other little children shall bring my boats ashore. the hayloft through all the pleasant meadow-side the grass grew shoulder-high, till the shining scythes went far and wide and cut it down to dry. these green and sweetly smelling crops they led in wagons home; and they piled them here in mountain-tops for mountaineers to roam. here is mount clear, mount rusty-nail, mount eagle and mount high;-- the mice that in these mountains dwell, no happier are than i! o what a joy to clamber there, o what a place for play, with the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, the happy hills of hay! [illustration] auntie's skirts whenever auntie moves around her dresses make a curious sound. they trail behind her up the floor, and trundle after through the door. [illustration] the moon the moon has a face like the clock in the hall; she shines on thieves on the garden wall, on streets and fields and harbor quays, and birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. the squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, the howling dog by the door of the house, the bat that lies in bed at noon, all love to be out by the light of the moon. but all of the things that belong to the day cuddle to sleep to be out of her way; and flowers and children close their eyes till up in the morning the sun shall rise. [illustration] the cow the friendly cow all red and white, i love with all my heart: she gives me cream with all her might, to eat with apple-tart. she wanders lowing here and there, and yet she cannot stray, all in the pleasant open air, the pleasant light of day. and blown by all the winds that pass and wet with all the showers, she walks among the meadow grass and eats the meadow flowers. [illustration] foreign lands up into the cherry tree who should climb but little me? i held the trunk with both my hands and looked abroad on foreign lands. i saw the next door garden lie, adorned with flowers, before my eye, and many pleasant places more that i had never seen before. i saw the dimpling river pass and be the sky's blue looking-glass; the dusty roads go up and down with people tramping into town. if i could find a higher tree farther and farther i should see, to where the grown-up river slips into the sea among the ships. to where the roads on either hand lead onward into fairy land, where all the children dine at five, and all the playthings come alive. [illustration] [illustration] system every night my prayers i say, and get my dinner every day; and every day that i've been good i get an orange after food. the child that is not clean and neat, with lots of toys and things to eat, he is a naughty child, i'm sure-- or else his dear papa is poor. [illustration] at the seaside when i was down beside the sea, a wooden spade they gave to me to dig the sandy shore. my holes were hollow like a cup, in every hole the sea came up, till it could hold no more. [illustration] [illustration] happy thought the world is so full of a number of things, i'm sure we should all be as happy as kings [illustration] the land of nod from breakfast on through all the day at home among my friends i stay, but every night i go abroad afar into the land of nod. all by myself i have to go, with none to tell me what to do-- all alone beside the streams and up the mountain-sides of dreams. the strangest things are there for me, both things to eat and things to see, and many frightening sights abroad till morning in the land of nod. try as i like to find the way, i never can get back by day, nor can remember plain and clear the curious music that i hear. [illustration] windy nights whenever the moon and stars are set, whenever the wind is high, all night long in the dark and wet, a man goes riding by. late in the night when the fires are out, [illustration] why does he gallop and gallop about? whenever the trees are crying aloud, and ships are tossed at sea, by, on the highway, low and loud, by at the gallop goes he. by at the gallop he goes, and then by he comes back at the gallop again. [illustration] [illustration] time to rise a birdie with a yellow bill hopped up on the window sill, cocked his shining eye and said: 'ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?' [illustration] [illustration] rain the rain is raining all around. it falls on field and tree, it rains on the umbrellas here, and on the ships at sea. [illustration] foreign children little indian, sioux or crow, little frosty eskimo, little turk or japanee, o! don't you wish that you were me? you have seen the scarlet trees and the lions over seas; you have eaten ostrich eggs, and turned the turtles off their legs. such a life is very fine, but it's not so nice as mine: you must often, as you trod, have wearied _not_ to be abroad. you have curious things to eat, i am fed on proper meat; you must dwell beyond the foam, but i am safe and live at home. [illustration] looking forward when i am grown to man's estate i shall be very proud and great, and tell the other girls and boys not to meddle with my toys. my shadow i have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, and what can be the use of him is more than i can see. he is very, very like me, from the heels up to the head; and i see him jump before me, when i jump into my bed. the funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; for he sometimes shoots up taller, like an india-rubber ball, and he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. [illustration: "_i have a little shadow._"] he hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. he stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; i'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! one morning, very early, before the sun was up, i 'rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; but my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy head, had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. [illustration] [illustration] the sun's travels the sun is not a-bed when i at night upon my pillow lie; still round the earth his way he takes, and morning after morning makes. while here at home in shining day, we round the sunny garden play, each little indian sleepy-head is being kissed and put to bed. and when at eve i rise from tea, day dawns beyond the atlantic sea; and all the children in the west are getting up and being dressed. [illustration] looking-glass river smooth it slides upon its travel, here a wimple, there a gleam-- o the clean gravel! o the smooth stream! sailing blossoms, silver fishes, paven pools as clear as air-- how a child wishes to live down there! [illustration] we can see our colored faces floating on the shaken pool down in cool places, dim and very cool; till a wind or water wrinkle, dipping marten, plumping trout, spreads in a twinkle and blots all out. see the rings pursue each other; all below grows black as night, just as if mother had blown out the light! patience, children, just a minute-- see the spreading circles die; the stream and all in it will clear by-and-by. [illustration] the lamplighter my tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; it's time to take the window to see leerie going by; for every night at teatime and before you take your seat, with lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. now tom would be a driver and maria go to sea, and my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; but i, when i am stronger and can choose what i'm to do, o leerie, i'll go round at night and light the lamps with you! for we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, and leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; and o, before you hurry by with ladder and with light, o leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night! [illustration] singing of speckled eggs the birdie sings and nests among the trees; the sailor sings of ropes and things in ships upon the seas. the children sing in far japan, the children sing in spain; the organ with the organ man is singing in the rain. [illustration] [illustration] travel i should like to rise and go where the golden apples grow;-- where below another sky parrot islands anchored lie, and, watched by cockatoos and goats, lonely crusoes building boats;-- where in sunshine reaching out eastern cities, miles about, are with mosque and minaret among sandy gardens set, and the rich goods from near and far hang for sale in the bazaar;-- where the great wall round china goes, and on one side the desert blows, and with bell and voice and drum, cities on the other hum;-- where are forests, hot as fire, wide as england, tall as a spire, full of apes and cocoa-nuts and the negro hunters' huts;-- where the knotty crocodile lies and blinks in the nile, and the red flamingo flies hunting fish before his eyes;-- where in jungles, near and far, man-devouring tigers are, lying close and giving ear lest the hunt be drawing near, or a comer-by be seen swinging in a palanquin;-- where among the desert sands some deserted city stands, all its children, sweep and prince, grown to manhood ages since, not a foot in street or house, not a stir of child or mouse, and when kindly falls the night, in all the town no spark of light. there i'll come when i'm a man with a camel caravan; light a fire in the gloom of some dusty dining room; see the pictures on the walls, heroes, fights and festivals and in a corner find the toys of the old egyptian boys. [illustration] my bed is a boat [illustration: _my bed is like a little boat_] my bed is like a little boat; nurse helps me in when i embark; she girds me in my sailor's coat and starts me in the dark. at night, i go on board and say good night to all my friends on shore; i shut my eyes and sail away and see and hear no more. and sometimes things to bed i take, as prudent sailors have to do; perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, perhaps a toy or two. all night across the dark we steer: but when the day returns at last safe in my room, beside the pier, i find my vessel fast. [illustration] keepsake mill over the borders, a sin without pardon, breaking the branches and crawling below, out through the breach in the wall of the garden, down by the banks of the river, we go. here is the mill with the humming of thunder, here is the weir with the wonder of foam, here is the sluice with the race running under-- marvelous places, though handy to home! sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller, stiller the note of the birds on the hill; dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller, deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill. years may go by, and the wheel in the river wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day. wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever long after all of the boys are away. home from the indies and home from the ocean, heroes and soldiers we all shall come home; still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion, turning and churning that river to foam. you with the bean that i gave when we quarreled, i with your marble of saturday last, honored and old and all gaily apparelled, here we shall meet and remember the past. [illustration] [illustration] the unseen playmate when children are playing alone on the green, in comes the playmate that never was seen. when children are happy and lonely and good, the friend of the children comes out of the wood. nobody heard him and nobody saw, his is a picture you never could draw, but he's sure to be present, abroad or at home, when children are happy and playing alone. he lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass, he sings when you tinkle the musical glass; whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why, the friend of the children is sure to be by! he loves to be little, he hates to be big, 'tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig; 'tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin that sides with the frenchman and never can win. 'tis he, when at night you go off to your bed, bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head; for wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf, 'tis he will take care of your playthings himself. [illustration] [illustration] my ship and i. o it's i that am the captain of a tidy little ship, of a ship that goes a-sailing on the pond; and my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about; but when i'm a little older, i shall find the secret out how to send my vessel sailing on beyond. for i mean to grow as little as the dolly at the helm, and the dolly i intend to come alive; and with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing i shall go, it's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow and the vessel goes a divie-divie dive. o it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds, and you'll hear the water singing at the prow; for beside the dolly sailor, i'm to voyage and explore, to land upon the island where no dolly was before, and to fire the penny cannon in the bow. [illustration] the wind i saw you toss the kites on high and blow the birds about the sky; and all around i heard you pass, like ladies' skirts across the grass-- o wind, a-blowing all day long! o wind, that sings so loud a song! i saw the different things you did, but always you yourself you hid. i felt you push, i heard you call, i could not see yourself at all-- o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! o you that are so strong and cold, o blower, are you young or old? are you a beast of field and tree, or just a stronger child than me? o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! [illustration: "_i felt you push, i heard you call._"] [illustration] a good boy i woke before the morning, i was happy all the day, i never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play. and now at last the sun is going down behind the wood, and i am very happy, for i know that i've been good. my bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair, and i must off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer. i know that, till to-morrow i shall see the sun arise, no ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes. but slumber hold me tightly, till i waken in the dawn, and hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn. [illustration] [illustration] good and bad children children, you are very little, and your bones are very brittle; if you would grow great and stately, you must try to walk sedately. you must still be bright and quiet, and content with simple diet; and remain, through all bewild'ring, innocent and honest children. happy hearts and happy faces, happy play in grassy places-- that was how, in ancient ages, children grew to kings and sages. but the unkind and the unruly, and the sort who eat unduly, they must never hope for glory-- theirs is quite a different story! cruel children, crying babies, all grow up as geese and gabies, hated, as their age increases, by their nephews and their nieces. [illustration] [illustration] picture-books in winter summer fading, winter comes-- frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, window robins, winter rooks, and the picture story-books. water now is turned to stone nurse and i can walk upon; still we find the flowing brooks in the picture story-books. all the pretty things put by wait upon the childrens' eye, sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, in the picture story-books. we may see how all things are, seas and cities, near and far, and the flying fairies' looks, in the picture story-books. how am i to sing your praise, happy chimney-corner days, sitting safe in nursery nooks, reading picture story-books? [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] the swing how do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue? oh, i do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do! up in the air and over the wall, till i can see so wide, rivers and trees and cattle and all over the countryside-- till i look down on the garden green, down on the roof so brown-- up in the air i go flying again, up in the air and down! [illustration] a thought it is very nice to think the world is full of meat and drink with little children saying grace in every christian kind of place. armies in the fire the lamps now glitter down the street; faintly sound the falling feet and the blue even slowly falls about the garden trees and walls. now in the falling of the gloom the red fire paints the empty room; and warmly on the roof it looks, and flickers on the backs of books. armies march by tower and spire of cities blazing, in the fire;-- till as i gaze with staring eyes, the armies fade, the lustre dies. then once again the glow returns; again the phantom city burns; and down the red-hot valley, lo! the phantom armies marching go! blinking embers, tell me true where are those armies marching to, and what the burning city is that crumbles in your furnaces! [illustration] my kingdom down by a shining water well i found a very little dell, no higher than my head. the heather and the gorse about in summer bloom were coming out, some yellow and some red. i called the little pool a sea; the little hills were big to me; for i am very small. i made a boat, i made a town, i searched the caverns up and down, and named them one and all. and all about was mine, i said, the little sparrows overhead, the little minnows, too. this was the world and i was king; for me the bees came by to sing, for me the swallows flew. i played there were no deeper seas, nor any wider plains than these, nor other kings than me. at last i heard my mother call out from the house at evenfall, to call me home to tea. and i must rise and leave my dell, and leave my dimpled water well, and leave my heather blooms. alas! and as my home i neared, how very big my nurse appeared, how great and cool the rooms! [illustration] [illustration] shadow march all round the house is the jet-black night; it stares through the window-pane; it crawls in the corners, hiding from the light, and it moves with the moving flame. now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum, with the breath of bogie in my hair, and all round the candle the crooked shadows come, and go marching along up the stair. the shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp, the shadow of the child that goes to bed-- all the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, with the black night overhead. [illustration] winter-time late lies the wintry sun a-bed, a frosty, fiery sleepy-head; blinks but an hour or two; and then, a blood-red orange, sets again. before the stars have left the skies, at morning in the dark i rise; and shivering in my nakedness, by the cold candle, bathe and dress. close by the jolly fire i sit to warm my frozen bones a bit; or with a reindeer-sled, explore the colder countries round the door. when to go out, my nurse doth wrap me in my comforter and cap; the cold wind burns my face and blows its frosty pepper up my nose. black are my steps on silver sod; thick blows my frosty breath abroad; and tree and house, and hill and lake, are frosted like a wedding-cake. [illustration] [illustration] the little land when at home alone i sit and am very tired of it, i have just to shut my eyes to go sailing through the skies-- to go sailing far away to the pleasant land of play; to the fairy land afar where the little people are; where the clover-tops are trees, and the rain-pools are the seas, and the leaves like little ships sail about on tiny trips; and above the daisy tree through the grasses, high o'erhead the bumble bee hums and passes. in that forest to and fro i can wander, i can go; see the spider and the fly, and the ants go marching by carrying parcels with their feet down the green and grassy street. i can in the sorrel sit where the ladybird alit. i can climb the jointed grass; and on high see the greater swallows pass in the sky, and the round sun rolling by heeding no such things as i. through that forest i can pass till, as in a looking-glass, humming fly and daisy tree and my tiny self i see, painted very clear and neat on the rain-pool at my feet. should a leaflet come to land drifting near to where i stand, straight i'll board that tiny boat round the rain-pool sea to float. little thoughtful creatures sit on the grassy coasts of it; little things with lovely eyes see me sailing with surprise. some are clad in armour green-- (these have sure to battle been!)-- some are pied with ev'ry hue, black and crimson, gold and blue; some have wings and swift are gone; but they all look kindly on. when my eyes i once again open, and see all things plain; high bare walls, great bare floor; great big knobs on drawer and door; great big people perched on chairs, stitching tucks and mending tears, each a hill that i could climb, and talking nonsense all the time-- o dear me, that i could be a sailor on the rain-pool sea, a climber in, the clover tree, and just come back, a sleepy-head, late at night to go to bed. [illustration] [illustration] in port last, to the chamber where i lie my fearful footsteps patter nigh, and come from out the cold and gloom into my warm and cheerful room. there, safe arrived, we turn about to keep the coming shadows out, and close the happy door at last on all the perils that we passed. then, when mamma goes by to bed, she shall come in with tip-toe tread, and see me lying warm and fast and in the land of nod at last. [illustration] [illustration] night and day when the golden day is done, through the closing portal, child and garden, flower and sun, vanish all things mortal. as the blinding showers fall, as the rays diminish, under evening's cloak they all roll away and vanish. garden darkened, daisy shut, child in bed, they slumber-- glow-worm in the highway rut, mice among the lumber. in the darkness houses shine, parents move with candles till on all, the night divine turns the bedroom handles. till at last the day begins in the east a-breaking, in the hedges and the whins sleeping birds a-waking. in the darkness shapes of things, houses, trees and hedges, clearer grow; and sparrow's wings beat on window ledges. these shall wake the yawning maid, she the door shall open-- finding dew on garden glade and the morning broken. there my garden grows again green and rosy painted, as at eve behind the pane from my eyes it fainted. just as it was shut away, toy-like, in the even, here i see it glow with day under glowing heaven. every path and every plot, every bush of roses, every blue forget-me-not where the dew reposes. 'up! they cry, 'the day is come on the smiling valleys; we have beat the morning drum; playmate, join your allies!' [illustration] [illustration] nest eggs birds all the sunny day flutter and quarrel here in the arbor-like tent of the laurel. here in the fork the brown nest is seated; four little blue eggs the mother keeps heated. while we stand watching her, staring like gabies, safe in each egg are the bird's little babies. soon the frail eggs they shall chip, and upspringing make all the april woods merry with singing. younger than we are, o children, and frailer, soon in blue air they'll be, singer and sailor. we, so much older, taller and stronger, we shall look down on the birdies no longer. they shall go flying with musical speeches high over head in the tops of the beeches. in spite of our wisdom and sensible talking, we on our feet must go plodding and walking. [illustration] the flowers all the names i know from nurse: gardener's garters, shepherd's purse, bachelor's buttons, lady's smock, and the lady hollyhock. fairy places, fairy things, fairy woods where the wild bee wings, tiny trees for tiny dames-- these must all be fairy names! tiny woods below whose boughs shady fairies weave a house; tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, where the braver fairies climb! fair are grown-up people's trees, but the fairest woods are these; where if i were not so tall, i should live for good and all. [illustration] from a railway carriage faster than fairies, faster than witches, bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; and charging along like troops in a battle, all through the meadows the horses and cattle: all of the sights of the hill and the plain fly as thick as driving rain; and ever again in the wink of an eye, painted stations whistle by. here is a child who clambers and scrambles, all by himself and gathering brambles; here is a tramp who stands and gazes; and there is the green for stringing the daisies! here is a cart run away in the road lumping along with man and load; and here is a mill and there is a river, each a glimpse and gone forever! [illustration] my treasures these nuts, that i keep in the back of the nest where all my lead soldiers are lying at rest, were gathered in autumn by nursie and me in a wood with a well by the side of the sea. this whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!) by the side of a field at the end of the grounds. of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own, it was nursie who made it, and nursie alone! the stone, with the white and the yellow and grey, we discovered i cannot tell _how_ far away; and i carried it back although weary and cold, for though father denies it, i'm sure it is gold. but of all of my treasures the last is the king, for there's very few children possess such a thing; and that is a chisel, both handle and blade, which a man who was really a carpenter made. [illustration] [illustration] block city what are you able to build with your blocks? castles and palaces, temples and docks. rain may keep raining and others go roam, but i can be happy and building at home. let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea, there i'll establish a city for me: a kirk and a mill and a palace beside, and a harbor as well where my vessels may ride. great is the palace with pillar and wall, a sort of a tower on the top of it all, and steps coming down in an orderly way to where my toy vessels lay safe in the bay. this one is sailing and that one is moored: hark to the song of the sailors on board! and see the steps of my palace, the kings coming and going with presents and things! now i have done with it, down let it go! all in a moment the town is laid low. block upon block lying scattered and free, what is there left of my town by the sea? yet as i saw it, i see it again, the kirk and the palace, the ships and the men and as long as i live and where'er i may be, i'll always remember my town by the sea. [illustration] [illustration] the gardener the gardener does not love to talk, he makes me keep the gravel walk; and when he puts his tools away, he locks the door and takes the key. away behind the currant row where no one else but cook may go, far in the plots, i see him dig, old and serious, brown and big. he digs the flowers, green, red and blue, nor wishes to be spoken to. he digs the flowers and cuts the hay, and never seems to want to play. silly gardener! summer goes, and winter comes with pinching toes, when in the garden bare and brown you must lay your barrow down. well now, and while the summer stays, to profit by these garden days, o how much wiser you would be to play at indian wars with me! [illustration] a child's garden of verses fifth impression "stories all children love" a set of children's classics that should be in every winter home and summer cottage * * * * * vinzi by johanna spyri translated by elisabeth p. stork mäzli by johanna spyri translated by elisabeth p. stork cornelli by johanna spyri translated by elisabeth p. stork a child's garden of verses by robert louis stevenson the little lame prince and other stories by miss mulock gulliver's travels by jonathan swift the water babies by charles kingsley pinocchio by c. collodi robinson crusoe by daniel defoe heidi by johanna spyri translated by elisabeth p. stork the cuckoo clock by mrs. molesworth the swiss family robinson edited by g. e. mitton the princess and curdie by george macdonald the princess and the goblin by george macdonald at the back of the north wind by george macdonald a dog of flanders by "ouida" bimbi by "ouida" mopsa, the fairy by jean ingelow tales of fairyland by fergus hume hans andersen's fairy tales _each volume beautifully illustrated in color. decorated cloth. other books in this set are in preparation._ [illustration: the gardener o how much wiser you would be to play at indian wars with me!] a child's garden of verses by robert louis stevenson _illustrations in color by_ maria l. kirk [illustration] philadelphia and london j. b. lippincott company illustrations copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company printed by j. b. lippincott company at the washington square press philadelphia, u. s. a. to alison cunningham from her boy _for the long nights you lay awake and watched for my unworthy sake: for your most comfortable hand that led me through the uneven land: for all the story-books you read: for all the pains you comforted: for all you pitied, all you bore, in sad and happy days of yore:-- my second mother, my first wife, the angel of my infant life-- from the sick child, now well and old, take, nurse, the little book you hold!_ _and grant it, heaven, that all who read may find as dear a nurse at need, and every child who lists my rhyme, in the bright, fireside, nursery clime, may hear it in as kind a voice as made my childish days rejoice!_ r. l. s. contents page i. bed in summer ii. a thought iii. at the seaside iv. young night thought v. whole duty of children vi. rain vii. pirate story viii. foreign lands ix. windy nights x. travel xi. singing xii. looking forward xiii. a good play xiv. where go the boats? xv. auntie's skirts xvi. the land of counterpane xvii. the land of nod xviii. my shadow xix. system xx. a good boy xxi. escape at bedtime xxii. marching song xxiii. the cow xxiv. happy thought xxv. the wind xxvi. keepsake mill xxvii. good and bad children xxviii. foreign children xxix. the sun's travels xxx. the lamplighter xxxi. my bed is a boat xxxii. the moon xxxiii. the swing xxxiv. time to rise xxxv. looking-glass river xxxvi. fairy bread xxxvii. from a railway carriage xxxviii. winter-time xxxix. the hayloft xl. farewell to the farm xli. north-west passage: _ . good night_ _ . shadow march_ _ . in port_ the child alone page i. the unseen playmate ii. my ship and i iii. my kingdom iv. picture-books in winter v. my treasures vi. block city vii. the land of story books viii. armies in the fire ix. the little land garden days page i. night and day ii. nest eggs iii. the flowers iv. summer sun v. the dumb soldier vi. autumn fires vii. the gardener viii. historical associations envoys page i. to willie and henrietta ii. to my mother ii. to auntie iv. to minnie v. to my name-child vi. to any reader illustrations page the gardener _frontispiece_ o how much wiser you would be to play at indian wars with me! pirate story three of us aboard in the basket on the lea. the land of nod and up the mountain-sides of dreams. the wind i felt you push, i heard you call, i could not see yourself at all-- the swing up in the air and down. the hayloft the mice that in these mountains dwell no happier are than i. my ship and i and my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about. the little land in that forest to and fro i can wander, i can go. a child's garden of verses i bed in summer in winter i get up at night and dress by yellow candle-light. in summer, quite the other way, i have to go to bed by day. i have to go to bed and see the birds still hopping on the tree, or hear the grown-up people's feet still going past me in the street. and does it not seem hard to you, when all the sky is clear and blue, and i should like so much to play, to have to go to bed by day? ii a thought it is very nice to think the world is full of meat and drink, with little children saying grace in every christian kind of place. iii at the seaside when i was down beside the sea a wooden spade they gave to me to dig the sandy shore. my holes were empty like a cup, in every hole the sea came up, till it could come no more. iv young night thought all night long and every night, when my mamma puts out the light, i see the people marching by, as plain as day, before my eye. armies and emperors and kings, all carrying different kinds of things, and marching in so grand a way, you never saw the like by day. so fine a show was never seen, at the great circus on the green; for every kind of beast and man is marching in that caravan. at first they move a little slow, but still the faster on they go, and still beside them close i keep until we reach the town of sleep. v whole duty of children a child should always say what's true and speak when he is spoken to, and behave mannerly at table; at least as far as he is able. vi rain the rain is raining all around, it falls on field and tree, it rains on the umbrellas here, and on the ships at sea. [illustration: pirate story three of us aboard in the basket on the lea] vii pirate story three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing, three of us aboard in the basket on the lea. winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, and waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea. where shall we adventure, to-day that we're afloat, wary of the weather and steering by a star? shall it be to africa, a-steering of the boat, to providence, or babylon, or off to malabar? hi! but here's a squadron a-rowing on the sea-- cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! quick, and we'll escape them, they're as mad as they can be, the wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore. viii foreign lands up into the cherry tree who should climb but little me? i held the trunk with both my hands and looked abroad on foreign lands. i saw the next door garden lie, adorned with flowers, before my eye, and many pleasant places more that i had never seen before. i saw the dimpling river pass and be the sky's blue looking-glass; the dusty roads go up and down with people tramping in to town. if i could find a higher tree farther and farther i should see, to where the grown-up river slips into the sea among the ships, to where the roads on either hand lead onward into fairy land, where all the children dine at five, and all the playthings come alive. ix windy nights whenever the moon and stars are set, whenever the wind is high, all night long in the dark and wet, a man goes riding by. late in the night when the fires are out, why does he gallop and gallop about? whenever the trees are crying aloud, and ships are tossed at sea, by, on the highway, low and loud, by at the gallop goes he. by at the gallop he goes, and then by he comes back at the gallop again. x travel i should like to rise and go where the golden apples grow;-- where below another sky parrot islands anchored lie, and, watched by cockatoos and goats, lonely crusoes building boats;-- where in sunshine reaching out eastern cities, miles about, are with mosque and minaret among sandy gardens set, and the rich goods from near and far hang for sale in the bazaar; where the great wall round china goes, and on one side the desert blows, and with bell and voice and drum, cities on the other hum;-- where are forests, hot as fire, wide as england, tall as a spire, full of apes and cocoa-nuts and the negro hunters' huts;-- where the knotty crocodile lies and blinks in the nile, and the red flamingo flies hunting fish before his eyes;-- where in jungles, near and far, man-devouring tigers are, lying close and giving ear lest the hunt be drawing near, or a comer-by be seen swinging in a palanquin;-- where among the desert sands some deserted city stands, all its children, sweep and prince, grown to manhood ages since, not a foot in street or house, not a stir of child or mouse, and when kindly falls the night, in all the town no spark of light. there i'll come when i'm a man with a camel caravan; light a fire in the gloom of some dusty dining room; see the pictures on the walls, heroes, fights and festivals; and in a corner find the toys of the old egyptian boys. xi singing of speckled eggs the birdie sings and nests among the trees; the sailor sings of ropes and things in ships upon the seas. the children sing in far japan, the children sing in spain; the organ with the organ man is singing in the rain. xii looking forward when i am grown to man's estate i shall be very proud and great. and tell the other girls and boys not to meddle with my toys. xiii a good play we built a ship upon the stairs all made of the back-bedroom chairs, and filled it full of sofa pillows to go a-sailing on the billows. we took a saw and several nails, and water in the nursery pails; and tom said, 'let us also take an apple and a slice of cake;'-- which was enough for tom and me to go a-sailing on till tea. we sailed along for days and days, and had the very best of plays; but tom fell out and hurt his knee, so there was no one left but me. xiv where go the boats? dark brown is the river, golden is the sand. it flows along for ever, with trees on either hand. green leaves a-floating, castles of the foam, boats of mine a-boating-- where will all come home? on goes the river and out past the mill, away down the valley, away down the hill. away down the river, a hundred miles or more, other little children shall bring my boats ashore. xv auntie's skirts whenever auntie moves around, her dresses make a curious sound; they trail behind her up the floor, and trundle after through the door. xvi the land of counterpane when i was sick and lay a-bed, i had two pillows at my head, and all my toys beside me lay to keep me happy all the day. and sometimes for an hour or so i watched my leaden soldiers go, with different uniforms and drills, among the bed-clothes, through the hills; and sometimes sent my ships in fleets all up and down among the sheets; or brought my trees and houses out, and planted cities all about. i was the giant great and still that sits upon the pillow-hill, and sees before him, dale and plain, the pleasant land of counterpane. [illustration: the land of nod and up the mountain-sides of dreams] xvii the land of nod from breakfast on through all the day at home among my friends i stay; but every night i go abroad afar into the land of nod. all by myself i have to go, with none to tell me what to do-- all alone beside the streams and up the mountain-sides of dreams. the strangest things are there for me, both things to eat and things to see, and many frightening sights abroad till morning in the land of nod. try as i like to find the way, i never can get back by day, nor can remember plain and clear the curious music that i hear. xviii my shadow i have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, and what can be the use of him is more than i can see. he is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; and i see him jump before me, when i jump into my bed. the funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; for he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, and sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. he hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. he stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; i'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! one morning, very early, before the sun was up, i rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; but my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. xix system every night my prayers i say, and get my dinner every day; and every day that i've been good, i get an orange after food. the child that is not clean and neat, with lots of toys and things to eat, he is a naughty child, i'm sure-- or else his dear papa is poor. xx a good boy i woke before the morning, i was happy all the day, i never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play. and now at last the sun is going down behind the wood, and i am very happy, for i know that i've been good. my bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair, and i must off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer. i know that, till to-morrow i shall see the sun arise, no ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes, but slumber holds me tightly till i waken in the dawn, and hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn. xxi escape at bedtime the lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out through the blinds and the windows and bars; and high overhead and all moving about, there were thousands of millions of stars. there ne'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree, nor of people in church or the park, as the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me, and that glittered and winked in the dark. the dog, and the plough, and the hunter, and all and the star of the sailor, and mars, these shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall would be half full of water and stars. they saw me at last, and they chased me with cries, and they soon had me packed into bed; but the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes, and the stars going round in my head. xxii marching song bring the comb and play upon it! marching, here we come! willie cocks his highland bonnet, johnnie beats the drum. mary jane commands the party, peter leads the rear; feet in time, alert and hearty, each a grenadier! all in the most martial manner marching double-quick; while the napkin like a banner waves upon the stick! here's enough of fame and pillage, great commander jane! now that we've been round the village, let's go home again. xxiii the cow the friendly cow all red and white, i love with all my heart: she gives me cream with all her might, to eat with apple-tart. she wanders lowing here and there, and yet she cannot stray, all in the pleasant open air, the pleasant light of day; and blown by all the winds that pass and wet with all the showers, she walks among the meadow grass and eats the meadow flowers. xxiv happy thought the world is so full of a number of things, i'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. xxv the wind i saw you toss the kites on high and blow the birds about the sky; and all around i heard you pass, like ladies' skirts across the grass-- o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! i saw the different things you did, but always you yourself you hid. i felt you push, i heard you call, i could not see yourself at all-- o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! [illustration: the wind i felt you push, i heard you call, i could not see yourself at all--] o you that are so strong and cold, o blower, are you young or old? are you a beast of field and tree, or just a stronger child than me? o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! xxvi keepsake mill over the borders, a sin without pardon, breaking the branches and crawling below, out through the breach in the wall of the garden, down by the banks of the river, we go. here is the mill with the humming of thunder, here is the weir with the wonder of foam, here is the sluice with the race running under-- marvellous places, though handy to home! sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller, stiller the note of the birds on the hill; dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller, deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill. years may go by, and the wheel in the river wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day, wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever long after all of the boys are away. home from the indies and home from the ocean, heroes and soldiers we all shall come home; still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion, turning and churning that river to foam. you with the bean that i gave when we quarrelled, i with your marble of saturday last, honoured and old and all gaily apparelled, here we shall meet and remember the past. xxvii good and bad children children, you are very little, and your bones are very brittle; if you would grow great and stately, you must try to walk sedately. you must still be bright and quiet, and content with simple diet; and remain, through all bewild'ring, innocent and honest children. happy hearts and happy faces, happy play in grassy places-- that was how, in ancient ages, children grew to kings and sages. but the unkind and the unruly, and the sort who eat unduly, they must never hope for glory-- theirs is quite a different story! cruel children, crying babies, all grow up as geese and gabies, hated, as their age increases, by their nephews and their nieces. xxviii foreign children little indian, sioux or crow, little frosty eskimo, little turk or japanee, o! don't you wish that you were me? you have seen the scarlet trees and the lions over seas; you have eaten ostrich eggs, and turned the turtles off their legs. such a life is very fine, but it's not so nice as mine: you must often, as you trod, have wearied _not_ to be abroad. you have curious things to eat, i am fed on proper meat; you must dwell beyond the foam, but i am safe and live at home. little indian, sioux or crow, little frosty eskimo, little turk or japanee, o! don't you wish that you were me? xxix the sun's travels the sun is not a-bed, when i at night upon my pillow lie; still round the earth his way he takes, and morning after morning makes. while here at home, in shining day, we round the sunny garden play, each little indian sleepy-head is being kissed and put to bed. and when at eve i rise from tea, day dawns beyond the atlantic sea, and all the children in the west are getting up and being dressed. xxx the lamplighter my tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; it's time to take the window to see leerie going by; for every night at teatime and before you take your seat, with lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. now tom would be a driver and maria go to sea, and my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; but i, when i am stronger and can choose what i'm to do, o leerie, i'll go round at night and light the lamps with you! for we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, and leery stops to light it as he lights so many more; and o! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, o leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night! xxxi my bed is a boat my bed is a little boat; nurse helps me in when i embark she girds me in my sailor's coat and starts me in the dark. at night, i go on board and say good night to all my friends on shore; i shut my eyes and sail away and see and hear no more. and sometimes things to bed i take, as prudent sailors have to do: perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, perhaps a toy or two. all night across the dark we steer: but when the day returns at last, safe in my room, beside the pier, i find my vessel fast. xxxii the moon the moon has a face like the clock in the hall; she shines on thieves on the garden wall, on streets and fields and harbour quays, and birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. the squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, the howling dog by the door of the house, the bat that lies in bed at noon, all love to be out by the light of the moon. but all of the things that belong to the day cuddle to sleep to be out of her way; and flowers and children close their eyes till up in the morning the sun shall arise. [illustration: the swing up in the air and down] xxxiii the swing how do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue? oh, i do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do! up in the air and over the wall, till i can see so wide, rivers and trees and cattle and all over the countryside-- till i look down on the garden green, down on the roof so brown-- up in the air i go flying again, up in the air and down! xxxiv time to rise a birdie with a yellow bill hopped upon the window sill, cocked his shining eye and said: 'ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?' xxxv looking-glass river smooth it slides upon its travel, here a wimple, there a gleam-- o the clean gravel! o the smooth stream! sailing blossoms, silver fishes, paven pools as clear as air-- how a child wishes to live down there! we can see our coloured faces floating on the shaken pool down in cool places, dim and very cool; till a wind or water wrinkle, dipping marten, plumping trout, spreads in a twinkle and blots all out. see the rings pursue each other; all below grows black as night, just as if mother had blown out the light! patience, children, just a minute-- see the spreading circles die; the stream and all in it will clear by-and-by. xxxvi fairy bread come up here, o dusty feet! here is fairy bread to eat. here in my retiring room, children, you may dine on the golden smell of broom and the shade of pine; and when you have eaten well, fairy stories hear and tell. xxxvii from a railway carriage faster than fairies, faster than witches, bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; and charging along like troops in a battle, all through the meadows the horses and cattle: all the sights of the hill and the plain fly as thick as driving rain; and ever again, in the wink of an eye, painted stations whistle by. here is a child who clambers and scrambles, all by himself and gathering brambles; here is a tramp who stands and gazes; and there is the green for stringing the daisies! here is a cart run away in the road lumping along with man and load; and here is a mill and there is a river: each a glimpse and gone forever! xxxviii winter-time late lies the wintry sun a-bed, a frosty, fiery sleepy-head; blinks but an hour or two; and then, a blood-red orange, sets again. before the stars have left the skies, at morning in the dark i rise; and shivering in my nakedness, by the cold candle, bathe and dress. close by the jolly fire i sit to warm my frozen bones a bit; or with a reindeer-sled, explore the colder countries round the door. when to go out, my nurse doth wrap me in my comforter and cap: the cold wind burns my face, and blows its frosty pepper up my nose. black are my steps on silver sod; thick blows my frosty breath abroad; and tree and house, and hill and lake, are frosted like a wedding-cake. [illustration: the hayloft the mice that in these mountains dwell no happier are than i] xxxix the hayloft through all the pleasant meadow-side the grass grew shoulder-high, till the shining scythes went far and wide and cut it down to dry. these green and sweetly smelling crops they led in waggons home; and they piled them here in mountain tops for mountaineers to roam. here is mount clear, mount rusty-nail, mount eagle and mount high;-- the mice that in these mountains dwell, no happier are than i! o what a joy to clamber there, o what a place for play, with the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, the happy hills of hay. xl farewell to the farm the coach is at the door at last; the eager children, mounting fast and kissing hands, in chorus sing: good-bye, good-bye, to everything! to house and garden, field and lawn, the meadow-gates we swang upon, to pump and stable, tree and swing, good-bye, good-bye, to everything! and fare you well for evermore, o ladder at the hayloft door, o hayloft where the cobwebs cling, good-bye, good-bye, to everything! crack goes the whip, and off we go; the trees and houses smaller grow; last, round the woody turn we swing: good-bye, good-bye, to everything! xli north-west passage . good night when the bright lamp is carried in, the sunless hours again begin; o'er all without, in field and lane, the haunted night returns again. now we behold the embers flee about the firelit hearth; and see our faces painted as we pass, like pictures, on the window-glass. must we to bed indeed? well then, let us arise and go like men, and face with an undaunted tread the long black passage up to bed. farewell, o brother, sister, sire! o pleasant party round the fire! the songs you sing, the tales you tell, till far to-morrow, fare ye well! . shadow march all round the house is the jet-black night; it stares through the window-pane; it crawls in the corners, hiding from the light, and it moves with the moving flame. now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum, with the breath of the bogie in my hair; and all round the candle the crooked shadows come and go marching along up the stair. the shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp, the shadow of the child that goes to bed-- all the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, with the black night overhead. . in port last, to the chamber where i lie my fearful footsteps patter nigh, and come from out the cold and gloom into my warm and cheerful room. there, safe arrived, we turn about to keep the coming shadows out, and close the happy door at last on all the perils that we past. then, when mamma goes by to bed, she shall come in with tip-toe tread, and see me lying warm and fast and in the land of nod at last. the child alone i the unseen playmate when children are playing alone on the green, in comes the playmate that never was seen. when children are happy and lonely and good, the friend of the children comes out of the wood. nobody heard him and nobody saw, his is a picture you never could draw, but he's sure to be present, abroad or at home, when children are happy and playing alone. he lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass, he sings when you tinkle the musical glass; whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why, the friend of the children is sure to be by! he loves to be little, he hates to be big, 'tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig; 'tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin that sides with the frenchmen and never can win. 'tis he, when at night you go off to your bed, bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head; for wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf, 'tis he will take care of your playthings himself! [illustration: my ship and i and my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about] ii my ship and i o it's i that am the captain of a tidy little ship, of a ship that goes a-sailing on the pond; and my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about; but when i'm a little older, i shall find the secret out how to send my vessel sailing on beyond. for i mean to grow as little as the dolly at the helm, and the dolly i intend to come alive; and with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing i shall go, it's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow and the vessel goes a divie-divie dive. o it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds, and you'll hear the water singing at the prow; for beside the dolly sailor, i'm to voyage and explore, to land upon the island where no dolly was before, and to fire the penny cannon in the bow. iii my kingdom down by a shining water well i found a very little dell, no higher than my head. the heather and the gorse about in summer bloom were coming out, some yellow and some red. i called the little pool a sea; the little hills were big to me; for i am very small. i made a boat, i made a town, i searched the caverns up and down, and named them one and all. and all about was mine, i said, the little sparrows overhead, the little minnows too. this was the world and i was king; for me the bees came by to sing, for me the swallows flew. i played there were no deeper seas, nor any wider plains than these, nor other kings than me. at last i heard my mother call out from the house at evenfall, to call me home to tea. and i must rise and leave my dell, and leave my dimpled water well, and leave my heather blooms. alas! and as my home i neared, how very big my nurse appeared, how great and cool the rooms! iv picture-books in winter summer fading, winter comes-- frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, window robins, winter rooks, and the picture story-books. water now is turned to stone nurse and i can walk upon; still we find the flowing brooks in the picture story-books. all the pretty things put by, wait upon the children's eye, sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, in the picture story-books. we may see how all things are, seas and cities, near and far, and the flying fairies' looks, in the picture story-books. how am i to sing your praise, happy chimney-corner days, sitting safe in nursery nooks, reading picture story-books? v my treasures these nuts, that i keep in the back of the nest where all my lead soldiers are lying at rest, were gathered in autumn by nursie and me in a wood with a well by the side of the sea. this whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!) by the side of a field at the end of the grounds. of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own, it was nursie who made it, and nursie alone! the stone, with the white and the yellow and grey, we discovered i cannot tell _how_ far away; and i carried it back although weary and cold, for though father denies it, i'm sure it is gold. but of all of my treasures the last is the king, for there's very few children possess such a thing; and that is a chisel, both handle and blade, which a man who was really a carpenter made. vi block city what are you able to build with your blocks? castles and palaces, temples and docks. rain may keep raining, and others go roam, but i can be happy and building at home. let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea, there i'll establish a city for me: a kirk and a mill and a palace beside, and a harbour as well where my vessels may ride. great is the palace with pillar and wall, a sort of a tower on the top of it all, and steps coming down in an orderly way to where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay. this one is sailing and that one is moored: hark to the song of the sailors on board! and see on the steps of my palace, the kings coming and going with presents and things! now i have done with it, down let it go! all in a moment the town is laid low. block upon block lying scattered and free, what is there left of my town by the sea? yet as i saw it, i see it again, the kirk and the palace, the ships and the men, and as long as i live and where'er i may be, i'll always remember my town by the sea. vii the land of story-books at evening when the lamp is lit, around the fire my parents sit; they sit at home and talk and sing, and do not play at anything. now, with my little gun, i crawl all in the dark along the wall, and follow round the forest track away behind the sofa back. there, in the night, where none can spy, all in my hunter's camp i lie, and play at books that i have read till it is time to go to bed. these are the hills, these are the woods, these are my starry solitudes; and there the river by whose brink the roaring lions come to drink. i see the others far away as if in firelit camp they lay, and i, like to an indian scout, around their party prowled about. so, when my nurse comes in for me, home i return across the sea, and go to bed with backward looks at my dear land of story-books. viii armies in the fire the lamps now glitter down the street; faintly sound the falling feet; and the blue even slowly falls about the garden trees and walls. now in the falling of the gloom the red fire paints the empty room: and warmly on the roof it looks, and flickers on the backs of books. armies march by tower and spire of cities blazing, in the fire;-- till as i gaze with staring eyes, the armies fade, the lustre dies. then once again the glow returns; again the phantom city burns; and down the red-hot valley, lo! the phantom armies marching go! blinking embers, tell me true where are those armies marching to, and what the burning city is that crumbles in your furnaces! ix the little land when at home alone i sit and am very tired of it, i have just to shut my eyes to go sailing through the skies-- to go sailing far away to the pleasant land of play; to the fairy land afar where the little people are; where the clover-tops are trees, and the rain-pools are the seas, and the leaves like little ships sail about on tiny trips; and above the daisy tree through the grasses, high o'erhead the bumble bee hums and passes. in that forest to and fro i can wander, i can go; see the spider and the fly, and the ants go marching by carrying parcels with their feet down the green and grassy street. i can in the sorrel sit where the ladybird alit. [illustration: the little land in that forest to and fro i can wander, i can go] i can climb the jointed grass; and on high see the greater swallows pass in the sky, and the round sun rolling by heeding no such things as i. through that forest i can pass till, as in a looking-glass, humming fly and daisy tree and my tiny self i see, painted very clear and neat on the rain-pool at my feet. should a leaflet come to land drifting near to where i stand, straight i'll board that tiny boat round the rain-pool sea to float. little thoughtful creatures sit on the grassy coasts of it; little things with lovely eyes see me sailing with surprise. some are clad in armour green-- (these have sure to battle been!)-- some are pied with ev'ry hue, black and crimson, gold and blue; some have wings and swift are gone;-- but they all look kindly on. when my eyes i once again open, and see all things plain: high bare walls, great bare floor; great big knobs on drawer and door; great big people perched on chairs, stitching tucks and mending tears, each a hill that i could climb, and talking nonsense all the time-- o dear me, that i could be a sailor on the rain-pool sea, a climber in the clover tree, and just come back, a sleepy-head, late at night to go to bed. garden days i night and day when the golden day is done, through the closing portal, child and garden, flower and sun, vanish all things mortal. as the blinding shadows fall, as the rays diminish, under evening's cloak, they all roll away and vanish. garden darkened, daisy shut, child in bed, they slumber-- glow-worm in the highway rut, mice among the lumber. in the darkness houses shine, parents move with candles; till on all, the night divine turns the bedroom handles. till at last the day begins in the east a-breaking, in the hedges and the whins sleeping birds a-waking. in the darkness shapes of things, houses, trees, and hedges, clearer grow; and sparrow's wings beat on window ledges. these shall wake the yawning maid; she the door shall open-- finding dew on garden glade and the morning broken. there my garden grows again green and rosy painted, as at eve behind the pane from my eyes it fainted. just as it was shut away, toy-like, in the even, here i see it glow with day under glowing heaven. every path and every plot, every bush of roses, every blue forget-me-not where the dew reposes, "up!" they cry, "the day is come on the smiling valleys; we have beat the morning drum; playmate, join your allies!" ii nest eggs birds all the sunny day flutter and quarrel here in the arbour-like tent of the laurel. here in the fork the brown nest is seated; four little blue eggs the mother keeps heated. while we stand watching her, staring like gabies, safe in each egg are the bird's little babies. soon the frail eggs they shall chip, and upspringing make all the april woods merry with singing. younger than we are, o children, and frailer, soon in blue air they'll be, singer and sailor. we, so much older, taller and stronger, we shall look down on the birdies no longer. they shall go flying with musical speeches high overhead in the tops of the beeches. in spite of our wisdom and sensible talking, we on our feet must go plodding and walking. iii the flowers all the names i know from nurse: gardener's garters, shepherd's purse, bachelor's buttons, lady's smock, and the lady hollyhock. fairy places, fairy things, fairy woods where the wild bee wings, tiny trees for tiny dames-- these must all be fairy names! tiny woods below whose boughs shady fairies weave a house; tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, where the braver fairies climb! fair are grown-up people's trees, but the fairest woods are these; where, if i were not so tall, i should live for good and all. iv summer sun great is the sun, and wide he goes through empty heaven without repose; and in the blue and glowing days more thick than rain he showers his rays though closer still the blinds we pull to keep the shady parlour cool, yet he will find a chink or two to slip his golden fingers through. the dusty attic spider-clad he, through the keyhole, maketh glad; and through the broken edge of tiles, into the laddered hayloft smiles. meantime his golden face around he bares to all the garden ground, and sheds a warm and glittering look among the ivy's inmost nook. above the hills, along the blue, round the bright air with footing true, to please the child, to paint the rose, the gardener of the world, he goes. v the dumb soldier when the grass was closely mown, walking on the lawn alone, in the turf a hole i found and hid a soldier underground. spring and daisies came apace; grasses hide my hiding place; grasses run like a green sea o'er the lawn up to my knee. under grass alone he lies, looking up with leaden eyes, scarlet coat and pointed gun, to the stars and to the sun. when the grass is ripe like grain when the scythe is stoned again, when the lawn is shaven clear, then my hole shall reappear. i shall find him, never fear, i shall find my grenadier; but for all that's gone and come, i shall find my soldier dumb. he has lived, a little thing, in the grassy woods of spring; done, if he could tell me true, just as i should like to do. he has seen the starry hours and the springing of the flowers; and the fairy things that pass in the forests of the grass. in the silence he has heard talking bee and ladybird, and the butterfly has flown o'er him as he lay alone. not a word will he disclose, not a word of all he knows. i must lay him on the shelf, and make up the tale myself. vi autumn fires in the other gardens and all up the vale, from the autumn bonfires see the smoke trail! pleasant summer over and all the summer flowers, the red fire blazes, the grey smoke towers. sing a song of seasons! something bright in all! flowers in the summer fires in the fall! vii the gardener the gardener does not love to talk, he makes me keep the gravel walk; and when he puts his tools away, he locks the door and takes the key. away behind the currant row where no one else but cook may go, far in the plots, i see him dig, old and serious, brown and big. he digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, nor wishes to be spoken to. he digs the flowers and cuts the hay, and never seems to want to play. silly gardener! summer goes, and winter comes with pinching toes, when in the garden bare and brown you must lay your barrow down. well now, and while the summer stays, to profit by these garden days, o how much wiser you would be to play at indian wars with me! viii historical associations dear uncle jim, this garden ground that now you smoke your pipe around, has seen immortal actions done and valiant battles lost and won. here we had best on tip-toe tread, while i for safety march ahead, for this is that enchanted ground where all who loiter slumber sound. here is the sea, here is the sand, here is simple shepherd's land, here are the fairy hollyhocks, and there are ali baba's rocks. but yonder, see! apart and high, frozen siberia lies; where i, with robert bruce and william tell, was bound by an enchanter's spell. there, then, awhile in chains we lay, in wintry dungeons, far from day; but ris'n at length, with might and main, our iron fetters burst in twain. then all the horns were blown in town; and to the ramparts clanging down, all the giants leaped to horse and charged behind us through the gorse. on we rode, the others and i, over the mountains blue, and by the silver river, the sounding sea, and the robber woods of tartary. a thousand miles we galloped fast, and down the witches' lane we passed, and rode amain, with brandished sword, up to the middle, through the ford. last we drew rein--a weary three-- upon the lawn, in time for tea, and from our steeds alighted down before the gates of babylon. envoys i to willie and henrietta if two may read aright these rhymes of old delight and house and garden play, you two, my cousins, and you only, may. you in a garden green with me were king and queen, were hunter, soldier, tar, and all the thousand things that children are. now in the elders' seat we rest with quiet feet, and from the window-bay we watch the children, our successors, play. "time was," the golden head irrevocably said; but time which none can bind, while flowing fast away, leaves love behind. ii to my mother you too, my mother, read my rhymes for love of unforgotten times, and you may chance to hear once more the little feet along the floor. iii to auntie _chief of our aunts_--not only i, but all your dozen of nurslings cry-- _what did the other children do?_ _and what were childhood, wanting you?_ iv to minnie the red room with the giant bed where none but elders laid their head; the little room where you and i did for awhile together lie and, simple suitor, i your hand in decent marriage did demand; the great day nursery, best of all, with pictures pasted on the wall and leaves upon the blind-- a pleasant room wherein to wake and hear the leafy garden shake and rustle in the wind-- and pleasant there to lie in bed and see the pictures overhead-- the wars about sebastopol, the grinning guns along the wall, the daring escalade, the plunging ships, the bleating sheep, the happy children ankle-deep and laughing as they wade: all these are vanished clean away, and the old manse is changed today; it wears an altered face and shields a stranger race. the river, on from mill to mill, flows past our childhood's garden still; but ah! we children never more shall watch it from the water-door! below the yew--it still is there-- our phantom voices haunt the air as we were still at play, and i can hear them call and say: "_how far is it to babylon?_" ah, far enough, my dear, far, far enough from here-- yet you have farther gone! "_can i get there by candlelight?_" so goes the old refrain. i do not know--perchance you might-- but only, children, hear it right, ah, never to return again! the eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, shall break on hill and plain, and put all stars and candles out, ere we be young again. to you in distant india, these i send across the seas, nor count it far across. for which of us forgets the indian cabinets, the bones of antelope, the wings of albatross, the pied and painted birds and beans, the junks and bangles, beads and screens, the gods and sacred bells, and the loud-humming, twisted shells? the level of the parlour floor was honest, homely, scottish shore; but when we climbed upon a chair, behold the gorgeous east was there! be this a fable; and behold me in the parlour as of old, and minnie just above me set in the quaint indian cabinet! smiling and kind, you grace a shelf too high for me to reach myself. reach down a hand, my dear, and take these rhymes for old acquaintance' sake. v to my name-child some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed, little louis sanchez, will be given you to read. then shall you discover, that your name was printed down by the english printers, long before, in london town. in the great and busy city where the east and west are met, all the little letters did the english printer set; while you thought of nothing, and were still too young to play, foreign people thought of you in places far away. ay, and while you slept, a baby, over all the english lands other little children took the volume in their hands; other children questioned, in their homes across the seas: who was little louis, won't you tell us, mother, please? now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play, seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of monterey, watching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze, tiny sandy-pipers, and the huge pacific seas. and remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you, long ere you could read it, how i told you what to do; and that while you thought of no one, nearly half the world away some one thought of louis on the beach of monterey! vi to any reader as from the house your mother sees you playing round the garden trees, so you may see, if you will look through the windows of this book, another child, far, far away, and in another garden, play. but do not think you can at all, by knocking on the window, call that child to hear you. he intent is all on his play-business bent. he does not hear; he will not look, nor yet be lured out of this book. for, long ago, the truth to say, he has grown up and gone away, and it is but a child of air that lingers in the garden there. * * * * * transcriber's note: punctuation was left exactly as it appears in the original text. thus, for example, the first stanza of "summer sun" has no closing punctuation. list of books, the first "by" was changed to match the font-style of the remaining titles. page , "ii." changed to "iii." (iii. to auntie) poems teachers ask for selected by readers of "normal instructor-primary plans" comprising the poems most frequently requested for publication in that magazine on the page "poems our readers have asked for" index abou ben adhem _hunt_ abraham lincoln _t. taylor_ all things bright and beautiful _alexander_ american flag, the _drake_ answer to "rock me to sleep" arrow and the song, the _longfellow_ asleep at the switch _hoey_ at school-close _whittier_ aunt tabitha autumn woods _bryant_ baby, the _macdonald_ barbara frietchie _whittier_ barefoot boy, the _whittier_ bay billy _gassaway_ be strong _babcock_ better than gold _smart_ bingen on the rhine _norton_ blue and the gray, the _finch_ bluebird's song, the _e.h. miller_ bobby shaftoe boy and his stomach, a boy's song, a _hogg_ "breathes there the man" _scott_ brier-rose _boyesen_ brook, the _tennyson_ brown thrush, the _larcom_ bugle song, the _tennyson_ builders, the _longfellow_ building of the ship, the _longfellow_ burial of sir john moore, the _wolfe_ calf path, the _foss_ casey at the bat _thayer_ casey's revenge _wilson_ chambered nautilus, the _holmes_ character of the happy warrior _wordsworth_ charge of the light brigade, the _tennyson_ children's hour, the _longfellow_ children, the _dickinson_ child's thought of god, a _e.b. browning_ christ in flanders christmas everywhere _brooks_ cloud, the _shelley_ college oil cans _mcguire_ columbus _joaquin miller_ concord hymn, the _emerson_ corn song, the _whittier_ crossing the bar _tennyson_ curfew must not ring to-night _thorpe_ custer's last charge _whittaker_ daffodils _wordsworth_ darius green and his flying machine _trowbridge_ day well spent, a dead pussy cat, the _short_ diffidence don't give up _p. cary_ driving home the cows _osgood_ drummer boy of mission ridge each in his own tongue _carruth_ echo _saxe_ engineers making love _burdette_ eternal goodness, the _whittier_ fable, a _emerson_ face upon the floor, the _d'arcy_ fairies, the _allingham_ fence or an ambulance, a _malins_ first settler's story, the _carleton_ first snow-fall, the _lowell_ flag goes by, the _bennett_ fountain, the _lowell_ four-leaf clover, the _higginson_ frost, the _gould_ give us men _holland_ god's judgment on a wicked bishop _southey_ golden keys good night and good morning _houghton_ gradatim _holland_ green mountain justice, the _reeves_ guilty or not guilty hand that rules the world, the _wallace_ house by the side of the road, the _foss_ how cyrus laid the cable _saxe_ how he saved st. michael's _stansbury_ huskers, the _whittier_ if-- _kipling_ i like little pussy _j. taylor_ incident of the french camp _r. browning_ in flanders fields _mccrae_ in flanders fields: an answer _galbreath_ in school-days _whittier_ inventor's wife, an _ewing_ invictus _henley_ is it worth while? _joachim miller_ i want to go to morrow jane conquest _milne_ jane jones _king_ johnny's hist'ry lesson _waterman_ june _lowell_ kate ketchem _p. cary_ kate shelly _hall_ katie lee and willie grey kentucky belle _woolson_ kentucky philosophy _robertson_ kid has gone to the colors, the _herschell_ king robert of sicily _longfellow_ lady moon _houghton_ landing of the pilgrims, the _hemans_ lasca _desprez_ last hymn, the _faringham_ leak in the dike, the _p. cary_ leap for life, a _morris_ leap of roushan beg, the _longfellow_ leedle yawcob strauss _adams_ legend of bregenz, a _procter_ legend of the organ-builder, the _dorr_ l'envoi _kipling_ life's mirror _bridges_ lips that touch liquor, the _young_ little birdie _tennyson_ little black-eyed rebel, the _carleton_ little boy blue _field_ little brown hands _krout_ little plant, the _brown_ lost chord, the _procter_ love of country _scott_ ("breathes there the man") main truck, the _morris_ mandalay _kipling_ man with the hoe, the _markham_ maud muller _whittier_ miller of the dee, the _mackay_ moo cow moo, the _cooke_ mother's fool mothers of men _joaquin miller_ mount vernon's bells _slade_ mr. finney's turnip my love ship _wilcox_ my mother nathan hale _finch_ never trouble trouble _windsor_ nobility _a. cary_ "not understood" november _a. cary_ o captain! my captain _whitman_ october's bright blue weather _jackson_ old clock on the stairs, the _longfellow_ old ironsides _holmes_ old red cradle, the _grannies_ o little town of bethlehem _brooks_ on his blindness _milton_ on the shores of tennessee _beers_ opportunity _ingalls_ opportunity _malone_ order for a picture, an _a. cary_ our folks _beers_ out in the fields _e.b. browning_ over the hill to the poorhouse _carleton_ overworked elocutionist, the owl and the pussy-cat, the _lear_ owl critic, the _fields_ paul revere's ride _longfellow_ penny ye mean to gie, the perfect day, a _bond_ pippa's song _r. browning_ plain bob and a job _foley_ planting of the apple-tree _bryant_ poet's prophecy, a _tennyson_ polonius' advice to laertes _shakespeare_ poorhouse nan _blinn_ psalm of life, a _longfellow_ quality of mercy, the _shakespeare_ raggedy man, the _riley_ recessional, the _kipling_ ride of jennie m'neal, the _carleton_ riding on the rail _saxe_ rivers of france, the robert of lincoln _bryant_ robert reese (the overworked elocutionist) rock me to sleep _allen_ say not the struggle nought availeth _clough_ second table _waterman_ seein' things _field_ seven times one _ingelow_ seven times two _ingelow_ seven times three _ingelow_ seven times four _ingelow_ sheridan's ride _read_ she walks in beauty _byron_ sister and i sister's best feller _lincoln_ sleep, baby, sleep _elizabeth prentiss_ smack in school, the _palmer_ somebody's mother _brine_ song of our flag, a _nesbit_ song of the camp, the _b. taylor_ song of the sea _cornwall_ song of the shirt _hood_ song: the owl _tennyson_ so was i _smiley_ suppose _p. cary_ sweet and low _tennyson_ tapestry weavers, the _chester_ teacher's dream, the _venable_ telling the bees _whittier_ thanatopsis _bryant_ thanksgiving-day _child_ there's but one pair of stockings to a butterfly _wordsworth_ to a skylark _shelley_ to a waterfowl _bryant_ to-day _carlyle_ to-day _waterman_ to the fringed gentian _bryant_ tree, the _bjornson_ twinkle, twinkle, little star _j. taylor_ two glasses, the _wilcox_ village blacksmith, the _longfellow_ visit from st. nicholas, a _moore_ walrus and the carpenter, the _carroll_ we are seven _wordsworth_ what i live for _banks_ what is good _o'reilly_ when the cows come home _mitchell_ when the minister comes to tea _lincoln_ when the teacher gets cross where the west begins _chapman_ whistling in heaven white-footed deer, the _bryant_ who won the war? _pulsifer_ why should the spirit of mortal be proud! _knox_ wild white rose, the _willis_ wind and the moon, the _macdonald_ wind, the _rossetti_ wishing _allingham_ woman's question, a _lathrop_ wonderful world, the _rands_ woodman, spare that tree _morris_ you and you _wharton_ young man waited, the _cooke_ your mission _gates_ preface seldom does a book of poems appear that is definitely a response to demand and a reflection of readers' preferences. of this collection that can properly be claimed. for a decade normal instructor-primary plans has carried monthly a page entitled "poems our readers have asked for." the interest in this page has been, and is, phenomenal. occasionally space considerations or copyright restrictions have prevented compliance with requests, but so far as practicable poems asked for have been printed. because it has become impossible to furnish many of the earlier issues of the magazine, the publishers decided to select the poems most often requested and, carefully revising these for possible errors, to include them in the present collection. in some cases the desired poems are old favorite dramatic recitations, but many of them are poems that are required or recommended for memorizing in state courses of study. this latter feature will of itself make the book extremely valuable to teachers throughout the country. we are glad to offer here certain poems, often requested, but too long for insertion on our magazine poetry page. we are pleased also to be able to include a number of popular copyright poems. special permission to use these has been granted through arrangement with the authorized publishers, whose courtesy is acknowledged below in detail: the bobbs-merrill company--_the raggedy man_, from "the biographical edition of the complete works of james whitcomb riley," copyright . charles scribner's sons--_seein' things_ and _little boy blue_, by eugene field; _gradatim_ and _give us men_, from "the poetical works of j.g. holland"; and _you and you_, by edith wharton, copyright . harper and brothers--_over the hill to the poor-house_, _the ride of jennie m'neal_, _the little black-eyed rebel_, and _the first settler's story_, by will carleton. the dodge publishing company--_the moo cow moo_ and _the young man waited_, by edmund vance cooke. lothrop, lee and shepard company--_the house by the side of the road_ and _the calf path_, by sam walter foss. little, brown and company--_october's bright blue weather_, by helen hunt jackson. houghton mifflin company--poems by john g. whittier, alice cary, phoebe cary, james t. fields, and lucy larcom. the publishers. poems teachers ask for * * * * * o captain! my captain! (_this poem was written in memory of abraham lincoln._) o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done, the ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; the port is near, the bells i hear, the people all exulting, while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; but, o heart! heart! heart! o the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold and dead. o captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells; rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, for you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; here captain! dear father! this arm beneath your head! it is some dream that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead. my captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; my father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will; the ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; from fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; exult, o shores! and ring, o bells! but i, with mournful tread, walk the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold and dead. _walt whitman._ a poet's prophecy for i dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew from the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, with the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm; till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd in the parliament of man, the federation of the world. there the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, and the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. _tennyson, "locksley hall," ._ the landing of the pilgrims the breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast, and the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed; and the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, when a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild new england shore. not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,-- not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame; not as the flying come, in silence and in fear; they shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. amidst the storms they sang; and the stars heard, and the sea; and the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang to the anthem of the free. the ocean eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam; and the rocking pines of the forest roared-- this was their welcome home! there were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band: why had they come to wither there away from their childhood's land? there was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; there was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. what sought they thus afar? bright jewels of the mine? the wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- they sought a faith's pure shrine. ay, call it holy ground,-- the soil where first they trod! they have left unstained what there they found-- freedom to worship god! _felicia hemans._ bobby shaftoe "marie, will you marry me? for you know how i love thee! tell me, darling, will you be the wife of bobby shaftoe?" "bobby, pray don't ask me more, for you've asked me twice before; let us be good friends, no more, no more, bobby shaftoe." "if you will not marry me, i will go away to sea; and you ne'er again shall be a friend of bobby shaftoe." "oh, you will not go away for you've said so twice to-day. stop! he's gone! dear bobby, stay! dearest bobby shaftoe! "bobby shaftoe's gone to sea, silver buckles on his knee, but he'll come back and marry me, pretty bobby shaftoe. "he will soon come back to me, and how happy i shall be, he'll come back and marry me, dearest bobby shaftoe." "bobby shaftoe's lost at sea, he cannot come back to thee. and you ne'er again will see your dear bobby shaftoe. "oh, we sadly mourn for thee, and regret we ne'er shall see our friend bobby, true and free, dearest bobby shaftoe." "bobby shaftoe's lost at sea. and can ne'er come back to me, but i'll ever faithful be, true to bobby shaftoe." "darling, i've come home from sea, i've come back to marry thee, for i know you're true to me, true to bobby shaftoe." "yes, i always cared for thee, and now you've come back to me, and we will always happy be, dearest bobby shaftoe." "bobby shaftoe's come from sea, and we will united be, heart and hand in unity, mr. and mrs. shaftoe." the overworked elocutionist (or "robert reese") once there was a little boy whose name was robert reese, and every friday afternoon he had to speak a piece. so many poems thus he learned that soon he had a store of recitations in his head and still kept learning more. now this it is what happened: he was called upon one week and totally forgot the piece he was about to speak. his brain he vainly cudgeled but no word was in his head, and so he spoke at random, and this is what he said; my beautiful, my beautiful, who standest proudly by, it was the schooner hesperus the breaking waves dashed high. why is the forum crowded? what means this stir in rome? under a spreading chestnut tree there is no place like home. when freedom from her mountain height cried, "twinkle, little star," shoot if you must this old gray head, king henry of navarre. if you're waking, call me early to be or not to be, curfew must not ring to-night, oh, woodman, spare that tree. charge, chester, charge! on, stanley, on! and let who will be clever, the boy stood on the burning deck but i go on for ever. the kid has gone to the colors the kid has gone to the colors and we don't know what to say; the kid we have loved and cuddled stepped out for the flag to-day. we thought him a child, a baby with never a care at all, but his country called him man-size and the kid has heard the call. he paused to watch the recruiting, where, fired by the fife and drum, he bowed his head to old glory and thought that it whispered: "come!" the kid, not being a slacker, stood forth with patriot-joy to add his name to the roster-- and god, we're proud of the boy! the kid has gone to the colors; it seems but a little while since he drilled a schoolboy army in a truly martial style, but now he's a man, a soldier, and we lend him a listening ear, for his heart is a heart all loyal, unscourged by the curse of fear. his dad, when he told him, shuddered, his mother--god bless her!--cried; yet, blest with a mother-nature, she wept with a mother-pride, but he whose old shoulders straightened was granddad--for memory ran to years when he, too, a youngster, was changed by the flag to a man! _w.m. herschell._ kentucky belle summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and conrad was gone away-- gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay-- we lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen; roschen there was a baby, and i was only nineteen. conrad, he took the oxen, but he left kentucky belle. how much we thought of kentuck, i couldn't begin to tell-- came from the blue-grass country; my father gave her to me when i rode north with conrad, away from the tennessee. conrad lived in ohio--a german he is, you know-- the house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row. the old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be; but i kept longing, longing, for the hills of the tennessee. oh, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still! but the level land went stretching away to meet the sky-- never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye! from east to west, no river to shine out under the moon, nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon: only the breathless sunshine, as i looked out, all forlorn; only the rustle, rustle, as i walked among the corn. when i fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, but moved away from the cornlands, out to this river shore-- the tuscarawas it's called, sir--off there's a hill, you see-- and now i've grown to like it next best to the tennessee. i was at work that morning. some one came riding like mad over the bridge and up the road--farmer rouf's little lad. bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say, "morgan's men are coming, frau; they're galloping on this way. "i'm sent to warn the neighbors. he isn't a mile behind; he sweeps up all the horses--every horse that he can find. morgan, morgan the raider, and morgan's terrible men, with bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!" the lad rode down the valley, and i stood still at the door; the baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor; kentuck was out in the pasture; conrad, my man, was gone. nearer, nearer, morgan's men were galloping, galloping on! sudden i picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar. "kentuck!" i called--"kentucky!" she knew me ever so far! i led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, and tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight. as i ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound-- the ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground-- coming into the turnpike out from the white woman glen-- morgan, morgan the raider, and morgan's terrible men. as near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm; but still i stood in the doorway with baby on my arm. they came, they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along-- morgan, morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong. weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day; pushing on east to the river, many long miles away, to the border strip where virginia runs up into the west, and fording the upper ohio before they could stop to rest. on like the wind they hurried, and morgan rode in advance; bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance. and i was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, when the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein. frightened i was to death, sir; i scarce dared look in his face, as he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place. i gave him a cup, and he smiled--'twas only a boy, you see; faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the tennessee. only sixteen he was, sir--a fond mother's only son-- off and away with morgan before his life had begun! the damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth; and i thought me of the mother waiting down in the south. oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through; boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do;-- the boy was dying, sir, dying as plain as plain could be, worn out by his ride with morgan up from the tennessee. but when i told the laddie that i too was from the south, water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth. "do you know the blue-grass country?" he wistful began to say; then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away. i had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; i fed him, and i coaxed him, as i thought his mother'd do; and when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone, morgan's men--were miles; away, galloping, galloping on. "oh, i must go," he muttered; "i must be up and away! morgan--morgan is waiting for me; oh, what will morgan say?" but i heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door-- the ringing sound of horses' hoofs that i had heard before. and on, on, came the soldiers--the michigan cavalry-- and fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,-- they had followed hard on morgan's track; they had followed day and night; but of morgan and morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight. and rich ohio sat startled through all those summer days; for strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways-- now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west, through river-valleys and cornland farms, sweeping away her best. a bold ride and a long ride; but they were taken at last. they almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; but the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford, and morgan, morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword. well, i kept the boy till evening--kept him against his will-- but he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. when it was cool and dusky--you'll wonder to hear me tell-- but i stole down to that gully, and brought up kentucky belle. i kissed the star on her forehead--my pretty gentle lass-- but i knew that she'd be happy back in the old blue-grass. a suit of clothes of conrad's, with all the money i had, and kentuck, pretty kentuck, i gave to the worn-out lad. i guided him to the southward as well as i know how; the boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow; and then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, as down the glen away she went, my lost kentucky belle! when conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high; baby and i were both crying--i couldn't tell him why-- but a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall, and a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in kentucky's stall. well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; he knew i couldn't help it--'twas all for the tennessee, but, after the war was over, just think what came to pass-- a letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old blue-grass. the lad had got across the border, riding kentucky belle; and kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; he cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur. ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her! _constance f. woolson._ an inventor's wife i remember it all so very well, the first of my married life, that i can't believe it was years ago--it doesn't seem true at all; why, i just can see the little church where they made us man and wife, and the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage wall. _we were happy?_ yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged to joe, and then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay; and our cup was full when joey came,--our baby-boy, you know; so, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away. it wasn't long till joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,-- never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet he fell to inventin' some machine--i don't recall the name, but he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the street,-- sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about. i used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor, but 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out; even the baby--bless the child!--learned never to slam that door! people called him a clever man, and folks from the city came to look at his new invention and wish my joe success; and joe would say, "little woman,"--for that was my old pet-name,-- "if my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!" i didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start to see my joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away to the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart when he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day. of course, with it all he lost his place. i couldn't blame the man, the foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in joe, for his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan, as with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro. yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went for wheels and screws and metal casts and things i had never seen; and i ceased to ask, "any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "not a cent!" when his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine. i remember one special thing that year. he had bought some costly tool, when we wanted our boy to learn to read--he was five years old, you know; he went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school and gravely said, "don't send me back; the children tease me so!" i hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while i sat and sewed he would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side; and when the struggle was hardest and i felt keen hunger's goad driving me almost to despair--the little baby died. her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white; "maggie," he said, "i have killed this child, and now i am killing you! i swear by heaven, i will give it up!" yet, like a thief, that night he stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew. i cannot tell how i lived that week, my little boy and i, too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild. i can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky, and the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child. joe still toiled in the little shop. somebody clicked the gate; a neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor, but i sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate, till i heard--the crack of a pistol-shot; and i sprang to the workshop door. that door was locked and the bolt shut fast. i could not cry, nor speak, but i snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread, and carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak, forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head; the front door yielded to my touch. i staggered faintly in, fearing--_what_? he stood unharmed, though the wall showed a jagged hole. in his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul. but the pistol held another charge, i knew; and like something mad i shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and wild, "how can you dare to rob us so?"--and i seized the little lad; "how can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?" all of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand that hung so limp, i almost feared to see the pistol fall. "maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as i stand a hopeless man. my plan has failed. that letter tells you all." then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death; only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er; but no;--there followed another sound, and i started, caught my breath; as a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door. i shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise; he must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see there was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to joe and me. he was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say that _one_ of joe's inventions was a great, successful thing; and which do you think? his window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day; and we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring. and then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream. my man bent down his head and said, "little woman, you've saved my life!" the worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam from the sun that has shone so brightly since, on joe and his happy wife! _jeannie pendleton ewing._ the two glasses there sat two glasses filled to the brim on a rich man's table, rim to rim, one was ruddy and red as blood, and one was clear as the crystal flood. said the glass of wine to his paler brother: "let us tell tales of the past to each other; i can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, where i was king, for i ruled in might; for the proudest and grandest souls of earth fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. from the heads of kings i have torn the crown; from the heights of fame i have hurled men down. i have blasted many an honored name; i have taken virtue and given shame; i have tempted youth with a sip, a taste, that has made his future a barren waste. far greater than any king am i, or than any army beneath the sky. i have made the arm of the driver fail, and sent the train from the iron rail. i have made good ships go down at sea. and the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; and my might and power are over all! ho, ho, pale brother," said the wine, "can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" said the water glass: "i cannot boast of a king dethroned, or a murdered host; but i can tell of hearts that were sad, by my crystal drops made bright and glad; of thirsts i have quenched and brows i have laved, of hands i have cooled, and souls i have saved. i have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain, i have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, and everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; i have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, i have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. i can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, that ground out the flour, and turned at my will. i can tell of manhood debased by you that i have uplifted and crowned anew; i cheer, i help, i strengthen and aid, i gladden the heart of man and maid; i set the wine-chained captive free, and all are better for knowing me." these are the tales they told each other, the glass of wine, and its paler brother, as they sat together, filled to the brim, on a rich man's table, rim to rim. _ella wheeler wilcox._ abraham lincoln (_written after lincoln's death by tom taylor, famous cartoonist of the london "punch."_) _you_ lay a wreath on murdered lincoln's bier! _you_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, broad for the self-complacent british sneer, his length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, his gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, his garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, his lack of all we prize as debonair, of power or will to shine, of art to please! _you_, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, judging each step, as though the way were plain; reckless, so it could point its paragraph, of chief's perplexity, or people's pain! beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet the stars and stripes he lived to rear anew, between the mourners at his head and feet-- say, scurril jester, is there room for you? yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer-- to lame my pencil and confute my pen-- to make me own this hind, of princes peer, this rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. my shallow judgment i had learned to rue, noting how to occasion's height he rose; how his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, how, iron-like, his temper grew by blows; how humble, yet how hopeful he could be; how in good fortune and in ill the same; nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. he went about his work--such work as few ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand-- as one who knows where there's a task to do, man's honest will must heaven's good grace command; who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, that god makes instruments to work his will, if but that will we can arrive to know, nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. so he went forth to battle, on the side that he felt clear was liberty's and right's, as in his peasant boyhood he had plied his warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;-- the uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, the iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, the rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, the prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, the ambushed indian and the prowling bear-- such were the needs that helped his youth to train: rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear, if but their stocks be of right girth and grain. so he grew up, a destined work to do, and lived to do it: four long, suffering years ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, and then he heard the hisses change to cheers, the taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, and took both with the same unwavering mood; till, as he came on light, from darkling days, and seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, a felon hand, between the goal and him, beached from behind his back, a trigger prest-- and those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! the words of mercy were upon his lips, forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, when this vile murderer brought swift eclipse to thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men. the old world and the new, from sea to sea, utter one voice of sympathy and shame! sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high; sad life, cut short as its triumph came! the old clock on the stairs somewhat back from the village street stands the old-fashioned country-seat; across its antique portico tall poplar trees their shadows throw; and, from its station in the hall, an ancient timepiece says to all, "forever--never! never--forever!" half-way up the stairs it stands, and points and beckons with its hands, from its case of massive oak, like a monk who, under his cloak, crosses himself, and sighs, alas! with sorrowful voice to all who pass, "forever--never! never--forever!" by day its voice is low and light; but in the silent dead of night, distinct as a passing footstep's fall, it echoes along the vacant hall, along the ceiling, along the floor, and seems to say at each chamber door, "forever--never! never--forever!" through days of sorrow and of mirth, through days of death and days of birth, through every swift vicissitude of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, and as if, like god, it all things saw, it calmly repeats those words of awe, "forever--never! never--forever!" in that mansion used to be free-hearted hospitality; his great fires up the chimney roared; the stranger feasted at his board; but, like the skeleton at the feast, that warning timepiece never ceased,-- "forever--never! never--forever!" there groups of merry children played; there youths and maidens dreaming strayed; oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime and affluence of love and time! even as a miser counts his gold, those hours the ancient timepiece told,-- "forever--never! never--forever!" from that chamber, clothed in white, the bride came forth on her wedding night; there, in that silent room below, the dead lay, in his shroud of snow; and, in the hush that followed the prayer, was heard the old clock on the stair,-- "forever--never! never--forever!" all are scattered, now, and fled,-- some are married, some are dead; and when i ask, with throbs of pain, "ah! when shall they all meet again?" as in the days long since gone by, the ancient timepiece makes reply,-- "forever--never! never-forever!" never here, forever there, where all parting, pain, and care, and death, and time, shall disappear,-- forever there, but never here! the horologe of eternity sayeth this incessantly,-- "forever--never! never--forever!" _h.w. longfellow._ christ in flanders we had forgotten you, or very nearly-- you did not seem to touch us very nearly-- of course we thought about you now and then; especially in any time of trouble-- we knew that you were good in time of trouble-- but we were very ordinary men. and there were always other things to think of-- there's lots of things a man has got to think of-- his work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; and so we only thought of you on sunday-- sometimes, perhaps, not even on a sunday-- because there's always lots to fill one's life. and, all the while, in street or lane or byway-- in country lane, in city street, or byway-- you walked among us, and we did not see. your feet were bleeding as you walked our pavements-- how did we miss your footprints on our pavements?-- can there be other folk as blind as we? now we remember; over here in flanders-- (it isn't strange to think of you in flanders)-- this hideous warfare seems to make things clear. we never thought about you much in england-- but now that we are far away from england-- we have no doubts, we know that you are here. you helped us pass the jest along the trenches-- where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches-- you touched its ribaldry and made it fine. you stood beside us in our pain and weakness-- we're glad to think you understand our weakness-- somehow it seems to help us not to whine. we think about you kneeling in the garden-- ah, god, the agony of that dread garden-- we know you prayed for us upon the cross. if anything could make us glad to bear it-- 'twould be the knowledge that you willed to bear it-- pain--death--the uttermost of human loss. though we forgot you--you will not forget us-- we feel so sure that you will not forget us-- but stay with us until this dream is past. and so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon-- especially, i think, we ask for pardon-- and that you'll stand beside us to the last. _l.w. in london "spectator."_ we are seven --a simple child, that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death? i met a little cottage girl: she was eight years old, she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. she had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad: her eyes were fair, and very fair; --her beauty made me glad. "sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?" "how many? seven in all," she said, and wondering looked at me. "and where are they? i pray you tell." she answered, "seven are we; and two of us at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. "two of us in the church-yard lie, my sister and my brother; and, in the church-yard cottage, i dwell near them with my mother." "you say that two at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea, yet ye are seven!--i pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be." then did the little maid reply, "seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the church-yard lie, beneath the church-yard tree." "you run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; if two are in the church-yard laid, then ye are only five." "their graves are green, they may be seen," the little maid replied, "twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. "my stockings there i often knit, my kerchief there i hem; and there upon the ground i sit, and sing a song to them. "and often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, i take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. "the first that died was sister jane; in bed she moaning lay, till god released her of her pain; and then she went away. "so in the church-yard she was laid; and, when the grass was dry, together round her grave we played, my brother john and i. "and when the ground was white with snow, and i could run and slide, my brother john was forced to go, and he lies by her side." "how many are you, then," said i, "if they two are in heaven?" quick was the little maid's reply, "o master! we are seven." "but they are dead; those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!" 't was throwing words away; for still the little maid would have her will, and said, "nay, we are seven!" _william wordsworth._ echo "i asked of echo, t'other day (whose words are often few and funny), what to a novice she could say of courtship, love and matrimony. quoth echo plainly,--'matter-o'-money!' "whom should i marry? should it be a dashing damsel, gay and pert, a pattern of inconstancy; or selfish, mercenary flirt? quoth echo, sharply,--'nary flirt!' "what if, aweary of the strife that long has lured the dear deceiver, she promise to amend her life, and sin no more; can i believe her? quoth echo, very promptly,--'leave her!' "but if some maiden with a heart on me should venture to bestow it, pray should i act the wiser part to take the treasure or forego it? quoth echo, with decision,--'go it!' "but what if, seemingly afraid to bind her fate in hymen's fetter, she vow she means to die a maid, in answer to my loving letter? quoth echo, rather coolly,-'let her!' "what if, in spite of her disdain, i find my heart entwined about with cupid's dear, delicious chain so closely that i can't get out? quoth echo, laughingly,--'get out!' "but if some maid with beauty blest, as pure and fair as heaven can make her, will share my labor and my rest till envious death shall overtake her? quoth echo (sotto voce),--'take her!'" _john g. saxe._ engineers making love it's noon when thirty-five is due, an' she comes on time like a flash of light, an' you hear her whistle "too-tee-too!" long 'fore the pilot swings in sight. bill madden's drivin' her in to-day, an' he's calling his sweetheart far away-- gertrude hurd lives down by the mill; you might see her blushin'; she knows it's bill. "tudie, tudie! toot-ee! tudie, tudie! tu!" six-five, a.m. there's a local comes, makes up at bristol, runnin' east; an' the way her whistle sings and hums is a livin' caution to man and beast. every one knows who jack white calls,-- little lou woodbury, down by the falls; summer or winter, always the same, she hears her lover callin' her name-- "lou-ie! lou-ie! lou-iee!" but at one fifty-one, old sixty-four-- boston express, runs east, clear through-- drowns her rattle and rumble and roar with the softest whistle that ever blew. an' away on the furthest edge of town sweet sue winthrop's eyes of brown shine like the starlight, bright and clear, when she hears the whistle of abel gear, "you-oo! su-u-u-u-u-e!" along at midnight a freight comes in, leaves berlin sometime--i don't know when; but it rumbles along with a fearful din till it reaches the y-switch there and then the clearest notes of the softest bell that out of a brazen goblet fell wake nellie minton out of her dreams; to her like a wedding-bell it seems-- "nell, nell, nell! nell, nell, nell!" tom willson rides on the right-hand side, givin' her steam at every stride; an' he touches the whistle, low an' clear, for lulu gray on the hill, to hear-- "lu-lu! loo-loo! loo-oo!" so it goes all day an' all night till the old folks have voted the thing a bore; old maids and bachelors say it ain't right for folks to do courtin' with such a roar. but the engineers their kisses will blow from a whistle valve to the girls they know, an' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell; with the "too-too-too" and the swinging bell. _r.j. burdette._ guilty or not guilty she stood at the bar of justice, a creature wan and wild, in form too small for a woman, in features too old for a child; for a look so worn and pathetic was stamped on her pale young face, it seemed long years of suffering must have left that silent trace. "your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her with kindly look yet keen,-- "is mary mcguire, if you please, sir." and your age?"--"i am turned fifteen." "well, mary," and then from a paper he slowly and gravely read, "you are charged here--i'm sorry to say it-- with stealing three loaves of bread. "you look not like an offender, and i hope that you can show the charge to be false. now, tell me, are you guilty of this, or no?" a passionate burst of weeping was at first her sole reply. but she dried her eyes in a moment, and looked in the judge's eye. "i will tell you just how it was, sir: my father and mother are dead, and my little brothers and sisters were hungry and asked me for bread. at first i earned it for them by working hard all day, but somehow, times were bad, sir, and the work all fell away. "i could get no more employment. the weather was bitter cold, the young ones cried and shivered-- (little johnny's but four years old)-- so what was i to do, sir? i am guilty, but do not condemn. i _took_--oh, was it _stealing?_-- the bread to give to them." every man in the court-room-- gray-beard and thoughtless youth-- knew, as he looked upon her, that the prisoner spake the truth; out from their pockets came kerchiefs, out from their eyes sprung tears, and out from their old faded wallets treasures hoarded for years. the judge's face was a study, the strangest you ever saw, as he cleared his throat and murmured _something_ about the _law_; for one so learned in such matters, so wise in dealing with men, he seemed, on a simple question, sorely puzzled, just then. but no one blamed him or wondered, when at last these words he heard, "the sentence of this young prisoner is, for the present, deferred." and no one blamed him or wondered when he went to her and smiled and tenderly led from the court-room, himself, the "guilty" child. the baby where did you come from, baby dear? _out of the everywhere into the here._ where did you get your eyes so blue? _out of the sky as i came through._ what makes the light in them sparkle and spin? _some of the starry spikes left in._ where did you get that little tear? _i found it waiting when i got here._ what makes your forehead so smooth and high? _a soft hand stroked it as i went by._ what makes your cheek like a warm white rose? _something better than anyone knows._ whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? _three angels gave me at once a kiss._ where did you get that pearly ear? _god spoke, and it came out to hear._ where did you get those arms and hands? _love made itself into hooks and bands._ feet, whence did you come, you darling things? _from the same box as the cherubs' wings._ how did they all just come to be you? _god thought about me, and so i grew._ but how did you come to us, you dear? _god thought of you, and so i am here._ _george macdonald._ song of the sea the sea! the sea! the open sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free! without a mark, without a bound, it runneth the earth's wide regions round; it plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies, or like a cradled creature lies. i'm on the sea! i'm on the sea! i am where i would ever be; with the blue above and the blue below, and silence wheresoe'er i go. if a storm should come and awake the deep what matter? _i_ shall ride and sleep. i love, oh, how i love to ride on the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, when every mad wave drowns the moon, or whistles aloud his tempest tune, and tells how goeth the world below, and why the southwest blasts do blow. i never was on the dull, tame shore, but i loved the great sea more and more, and back i flew to her billowy breast, like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; and a mother she _was_, and _is_, to me, for i was born on the open sea! i've lived, since then, in calm and strife, full fifty summers a sailor's life, with wealth to spend and a power to range, but never have sought nor sighed for change; and death, whenever he comes to me, shall come on the wild, unbounded sea. _barry cornwall._ diffidence "i'm after axin', biddy dear--" and here he paused a while to fringe his words the merest mite with something of a smile-- a smile that found its image in a face of beauteous mold, whose liquid eyes were peeping from a broidery of gold. "i've come to ax ye, biddy dear, if--" then he stopped again, as if his heart had bubbled o'er and overflowed his brain. his lips were twitching nervously o'er what they had to tell, and timed the quavers with the eyes that gently rose and fell. "i've come--" and then he took her hands and held them in his own, "to ax--" and then he watched the buds that on her cheeks had blown,-- "me purty dear--" and then he heard the throbbing of her heart, that told how love had entered in and claimed its every part. "och! don't be tazin' me," said she, with just the faintest sigh, "i've sinse enough to see you've come, but what's the reason why?" "to ax--" and once again the tongue forbore its sweets to tell, "to ax--_if mrs. mulligan, has any pigs to sell_." curfew must not ring to-night slowly england's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, and the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-- he with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair; he with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, struggling to keep back the murmur, "curfew must not ring to-night." "sexton," bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, with its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold, "i've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die at the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh; cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white as she breathed the husky whisper: "curfew must not ring to-night." "bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--every word pierced her young heart like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,-- "long, long years i've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower; every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; i have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; now i'm old i will not falter,--curfew, it must ring to-night." wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow. as within her secret bosom bessie made a solemn vow. she had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh: "at the ringing of the curfew, basil underwood must die." and her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright; in an undertone she murmured, "curfew must not ring to-night." with quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door, left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro,-- as she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, up and up,--her white lips saying: "curfew must not ring to-night." she has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs the great, dark bell; awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging--'tis the hour of curfew now, and the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. shall she let it ring? no, never! flash her eyes with sudden light, as she springs and grasps it firmly--"curfew shall not ring to-night!" out she swung--far out; the city seemed a speck of light below, there 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro; and the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, sadly thought, "that twilight curfew rang young basil's funeral knell." still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white, said, to hush her heart's wild throbbing: "curfew shall not ring to-night." it was o'er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more firmly on the dark old ladder where, for hundred years before human foot had not been planted. the brave deed that she had done should be told long ages after; as the rays of setting sun crimson all the sky with beauty, aged sires with heads of white, tell the eager, listening children, "curfew did not ring that night." o'er the distant hills came cromwell; bessie sees him, and her brow, lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now. at his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; and her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light: "go! your lover lives," said cromwell, "curfew shall not ring to-night." wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die,-- all his bright young life before him. 'neath the darkening english sky bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet; kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet. in his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, whispered, "darling, you have saved me--curfew will not ring to-night." _rose hartwick thorpe._ kate shelly have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express-- of kate shelly, whose father was killed on the road? were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess such a daughter as kate. ah! 'twas grit that she showed on that terrible evening when donahue's train jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain. she was only eighteen, but a woman in size, with a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe, with peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes, and teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow; with a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art-- with a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart! 'tis evening--the darkness is dense and profound; men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires; the wind wildly howls with a horrible sound, and shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires; the fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky; the rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by. the scream of a whistle; the rush of a train! the sound of a bell! a mysterious light that flashes and flares through the fast falling rain! a rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright! the falling of timbers! the space of a breath! a splash in the river; then darkness and death! kate shelly recoils at the terrible crash; the sounds of destruction she happens to hear; she springs to the window--she throws up the sash, and listens and looks with a feeling of fear. the tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry of a drowning man down in the river near by. her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan, and then through her soul in a moment there flies a forethought that gives her the strength of a man-- she turns to her trembling old mother and cries: "i must save the express--'twill be here in an hour!" then out through the door disappears in the shower. she flies down the track through the pitiless rain; she reaches the river--the water below whirls and seethes through the timbers. she shudders again; "the bridge! to moingona, god help me to go!" then closely about her she gathers her gown and on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down. then carefully over the timbers she creeps on her hands and knees, almost holding her breath. the loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps, and struggles to hurry her downward to death; but the thought of the train to destruction so near removes from her soul every feeling of fear. with the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb, slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels; her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim; her strength is fast failing--she staggers! she reels! she falls--ah! the danger is over at last, her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed! in an instant new life seems to come to her form; she springs to her feet and forgets her despair. on, on to moingona! she faces the storm, she reaches the station--the keeper is there, "save the lightning express! no--hang out the red light! there's death on the bridge at the river to-night!" out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red; then sounds the loud roar of the swift-coming train, the hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead, the gleam of a headlight illumines the rain. "down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill; she heeds the red signal--she slackens, she's still! ah! noble kate shelly, your mission is done; your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze; an endless renown you have worthily won; let the nation be just, and accord you its praise, let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare what a _woman_ can do, and a _woman_ can dare! _eugene j. hall._ there's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night an old wife sat by her bright fireside, swaying thoughtfully to and fro in an easy chair, whose creaky craw told a tale of long ago; while down by her side, on the kitchen floor, stood a basket of worsted balls--a score. the good man dozed o'er the latest news till the light in his pipe went out; and, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws rolled and tangled the balls about; yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare. but anon, a misty teardrop came in her eyes of faded blue, then trickled down in a furrow deep like a single drop of dew; so deep was the channel--so silent the stream-- that the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam. yet marveled he much that the cheerful light of her eye had heavy grown, and marveled he more at the tangled balls, so he said in a gentle tone: "i have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, conceal not from me thy sorrows now." then she spoke of the time when the basket there was filled to the very brim; and now, there remained of the goodly pile but a single pair--for him; "then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, there's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "i cannot but think of the busy feet whose wrappings were wont to lay in the basket, awaiting the needle's time-- now wandering so far away; how the sprightly steps to a mother dear, unheeded fell on the careless ear. "for each empty nook in the basket old by the hearth there's a vacant seat; and i miss the shadows from off the wall, and the patter of many feet; 'tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight, at the one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "'twas said that far through the forest wild, and over the mountains bold, was a land whose rivers and darkening caves were gemmed with the rarest gold; then my first-born turned from the oaken door-- and i knew the shadows were only four. "another went forth on the foaming wave, and diminished the basket's store; but his feet grew cold--so weary and cold, they'll never be warm any more. and this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me to give forth no voice but the moan of the sea. "two others have gone toward the setting sun, and made them a home in its light, and fairy fingers have taken their share, to mend by the fireside bright; some other baskets their garments will fill-- but mine, ah, mine is emptier still. "another--the dearest, the fairest, the best-- was taken by angels away, and clad in a garment that waxeth not old, in a land of continual day; oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, when i mend the one pair of stockings to-night." the young man waited in the room below the young man sat, with an anxious face and a white cravat, a throbbing heart and a silken hat, and various other things like that which he had accumulated. and the maid of his heart was up above surrounded by hat and gown and glove, and a thousand things which women love, but no man knoweth the names thereof-- and the young man sat and--waited. you will scarce believe the things i tell, but the truth thereof i know full well, though how may not be stated; but i swear to you that the maiden took a sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook, and heated it well in the gaslight there. and thrust it into her head, or hair. then she took something off the bed, and hooked it onto her hair, or head, and piled it high, and piled it higher, and drove it home with staples of wire! and the young man anxiously--waited. then she took a thing she called a "puff" and some very peculiar whitish stuff, and using about a half a peck, she spread it over her face and neck, (deceit was a thing she hated!) and she looked as fair as a lilied bower, or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;-- and the young man wearily--waited. then she took a garment of awful shape and it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape, but it looked like a piece of ancient mail, or an instrument from a russian jail, and then with a fearful groan and gasp, she squeezed herself in its deathly clasp-- so fair and yet so fated! and then with a move like i don't know what, she tied it on with a double knot;-- and the young man wofully--waited. then she put on a dozen different things, a mixture of buttons and hooks and strings, till she strongly resembled a notion store; then, taking some seventeen pins or more, she thrust them into her ruby lips, then stuck them around from waist to hips, and never once hesitated. and the maiden didn't know, perhaps, that the man below had had seven naps, and that now he sleepily--waited. and then she tried to put on her hat, ah me, a trying ordeal was that! she tipped it high and she tried it low, but every way that the thing would go only made her more agitated. it wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair, and she wished she could hire a man to swear, but alas, the only man lingering there was the one who wildly--waited. and then before she could take her leave, she had to puff up her monstrous sleeve. then a little dab here and a wee pat there. and a touch or two to her hindmost hair, then around the room with the utmost care she thoughtfully circulated. then she seized her gloves and a chamoiskin, some breath perfume and a long stickpin, a bonbon box and a cloak and some eau-de-cologne and chewing-gum, her opera glass and sealskin muff, a fan and a heap of other stuff; then she hurried down, but ere she spoke, something about the maiden broke. so she scurried back to the winding stair, and the young man looked in wild despair, and then he--evaporated. _edmund vance cooke._ invictus out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, i thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. in the fell clutch of circumstance i have not winced nor cried aloud. under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed. beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find, me unafraid. it matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, i am the master of my fate; i am the captain of my soul. _william e. henley._ katie lee and willie grey two brown heads with tossing curls, red lips shutting over pearls, bare feet, white and wet with dew, two eyes black, and two eyes blue; little girl and boy were they, katie lee and willie grey. they were standing where a brook, bending like a shepherd's crook, flashed its silver, and thick ranks of willow fringed its mossy banks; half in thought, and half in play, katie lee and willie grey. they had cheeks like cherries red; he was taller--'most a head; she, with arms like wreaths of snow, swung a basket to and fro as she loitered, half in play, chattering to willie grey. "pretty katie," willie said-- and there came a dash of red through the brownness of his cheek-- "boys are strong and girls are weak, and i'll carry, so i will, katie's basket up the hill." katie answered with a laugh, "you shall carry only half"; and then, tossing back her curls, "boys are weak as well as girls." do you think that katie guessed half the wisdom she expressed? men are only boys grown tall; hearts don't change much, after all; and when, long years from that day, katie lee and willie grey stood again beside the brook, bending like a shepherd's crook,-- is it strange that willie said, while again a dash of red crossed the brownness of his cheek, "i am strong and you are weak; life is but a slippery steep, hung with shadows cold and deep. "will you trust me, katie dear,-- walk beside me without fear? may i carry, if i will, all your burdens up the hill?" and she answered, with a laugh, "no, but you may carry half." close beside the little brook, bending like a shepherd's crook, washing with its silver hands late and early at the sands, is a cottage, where to-day katie lives with willie grey. in a porch she sits, and lo! swings a basket to and fro-- vastly different from the one that she swung in years agone, _this_ is long and deep and wide, and has--_rockers at the side_. abou ben adhem abou ben adhem--may his tribe increase!-- awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, and saw, within the moonlight in his room, making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, an angel, writing in a book of gold. exceeding peace had made ben adhem bold, and to the presence in the room he said, "what writest thou?" the vision raised its head, and, with a look made all of sweet accord, answered, "the names of those who love the lord." "and is mine one?" said abou. "nay, not so," replied the angel.--abou spoke more low, but cheerily still; and said, "i pray thee, then, write me as one that loves his fellow-men." the angel wrote, and vanished. the next night it came again, with a great wakening light, and showed the names whom love of god had blessed: and, lo! ben adhem's name led all the rest. _leigh hunt._ in school-days still sits the school-house by the road, a ragged beggar sunning; around it still the sumachs grow, and blackberry vines are running. within, the master's desk is seen, deep scarred by raps official; the warping floor, the battered seats, the jack-knife's carved initial; the charcoal frescoes on its wall; its door's worn sill, betraying the feet that, creeping slow to school, went storming out to playing! long years ago a winter sun shone over it at setting; lit up its western window-panes, and low eaves' icy fretting. it touched the tangled golden curls, and brown eyes full of grieving, of one who still her steps delayed when all the school were leaving. for near her stood the little boy her childish favor singled: his cap pulled low upon a face where pride and shame were mingled. pushing with restless feet the snow to right and left, he lingered;-- as restlessly her tiny hands the blue-checked apron fingered. he saw her lift her eyes; he felt the soft hand's light caressing, and heard the tremble of her voice, as if a fault confessing. "i'm sorry that i spelt the word: i hate to go above you, because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,-- "because, you see, i love you!" still memory to a gray-haired man that sweet child-face is showing. dear girl: the grasses on her grave have forty years been growing! he lives to learn, in life's hard school, how few who pass above him lament their triumph and his loss, like her,--because they love him. _john greenleaf whittier._ mother's fool "tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife, "these boys will make their mark in life; they were never made to handle a hoe, and at once to a college ought to go; there's fred, he's little better than a fool, but john and henry must go to school." "well, really, wife," quoth farmer brown, as he set his mug of cider down, "fred does more work in a day for me than both his brothers do in three. book larnin' will never plant one's corn, nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born; nor mend a rod of broken fence-- for my part, give me common sense." but his wife was bound the roost to rule, and john and henry were sent to school, while fred, of course, was left behind, because his mother said he had no mind. five years at school the students spent; then into business each one went. john learned to play the flute and fiddle, and parted his hair, of course, in the middle; while his brother looked rather higher than he, and hung out a sign, "h. brown, m.d." meanwhile, at home, their brother fred had taken a notion into his head; but he quietly trimmed his apple trees, and weeded onions and planted peas, while somehow or other, by hook or crook, he managed to read full many a book; until at last his father said he was getting "book larnin'" into his head; "but for all that," added farmer brown, "he's the smartest boy there is in town." the war broke out, and captain fred a hundred men to battle led, and when the rebel flag came down, went marching home as general brown. but he went to work on the farm again, and planted corn and sowed his grain; he shingled the barn and mended the fence, till people declared he had common sense. now common sense was very rare, and the state house needed a portion there; so the "family dunce" moved into town-- the people called him governor brown; and the brothers who went to the city school came home to live with "mother's fool." kentucky philosophy you wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce. wu' dat you got under dat box? i do' want no foolin'--you hear me? wut you say? ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_? 'peah ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. s'posin' dey's uv a new kine. i'll des take a look at dem rocks. hi yi! der you think dat i's bline? _i_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en i knows whah it growed; it come fum de jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road. you stole it, you rascal--you stole it! i watched you fum down in de lot. en time i gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot! i'll fix you. mirandy! mir_an_dy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase! en cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place. i'll larn you, mr. wi'yam joe vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, disgracin' yo' ole christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner! now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'lf sur? i is, i's 'shamed you's my son! en de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; en he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters-- "one water-million stoled by wi'yam josephus vetters." en wut you s'posen brer bascom, yo' teacher at sunday school, 'ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good lawd's gol'n rule? boy, whah's de raisin' i give you? is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun? i's s'prised dat a chile er yo mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million. en i's now gwinter cut it right open, en you shain't have nary bite, fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light-- ain't--_lawdy!_ it's _green!_ mirandy! mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch! well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich? cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? w'y you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; but w'en dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut i mean. en nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant, you hunk, ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"! _harrison robertson._ give us men god give us men; a time like this demands strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands. men whom the lust of office cannot kill; men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; men who possess opinions and a will; men who have honor; men who will not lie; men who can stand before a demagogue, and brave his treacherous flatteries without winking; tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog, in public duty and in private thinking; for while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds, its large professions, and its little deeds, mingle in selfish strife--lo! freedom weeps, wrong rules the land, and waiting justice sleeps. _j.g. holland._ never trouble trouble my good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay; he lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way, while i, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three, for i never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. a holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain; and when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain. he is always prophesying ill to which i won't agree, for i never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. the wheat will never show a top--but soon how green the field! we will not harvest half a crop--yet have a famous yield! it will not sell, it never will! but i will wait and see, for i never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. we have a good share of worldly gear, and fortune seems secure, yet my good man is full of fear--misfortune's coming sure! he points me out the almshouse hill, but cannot make me see, for i never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. he has a sort of second sights and when the fit is strong, he sees beyond the good and right the evil and the wrong. heaven's cop of joy he'll surely spill unless i with him be, for i never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. _fannie windsor._ what is good "what is the real good?" i asked in musing mood. order, said the law court; knowledge, said the school; truth, said the wise man; pleasure, said the fool; love, said the maiden; beauty, said the page; freedom, said the dreamer; home, said the sage; fame, said the soldier; equity, the seer. spake my heart full sadly: "the answer is not here." then within my bosom softly this i heard: "each heart holds the secret: kindness is the word." _john boyle o'reilly._ the penny ye mean to gie there's a funny tale 'of a stingy man, who was none too good but might have been worse, who went to his church, on a sunday night and carried along his well-filled purse. when the sexton came with the begging plate, the church was but dim with the candle's light; the stingy man fumbled all thro' his purse, and chose a coin by touch and not by sight. it's an odd thing now that guineas should be so like unto pennies in shape and size. "i'll gie a penny," the stingy man said: "the poor must not gifts of pennies despise." the penny fell down with a clatter and ring! and back in his seat leaned the stingy man. "the world is full of the poor," he thought, "i can't help them all--i give what i can." ha! ha! how the sexton smiled, to be sure, to see the gold guinea fall in the plate; ha! ha! how the stingy man's heart was wrung, perceiving his blunder--but just too late! "no matter," he said; "in the lord's account that guinea of gold is set down to me-- they lend to him who give to the poor; it will not so bad an investment be." "na, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried out, "the lord is na cheated--he kens thee well; he knew it was only by accident that out o' thy fingers the guinea fell! "he keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir; but in that account he'll set down to thee na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon, than the one bare penny ye mean to gie!" there's comfort, too, in the little tale-- a serious side as well as a joke-- a comfort for all the generous poor in the comical words the sexton spoke; a comfort to think that the good lord knows how generous we really desire to be, and will give us credit in his account, for all the pennies we long "to gie." leedle yawcob strauss i haf von funny leedle poy vot gomes shust to my knee,-- der queerest schap, der createst rogue as efer you dit see. he runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings in all barts off der house. but vot off dot? he vas mine son, mine leedle yawcob strauss. he gets der measels und der mumbs, und eferyding dot's oudt; he sbills mine glass off lager bier, poots schnuff indo mine kraut; he fills mine pipe mit limburg cheese-- dot vas der roughest chouse; i'd dake dot vrom no oder poy but leedle yawcob strauss. he dakes der milkban for a dhrum, und cuts mine cane in dwo to make der schticks to beat it mit-- mine cracious, dot vas drue! i dinks mine hed vas schplit abart he kicks oup sooch a touse; but nefer mind der poys vas few like dot young yawcob strauss. he asks me questions sooch as dese: who baints mine nose so red? who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt vrom der hair ubon mine hed? und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp vene'er der glim i douse? how gan i all dese dings eggsblain to dot schmall yawcob strauss? i somedimes dink i schall go vild mit sooch a grazy poy, und vish vonce more i gould haf rest und beaceful dimes enshoy. but ven he vas asleep in ped, so quiet as a mouse, i prays der lord, "dake any dings, but leaf dot yawcob strauss." _charles f. adams._ to-day we shall do so much in the years to come, but what have we done to-day? we shall give out gold in princely sum, but what did we give to-day? we shall lift the heart and dry the tear, we shall plant a hope in the place of fear, we shall speak with words of love and cheer, but what have we done to-day? we shall be so kind in the after while, but what have we been to-day? we shall bring to each lonely life a smile, but what have we brought to-day? we shall give to truth a grander birth, and to steadfast faith a deeper worth, we shall feed the hungering souls of earth, but whom have we fed to-day? _nixon waterman._ so was i my name is tommy, an' i hates that feller of my sister kate's, he's bigger'n i am an' you see he's sorter lookin' down on me, an' i resents it with a vim; i think i am just as good as him. he's older, an' he's mighty fly, but's he's a kid, an' so am i. one time he came,--down by the gate, i guess it must have been awful late,-- an' katie, she was there, an' they was feelin' very nice and gay, an' he was talkin' all the while about her sweet an' lovin' smile, an' everythin' was as nice as pie, an' they was there, an' so was i. they didn't see me, 'cause i slid down underneath a bush, an' hid, an' he was sayin' that his love was greater'n all the stars above up in the glorious heavens placed; an' then his arms got 'round her waist, an' clouds were floatin' in the sky, and they was there, an' so was i. i didn't hear just all they said, but by an' by my sister's head was droopin' on his shoulder, an' i seen him holdin' katie's hand, an' then he hugged her closer, some, an' then i heerd a kiss--yum, yum; an' katie blushed an' drew a sigh, an' sorter coughed,--an' so did i. an' then that feller looked around an' seed me there, down on the ground, an'--was he mad? well, betcher boots i gets right out of there an' scoots. an' he just left my sister kate a-standin' right there by the gate; an' i seen blood was in his eye, an' he runned fast--an' so did i. i runned the very best i could, but he cotched up--i's 'fraid he would-- an' then he said he'd teach me how to know my manners, he'd allow; an' then he shaked me awful. gee! he jest--he frashed the ground with me. an' then he stopped it by and by, 'cause he was tired--an' so was i, an' then he went back to the gate an' couldn't find my sister kate 'cause she went in to bed, while he was runnin' 'round an' thumpin' me. i got round in a shadder dim, an' made a face, an' guffed at him; an' then the moon larfed, in the sky, 'cause he was there, an' so was i. _joseph bert smiley._ is it worth while? is it worth while that we jostle a brother. bearing his load on the rough road of life? is it worth while that we jeer at each other in blackness of heart that we war to the knife? god pity us all in our pitiful strife. god pity as all as we jostle each other; god pardon us all for the triumph we feel when a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather, pierced to the heart: words are keener than steel, and mightier far for woe than for weal, were it not well, in this brief little journey on over the isthmus, down into the tide, we give him a fish instead of a serpent, ere folding the hands to be and abide forever and aye in dust at his side? look at the roses saluting each other; look at the herds all at peace on the plain; man, and man only, makes war on his brother, and laughs in his heart at his peril and pain, shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain. is it worth while that we battle to humble some poor fellow down into the dust? god pity us all! time too soon will tumble all of us together, like leaves in a gust, humbled, indeed, down into the dust. _joaquin miller._ life's mirror there are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave, there are souls that are pure and true; then give to the world the best you have, and the best will come back to you. give love, and love to your life will flow, a strength in your utmost need; have faith, and a score of hearts will show their faith in your work and deed. give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind; and honor will honor meet, and the smile which is sweet will surely find a smile that is just as sweet. give pity and sorrow to those who mourn; you will gather in flowers again the scattered seeds from your thought outborne, though the sowing seemed in vain. for life is the mirror of king and slave; 'tis just what we are and do; then give to the world the best you have, and the best will come back to you. _madeline s. bridges._ the little black-eyed rebel a boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down with food to feed the people of the british-governed town; and the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly, was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. his face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, the clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough; but one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, and cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. he drove up to the market, he waited in the line-- his apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine. but long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye. "now, who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud; and, "who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd. but from all the people round him came no word of reply, save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye. for she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, or die; and a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. but the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind, since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find; and she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh, then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye. so she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red-- "may i have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said; and the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was somewhat shy, and he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. "you may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. "i will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she. and she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, with a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small, and then whispered, "quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl! carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!" and she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. loud the motley crowd was laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak; and the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak. and "miss, i have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; but she answered, "no, i thank you," from the corner of her eye. with the news from loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street. "there is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye. _will carleton._ a day well spent if you sit down at set of sun and count the deeds that you have done, and, counting, find one self-denying act, one word that eased the heart of him that heard; one glance most kind, which felt like sunshine where it went, then you may count that day well spent. but if through, all the livelong day you've eased no heart by yea or nay, if through it all you've nothing done that you can trace that brought the sunshine to one face, no act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost, then count that day as worse than lost. say not the struggle nought availeth say not the struggle nought availeth, the labor and the wounds are vain, the enemy faints not, nor faileth, and as things have been they remain. if hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; it may be, in yon smoke concealed, your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, and, but for you, possess the field. for while the tired waves, vainly breaking, seem here no painful inch to gain, far back, through creeks and inlets making, comes silent, flooding in, the main, and not by eastern windows only, when daylight comes, comes in the light, in front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright. _a.h. clough._ the miller of the dee there dwelt a miller, hale and bold, beside the river dee; he worked and sang from morn till night-- no lark more blithe than he; and this the burden of his song forever used to be: "i envy nobody--no, not i-- and nobody envies me!" "thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good king hal, "as wrong as wrong can be; for could my heart be light as thine, i'd gladly change with thee. and tell me now, what makes thee sing, with voice so loud and free, while i am sad, though i'm a king, beside the river dee?" the miller smiled and doffed his cap, "i earn my bread," quoth he; "i love my wife, i love my friend, i love my children three; i owe no penny i cannot pay, i thank the river dee that turns the mill that grinds the corn that feeds my babes and me." "good friend," said hal, and sighed the while, "farewell, and happy be; but say no more, if thou'dst be true that no one envies thee; thy mealy cap is worth my crown, thy mill my kingdom's fee; such men as thou art england's boast, o miller of the dee!" _charles mackay._ the old red cradle take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked, in the sunshine of the years that are gone; to the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked, and we slumbered unmolested till the dawn. i remember of my years i had numbered almost seven, and the old cradle stood against the wall-- i was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven, but the old red cradle rocked us all. and if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot, when i did not mind my porridge or my play, i would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot, when the old red cradle rocked away. it has been a hallowed spot where i've turned through all the years, which have brought me the evil with the good, and i turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears, the place where the dear old cradle stood. by its side my father paused with a little time to spare. and the care-lines would soften on his brow, ah! 't was but a little while that i knew a father's care, but i fancy in my dreams i see him now. by my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid, and again i seem to see her as she smiled; when the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed, by the old red cradle and her child. aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay, and it gave me the sweetest rest i've known; but to-night the tears will flow, and i let them have their way, for the passing years are leaving me alone. and it seems of those to come, i would gladly give them all for a slumber as free from care as then, just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fall round the old red cradle once again. but the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore, one by one, have been gathered to the fold; still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four, with one left out straying in the cold. heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked, where no sad tears of parting ever fall; god forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked; and the dear old cradle rocked us all. _annie j. granniss._ the moo cow moo my papa held me up to the moo cow moo so close i could almost touch, and i fed him a couple of times or so, and i wasn't a fraid-cat, much. but if my papa goes in the house, and my mamma she goes in too, i keep still like a little mouse for the moo cow moo might moo. the moo cow's tail is a piece of rope all raveled out where it grows; and it's just like feeling a piece of soap all over the moo cow's nose. and the moo cow moo has lots of fun just switching his tail about, but if he opens his mouth, why then i run, for that's where the moo comes out. the moo cow moo has deers on his head, and his eyes stick out of their place, and the nose of the moo cow moo is spread all over the moo cow's face. and his feet are nothing but fingernails, and his mamma don't keep them cut, and he gives folks milk in water pails, when he don't keep his handles shut. but if you or i pull his handles, why the moo cow moo says it hurts, but the hired man sits down close by and squirts, and squirts, and squirts. _edmund vance cooke._ all things bright and beautiful all things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful,-- the lord god made them all. each little flower that opens, each little bird that sings,-- he made their glowing colors, he made their tiny wings. the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, god made them, high or lowly, and ordered their estate. the purple-headed mountain, the river running by, the morning, and the sunset that lighteth up the sky, the cold wind in the winter, the pleasant summer sun, the ripe fruits in the garden,-- he made them, every one. the tall trees in the greenwood, the meadows where we play, the rushes by the water we gather every day,-- he gave us eyes to see them, and lips that we might tell how great is god almighty, who hath made all things well. _cecil frances alexander._ an order for a picture oh, good painter, tell me true, has your hand the cunning to draw shapes of things that you never saw? aye? well, here is an order for you. woods and cornfields, a little brown,-- the picture must not be over-bright,-- yet all in the golden and gracious light of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. alway and alway, night and morn, woods upon woods, with fields of corn lying between them, not quite sere, and not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, when the wind can hardly find breathing-room, under their tassels,--cattle near, biting shorter the short green grass, and a hedge of sumach and sassafras, with bluebirds twittering all around,-- (ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)-- these, and the little house where i was born, low and little, and black and old, with children, many as it can hold, all at the windows, open wide,-- heads and shoulders clear outside, and fair young faces all ablush: perhaps you have seen, some day, roses crowding the self-same way, out of a wilding, wayside bush. listen closer. when you have done with woods and cornfields and grazing herds, a lady, the loveliest ever the sun looked down upon you must paint for me: oh, if i could only make you see the clear blue eyes, the tender smile, the sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, the woman's soul, and the angel's face that are beaming on me all the while, i need not speak these foolish words: yet one word tells you all i would say,-- she is my mother: you will agree that all the rest may be thrown away. two little urchins at her knee you must paint, sir: one like me,-- the other with a clearer brow, and the light of his adventurous eyes flashing with boldest enterprise: at ten years old he went to sea,-- god knoweth if he be living now; he sailed in the good ship "commodore,"-- nobody ever crossed her track to bring us news, and she never came back. ah, it is twenty long years and more since that old ship went out of the bay with my great-hearted brother on her deck: i watched him till he shrank to a speck, and his face was toward me all the way. bright his hair was, a golden brown, the time we stood at our mother's knee: that beauteous head, if it did go down, carried sunshine into the sea! out in the fields one summer night we were together, half afraid of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-- loitering till after the low little light of the candle shone through the open door, and over the hay-stack's pointed top, all of a tremble and ready to drop, the first half-hoar, the great yellow star, that we, with staring, ignorant eyes, had often and often watched to see propped and held in its place in the skies by the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,-- dead at the top, just one branch full of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, from which it tenderly shook the dew over our heads, when we came to play in its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day. afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore a nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,-- the other, a bird, held fast by the legs, not so big as a straw of wheat: the berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, but cried and cried, till we held her bill, so slim and shining, to keep her still. at last we stood at our mother's knee. do you think, sir, if you try, you can paint the look of a lie? if you can, pray have the grace to put it solely in the face of the urchin that is likest me: i think 'twas solely mine, indeed: but that's no matter,--paint it so; the eyes of our mother--(take good heed)-- looking not on the nestful of eggs, nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, but straight through our faces down to our lies, and, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise! i felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though a sharp blade struck through it. you, sir, know that you on the canvas are to repeat things that are fairest, things most sweet,-- woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,-- the mother,--the lads, with their bird at her knee: but, oh, that look of reproachful woe! high as the heavens your name i'll shout, if you paint me the picture, and leave that out. _alice cary._ who won the war? who won the war? 't was little belgium stemmed the tide of ruthless hordes who thought to ride her borders through and prostrate france ere yet she'd time to raise her lance. 't was plucky belgium. who won the war? italia broke the galling chain which bound her to the guilty twain; then fought 'gainst odds till one of these lay prone and shattered at her knees. 't was gallant italy. who won the war? old england's watch dogs of the main their vigil kept, and not in vain; for not a ship their wrath dared brave save those which skulked beneath the wave. 't was mighty england. who won the war? 't was france who wrote in noble rage the grandest words on history's page, "they shall not pass"--the devilish hun; and he could never pass verdun. 't was sturdy france. who won the war? in darkest hour there rose a cry, "liberty, sweet liberty, thou shalt not die!" thank god! they came across the sea, two million men and victory! 't was glorious america. who won the war? no one of these; not one, but all who answered freedom's clarion call. each humble man who did his bit in god's own book of fame is writ. these won the war. _woodbury pulsifer._ mothers of men the bravest battle that ever was fought! shall i tell you where and when? on the map of the world you will find it not, 'twas fought by the mothers of men. nay, not with cannon or battle shot, with sword or nobler pen, nay, not with eloquent words or thought from mouths of wonderful men; but deep in the walled-up woman's heart-- of woman that would not yield, but bravely, silently, bore her part-- lo, there is the battle field! no marshaling troup, no bivouac song, no banner to gleam or wave, but oh, these battles, they last so long-- from babyhood to the grave. yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, she fights in her walled-up town-- fights on and on in the endless wars, then, silent, unseen, goes down. oh, ye with banner and battle shot, and soldiers to shout and praises i tell you the kingliest victories fought were fought in those silent ways. oh, spotless in a world of shame, with splendid and silent scorn, go back to god as white as you came-- the kingliest warrior born! _joaquin miller._ plain bob and a job bob went lookin' for a job-- didn't want a situation; didn't ask a lofty station: didn't have a special mission for a topnotcher's position; didn't have such fine credentials--but he had the real essentials-- had a head that kept on workin' and two hands that were not shirkin'; wasn't either shirk or snob; wasn't mister--just plain bob, who was lookin' for a job. bob went lookin' for a job; and he wasn't scared or daunted when he saw a sign--"men wanted," walked right in with manner fittin' up to where the boss was sittin', and he said: "my name is bob, and i'm lookin' for a job; and if you're the boss that hires 'em, starts 'em working and that fires 'em, put my name right down here, neighbor, as a candidate for labor; for my name is just plain 'bob, and my pulses sort o' throb for that thing they call a job." bob kept askin' for a job, and the boss, he says: "what kind?" and bob answered: "never mind; for i am not a bit partic'ler and i never was a stickler for proprieties in workin'--if you got some labor lurkin' anywhere around about kindly go and trot it out. it's, a job i want, you see-- any kind that there may be will be good enough for me." well, sir, bob he got a job. but the boss went 'round all day in a dreamy sort of way; and he says to me: "by thunder, we have got the world's eighth wonder! got a feller name of bob who just asked me for a job-- never asks when he engages about overtime in wages; never asked if he'd get pay by the hour or by the day; never asked me if it's airy work and light and sanitary; never asked me for my notion of the chances of promotion; never asked for the duration of his annual vacation; never asked for saturday half-a-holiday with pay; never took me on probation till he tried the situation; never asked me if it's sittin' work or standin', or befittin' of his birth and inclination--he just filed his application, hung his coat up on a knob, said his name was just plain bob-- and went workin' at a job!" _james w. foley._ aunt tabitha whatever i do and whatever i say, aunt tabitha tells me it isn't the way when _she_ was a girl (forty summers ago); aunt tabitha tells me they never did so. dear aunt! if i only would take her advice! but i like my own way, and i find it _so_ nice! and besides, i forget half the things i am told; but they all will come back to me--when i am old. if a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, he may chance to look in as i chance to look out; _she_ would never endure an impertinent stare-- it is _horrid_, she says, and i mustn't sit there. a walk in the moonlight has pleasures, i own, but it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; so i take a lad's arm--just for safety you know-- but aunt tabitha tells me _they_ didn't do so. how wicked we are, and how good they were then! they kept at arm's length those detestable men; what an era of virtue she lived in!--but stay-- were the _men_ all such rogues in aunt tabitha's day? if the men _were_ so wicked, i'll ask my papa how he dared to propose to my darling mamma; was he like the rest of them? goodness! who knows? and what shall _i_ say, if a wretch should propose? i am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, what a wonder aunt tabitha's aunt must have been! and her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad that we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad! a martyr will save us, and nothing else can, let _me perish_--to rescue some wretched young man! though when to the altar a victim i go, aunt tabitha'll tell me _she_ never did so! the flag goes by hats off! along the street there comes a blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, a flash of color beneath the sky: hats off! the flag is passing by! blue and crimson and white it shines, over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. hats off! the colors before us fly; but more than the flag is passing by. sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, fought to make and to save the state; weary marches and sinking ships; cheers of victory on dying lips; days of plenty and years of peace, march of a strong land's swift increase: equal justice, right and law, stately honor and reverent awe; sign of a nation, great and strong, to ward her people from foreign wrong; pride and glory and honor, all live in the colors to stand or fall. hats off! along the street there comes a blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, and loyal hearts are beating high: hats off! the flag is passing by! _h.h. bennett._ the rivers of france the rivers of france are ten score and twain, but five are the names that we know: the marne, the vesle, the oureq and the aisne, and the somme of the swampy flow. the rivers of france, from source to sea, are nourished by many a rill, but these five, if ever a drouth there be the fountains of sorrow would fill. the rivers of france shine silver white, but the waters of five are red with the richest blood, in the fiercest fight for freedom that ever was shed. the rivers of france sing soft as they run, but five have a song of their own, that hymns the fall of the arrogant one and the proud cast down from his throne. the rivers of france all quietly take to sleep in the house of their birth, but the carnadined wave of five shall break on the uttermost strands of earth. five rivers of france--see! their names are writ on a banner of crimson and gold, and the glory of those who fashioned it shall nevermore cease to be told. _h.j.m., in london "times."_ seven times one there's no dew left on the daisies and clover, there's no rain left in heaven; i've said my "seven times" over and over: seven times one are seven. i am old, so old i can write a letter; my birthday lessons are done; the lambs play always, they know no better, they are only one times one. o moon! in the night i have seen you sailing and shining so round and low; you were bright! but your light is failing, you are nothing now but a bow. you moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, that god has hidden your face? i hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven, and shine again in your place. o velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow; you've powdered your legs with gold! o brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow, give me your money to hold! o columbine, open your folded wrapper where two twin turtle-doves dwell! o cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper that hangs in your clear green bell! and show me your nest, with the young ones in it, i will not steal them away; i am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, i am seven times one to-day. _jean ingelow._ seven times two you bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, how many soever they be, and let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges, come over, come over to me. yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling no magical sense conveys, and bells have forgotten their old art of telling the fortune of future days. "turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. while a boy listened alone; made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily all by himself on a stone. poor bells! i forgive you; your good days are over, and mine, they are yet to be; no listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: you leave the story to me. the foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, preparing her hoods of snow: she was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: oh, children take long to grow. i wish and i wish that the spring would go faster, nor long summer bide so late; and i could grow on like the foxglove and aster, for some things are ill to wait. i wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, while dear hands are laid on my head: "the child is a woman, the book may close over, for all the lessons are said." i wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, not one, as he sits on the tree; the bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! such as i wish it to be. _jean ingelow._ seven times three love i leaned out of window, i smelt the white clover, dark, dark was the garden, i saw not the gate; "now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- hush, nightingale, hush! o sweet nightingale, wait till i listen and hear if a step draweth near, for my love he is late! "the skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, a cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, the fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: to what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? let the star-clusters grow, let the sweet waters flow. and cross quickly to me. "you night-moths that hover where honey brims over from sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; you glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover to him that comes darkling along the rough steep. ah, my sailor, make haste, for the time runs to waste, and my love lieth deep, "too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, i've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." by the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; then all the sweet speech i had fashioned took flight; but i'll love him more, more than e'er wife loved before, be the days dark or bright. _jean ingelow._ seven times four maternity heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! when the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses, and dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses eager to gather them all. heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! mother shall thread them a daisy chain; sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, that loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; sing, "heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"-- sing once, and sing it again. heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; a ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, and haply one musing doth stand at her prow, o bonny brown son, and o sweet little daughters, maybe he thinks on you now! heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! a sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, and fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, god that is over us all! _jean ingelow._ autumn woods ere, in the northern gale, the summer tresses of the trees are gone, the woods of autumn, all around our vale, have put their glory on. the mountains that infold, in their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, that guard the enchanted ground. i roam the woods that crown the upland, where the mingled splendors glow, where the gay company of trees look down on the green fields below. my steps are not alone in these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown along the winding way. and far in heaven, the while, the sun, that sends that gale to wander here, pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-- the sweetest of the year. where now the solemn shade, verdure and gloom where many branches meet; so grateful, when the noon of summer made the valleys sick with heat? let in through all the trees come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, twinkles, like beams of light. the rivulet, late unseen, where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, shines with the image of its golden screen and glimmerings of the sun. but 'neath yon crimson tree, lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, nor mark, within its roseate canopy, her blush of maiden shame. oh, autumn! why so soon depart the hues that make thy forests glad; thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, and leave thee wild and sad? ah! 'twere a lot too blessed forever in thy colored shades to stray; amid the kisses of the soft southwest to rove and dream for aye; and leave the vain low strife that makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power, the passions and the cares that wither life, and waste its little hour. _william cullen bryant._ the drummer boy of mission ridge did you ever hear of the drummer boy of mission ridge, who lay with his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of that terrible day? they were firing above him and firing below, and the tempest of shot and shell was raging like death, as he moaned in his pain, by the breastworks where he fell. "go back with your corps," our colonel had said, but he waited the moment when he might follow the ranks and shoulder a gun with the best of us bearded men; and so when the signals from old fort wood set an army of veterans wild, he flung down his drum, which spun down the hill like the ball of a wayward child. and then he fell in with the foremost ranks of brave old company g, as we charged by the flank, with our colors ahead, and our columns closed up like a v, in the long, swinging lines of that splendid advance, when the flags of our corps floated out, like the ribbons that dance in the jubilant lines of the march of a gala day rout. he charged with the ranks, though he carried no gun, for the colonel had said him nay, and he breasted the blast of the bristling guns, and the shock of the sickening fray; and when by his side they were falling like hail he sprang to a comrade slain, and shouldered his musket and bore it as true as the hand that was dead in pain. 'twas dearly we loved him, our drummer boy, with a fire in his bright, black eye, that flashed forth a spirit too great for his form--he only was just so high, as tall, perhaps, as your little lad who scarcely reaches your shoulder-- though his heart was the heart of a veteran then, a trifle, it may be, bolder. he pressed to the front, our lad so leal, and the works were almost won, a moment more and our flags had swung o'er the muzzle of murderous gun; but a raking fire swept the van, and he fell 'mid the wounded and slain, with his wee wan face turned up to him who feeleth his children's pain. again and again our lines fell back, and again with shivering shocks they flung themselves on the rebels' works as ships are tossed on rocks; to be crushed and broken and scattered amain, as the wrecks of the surging storm. where none may rue and none may reck of aught that has human form. so under the ridge we were lying for the order to charge again, and we counted our comrades missing, and we counted our comrades slain; and one said, "johnny, our drummer boy, is grievously shot and lies just under the enemy's breastwork; if left on the field he dies." then all the blood that was in me surged up to my aching brow, and my heart leaped up like a ball in my throat--i can feel it even now, and i said i would bring that boy from the field, if god would spare my breath, if all the guns in mission ridge should thunder the threat of death. i crept and crept up the ghastly ridge, by the wounded and the dead, with the moans of my comrades right and left, behind me and yet ahead, till i came to the form of our drummer boy, in his blouse of dusty blue, with his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, where the blast of the battle blew. and his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of stone, as he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own; and he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills me yet, "i think in a moment more that i would have stood on that parapet. "but now i nevermore will climb, and, sergeant, when you see the men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me; for though i cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise, i may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies." well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore, but i raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore; and the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy, and uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant drummer boy. when sped the news that "fighting joe" had saved the union right, with his legions fresh from lookout; and that thomas massed his might and forced the rebel center; and our cheering ran like wild; and sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child; when grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly along the slopes of mission ridge, where'er he cast his eye; and when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done, the fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won; then his bright black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wide, and in that hour of conquest our little hero died. but ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old, for him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold! and when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won, of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done; of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead, the gory sod beneath them, the bursting shell o'erhead, my heart goes back to mission ridge and the drummer boy who lay with his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of that terrible day; and i say that the land that bears such sons is crowned and dowered with all the dear god giveth nations to stay them lest they fall. oh, glory of mission ridge, stream on, like the roseate light of morn, on the sons that now are living, on the sons that are yet unborn! and cheers for our comrades living, and tears as they pass away! and three times three for the drummer boy who fought at the front that day! if-- if you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you; if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too; if you can wait and not be tired by waiting, or being lied about don't deal in lies, or being hated don't give way to hating, and yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; if you can dream and not make dreams your master; if you can think and not make thoughts your aim; if you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same; if you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, or watch the things you gave your life to broken, and stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools; if you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss. and lose, and start again at your beginnings and never breathe a word about your loss; if you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which says to them: "hold on!" if you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, or walk with kings nor lose the common touch; if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; if all men count with you, but none too much; if you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run, yours is the earth and everything that's in it, and--which is more--you'll be a man, my son! _rudyard kipling._ second table some boys are mad when comp'ny comes to stay for meals. they hate to have the other people eat while boys must wait and wait, but i've about made up my mind i'm different from the rest, for as for me, i b'lieve i like the second table best. to eat along with comp'ny is so trying, for it's tough to sit and watch the victuals when you dassent touch the stuff. you see your father serving out the dark meat and the light until a boy is sure he'll starve before he gets a bite. and when, he asks you what you'll have,--you've heard it all before,-- you know you'll get just what you get and won't get nothing more; for, when you want another piece, your mother winks her eye, and so you say, "i've plenty, thanks!" and tell a whopping lie. when comp'ny is a-watching you, you've got to be polite, and eat your victuals with a fork and take a little bite. you can't have nothing till you're asked and, 'cause a boy is small, folks think he isn't hungry, and he's never asked at all. since i can first remember i've been told that when the cake is passed around, the proper thing is for a boy to take the piece that's nearest to him, and so all i ever got, when comp'ny's been to our house, was the smallest in the lot. it worries boys like everything to have the comp'ny stay a-setting round the table, like they couldn't get away. but when they've gone, and left the whole big shooting match to me, say! ain't it fun to just wade in and help myself? oh, gee! with no one round to notice what you're doing--bet your life!-- boys don't use forks to eat with when they'd rather use a knife, nor take such little bites as when they're eating with the rest and so, for lots of things, i like the second table best _nixon waterman._ the children when the lessons and tasks are all ended, and the school for the day is dismissed, and the little ones gather around me, to bid me good night and be kissed; oh, the little white arms that encircle my neck in their tender embrace! oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, shedding sunshine of love on my face! and when they are gone, i sit dreaming of my childhood, too lovely to last; of love that my heart will remember when it wakes to the pulse of the past, ere the world and its wickedness made me a partner of sorrow and sin,-- when the glory of god was about me, and the glory of gladness within. all my heart grows weak as a woman's and the fountains of feeling will flow, when i think of the paths steep and stony, where the feet of the dear ones must go; of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, of the tempest of fate blowing wild; oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy as the innocent heart of a child! they are idols of hearts and of households; they are angels of god in disguise; his sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, his glory still gleams in their eyes; oh, these truants from home and from heaven,-- they have made me more manly and mild; and i know now how jesus could liken the kingdom of god to a child! i ask not a life for the dear ones all radiant, as others have done, but that life may have just enough shadow to temper the glare of the sun; i would pray god to guard them from evil, but my prayer would bound back to myself; ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, but a sinner must pray for himself. the twig is so easily bended, i have banished the rule and the rod; i have taught them the goodness of knowledge, they have taught me the goodness of god. my heart is the dungeon of darkness, where i shut them for breaking a rule; my frown is sufficient correction; my love is the law of the school. i shall leave the old house in the autumn, to traverse its threshold no more; ah! how shall i sigh for the dear ones that meet me each morn at the door! i shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, and the gush of their innocent glee. the group on its green, and the flowers that are brought every morning to me. i shall miss them at morn and at even, their song in the school and the street; i shall miss the low hum of their voices, and the tread of their delicate feet. when the lessons of life are all ended, and death says, "the school is dismissed!" may the little ones gather around me to bid me good night and be kissed! _charles m. dickinson._ a visit from st. nicholas 'twas the night before christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that st. nicholas soon would be there; the children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; and mamma in her kerchief, and i in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,-- when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, i sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. away to the window i flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. the moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, gave a luster of midday to objects below: when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, with a little old driver, so lively and quick, i knew in a moment it must be st. nick. more rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled and shouted, and called them by name: "now, dasher! now dancer! now, prancer! now vixen! on, comet, on, cupid! on, donder and blitzen!-- to the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! now, dash away, dash sway, dash away all!" as dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, so, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and st. nicholas too, and then in a twinkling i heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each little hoof. as i drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney st. nicholas came with a bound. he was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; a bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. his eyes how they twinkled; his dimples how merry! his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; his droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. the stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. he had a broad face and a little round belly that shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. he was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf-- and i laughed when i saw him, in spite of myself. a wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know i had nothing to dread. he spake not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside of his nose and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. he sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle; but i heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight, "happy christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" _clement c. moore._ your mission if you cannot on the ocean sail among the swiftest fleet, rocking on the highest billows, laughing at the storms you meet, you can stand among the sailors, anchored yet within the bay, you can lend a hand to help them, as they launch their boats away. if you are too weak to journey up the mountain steep and high, you can stand within the valley, while the multitudes go by; you can chant in happy measure, as they slowly pass along; though they may forget the singer, they will not forget the song. if you have not gold and silver ever ready to command, if you cannot towards the needy reach an ever-open hand, you can visit the afflicted, o'er the erring you can weep, you can be a true disciple, sitting at the savior's feet. if you cannot in the conflict, prove yourself a soldier true, if where fire and smoke are thickest, there's no work for you to do, when the battle-field is silent, you can go with careful tread, you can bear away the wounded, you can cover up the dead. do not then stand idly waiting for some greater work to do, fortune is a lazy goddess, she will never come to you. go and toil in any vineyard, do not fear to do or dare, if you want a field of labor, you can find it anywhere. _ellen h. gates._ the house by the side of the road there are hermit souls that live withdrawn in the peace of their self-content; there are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, in a fellowless firmament; there are pioneer souls that blaze their paths where highways never ran; but let me live by the side of the road and be a friend to man. let me live in a house by the side of the road, where the race of men go by, the men who are good and the men who are bad, as good and as bad as i. i would not sit in the scorner's seat, or hurl the cynic's ban; let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man. i see from my house by the side of the road, by the side of the highway of life, the men who press with the ardor of hope, the men who are faint with the strife. but i turn not away from their smiles nor their tears, both parts of an infinite plan; let me live in my house by the side of the road and be a friend to man. i know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead and mountains of wearisome height; that the road passes on through the long afternoon and stretches away to the night. but still i rejoice when the travelers rejoice, and weep with the strangers that moan. nor live in my house by the side of the road like a man who dwells alone. let me live in my house by the side of the road where the race of men go by; they are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, wise, foolish--so am i. then why should i sit in the scorner's seat, or hurl the cynic's ban? let me live in my house by the side of the road and be a friend to man. _sam walter foss._ asleep at the switch the first thing that i remember was carlo tugging away, with the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to say: "come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you. think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending them to. think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and son, think of the lover and the loved one too, think of them doomed every one to fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch, murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at the switch." i sprang up amazed--scarce knew where i stood, sleep had o'ermastered me so; i could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below, i could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were fanned, but what was that noise in the distance? that, i could not understand. i heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum, then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum; what is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain? what whistle's that, yelling so shrill? ah! i know now; it's the train. we often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place; so i stood--with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my face; its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of some witch,-- the train was almost upon me before i remembered the switch. i sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track; the switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back; on, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash; i swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash. how long i lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell; my stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell,-- for then i heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands and wives, and i thought of the day we all shrink from, when i must account for their lives; mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and wild; fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child; children searching for parents, i noticed, as by me they sped, and lips, that could form naught but "mamma," were calling for one perhaps dead. my mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away, when, under the still burning rafters i suddenly noticed there lay a little white hand; she who owned it was doubtless an object of love to one whom her loss would drive frantic, though she guarded him now from above; i tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side; how little she thought of her journey when she left for this dark, fatal ride! i lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark of life, turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized--maggie, my wife! o lord! my scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered my pride; my life will be one endless nightmare, with maggie away from my side. how often i'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, happy life; how i'd strive through all my lifetime, to build up a home for my wife; how people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest; how i should do all the labor, and maggie should all the day rest; how one of god's blessings might cheer us, how some day i perhaps should be rich:-- but all of my dreams had been shattered, while i lay there asleep at the switch! i fancied i stood on my trial, the jury and judge i could see; and every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon me; and fingers were pointed in scorn, till i felt my face blushing blood-red, and the next thing i heard were the words, "hanged by the neck until dead." then i felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight hold of a dress, and i heard, "what's the matter, dear jim? you've had a bad nightmare, i guess!" and there stood maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch, i'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been "asleep at the switch." _george hoey._ each in his own tongue a fire-mist and a planet, a crystal and a cell, a jellyfish and a saurian, and caves where the cavemen dwell; then a sense of law and beauty, and a face turned from the clod,-- some call it evolution, and others call it god. a haze in the far horizon, the infinite, tender sky; the ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, and the wild geese sailing high; and all over upland and lowland the charm of the goldenrod,-- some of us call it nature, and others call it god. like tides on a crescent sea-beach, when the moon is new and thin, into our hearts high yearnings come welling and surging in,-- come from the mystic ocean. whose rim no foot has trod,-- some of us call it longing, and others call it god. a picket frozen on duty, a mother starved for her brood, socrates drinking the hemlock, and jesus on the rood; the millions who, humble and nameless, the straight, hard pathway trod,-- some call it consecration, and others call it god. _william herbert carruth._ how cyrus laid the cable come, listen all unto my song; it is no silly fable; 'tis all about the mighty cord they call the atlantic cable. bold cyrus field he said, says he, i have a pretty notion that i can run the telegraph across the atlantic ocean. then all the people laughed, and said they'd like to see him do it; he might get half-seas over, but he never could go through it; to carry out his foolish plan he never would be able; he might as well go hang himself with his atlantic cable. but cyrus was a valiant man, a fellow of decision; and heeded not their mocking words, their laughter and derision. twice did his bravest efforts fail, and yet his mind was stable; he wa'n't the man to break his heart because he broke his cable. "once more, my gallant boys!" he cried; "_three times!_--you know the fable,-- (_i'll make it thirty_," muttered he, "but i will lay this cable!") once more they tried--hurrah! hurrah! what means this great commotion? the lord be praised! the cable's laid across the atlantic ocean. loud ring the bells,--for, flashing through six hundred leagues of water, old mother england's benison salutes her eldest daughter. o'er all the land the tidings speed, and soon, in every nation, they'll hear about the cable with profoundest admiration! * * * * * and may we honor evermore the manly, bold, and stable; and tell our sons, to make them brave, how cyrus laid the cable. _john g. saxe._ jane jones jane jones keeps talkin' to me all the time, an' says you must make it a rule to study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn, an' never be absent from school. remember the story of elihu burritt, an' how he clum up to the top, got all the knowledge 'at he ever had down in a blacksmithing shop? jane jones she honestly said it was so! mebbe he did-- i dunno! o' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top, is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop. she said 'at ben franklin was awfully poor, but full of ambition an' brains; an' studied philosophy all his hull life, an' see what he got for his pains! he brought electricity out of the sky, with a kite an' a bottle an' key, an' we're owing him more'n any one else for all the bright lights 'at we see. jane jones she honestly said it was so! mebbe he did-- i dunno! o' course what's allers been hinderin' me is not havin' any kite, lightning er key. jane jones said abe lincoln had no books at all, an' used to split rails when a boy; an' general grant was a tanner by trade an' lived 'way out in illinois. so when the great war in the south first broke out he stood on the side o' the right, an' when lincoln called him to take charge o' things, he won nearly every blamed fight. jane jones she honestly said it was so! mebbe he did-- i dunno! still i ain't to blame, not by a big sight, for i ain't never had any battles to fight. she said 'at columbus was out at the knees when he first thought up his big scheme, an' told all the spaniards 'nd italians, too, an' all of 'em said 'twas a dream. but queen isabella jest listened to him, 'nd pawned all her jewels o' worth, 'nd bought him the santa maria 'nd said, "go hunt up the rest o' the earth!" mebbe he did-- i dunno! o' course that may be, but then you must allow they ain't no land to discover jest now! _ben king._ the leap of roushan beg mounted on kyrat strong and fleet, his chestnut steed with four white feet, roushan beg, called kurroglou, son of the road and bandit chief, seeking refuge and relief, up the mountain pathway flew. such was kyrat's wondrous speed, never yet could any steed reach the dust-cloud in his course. more than maiden, more than wife, more than gold and next to life roushan the robber loved his horse. in the land that lies beyond erzeroum and trebizond, garden-girt his fortress stood; plundered khan, or caravan journeying north from koordistan, gave him wealth and wine and food. seven hundred and fourscore men at arms his livery wore, did his bidding night and day, now, through regions all unknown, he was wandering, lost, alone, seeking without guide his way. suddenly the pathway ends, sheer the precipice descends, loud the torrent roars unseen; thirty feet from side to side yawns the chasm; on air must ride he who crosses this ravine, following close in his pursuit, at the precipice's foot reyhan the arab of orfah halted with his hundred men, shouting upward from the glen, "la illah illa allah!" gently roushan beg caressed kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast, kissed him upon both his eyes; sang to him in his wild way, as upon the topmost spray sings a bird before it flies. "o my kyrat, o my steed, round and slender as a reed, carry me this peril through! satin housings shall be thine, shoes of gold, o kyrat mine, o thou soul of kurroglou! "soft thy skin as silken skein, soft as woman's hair thy mane, tender are thine eyes and true; all thy hoofs like ivory shine, polished bright; o life of mine, leap, and rescue kurroglou!" kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, drew together his four white feet, paused a moment on the verge, measured with his eye the space, and into the air's embrace leaped, as leaps the ocean surge. as the ocean surge o'er sand bears a swimmer safe to land, kyrat safe his rider bore; rattling down the deep abyss, fragments of the precipice rolled like pebbles on a shore. roushan's tasseled cap of red trembled not upon his head, careless sat he and upright; neither hand nor bridle shook, nor his head he turned to look, as he galloped out of sight. flash of harness in the air, seen a moment like the glare of a sword drawn from its sheath; thus the phantom horseman passed, and the shadow that he cast leaped the cataract underneath. reyhan the arab held his breath while this vision of life and death passed above him. "allahu!" cried he. "in all koordistan lives there not so brave a man as this robber kurroglou!" _henry w. longfellow._ old ironsides ay, tear her tattered ensign down! long has it waved on high, and many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky; beneath it rung the battle shout, and burst the cannon's roar;-- the meteor of the ocean air shall sweep the clouds no more! her deck, once red with heroes' blood, where knelt the vanquished foe, when winds were hurrying o'er the flood, and waves were white below, no more shall feel the victor's tread, or know the conquered knee;-- the harpies of the shore shall pluck the eagle of the sea! oh, better that her shattered hulk should sink beneath the wave! her thunders shook the mighty deep, and there should be her grave; nail to the mast her holy flag, set every threadbare sail, and give her to the god of storms, the lightning and the gale! _oliver wendell holmes._ a psalm of life tell me not, in mournful numbers, "life is but an empty dream!" for the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. life is real! life is earnest! and the grave is not its goal; "dust thou art, to dust returnest," was not spoken of the soul. not enjoyment, and not sorrow, is our destined end or way; but to act that each to-morrow finds us farther than to-day. art is long, and time is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave. in the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of life, be not like dumb, driven cattle! be a hero in the strife! trust no future, howe'er pleasant! let the dead past bury its dead! act, act in the living present! heart within, and god o'erhead! lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time; footprints, that perhaps another, sailing o'er life's solemn main, a forlorn and shipwrecked brother, seeing, shall take heart again. let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait. _henry w. longfellow._ johnny's hist'ry lesson i think, of all the things at school a boy has got to do, that studyin' hist'ry, as a rule, is worst of all, don't you? of dates there are an awful sight, an' though i study day an' night, there's only one i've got just right-- that's fourteen ninety-two. columbus crossed the delaware in fourteen ninety-two; we whipped the british, fair an' square, in fourteen ninety-two. at concord an' at lexington. we kept the redcoats on the run, while the band played johnny get your gun, in fourteen ninety-two. pat henry, with his dyin' breath-- in fourteen ninety-two-- said, "gimme liberty or death!" in fourteen ninety-two. an' barbara frietchie, so 'tis said, cried, "shoot if you must this old, gray head, but i'd rather 'twould be your own instead!" in fourteen ninety-two. the pilgrims came to plymouth rock in fourteen ninety-two, an' the indians standin' on the dock asked, "what are you goin' to do?" an' they said, "we seek your harbor drear that our children's children's children dear may boast that their forefathers landed here in fourteen ninety-two." miss pocahontas saved the life-- in fourteen ninety-two-- of john smith, an' became his wife in fourteen ninety-two. an' the smith tribe started then an' there, an' now there are john smiths ev'rywhere, but they didn't have any smiths to spare in fourteen ninety-two. kentucky was settled by daniel boone in fourteen ninety-two, an' i think the cow jumped over the moon in fourteen ninety-two. ben franklin flew his kite so high he drew the lightnin' from the sky, an' washington couldn't tell a lie, in fourteen ninety-two. _nixon waterman._ riding on the rail singing through the forests, rattling over ridges, shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges, whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,-- bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail! men of different stations in the eye of fame, here are very quickly coming to the same; high and lowly people, birds of every feather, on a common level, traveling together! gentlemen in shorts, blooming very tall; gentlemen at large, talking very small; gentlemen in tights, with a loosish mien; gentlemen in gray, looking very green! gentlemen quite old, asking for the news; gentlemen in black, with a fit of blues; gentlemen in claret, sober as a vicar; gentlemen in tweed, dreadfully in liquor! stranger on the right looking very sunny, obviously reading something very funny. now the smiles are thicker--wonder what they mean? faith, he's got the knickerbocker magazine! stranger on the left, closing up his peepers; now he snores again, like the seven sleepers; at his feet a volume gives the explanation, how the man grew stupid from "association"! ancient maiden lady anxiously remarks that there must be peril 'mong so many sparks; roguish-looking fellow, turning to the stranger, says 'tis his opinion _she_ is out of danger! woman with her baby, sitting _vis a vis_; baby keeps a-squalling, woman looks at me; asks about the distance--says 'tis tiresome talking, noises of the cars are so very shocking! market woman, careful of the precious casket, knowing eggs are eggs, tightly holds her basket; feeling that a smash, if it came, would surely send her eggs to pot rather prematurely. singing through the forests, rattling over ridges, shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges, whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,-- bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail! _j.g. saxe._ the building of the ship extract thou, too, sail on, o ship of state! sail on, o union, strong and great! humanity with all its fears, with all the hopes of future years, is hanging breathless on thy fate! we know what master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, who made each mast, and sail, and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'tis of the wave and not the rock; 'tis but the flapping of the sail, and not a rent made by the gale! in spite of rock and tempest's roar, in spite of false lights on the shore, sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith truiumphant o'er our fears, are all with thee,--are all with thee! _h.w. longfellow._ the dead pussy cat you's as stiff an' as cold as a stone, little cat! dey's done frowed you out an' left you alone, little cat! i's a-strokin' you's fur, but you don't never purr nor hump up anywhere, little cat. w'y is dat? is you's purrin' an' humpin'-up done? an' w'y fer is you's little foot tied, little cat? did dey pisen you's tummick inside, little cat? did dey pound you wif bricks, or wif big nasty sticks, or abuse you wif kicks, little cat? tell me dat, did dey holler at all when you cwied? did it hurt werry bad w'en you died, little cat? oh, w'y didn't yo wun off and hide, little cat? i is wet in my eyes, 'cause i most always cwies w'en a pussy cat dies, little cat, tink of dat, an' i's awfully solly besides! dest lay still dere in de sof gwown', little cat, w'ile i tucks de gween gwass all awoun', little cat. dey can't hurt you no more w'en you's tired an' so sore, dest sleep twiet, you pore little cat, wif a pat, an' fordet all de kicks of de town. _marion short._ the owl critic "who stuffed that white owl?" no one spoke in the shop; the barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; the customers, waiting their turns, were all reading the _daily_, the _herald_, the _post_, little heeding the young man who blurted out such a blunt question; not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; and the barber kept on shaving. "don't you see, mister brown," cried the youth, with a frown, "how wrong the whole thing is, how preposterous each wing is. how flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- in short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! i make no apology; i've learned owleology. i've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, and cannot be blinded to any deflections arising from unskilful fingers that fail to stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. mister brown! mister brown! do take that bird down, or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" and the barber kept on shaving. "i've _studied_ owls, and other night fowls, and i tell you what i know to be true: an owl cannot roost with his limbs so unloosed; no owl in this world ever had his claws curled, ever had his legs slanted, ever had his bill canted, ever had his neck screwed into that attitude. he can't _do_ it, because 'tis against all bird laws. anatomy teaches, ornithology preaches, an owl has a toe that _can't_ turn out so! i've made the white owl my study for years, and to see such a job almost moves me to tears! mister brown, i'm amazed you should be so gone crazed as to put up a bird in that posture absurd! to _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; the man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" and the barber kept on shaving. "examine those eyes. i'm filled with surprise taxidermists should pass off on you such poor glass; so unnatural they seem they'd make audubon scream, and john burroughs laugh to encounter such chaff. do take that bird down; have him stuffed again, brown!" and the barber kept on shaving. "with some sawdust and bark i could stuff in the dark an owl better than that. i could make an old hat look more like an owl than that horrid fowl, stuck up here so stiff like a side of coarse leather. in fact, about _him _there's not one natural feather." just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, the owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, and then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "your learning's at fault this time, anyway; don't waste it again on a live bird, i pray. i'm an owl; you're another. sir critic, good-day!" and the barber kept on shaving. _james t. fields._ at school-close the end has come, as come it must to all things; in these sweet june days the teacher and the scholar trust their parting feet to separate ways. they part: but in the years to be shall pleasant memories cling to each, as shells bear inland from the sea the murmur of the rhythmic beach. one knew the joys the sculptor knows when, plastic to his lightest touch, his clay-wrought model slowly grows to that fine grace desired so much. so daily grew before her eyes the living shapes whereon she wrought, strong, tender, innocently wise, the child's heart with the woman's thought. and one shall never quite forget the voice that called from dream and play, the firm but kindly hand that set her feet in learning's pleasant way,-- the joy of undine soul-possessed, the wakening sense, the strange delight that swelled the fabled statue's breast and filled its clouded eyes with sight! o youth and beauty, loved of all! ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams; in broader ways your footsteps fall, ye test the truth of all that seems. her little realm the teacher leaves, she breaks her wand of power apart, while, for your love and trust, she gives the warm thanks of a grateful heart. hers is the sober summer noon contrasted with your morn of spring; the waning with the waxing moon, the folded with the outspread wing. across the distance of the years she sends her god-speed back to you; she has no thought of doubts or fears; be but yourselves, be pure, be true, and prompt in duty; heed the deep, low voice of conscience; through the ill and discord round about you, keep your faith in human nature still. be gentle: unto griefs and needs be pitiful as woman should, and, spite of all the lies of creeds, hold fast the truth that god is good. give and receive; go forth and bless the world that needs the hand and heart of martha's helpful carefulness no less than mary's better part. so shall the stream of time flow by and leave each year a richer good, and matron loveliness outvie the nameless charm of maidenhood. and, when the world shall link your names with gracious lives and manners fine, the teacher shall assert her claims, and proudly whisper, "these were mine!" _john g. whittier._ the wild white rose oh, that i might have my request, and that god would grant me the thing that i long for.--_job : ._ it was peeping through the brambles, that little wild white rose, where the hawthorn hedge was planted, my garden to enclose. all beyond was fern and heather, on the breezy, open moor; all within was sun and shelter, and the wealth of beauty's store. but i did not heed the fragrance of flow'ret or of tree, for my eyes were on that rosebud, and it grew too high for me. in vain i strove to reach it through the tangled mass of green, it only smiled and nodded behind its thorny screen. yet through that summer morning i lingered near the spot: oh, why do things seem sweeter if we possess them not? my garden buds were blooming, but all that i could see was that little mocking wild rose, hanging just too high for me. so in life's wider garden there are buds of promise, too, beyond our reach to gather, but not beyond our view; and like the little charmer that tempted me astray, they steal out half the brightness of many a summer's day. oh, hearts that fail with longing for some forbidden tree, look up and learn a lesson from my white rose and me. 'tis wiser far to number the blessings at my feet, than ever to be sighing for just one bud more sweet. my sunbeams and my shadows fall from a pierced hand, i can surely trust his wisdom since his heart i understand; and maybe in the morning, when his blessed face i see, he will tell me why my white rose grew just too high for me. _ellen h. willis._ l'envoi when earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, when the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, we shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down for an aeon or two, till the master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew! and those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; they shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; they shall find real saints to draw from--magdalene, peter and paul; they shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all. and only the master shall praise us, and only the master shall blame; and no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; but each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, shall draw the thing as he sees it for the god of things as they are! _rudyard kipling._ whistling in heaven you're surprised that i ever should say so? just wait till the reason i've given why i say i sha'n't care for the music, unless there is whistling in heaven. then you'll think it no very great wonder, nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, that unless there's a boy there a-whistling, its music will not be complete. it was late in the autumn of ' ; we had come from our far eastern home just in season to build us a cabin, ere the cold of the winter should come; and we lived all the while in our wagon that husband was clearing the place where the house was to stand; and the clearing and building it took many days. so that our heads were scarce sheltered in under its roof when our store of provisions was almost exhausted, and husband must journey for more; and the nearest place where he could get them was yet such a distance away, that it forced him from home to be absent at least a whole night and a day. you see, we'd but two or three neighbors, and the nearest was more than a mile; and we hadn't found time yet to know them, for we had been busy the while. and the man who had helped at the raising just staid till the job was well done; and as soon as his money was paid him had shouldered his axe and had gone. well, husband just kissed me and started-- i could scarcely suppress a deep groan at the thought of remaining with baby so long in the house alone; for, my dear, i was childish and timid, and braver ones might well have feared, for the wild wolf was often heard howling. and savages sometimes appeared. but i smothered my grief and my terror till husband was off on his ride, and then in my arms i took josey, and all the day long sat and cried, as i thought of the long, dreary hours when the darkness of night should fall, and i was so utterly helpless, with no one in reach of my call. and when the night came with its terrors, to hide ev'ry ray of light, i hung up a quilt by the window, and, almost dead with affright, i kneeled by the side of the cradle, scarce daring to draw a full breath, lest the baby should wake, and its crying should bring us a horrible death. there i knelt until late in the evening and scarcely an inch had i stirred, when suddenly, far in the distance, a sound as of whistling i heard. i started up dreadfully frightened, for fear 'twas an indian's call; and then very soon i remembered the red man ne'er whistles at all. and when i was sure 'twas a white man, i thought, were he coming for ill, he'd surely approach with more caution-- would come without warning, and still. then the sound, coming nearer and nearer, took the form of a tune light and gay, and i knew i needn't fear evil from one who could whistle that way. very soon i heard footsteps approaching, then came a peculiar dull thump, as if some one was heavily striking an ax in the top of a stump; and then, in another brief moment, there came a light tap on the door, when quickly i undid the fast'ning, and in stepped a boy, and before there was either a question or answer or either had time to speak, i just threw my glad arms around him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. then i started back, scared at my boldness. but he only smiled at my fright, as he said, "i'm your neighbor's boy, ellick, come to tarry with you through the night. "we saw your husband go eastward, and made up our minds where he'd gone, and i said to the rest of our people, 'that woman is there all alone, and i venture she's awfully lonesome, and though she may have no great fear, i think she would feel a bit safer if only a boy were but near.' "so, taking my axe on my shoulder, for fear that a savage might stray across my path and need scalping, i started right down this way; and coming in sight of the cabin, and thinking to save you alarm, i whistled a tune, just to show you i didn't intend any harm. "and so here i am, at your service; but if you don't want me to stay, why, all you need do is to say so, and should'ring my axe, i'll away." i dropped in a chair and near fainted, just at thought of his leaving me then, and his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle as he said, "i guess i'll remain." and then i just sat there and told him how terribly frightened i'd been, how his face was to me the most welcome of any i ever had seen; and then i lay down with the baby, and slept all the blessed night through, for i felt i was safe from all danger near so brave a young fellow, and true. so now, my dear friend, do you wonder, since such a good reason i've given, why i say i sha'n't care for the music, unless there is whistling in heaven? yes, often i've said so in earnest, and now what i've said i repeat, that unless there's a boy there a-whistling, its music will not be complete. sleep, baby, sleep sleep, baby, sleep! thy father's watching the sheep, thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, and down drops a little dream for thee. sleep, baby, sleep! sleep, baby, sleep! the large stars are the sheep, the little stars are the lambs, i guess, the bright moon is the shepherdess. sleep, baby, sleep! sleep, baby, sleep! thy savior loves his sheep; he is the lamb of god on high who for our sakes came down to die. sleep, baby, sleep! _elizabeth prentiss._ the lost chord seated one day at the organ, i was weary and ill at ease, and my fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. i do not know what i was playing, or what i was dreaming then; but i struck one chord of music, like the sound of a great amen. it flooded the crimson twilight, like the close of an angel's psalm; and it lay on my fevered spirit with a touch of infinite calm. it quieted pain and sorrow, like love overcoming strife; it seemed the harmonious echo from our discordant life. it linked all perplexing meanings into one perfect peace, and trembled away into silence as if it were loth to cease. i have sought, but i seek it vainly, that one lost chord divine, that came from the soul of the organ, and entered into mine. it may be that death's bright angel will speak in that chord again; it may be that only in heaven i shall hear that grand amen. _adelaide a. procter._ the children's hour between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lower, comes a pause in the day's occupations, that is known as the children's hour. i hear in the chamber above me the patter of little feet, the sound of a door that is opened, and voices soft and sweet. from my study i see in the lamplight, descending the broad hall stair, grave alice, and laughing allegra, and edith with golden hair. a whisper, and then a silence: yet i know by their merry eyes they are plotting and planning together to take me by surprise. a sudden rush from the stairway, a sudden raid from the hall! by three doors left unguarded they enter my castle wall! they climb up into my turret o'er the arms and back of my chair; if i try to escape, they surround me; they seem to be everywhere. they almost devour me with kisses, their arms about me entwine, till i think of the bishop of bingen in his mouse-tower on the rhine! do you think, o blue-eyed banditti, because you have scaled the wall, such an old mustache as i am is not a match for you all! i have you fast in my fortress, and will not let you depart, but put you down into the dungeon in the round-tower of my heart. and there will i keep you forever, yes, forever and a day, till the walls shall crumble to ruin, and moulder in dust away! _henry w. longfellow._ woodman, spare that tree! woodman, spare that tree! touch not a single bough! in youth it sheltered me, and i'll protect it now. 't was my forefather's hand that placed it near his cot; there, woodman, let it stand. thy ax shall harm it not! that old familiar tree, whose glory and renown are spread o'er land and sea-- and wouldst thou hew it down? woodman, forbear thy stroke! cut not its earth-bound ties; oh, spare that aged oak, now towering to the skies! when but an idle boy, i sought its grateful shade; in all their gushing joy here, too, my sisters played. my mother kissed me here; my father pressed my hand-- forgive this foolish tear, but let that old oak stand! my heart-strings round thee cling, close as thy bark, old friend! here shall the wild-bird sing, and still thy branches bend. old tree! the storm still brave! and, woodman, leave the spot; while i've a hand to save, thy ax shall harm it not! _george pope morris_. little brown hands they drive home the cows from the pasture, up through the long shady lane, where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, that are yellow with ripening grain. they find, in the thick waving grasses, where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. they gather the earliest snowdrops, and the first crimson buds of the rose. they toss the new hay in the meadow, they gather the elder-bloom white, they find where the dusky grapes purple in the soft-tinted october light. they know where the apples hang ripest, and are sweeter than italy's wines; they know where the fruit hangs the thickest on the long, thorny blackberry vines. they gather the delicate sea-weeds, and build tiny castles of sand; they pick up the beautiful sea shells-- fairy barks that have drifted to land. they wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, where the oriole's hammock-nest swings, and at night time are folded in slumber by a song that a fond mother sings. those who toil bravely are strongest; the humble and poor become great; and so from these brown-handed children shall grow mighty rulers of state. the pen of the author and statesman,-- the noble and wise of the land,-- the sword, and the chisel, and palette, shall be held in the little brown hand. _mary h. krout._ barbara frietchie up from the meadows rich with corn clear in the cool september morn, the clustered spires of frederick stand green-walled by the hills of maryland. round about them orchards sweep, apple and peach tree fruited deep, fair as the garden of the lord to the eyes of the famished rebel horde, on that pleasant morn of the early fall when lee marched over the mountain-wall,-- over the mountains winding down, horse and foot, into frederick town. forty flags with their silver stars, forty flags with their crimson bars, flapped in the morning wind; the sun of noon looked down, and saw not one. up rose old barbara frietchie then, bowed with her fourscore years and ten; bravest of all in frederick town, she took up the flag the men hauled down; in her attic window the staff she set, to show that one heart was loyal yet. up the street came the rebel tread, stonewall jackson riding ahead. under his slouched hat left and right he glanced; the old flag met his sight. "halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. it shivered the window, pane and sash; it rent the banner with seam and gash. quick, as it fell, from the broken staff dame barbara snatched the silken scarf; she leaned far out on the window-sill, and shook it forth with a royal will. "shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but spare your country's flag," she said. a shade of sadness, a blush of shame, over the face of the leader came; the nobler nature within him stirred to life at that woman's deed and word: "who touches a hair of yon gray head dies like a dog; march on!" he said. all day long through frederick street sounded the tread of marching feet; all day long that free flag tost over the heads of the rebel host. ever its torn folds rose and fell on the loyal winds that loved it well; and through the hill-gaps sunset light shone over it a warm good night. barbara frietchie's work is o'er. and the rebel rides on his raids no more. honor to her! and let a tear fall, for her sake, on stonewall's bier. over barbara frietchie's grave, flag of freedom and union wave! peace and order and beauty draw round thy symbol of light and law; and ever the stars above look down on thy stars below in frederick town. _john g. whittier._ i want to go to morrow i started on a journey just about a week ago, for the little town of morrow, in the state of ohio. i never was a traveler, and really didn't know that morrow had been ridiculed a century or so. i went down to the depot for my ticket and applied for the tips regarding morrow, not expecting to be guyed. said i, "my friend, i want to go to morrow and return not later than to-morrow, for i haven't time to burn." said he to me, "now let me see if i have heard you right, you want to go to morrow and come back to-morrow night. you should have gone to morrow yesterday and back to-day, for if you started yesterday to morrow, don't you see, you could have got to morrow and returned to-day at three. the train that started yesterday--now understand me right-- to-day it gets to morrow, and returns to-morrow night." said i, "my boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat, is there a town named morrow on your line? now tell me that." "there is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip-- to go from here to morrow is a fourteen-hour trip. the train that goes to morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five; half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive. now if from here to morrow is a fourteen-hour jump, can you go to-day to morrow and come back to-day, you chump?" said i, "i want to go to morrow; can i go to-day and get to morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?" "well, well," said he, "explain to me and i've no more to say; can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back from there to-day?" for if to-day you'd get to morrow, surely you'll agree you should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see. so if you start to morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat, you won't get to morrow till the day that follows that. "now if you start to-day to morrow, it's a cinch you'll land to-morrow into morrow, not to-day, you understand. for the train to-day to morrow, if the schedule is right, will get you into morrow by about to-morrow night." said i, "i guess you know it all, but kindly let me say, how can i go to morrow, if i leave the town to-day?" said he, "you cannot go to morrow any more to-day, for the train that goes to morrow is a mile upon its way." finale i was so disappointed i was mad enough to swear; the train had gone to morrow and had left me standing there. the man was right in telling me i was a howling jay; i didn't go to morrow, so i guess i'll go to-day. out in the fields the little cares that fretted me, i lost them yesterday among the fields above the seas, among the winds at play; among the lowing of the herds, the rustling of the trees, among the singing of the birds, the humming of the bees. the foolish fears of what might happen,-- i cast them all away among the clover-scented grass, among the new-mown hay; among the husking of the corn, where drowsy poppies nod, where ill thoughts die and good are born, out in the fields with god. _elizabeth barrett browning._ the bluebird's song i know the song that the bluebird is singing, out in the apple tree where he is swinging. brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary-- nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! hark! was there ever so merry a note? listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying, up in the apple tree swinging and swaying. "dear little blossoms down under the snow, you must be weary of winter i know. listen, i'll sing you a message of cheer! summer is coming! and springtime is here! "little white snowdrop! i pray you arise; bright yellow crocus! please open your eyes; sweet little violets, hid from the cold, put on your mantles of purple and gold; daffodils! daffodils! say, do you hear?-- summer is coming, and springtime is here!" _emily huntington miller._ the main truck, or a leap for life old ironsides at anchor lay, in the harbor of mahon; a dead calm rested on the bay,-- the waves to sleep had gone; when little hal, the captain's son, a lad both brave and good, in sport, up shroud and rigging ran, and on the main truck stood! a shudder shot through every vein,-- all eyes were turned on high! there stood the boy, with dizzy brain, between the sea and sky; no hold had he above, below; alone he stood in air: to that far height none dared to go,-- no aid could reach him there. we gazed, but not a man could speak,-- with horror all aghast,-- in groups, with pallid brow and cheek,-- we watched the quivering mast. the atmosphere grew thick and hot, and of a lurid hue;-- as riveted unto the spot, stood officers and crew. the father came on deck:--he gasped, "oh, god; thy will be done!" then suddenly a rifle grasped, and aimed it at his son. "jump, far out, boy, into the wave! jump, or i fire," he said; "that only chance your life can save; jump, jump, boy!" he obeyed. he sunk,--he rose,--he lived,--he moved,-- and for the ship struck out. on board we hailed the lad beloved, with many a manly shout. his father drew, in silent joy, those wet arms round his neck, and folded to his heart his boy,-- then fainted on the deck. _morris._ the arrow and the song i shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, i knew not where; for, so swiftly it flew, the sight could not follow it in its flight. i breathed a song into the air, it fell to earth, i knew not where; for who has sight so keen and strong, that it can follow the flight of song? long, long afterward, in an oak i found the arrow, still unbroke; and the song, from beginning to end, i found again in the heart of a friend. _h.w. longfellow._ the green mountain justice "the snow is deep," the justice said; "there's mighty mischief overhead." "high talk, indeed!" his wife exclaimed; "what, sir! shall providence be blamed?" the justice, laughing, said, "oh no! i only meant the loads of snow upon the roofs. the barn is weak; i greatly fear the roof will break. so hand me up the spade, my dear, i'll mount the barn, the roof to clear." "no!" said the wife; "the barn is high, and if you slip, and fall, and die, how will my living be secured?-- stephen, your life is not insured. but tie a rope your waist around, and it will hold you safe and sound." "i will," said he. "now for the roof-- all snugly tied, and danger-proof! excelsior! excel--but no! the rope is not secured below!" said rachel, "climb, the end to throw across the top, and i will go and tie that end around my waist." "well, every woman to her taste; you always would be tightly laced. rachel, when you became my bride, i thought the knot securely tied; but lest the bond should break in twain, i'll have it fastened once again." below the arm-pits tied around, she takes her station on the ground, while on the roof, beyond the ridge, he shovels clear the lower edge. but, sad mischance! the loosened snow comes sliding down, to plunge below. and as he tumbles with the slide, up rachel goes on t'other side. just half-way down the justice hung; just half-way up the woman swung. "good land o' goshen!" shouted she; "why, do you see it?" answered he. the couple, dangling in the breeze, like turkeys hung outside to freeze, at their rope's end and wits' end, too, shout back and forth what best to do. cried stephen, "take it coolly, wife; all have their ups and downs in life." quoth rachel, "what a pity 'tis to joke at such a thing as this! a man whose wife is being hung should know enough to hold his tongue." "now, rachel, as i look below, i see a tempting heap of snow. suppose, my dear, i take my knife, and cut the rope to save my life?" she shouted, "don't! 'twould be my death-- i see some pointed stones beneath. a better way would be to call, with all our might, for phebe hall." "agreed!" he roared. first he, then she gave tongue; "o phebe! phebe! _phe-e-be_ hall!" in tones both fine and coarse. enough to make a drover hoarse. now phebe, over at the farm, was sitting, sewing, snug and warm; but hearing, as she thought, her name, sprang up, and to the rescue came; beheld the scene, and thus she thought: "if now a kitchen chair were brought, and i could reach the lady's foot, i'd draw her downward by the boot, then cut the rope, and let him go; he cannot miss the pile of snow." he sees her moving toward his wife. armed with a chair and carving-knife, and, ere he is aware, perceives his head ascending to the eaves; and, guessing what the two are at, screams from beneath the roof, "stop that! you make me fall too far, by half!" but phebe answers, with a laugh, "please tell a body by what right you've brought your wife to such a plight!" and then, with well-directed blows, she cuts the rope and down he goes. the wife untied, they walk around when lo! no stephen can be found. they call in vain, run to and fro; they look around, above, below; no trace or token can they see, and deeper grows the mystery. then rachel's heart within her sank; but, glancing at the snowy bank, she caught a little gleam of hope,-- a gentle movement of the rope. they scrape away a little snow; what's this? a hat! ah! he's below; then upward heaves the snowy pile, and forth he stalks in tragic style, unhurt, and with a roguish smile; and rachel sees, with glad surprise, the missing found, the fallen rise. _rev. henry reeves._ jane conquest about the time of christmas (not many months ago), when the sky was black with wrath and rack, and the earth was white with snow, when loudly rang the tumult of winds and waves of strife, in her home by the sea, with her babe on her knee, sat harry conquest's wife. and he was on the ocean, although she knew not where, for never a lip could tell of the ship, to lighten her heart's despair. and her babe was fading and dying; the pulse in the tiny wrist was all but still, and the brow was chill, and pale as the white sea mist. jane conquest's heart was hopeless; she could only weep and pray that the shepherd mild would take her child without a pain away. the night was dark and darker, and the storm grew stronger still, and buried in deep and dreamless sleep lay the hamlet under the hill. the fire was dead on the hearthstone within jane conquest's room, and still sat she, with her babe on her knee, at prayer amid the gloom. when, borne above the tempest, a sound fell on her ear, thrilling her through, for well she knew 'twas the voice of mortal fear. and a light leaped in at the lattice, sudden and swift and red; crimsoning all, the whited wall, and the floor, and the roof o'erhead. for one brief moment, heedless of the babe upon her knee, with the frenzied start of a frightened heart, upon her feet rose she. and through the quaint old casement she looks upon the sea; thank god that the sight she saw that night so rare a sight should be! hemmed in by many a billow with mad and foaming lip, a mile from shore, or hardly more, she saw a gallant ship. and to her horror she beheld it aflame from stem to stern; for there seemed no speck on all that wreck where the fierce fire did not burn; till the night was like a sunset, and the sea like a sea of blood, and the rocks and shore were bathed all o'er and drenched with the gory flood. she looked and looked, till the terror went creeping through every limb; and her breath came quick, and her heart grew sick, and her sight grew dizzy and dim; and her lips had lost their utterance, for she tried but could not speak; and her feelings found no channel of sound in prayer, or sob, or shriek. once more that cry of anguish thrilled through the tempest's strife, and it stirred again in heart and brain the active thinking life; and the light of an inspiration leaped to her brightened eye, and on lip and brow was written now a purpose pure and high. swiftly she turns, and softly she crosses the chamber floor, and faltering not, in his tiny cot she laid the babe she bore. and then with a holy impulse, she sank to her knees, and made a lowly prayer, in the silence there, and this was the prayer she prayed: "o christ, who didst bear the scourging, and who now dost wear the crown, i at thy feet, o true and sweet, would lay my burden down. thou bad'st me love and cherish the babe thou gavest me, and i have kept thy word, nor stept aside from following thee. "and lo! my boy is dying! and vain is all my care; and my burden's weight is very great, yea, greater than i can bear! o lord, thou know'st what peril doth threat these poor men's lives, and i, a woman, most weak and human, do plead for their waiting wives. "thou canst not let them perish; up, lord, in thy strength, and save from the scorching breath of this terrible death on this cruel winter wave. take thou my babe and watch it, no care is like to thine; and let thy power in this perilous hour supply what lack is mine." and so her prayer she ended, and rising to her feet, gave one long look at the cradle nook where the child's faint pulses beat; and then with softest footsteps retrod the chamber floor, and noiselessly groped for the latch, and oped, and crossed the cottage door. and through the tempest bravely jane conquest fought her way, by snowy deep and slippery steep to where her duty lay. and she journeyed onward, breathless, and weary and sore and faint, yet forward pressed with the strength, and the zest, and the ardor of a saint. solemn, and weird, and lonely amid its countless graves, stood the old gray church on its tall rock perch, secure from the sea and its waves; and beneath its sacred shadow lay the hamlet safe and still; for however the sea and the wind might be, there was quiet under the hill. jane conquest reached the churchyard, and stood by the old church door, but the oak was tough and had bolts enough, and her strength was frail and poor; so she crept through a narrow window, and climbed the belfry stair, and grasped the rope, sole cord of hope, for the mariners in despair. and the wild wind helped her bravely, and she wrought with an earnest will, and the clamorous bell spoke out right well to the hamlet under the hill. and it roused the slumbering fishers, nor its warning task gave o'er till a hundred fleet and eager feet were hurrying to the shore. and then it ceased its ringing, for the woman's work was done, and many a boat that was now afloat showed man's work had begun. but the ringer in the belfry lay motionless and cold, with the cord of hope. the church-bell rope, still in her frozen hold. how long she lay it boots not, but she woke from her swoon at last in her own bright room. to find the gloom, and the grief, and the peril past, with the sense of joy within her, and the christ's sweet presence near; and friends around, and the cooing sound of her babe's voice in her ear. and they told her all the story, how a brave and gallant few o'ercame each check, and reached the wreck, and saved the hopeless crew. and how the curious sexton had climbed the belfry stair, and of his fright when, cold and white, he found her lying there; and how, when they had borne her back to her home again, the child she left with a heart bereft of hope, and weary with pain, was found within his cradle in a quiet slumber laid; with a peaceful smile on his lips the while, and the wasting sickness stayed. and she said "twas the christ who watched it, and brought it safely through"; and she praised his truth and his tender ruth who had saved her darling too. nathan hale to drum beat and heart beat, a soldier marches by, there is color in his cheek, there is courage in his eye; yet to drum beat and heart beat, in a moment he must die. by starlight and moonlight, he seeks the britons' camp; he hears the rustling flag, and the armed sentry's tramp; and the starlight and moonlight his silent wanderings lamp. with a slow tread and still tread, he scans the tented line, and he counts the battery guns by the gaunt and shadowy pine, and his slow tread and still tread gives no warning sign. the dark wave, the plumed wave, it meets his eager glance; and it sparkles 'neath the stars, like the glimmer of a lance-- a dark wave, a plumed wave, on an emerald expanse. a sharp clang, a steel clang, and terror in the sound! for the sentry, falcon-eyed, in the camp a spy has found; with a sharp clang, a steel clang, the patriot is bound. with calm brow, steady brow, he listens to his doom. in his look there is no fear, nor a shadow trace of gloom, but with calm brow, steady brow, he robes him for the tomb. in the long night, the still night, he kneels upon the sod; and the brutal guards withhold e'en the solemn word of god! in the long night, the still night, he walks where christ hath trod. 'neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, he dies upon the tree; and he mourns that he can give but one life for liberty; and in the blue morn, the sunny morn his spent wings are free. but his last words, his message words, they burn, lest friendly eye should read how proud and calm a patriot could die. with his last words, his dying words, a soldier's battle cry. from fame-leaf and angel-leaf, from monument and urn, the sad of earth, the glad of heaven, his tragic fate shall learn; and on fame-leaf and angel-leaf, the name of hale shall burn. _francis m. finch._ the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine you are coming to woo me, but not as of yore, when i hastened to welcome your ring at the door; for i trusted that he who stood waiting me then, was the brightest, the truest, the noblest of men. your lips on my own when they printed "farewell," had never been soiled by "the beverage of hell"; but they come to me now with the bacchanal sign, and the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine. i think of that night in the garden alone, when in whispers you told me your heart was my own, that your love in the future should faithfully be unshared by another, kept only for me. oh, sweet to my soul is the memory still of the lips which met mine, when they murmured "i will"; but now to their pressure no more they incline, for the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine! o john! how it crushed me, when first in your face the pen of the "rum fiend" had written "disgrace"; and turned me in silence and tears from that breath all poisoned and foul from the chalice of death. it scattered the hopes i had treasured to last; it darkened the future and clouded the past; it shattered my idol, and ruined the shrine, for the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine. i loved you--oh, dearer than language can tell, and you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well! but the man of my love was far other than he who now from the "tap-room" comes reeling to me; in manhood and honor so noble and right-- his heart was so true, and his genius so bright-- and his soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine; but the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine. you promised reform, but i trusted in vain; your pledge was but made to be broken again: and the lover so false to his promises now, will not, as a husband, be true to his vow. the word must be spoken that bids you depart-- though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart-- though in silence, with blighted affection, i pine, yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine! if one spark in your bosom of virtue remain, go fan it with prayer till it kindle again; resolved, with "god helping," in future to be from wine and its follies unshackled and free! and when you have conquered this foe of your soul,-- in manhood and honor beyond his control-- this heart will again beat responsive to thine, and the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine. _george w. young._ a perfect day when you come to the end of a perfect day and you sit alone with your thought while the chimes ring out with a carol gay for the joy that the day has brought, do you think what the end of a perfect day can mean to a tired heart? when the sun goes down with a flaming ray and the dear friends have to part? well, this is the end of a perfect day, near the end of a journey, too; but it leaves a thought that is big and strong, with a wish that is kind and true; for mem'ry has painted this perfect day with colors that never fade, and we find, at the end of a perfect day, the soul of a friend we've made. _carrie jacobs bond._ _kate ketchem_ kate ketchem on a winter's night went to a party dressed in white. her chignon in a net of gold, was about as large as they ever sold. gayly she went, because her "pap" was supposed to be a rich old chap. but when by chance her glances fell on a friend who had lately married well, her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest and a nameless longing filled her breast-- a wish she wouldn't have had made known, to have an establishment of her own. tom fudge came slowly through the throng, with chestnut hair, worn pretty long. he saw kate ketchem in the crowd, and knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed; then asked her to give him a single flower, saying he'd think it a priceless dower. out from those with which she was decked, she took the poorest she could select. and blushed as she gave it, looking down to call attention to her gown. "thanks," said fudge, and he thought how dear flowers must be at that time of year. then several charming remarks he made, asked if she sang, or danced, or played; and being exhausted, inquired whether she thought it was going to be pleasant weather. and kate displayed her "jewelry," and dropped her lashes becomingly; and listened, with no attempt to disguise the admiration in her eyes. at last, like one who has nothing to say, he turned around and walked away. kate ketchem smiled, and said, "you bet. i'll catch that fudge and his money yet. he's rich enough to keep me in clothes, and i think i could manage him as i chose. he could aid my father as well as not, and buy my brother a splendid yacht. my mother for money should never fret, and all it cried for the baby should get; and after that, with what he could spare, i'd make a show at a charity fair." tom fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, and saw kate ketchem standing still. "a girl more suited to my mind it isn't an easy thing to find; and every thing that she has to wear proves her as rich as she is fair. would she were mine, and i to-day had the old man's cash my debts to pay! no creditors with a long account, no tradesmen wanting 'that little amount'; but all my scores paid up when due by a father-in-law as rich as a jew!" but he thought of her brother, not worth a straw, and her mother, that would be his, in law; so, undecided, he walked along, and kate was left alone in the throng. but a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth, to ascertain old ketchem's wealth; and as for kate, she schemed and planned till one of the dancers claimed her hand. he married her for her father's cash; she married him to cut a dash, but as to paying his debts, do you know, the father couldn't see it so; and at hints for help, kate's hazel eyes looked out in their innocent surprise. and when tom thought of the way he had wed he longed for a single life instead, and closed his eyes in a sulky mood, regretting the days of his bachelorhood; and said, in a sort of reckless vein, "i'd like to see her catch me again, if i were free, as on that night when i saw kate ketchem dressed in white!" she wedded him to be rich and gay; but husband and children didn't pay, he wasn't the prize she hoped to draw, and wouldn't live with his mother-in-law. and oft when she had to coax and pout in order to get him to take her out, she thought how very attentive and bright he seemed at the party that winter's night; of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south, ('twas now on the other side of his mouth); how he praised her dress and gems in his talk, as he took a careful account of stock. sometimes she hated the very walls-- hated her friends, her dinners, and calls; till her weak affection, to hatred turned, like a dying tallow-candle burned. and for him who sat there, her peace to mar, smoking his everlasting cigar-- he wasn't the man she thought she saw, and grief was duty, and hate was law. so she took up her burden with a groan, saying only, "i might have known!" alas for kate! and alas for fudge! though i do not owe them any grudge; and alas for any who find to their shame that two can play at their little game! for of all hard things to bear and grin, the hardest is knowing you're taken in. ah, well! as a general thing, we fret about the one we didn't get; but i think we needn't make a fuss, if the one we don't want didn't get us. _phoebe cary._ mandalay by the old moulmein pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, there's a burma girl a-settin', an' i know she thinks o' me; for the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: "come you back, you british soldier: come you back to mandalay!" come you back to mandalay, where the old flotilla lay: can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from rangoon to mandalay? on the road to mandalay, where the flyin'-fishes play, an' the dawn comes up like thunder outer china 'crost the bay! 'er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, an' 'er name was supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as theebaw's queen, an' i seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, an' a-wastin' christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot; bloomin' idol made o' mud-- wot they called the great gawd budd-- plucky lot she cared for idols when i kissed 'er where she stud! on the road to mandalay-- when the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' low, she'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "_kul-la-lo-lo_!" with 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek we useter watch the steamers and the _hathis_ pilin' teak. elephints a-pilin' teak in the sludgy, squdgy creek, where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was arf afraid to speak! on the road to mandalay-- but that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, an' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the benk to mandalay; an' i'm learnin' 'ere in london what the ten-year sodger tells: "if you've 'eard the east a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin' else." no! you won't 'eed nothin' else but them spicy garlic smells an' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! on the road to mandalay-- i am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones, an' the blasted henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; tho' i walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer chelsea to the strand, an' they talk a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? beefy face an' grubby 'and-- law! wot _do_ they understand? i've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! on the road to mandalay-- ship me somewheres east of suez where the best is like the worst, where there aren't no ten commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; for the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that i would be-- by the old moulmein pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea-- on the road to mandalay, where the old flotilla lay, with our sick beneath the awnings when we went to mandalay! on the road to mandalay! where the flyin'-fishes play, an' the dawn comes up like thunder outer china 'crost the bay! _rudyard kipling._ columbus behind him lay the gray azores, behind the gates of hercules; before him not the ghost of shores, before him only shoreless seas. the good mate said: "now must we pray, for lo! the very stars are gone. brave adm'r'l, speak; what shall i say?" "why, say: 'sail on! sail on! and on!'" "my men grow mutinous day by day; my men grow ghastly wan and weak." the stout mate thought of home; a spray of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek, "what shall i say, brave adm'r'l, say, if we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "why, you shall say at break of day: 'sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" they sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, until at last the blanched mate said: "why, now not even god would know should i and all my men fall dead. these very winds forget their way, for god from these dread seas is gone. now speak, brave adm'r'l, speak and say--" he said: "sail on! sail on! and on!" they sailed. they sailed. then spake the mate: "this mad sea shows his teeth tonight. he curls his lips, he lies in wait with lifted teeth, as if to bite! brave adm'r'l, say but one good word: what shall we do when hope is gone? the words leapt like a leaping sword; "sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, and peered through darkness. ah, that night of all dark nights! and then a speck-- a light! a light! a light! a light! it grew, a starlit flag unfurled! it grew to be time's burst of dawn. he gained a world; he gave that world its grandest lesson; "on! sail on!" _joaquin miller._ "sister's best feller" my sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, and handsome and strong as a feller can be; and sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, you never would think she could boss him at all; but, my jing! she don't do a thing but make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string! it jest made me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, to think that he'll let a girl bully him so. he goes to walk with her and carries her muff and coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; she loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; and, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun! and, oh, say! when they go to a play, he'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, and she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, and then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late. he spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; and all he's got for 'em's a handkerchief case-- a fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; but, my land! he thinks it's just grand, "'cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; he calls her "an angel"--i heard him--and "saint," and "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't, 'fore i go on an errand for her any time, i just make her coax me, and give me a dime; but that great big silly--why, honest and true-- he'd run forty miles if she wanted him to. oh, gee whiz! i tell you what 'tis! i jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his. i won't fall in love, when i'm grown--no sir-ee! my sister's best feller's a warnin' to me! _joseph c. lincoln._ where the west begins out where the handclasp's a little stronger, out where a smile dwells a little longer, that's where the west begins. out where the sun's a little brighter, where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter, where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, that's where the west begins. out where the skies are a trifle bluer, out where friendship's a little truer, that's where the west begins. out where a fresher breeze is blowing, where there is laughter in every streamlet flowing, where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, that's where the west begins. out where the world is in the making, where fewer hearts with despair are aching; that's where the west begins. where there is more of singing and less of sighing, where there is more of giving and less of buying, and a man makes friends without half trying-- that's where the west begins. _arthur chapman._ the tapestry weavers let us take to our hearts a lesson--no lesson can braver be-- from the ways of the tapestry weavers on the other side of the sea. above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care, the while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there. they tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver: he works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever. it is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned, that he sees his real handiwork--that his marvelous skill is learned. ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost! no rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost. then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well, and how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his can tell. the years of man are the looms of god, let down from the place of the sun, wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done. weaving blindly but weaving surely each for himself his fate-- we may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait. but, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath to fear; only let him look clear into heaven, the perfect pattern is there. if he keeps the face of the savior forever and always in sight his toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving sure to be right. and when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown, he shall hear the voice of the master, it shall say unto him, "well done!" and the white-winged angels of heaven, to bear him shall come down; and god shall give him gold for his hire--not a coin--but a glowing crown. when the teacher gets cross when the teacher gets cross, and her blue eyes gets black, and the pencil comes down on the desk with a whack, we chillen all sit up straight in a line, as if we had rulers instead of a spine, and it's scary to cough, and it a'n't safe to grin, when the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. when the teacher gets cross, the tables get mixed, the ones and the twos begins to play tricks. the pluses and minuses is just little smears, when the cry babies cry their slates full of tears, and the figgers won't add,--but just act up like sin, when the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. when the teacher gets cross, the reading gets bad. the lines jingle round till the' chillen is sad. and billy boy puffs and gets red in the face, as if he and the lesson were running a race, until she hollers out, "next!" as sharp as a pin, when the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. when the teacher gets good, her smile is so bright, that the tables gets straight, and the reading gets right. the pluses and minuses comes trooping along, and the figgers add up and stop being wrong, and we chillen would like, but we dassent, to shout, when the teacher gets good, and the dimples comes out. recessional god of our fathers, known of old, lord of our far-flung battle line, beneath whose awful hand we hold dominion over palm and pine-- lord god of hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget! the tumult and the shouting dies; the captains and the kings depart: still stands thine ancient sacrifice, an humble and a contrite heart. lord god of hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget! far-called, our navies melt away; on dune and headland sinks the fire: lo, all our pomp of yesterday is one with nineveh and tyre! judge of the nations, spare us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget! if, drunk with sight of power, we loose wild tongues that have not thee in awe-- such boasting as the gentiles use, or lesser breeds without the law-- lord god of hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget--lest we forget! for heathen heart that puts her trust in reeking tube and iron shard, all valiant dust that builds on dust, and guarding, calls not thee to guard, for frantic boast and foolish word, thy mercy on thy people, lord! amen. _rudyard kipling._ the eternal goodness o friends! with whom my feet have trod the quiet aisles of prayer, glad witness to your zeal for god and love of man i bear. i trace your lines of argument; your logic linked and strong i weigh as one who dreads dissent, and fears a doubt as wrong. but still my human hands are weak to hold your iron creeds: against the words ye bid me speak my heart within me pleads. who fathoms the eternal thought? who talks of scheme and plan? the lord is god! he needeth not the poor device of man. i walk with bare, hushed feet the ground ye tread with boldness shod; i dare not fix with mete and bound the love and power of god. ye praise his justice; even such his pitying love i deem; ye seek a king; i fain would touch the robe that hath no seam. ye see the curse which overbroods a world of pain and loss; i hear our lord's beatitudes and prayer upon the cross. more than your schoolmen teach, within myself, alas! i know; too dark ye cannot paint the sin, too small the merit show. i bow my forehead to the dust, i veil mine eyes for shame, and urge, in trembling self-distrust, a prayer without a claim. i see the wrong that round me lies, i feel the guilt within; i hear, with groan and travail-cries, the world confess its sin. yet, in the maddening maze of things, and tossed by storm and flood, to one fixed stake my spirit clings; i know that god is good! not mine to look where cherubim and seraphs may not see, but nothing can be good in him which evil is in me. the wrong that pains my soul below i dare not throne above; i know not of his hate,--i know his goodness and his love. i dimly guess from blessings known of greater out of sight, and, with the chastened psalmist, own his judgments too are right. i long for household voices gone, for vanished smiles i long, but god hath led my dear ones on, and he can do no wrong. i know not what the future hath of marvel or surprise, assured alone that life and death his mercy underlies. and if my heart and flesh are weak to bear an untried pain, the bruised reed he will not break, but strengthen and sustain. no offering of my own i have, nor works my faith to prove; i can but give the gifts he gave, and plead his love for love. and so beside the silent sea, i wait the muffled oar; no harm from him can come to me on ocean or on shore. i know not where his islands lift their fronded palms in air; i only know i cannot drift beyond his love and care. o brothers! if my faith is vain, if hopes like these betray, pray for me that my feet may gain the sure and safer way. and thou, o lord! by whom are seen thy creatures as they be, forgive me if too close i lean my human heart on thee! _john g. whittier._ driving home the cows out of the clover and blue-eyed grass he turned them into the river-lane; one after another he let them pass. then fastened the meadow-bars again. under the willows and over the hill, he patiently followed their sober pace; the merry whistle for once was still, and something shadowed the sunny face. only a boy! and his father had said he never could let his youngest go; two already were lying dead under the feet of the trampling foe. but after the evening work was done, and the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, over his shoulder he slung his gun, and stealthily followed the footpath damp,-- across the clover and through the wheat. with resolute heart and purpose grim, though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, and the blind bat's flitting startled him. thrice since then had the lanes been white, and the orchards sweet with apple bloom; and now, when the cows came back at night, the feeble father drove them home. for news had come to the lonely farm that three were lying where two had lain; and the old man's tremulous, palsied arm could never lean on a son's again. the summer day grew cool and late; he went for the cows when the work was done; but down the lane, as he opened the gate, he saw them coming, one by one,-- brindle, ebony, speckle, and bess, shaking their horns in the evening wind, cropping the buttercups out of the grass-- but who was it following close behind? loosely swung in the idle air the empty sleeve of army blue; and worn and pale, from the crisping hair, looked out a face that the father knew. for southern prisons will sometimes yawn, and yield their dead unto life again; and the day that comes with a cloudy dawn in golden glory at last may wane. the great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; for the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, and under the silent evening skies together they followed the cattle home. _kate p. osgood._ a song of our flag your flag and my flag! and, oh, how much it holds-- your land and my land-- secure within its folds! your heart and my heart beat quicker at the sight; sun-kissed and wind-tossed, red and blue and white. the one flag--the great flag--the flag for me and you-- glorified all else beside--the red and white and blue! your flag and my flag! to every star and stripe the drums beat as hearts beat and fifers shrilly pipe! your flag and my flag-- a blessing in the sky; your hope and my hope-- it never hid a lie! home land and far land and half the world around, old glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound! _wilbur d. nesbit._ when the minister comes to tea oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, and they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; and the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, and the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; sis has got her sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; pa has shaved as slick as can be, and i'm rigged way up in g,-- and it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea. oh! the table's fixed up gaudy, with the gilt-edged chiny set, and we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; and we're goin' ter have some fruitcake and some thimbleberry jam, and "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, and "sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; but, er course, she's only bluffin,' for it's as prime as it can be, and she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea. everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does. and he'll ask me would i like another piece er pie; but, sho! that, er course, is only manners, and i'm s'posed ter answer "no." sis'll talk about the church-work and about the sunday-school, ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the golden rule, and if i upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:-- yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea! say! a minister, you'd reckon, never'd say what wasn't true; but that isn't so with ours, and i jest can prove it, too; 'cause when sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me,'s a lie: but i like him all the samey, and i only wish he'd stay at our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! jimmin_ee_! and i'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea! _joseph c. lincoln._ when the cows come home when klingle, klangle, klingle, far down the dusty dingle, the cows are coming home; now sweet and clear, now faint and low, the airy tinklings come and go, like chimings from the far-off tower, or patterings of an april shower that makes the daisies grow; ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle far down the darkening dingle, the cows come slowly home. and old-time friends, and twilight plays, and starry nights and sunny days, come trooping up the misty ways when the cows come home, with jingle, jangle, jingle, soft tones that sweetly mingle-- the cows are coming home; malvine, and pearl, and florimel, dekamp, red rose, and gretchen schell. queen bess and sylph, and spangled sue, across the fields i hear her "loo-oo" and clang her silver bell; go-ling, go-lang, golingledingle, with faint, far sounds that mingle, the cows come slowly home. and mother-songs of long-gone years, and baby-joys and childish fears, and youthful hopes and youthful tears, when the cows come home. with ringle, rangle, ringle, by twos and threes and single, the cows are coming home. through violet air we see the town, and the summer sun a-sliding down, and the maple in the hazel glade throws down the path a longer shade, and the hills are growing brown; to-ring, to-rang, toringleringle, by threes and fours and single, the cows come slowly home. the same sweet sound of wordless psalm, the same sweet june-day rest and calm, the same sweet smell of buds and balm, when the cows come home. with tinkle, tankle, tinkle, through fern and periwinkle, the cows are coming home. a-loitering in the checkered stream, where the sun-rays glance and gleam, clarine, peach-bloom and phebe phillis stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies, in a drowsy dream; to-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle, o'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, the cows come slowly home. and up through memory's deep ravine come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, and the crescent of the silver queen, when the cows come home. with klingle, klangle, klingle, with loo-oo, and moo-oo and jingle, the cows are coming home. and over there on merlin hill sounds the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will, and the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, and over the poplars venus shines, and over the silent mill. ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, with ting-a-ling and jingle, the cows come slowly home. let down the bars; let in the train of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain; for dear old times come back again, when the cows come home. _agnes e. mitchell._ custer's last charge dead! is it possible? he, the bold rider, custer, our hero, the first in the fight, charming the bullets of yore to fly wider, shunning our battle-king's ringlets of light! dead! our young chieftain, and dead all forsaken! no one to tell us the way of his fall! slain in the desert, and never to waken, never, not even to victory's call! comrades, he's gone! but ye need not be grieving; no, may my death be like his when i die! no regrets wasted on words i am leaving, falling with brave men, and face to the sky. death's but a journey, the greatest must take it: fame is eternal, and better than all; gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it, glory can hallow the fragments that fall. proud for his fame that last day that he met them! all the night long he had been on their track, scorning their traps and the men that had set them, wild for a charge that should never give back. there, on the hilltop he halted and saw them-- lodges all loosened and ready to fly; hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them, told of his coming before he was nigh. all the wide valley was full of their forces, gathered to cover the lodges' retreat,-- warriors running in haste to their horses, thousands of enemies close to his feet! down in the valleys the ages had hollowed, there lay the sitting bull's camp for a prey! numbers! what recked he? what recked those who followed? men who had fought ten to one ere that day? out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred, into the battle-line steady and full; then down the hillside exultingly thundered into the hordes of the old sitting bull! wild ogalallah, arapahoe, cheyenne, wild horse's braves, and the rest of their crew, shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion. then closed around the great hell of wild sioux. right to their center he charged, and then, facing-- hark to those yells and around them, oh, see! over the hilltops the devils come racing, coming as fast as the waves of the sea! red was the circle of fire about them, no hope of victory, no ray of light, shot through that terrible black cloud about them, brooding in death over custer's last fight. then did he blench? did he die like a craven, begging those torturing fiends for his life? was there a soldier who carried the seven flinched like a coward or fled from the strife? no, by the blood of our custer, no quailing! there in the midst of the devils they close, hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing, fighting like tigers, all bayed amid foes! thicker and thicker the bullets came singing; down go the horses and riders and all; swiftly the warriors round them were ringing, circling like buzzards awaiting their fall. see the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie, savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane; quivering lances with pennons so airy; war-painted warriors charging amain. backward again and again they were driven, shrinking to close with the lost little band; never a cap that had worn the bright seven bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand. closer and closer the death-circle growing, even the leader's voice, clarion clear, rang out his words of encouragement glowing, "we can but die once, boys, but sell your lives dear!" dearly they sold them, like berserkers raging, facing the death that encircled them round; death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging, marking their tracks by their dead on the ground. comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,-- custer's last charge on the old sitting bull; and ages shall swear that the cup of his glory needed but that death to render it full. _frederick whitttaker._ a boy and his stomach what's the matter, stummick? ain't i always been your friend? ain't i always been a pardner to you? all my pennies don't i spend in getting nice things for you? don't i give you lots of cake? say, stummick, what's the matter, you had to go an' ache? why, i loaded you with good things yesterday; i gave you more corn an' chicken than you'd ever had before; i gave you fruit an' candy, apple pie an' chocolate cake, an' last night when i got to bed you had to go an' ache. say, what's the matter with you? ain't you satisfied at all? i gave you all you wanted; you was hard jes' like a ball, an' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin'; yet last night you ached most awful, stummick! that ain't treatin' me jest right. i've been a friend to you, i have! why ain't you a friend o' mine? they gave me castor oil becoz you made me whine. i'm feelin' fine this mornin'; yes it's true; but i tell you, stummick, you better appreciate things i do for you. on the shores of tennessee "move my arm-chair, faithful pompey, in the sunshine bright and strong, for this world is fading, pompey-- massa won't be with you long; and i fain would hear the south wind bring once more the sound to me, of the wavelets softly breaking on the shores of tennessee. "mournful though the ripples murmur as they still the story tell, how no vessels float the banner that i've loved so long and well, i shall listen to their music, dreaming that again i see stars and stripes on sloop and shallop sailing up the tennessee; "and pompey, while old massa's waiting for death's last dispatch to come, if that exiled starry banner should come proudly sailing home, you shall greet it, slave no longer-- voice and hand shall both be free that shout and point to union colors on the waves of tennessee." "massa's berry kind to pompey; but old darkey's happy here, where he's tended corn and cotton for dese many a long-gone year. ober yonder, missis' sleeping-- no one tends her grave like me; mebbe she would miss the flowers she used to love in tennessee. "'pears like, she was watching massa-- if pompey should beside him stay, mebbe she'd remember better how for him she used to pray; telling him that way up yonder white as snow his soul would be, if he served the lord of heaven while he lived in tennessee." silently the tears were rolling down the poor old dusky face, as he stepped behind his master, in his long-accustomed place. then a silence fell around them, as they gazed on rock and tree pictured in the placid waters of the rolling tennessee;-- master, dreaming of the battle where he fought by marion's side, where he bid the haughty tarleton stoop his lordly crest of pride:-- man, remembering how yon sleeper once he held upon his knee. ere she loved the gallant soldier, ralph vervair of tennessee. still the south wind fondly lingers 'mid the veteran's silver hair; still the bondman, close beside him stands behind the old arm-chair. with his dark-hued hand uplifted, shading eyes, he bends to see where the woodland, boldly jutting, turns aside the tennessee. thus he watches cloud-born shadows glide from tree to mountain-crest, softly creeping, aye and ever to the river's yielding breast. ha! above the foliage yonder something flutters wild and free! "massa! massa! hallelujah! the flag's come back to tennessee!" "pompey, hold me on your shoulder, help me stand on foot once more, that i may salute the colors as they pass my cabin door. here's the paper signed that frees you, give a freeman's shout with me-- 'god and union!' be our watchword evermore in tennessee!" then the trembling voice grew fainter, and the limbs refused to stand; one prayer to jesus--and the soldier glided to the better land. when the flag went down the river man and master both were free; while the ring-dove's note was mingled with the rippling tennessee. _ethel lynn beers._ the white-footed deer it was a hundred years ago, when, by the woodland ways, the traveler saw the wild deer drink, or crop the birchen sprays. beneath a hill, whose rocky side o'er-browed a grassy mead, and fenced a cottage from the wind, a deer was wont to feed. she only came when on the cliffs the evening moonlight lay, and no man knew the secret haunts in which she walked by day. white were her feet, her forehead showed a spot of silvery white, that seemed to glimmer like a star in autumn's hazy night. and here, when sang the whippoorwill, she cropped the sprouting leaves, and here her rustling steps were heard on still october eves. but when the broad midsummer moon rose o'er the grassy lawn, beside the silver-footed deer there grazed a spotted fawn. the cottage dame forbade her son to aim the rifle here; "it were a sin," she said, "to harm or fright that friendly deer. "this spot has been my pleasant home ten peaceful years and more; and ever, when the moonlight shines, she feeds before our door, "the red men say that here she walked a thousand moons ago; they never raise the war whoop here, and never twang the bow. "i love to watch her as she feeds, and think that all is well while such a gentle creature haunts the place in which we dwell." the youth obeyed, and sought for game in forests far away, where, deep in silence and in moss, the ancient woodland lay. but once, in autumn's golden time, he ranged the wild in vain, nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, and wandered home again. the crescent moon and crimson eve shone with a mingling light; the deer, upon the grassy mead, was feeding full in sight. he raised the rifle to his eye, and from the cliffs around a sudden echo, shrill and sharp, gave back its deadly sound. away, into the neighboring wood, the startled creature flew, and crimson drops at morning lay amid the glimmering dew. next evening shone the waxing moon as sweetly as before; the deer upon the grassy mead was seen again no more. but ere that crescent moon was old, by night the red men came, and burnt the cottage to the ground, and slew the youth and dame. now woods have overgrown the mead, and hid the cliffs from sight; there shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, and prowls the fox at night. _w.c. bryant._ mount vernon's bells where potomac's stream is flowing virginia's border through, where the white-sailed ships are going sailing to the ocean blue; hushed the sound of mirth and singing, silent every one! while the solemn bells are ringing by the tomb of washington. tolling and knelling, with a sad, sweet sound, o'er the waves the tones are swelling by mount vernon's sacred ground. long ago the warrior slumbered-- our country's father slept; long among the angels numbered they the hero soul have kept. but the children's children love him, and his name revere, so where willows wave above him, sweetly still his knell you hear. sail, oh ships, across the billows, and bear the story far; how he sleeps beneath the willows,-- "first in peace and first in war," tell while sweet adieus are swelling, till you come again, he within the hearts is dwelling, of his loving countrymen. _m.b.c. slade._ gradatim heaven is not reached at a single bound; but we build the ladder by which we rise from the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, and we mount to the summit round by round, i count this thing to be grandly true: that a noble deed is a step toward god, lifting a soul from the common sod to a purer air and a broader view. we rise by things that are under our feet; by what we have mastered of good and gain, by the pride deposed and the passion slain, and the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. we hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, when the morning calls us to life and light; but our hearts grow weary, and ere he night our lives are trailing the sordid dust. we hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, and we think that we mount the air on wings, beyond the recall of sensual things, while our feet still cling to the heavy clay. only in dreams is a ladder thrown from the weary earth to the sapphire walls; but the dreams depart, and the vision falls, and the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone. heaven is not reached at a single bound; but we build the ladder by which we rise from the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, and we mount to the summit round by round. _j.g. holland._ mr. finney's turnip mr. finney had a turnip and it grew behind the barn; it grew there, and it grew there, and the turnip did no harm, it grew and it grew, till it could get no taller; mr. finney pulled it up and put it in his cellar. it lay there and it lay there, till it began to rot; his daughter sallie took it up, and put it in the pot. she boiled it, and she boiled it, as long as she was able; his daughter peggy fished it out. and put it on the table. mr. finney and his wife. they sat down to sup, and they ate, and they ate, until they ate the turnip up. the village blacksmith under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands; the smith, a mighty man is he, with large and sinewy hands; and the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands. his hair is crisp, and black and long, his face is like the tan; his brow is wet with honest sweat, he earns whate'er he can, and looks the whole world in the face, for he owes not any man. week in, week out, from morn till night, you can hear his bellows blow; you can hear him swing his heavy sledge, with measured beat and slow, like a sexton ringing the village bell, when the evening sun is low. and children coming home from school look in at the open door; they love to see the flaming forge, and hear the bellows roar, and catch the burning sparks that fly like chaff from a threshing floor. he goes on sunday to the church, and sits among his boys; he hears the parson pray and preach, he hears his daughter's voice, singing in the village choir, and it makes his heart rejoice. it sounds to him like her mother's voice, singing in paradise! he needs must think of her once more, how in the grave she lies; and with his hard, rough hand he wipes a tear out of his eyes. toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, onward through life he goes; each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose. thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, for the lesson thou hast taught! thus at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be wrought; thus on its sounding anvil shaped each burning deed and thought. _h. w. longfellow._ you and you _to the american private in the great war_ every one of you won the war-- you and you and you-- each one knowing what it was for, and what was his job to do. every one of you won the war, obedient, unwearied, unknown, dung in the trenches, drift on the shore, dust to the world's end blown; every one of you, steady and true, you and you and you-- down in the pit or up in the blue, whether you crawled or sailed or flew, whether your closest comrade knew or you bore the brunt alone-- all of you, all of you, name after name, jones and robinson, smith and brown, you from the piping prairie town, you from the fundy fogs that came, you from the city's roaring blocks, you from the bleak new england rocks with the shingled roof in the apple boughs, you from the brown adobe house-- you from the rockies, you from the coast, you from the burning frontier-post and you from the klondyke's frozen flanks, you from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, you from the cotton and you from the vine, you from the rice and the sugar-brakes, you from the rivers and you from the lakes, you from the creeks and you from the licks and you from the brown bayou-- you and you and you-- you from the pulpit, you from the mine, you from the factories, you from the banks, closer and closer, ranks on ranks, airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, smith and robinson, brown and jones, ruddy faces or bleaching bones, after the turmoil and blood and pain swinging home to the folks again or sleeping alone in the fine french rain-- every one of you won the war. every one of you won the war-- you and you and you-- pressing and pouring forth, more and more, toiling and straining from shore to shore to reach the flaming edge of the dark where man in his millions went up like a spark, you, in your thousands and millions coming, all the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, all the land loud with you, all our hearts proud with you, all our souls bowed with the awe of your coming! where's the arch high enough, lads, to receive you, where's the eye dry enough, dears, to perceive you, when at last and at last in your glory you come, tramping home? every one of you won the war, you and you and you-- you that carry an unscathed head, you that halt with a broken tread, and oh, most of all, you dead, you dead! lift up the gates for these that are last, that are last in the great procession. let the living pour in, take possession, flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, the church and the college and mill, back to the office, the store, the exchange, back to the wife with the babe on her arm, back to the mother that waits on the sill, and the supper that's hot on the range. and now, when the last of them all are by, be the gates lifted up on high to let those others in, those others, their brothers, that softly tread, that come so thick, yet take no ground, that are so many, yet make no sound, our dead, our dead, our dead! o silent and secretly-moving throng, in your fifty thousand strong, coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, and streets are empty, and music stopt, silently coming to hearts that wait dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, and hear your step and fly to your call-- every one of you won the war, but you, you dead, most of all! _edith wharton (copyright by charles scrihner's, sons)._ the first snow-fall the snow had begun in the gloaming, and busily all the night had been heaping field and highway with a silence deep and white. every pine and fir and hemlock wore ermine too dear for an earl, and the poorest twig on the elm tree was ridged inch-deep with pearl. from sheds new-roofed with carrara came chanticleer's muffled crow, the stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, and still fluttered down the snow. i stood and watched by the window the noiseless work of the sky, and the sudden flurries of snow-birds, like brown leaves whirling by. i thought of a mound in sweet auburn where a little headstone stood; how the flakes were folding it gently, as did robins the babes in the wood. up spoke our own little mabel, saying, "father, who makes it snow?" and i told of the good all-father who cares for us here below. again i looked at the snow-fall, and thought of the leaden sky that arched o'er our first great sorrow, when that mound was heaped so high. i remembered the gradual patience that fell from that cloud like snow, flake by flake, healing and hiding the scar of our deep-plunged woe. and again to the child i whispered, "the snow that husheth all, darling, the merciful father alone can make it fall!" then, with eyes that saw not, i kissed her; and she, kissing back, could not know that _my_ kiss was given to her sister, folded close under deepening snow. _james russell lowell._ the concord hymn _sung at the completion of the concord monument, april , _. by the rude bridge that arched the flood, their flag to april's breeze unfurled, here once the embattled farmers stood, and fired the shot heard round the world. the foe long since in silence slept; alike the conqueror silent sleeps; and time the ruined bridge has swept down the dark stream which seaward creeps. on this green bank, by this soft stream, we set to-day a votive stone, that memory may their deed redeem, when, like our sires, our sons are gone. spirit, that made these heroes dare to die, to leave their children free, bid time and nature gently spare the shaft we raise to them and thee. _ralph waldo emerson._ casey at the bat it looked extremely rocky for the mudville nine that day; the score stood two to four with but an inning left to play; so, when cooney died at second, and burrows did the same, a pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. a straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, with that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, for they thought: "if only casey could get a whack at that," they'd put up even money now, with casey at the bat. but flynn preceded casey, and likewise so did blake, and the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake; so on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat. for there seemed but little chance of casey's getting to the bat, but flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, and the much-despised blakey "tore the cover off the ball"; and when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, there was blakey safe at second, and flynn a-huggin' third. then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, it rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; it struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; for casey, mighty casey, was advancing to the bat. there was ease in casey's manner as he stepped into his place, there was pride in casey's bearing, and a smile on casey's face. and when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, no stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas casey at the bat. ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; then while the new york pitcher ground the ball into his hip, defiance gleamed in casey's eye, a sneer curled casey's lip. and now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, and casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- "that ain't my style," said casey. "strike one," the umpire said. from the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, like the beating of great storm waves on a stern and distant shore. "kill him! kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand. and it's likely they'd have killed him had not casey raised a hand. with a smile of christian charity great casey's visage shone; he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; he signaled to sir timothy, once more the spheroid flew; but casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "strike two." "fraud," cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "fraud!" but one scornful look from casey and the audience was awed. they saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, and they knew that casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. the sneer is gone from casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; he pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; and now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, and now the air is shattered by the force of casey's blow. oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: but there is no joy in mudville--mighty casey has struck out. _phineas thayer._ casey's revenge _(being a reply to "casey at the bat.")_ there were saddened hearts in mudville for a week or even more; there were muttered oaths and curses--every fan in town was sore. "just think," said one, "how soft it looked with casey at the bat! and then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that." all his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless "shine." they called him "strike-out casey" from the mayor down the line. and as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, while a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty casey's eye. the lane is long, someone has said, that never turns again, and fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men. and casey smiled--his rugged face no longer wore a frown; the pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town. all mudville has assembled; ten thousand fans had come to see the twirler who had put big casey on the bum; and when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild. he doffed his cap in proud disdain--but casey only smiled. "play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began; but in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan who thought that mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun their hopes sank low--the rival team was leading "four to one." the last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score; but when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar. the din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard when the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third. three men on base--nobody out--three runs to tie the game! a triple meant the highest niche in mudville's hall of fame. but here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night when the fourth one "fouled to catcher," and the fifth "flew out to right." a dismal groan in chorus came--a scowl was on each face-- when casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place; his bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate; he gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate. but fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away; there were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day. they hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, "strike him out!" but casey gave no outward sign that he had heard the shout. the pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it spread; another hiss, another groan--"strike one!" the umpire said. zip! like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee-- "strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but casey made no plea. no roasting for the umpire now--his was an easy lot. but here the pitcher twirled again--was that a rifle shot? a whack; a crack; and out through space the leather pellet flew-- a blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue. above the fence in center field, in rapid whirling flight the sphere sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight. ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit; but no one ever found the ball that mighty casey hit! oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, and somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun; and somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall, but mudville hearts are happy now--for casey hit the ball! _james wilson._ rock me to sleep backward, turn backward, o time, in your flight, make me a child again just for tonight! mother, come back from the echoless shore, take me again to your heart as of yore; kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. backward, flow backward, o tide of the years! i am so weary of toil and of tears,-- toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-- take them, and give me my childhood again! i have grown weary of dust and decay,-- weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; weary of sowing for others to reap;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, mother, o mother, my heart calls for you! many a summer the grass has grown green, blossomed and faded, our faces between; yet with strong yearning and passionate pain long i to-night for your presence again. come from the silence so long and so deep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. over my heart, in the days that are flown, no love like mother-love ever has shone; no other worship abides and endures-- faithful, unselfish and patient, like yours; none like a mother can charm away pain from the sick soul and the world-weary brain. slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, fall on your shoulders again as of old; let it drop over my forehead to-night, shading my faint eyes away from the light; for with its sunny-edged shadows once more haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. mother, dear mother, the years have been long since i last listened your lullaby song; sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem womanhood's years have been only a dream. clasped to your breast in a loving embrace, with your light lashes just sweeping my face, never hereafter to wake or to weep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. _elizabeth akers allen._ an answer to "rock me to sleep" my child, ah, my child; thou art weary to-night, thy spirit is sad, and dim is the light; thou wouldst call me back from the echoless shore to the trials of life, to thy heart as of yore; thou longest again for my fond loving care, for my kiss on thy cheek, for my hand on thy hair; but angels around thee their loving watch keep, and angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. "backward?" nay, onward, ye swift rolling years! gird on thy armor, keep back thy tears; count not thy trials nor efforts in vain, they'll bring thee the light of thy childhood again. thou shouldst not weary, my child, by the way, but watch for the light of that brighter day; not tired of "sowing for others to reap," for angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. tired, my child, of the "base, the untrue!" i have tasted the cup they have given to you; i've felt the deep sorrow in the living green of a low mossy grave by the silvery stream. but the dear mother i then sought for in vain is an angel presence and with me again; and in the still night, from the silence deep, come the bright angels to rock me to sleep. nearer thee now than in days that are flown, purer the love-light encircling thy home; far more enduring the watch for tonight than ever earth worship away from the light; soon the dark shadows will linger no more. nor come to thy call from the opening door; but know thou, my child, that the angels watch keep, and soon, very soon, they'll rock thee to sleep. they'll sing thee to sleep with a soothing song; and, waking, thou'lt be with a heavenly throng; and thy life, with its toil and its tears and pain, thou wilt then see has not been in vain. thou wilt meet those in bliss whom on earth thou didst love, and whom thou hast taught of the "mansions above." "never hereafter to suffer or weep," the angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. bay billy (_december , _) 'twas the last fight at fredericksburg,-- perhaps the day you reck, our boys, the twenty-second maine, kept early's men in check. just where wade hampton boomed away the fight went neck and neck. all day the weaker wing we held, and held it with a will. five several stubborn times we charged the battery on the hill, and five times beaten back, re-formed, and kept our column still. at last from out the center fight spurred up a general's aide, "that battery must silenced be!" he cried, as past he sped. our colonel simply touched his cap, and then, with measured tread, to lead the crouching line once more, the grand old fellow came. no wounded man but raised his head and strove to gasp his name, and those who could not speak nor stir, "god blessed him" just the same. for he was all the world to us, that hero gray and grim; right well we knew that fearful slope we'd climb with none but him, though while his white head led the way we'd charge hell's portals in. this time we were not half way up when, midst the storm of shell, our leader, with his sword upraised, beneath our bayonets fell, and as we bore him back, the foe set up a joyous yell. our hearts went with him. back we swept, and when the bugle said, "up, charge again!" no man was there but hung his dogged head. "we've no one left to lead us now," the sullen soldiers said. just then before the laggard line the colonel's horse we spied-- bay billy, with his trappings on, his nostrils swelling wide, as though still on his gallant back the master sat astride. right royally he took the place that was of old his wont, and with a neigh that seemed to say, above the battle's brunt, "how can the twenty-second charge if i am not in front?" like statues rooted there we stood, and gazed a little space; above that floating mane we missed the dear familiar face, but we saw bay billy's eye of fire, and it gave us heart of grace. no bugle-call could rouse us all as that brave sight had done. down all the battered line we felt a lightning impulse run. up, up the hill we followed bill,-- and we captured every gun! and when upon the conquered height died out the battle's hum, vainly 'mid living and the dead we sought our leader dumb. it seemed as if a spectre steed to win that day had come. and then the dusk and dew of night fell softly o'er the plain, as though o'er man's dread work of death the angels wept again, and drew night's curtain gently round a thousand beds of pain. all night the surgeons' torches went the ghastly rows between,-- all night with solemn step i paced the torn and bloody green. but who that fought in the big war such dread sights have not seen? at last the morning broke. the lark sang in the merry skies, as if to e'en the sleepers there it said "awake, arise!" though naught but that last trump of all could ope their heavy eyes. and then once more, with banners gay, stretched out the long brigade. trimly upon the furrowed field the troops stood on parade, and bravely 'mid the ranks were closed the gaps the fight had made. not half the twenty-second's men were in their place that morn; and corporal dick, who yester-noon stood six brave fellows on, now touched my elbow in the ranks, for all between were gone. ah! who forgets that weary hour when, as with misty eyes, to call the old familiar roll the solemn sergeant tries,-- one feels that thumping of the heart as no prompt voice replies. and as in faltering tone and slow the last few names were said, across the field some missing horse toiled up with weary tread. it caught the sergeant's eye, and quick bay billy's name he read. yes! there the old bay hero stood, all safe from battle's harms, and ere an order could be heard, or the bugle's quick alarms, down all the front, from end to end, the troops presented arms! not all the shoulder-straps on earth could still our mighty cheer; and ever from that famous day, when rang the roll-call clear, bay billy's name was read, and then the whole line answered, "here!" _frank h. gassaway._ the legend of the organ-builder day by day the organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought; day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought; till at last the work was ended; and no organ voice so grand ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand. ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride, who, in god's sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side, without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, and the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray. he was young, the organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame. all the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, by his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled. so he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set happy day--the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet! but when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride-- forgot his love, forgot his god, and his heart swelled high with pride. "ah!" thought he, "how great a master am i! when the organ plays, how the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise!" up the aisle the gay procession moved. the altar shone afar, with every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star. but he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, for the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there. all was silent. nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone, and the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone. then his lips grew white with anger. surely god was pleased with him, who had built the wondrous organ for his temple vast and dim! whose the fault then? hers--the maiden standing meekly at his side! flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him--his bride. vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; on that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name: for ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame. then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray; thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood; till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, and he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet. ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight! through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; there he met a long procession--mourners following the dead. "now why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye today? why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way? "has some saint gone up to heaven?" "yes," they answered, weeping sore; "for the organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; and because her days were given to the service of god's poor, from his church we mean to bury her. see! yonder is the door." no one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; no one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. "'tis someone she has comforted, who mourns with us," they said, as he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head; bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while. when, oh, hark; the wondrous organ of itself began to play strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day! all the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear; all the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; and ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head, with the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it--dead. they who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side; while the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, and then softly sank to silence--silence kept forevermore. _julia c. r. dorr._ our folks "hi! harry holly! halt; and tell a fellow just a thing or two; you've had a furlough, been to see how all the folks in jersey do. it's months ago since i was there-- i, and a bullet from fair oaks. when you were home, old comrade, say, did you see any of our folks? "you did? shake hands--oh, ain't i glad! for if i do look grim and rough, i've got some feelin'-- people think a soldier's heart is mighty tough; but, harry, when the bullets fly, and hot saltpetre flames and smokes, while whole battalions lie afield, one's apt to think about his folks. "and so you saw them--when? and where? the old man--is he hearty yet? and mother--does she fade at all? or does she seem to pine and fret for me? and sis?--has she grown tall? and did you see her friend--you know-- that annie moss-- (how this pipe chokes!) where did you see her?--tell: me, hal, a lot of news about our folks, "you saw them in the church--you say, it's likely, for they're always there. not sunday? no? a funeral? who? who, harry? how you shake and stare! all well, you say, and all were out. what ails you, hal? is this a hoax? why don't you tell me like a man: what is the matter with our folks?" "i said all well, old comrade, true; i say all well, for he knows best who takes the young ones in his arms, before the sun goes to the west. the axe-man death deals right and left, and flowers fall as well as oaks; and so-- fair annie blooms no more! and that's the matter with your folks. "see, this long curl was kept for you; and this white blossom from her breast; and here--your sister bessie wrote a letter telling all the rest. bear up, old friend." nobody speaks; only the old camp-raven croaks, and soldiers whisper, "boys, be still; there's some bad news from granger's folks." he turns his back--the only foe that ever saw it--on this grief, and, as men will, keeps down the tears kind nature sends to woe's relief. then answers he: "ah, hal, i'll try; but in my throat there's something chokes, because, you see, i've thought so long to count her in among our folks. "i s'pose she must be happy now, but still i will keep thinking, too, i could have kept all trouble off, by being tender, kind and true. but maybe not. she's safe up there, and when the hand deals other strokes, she'll stand by heaven's gate, i know, and wait to welcome in our folks." _ethel lynn beers._ the face upon the floor 'twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which well-nigh filled joe's bar-room on the corner of the square; and as songs and witty stories came through the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. "where did it come from?" someone said. "the wind has blown it in." "what does it want?" another cried. "some whisky, rum or gin?" "here, toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work-- i wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a turk." this badinage the poor wretch took with stoical, good grace; in fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. "come, boys, i know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd-- to be in such good company would make a deacon proud. "give me a drink--that's what i want--i'm out of funds, you know; when i had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. what? you laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou; i once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. "there, thanks; that's braced me nicely; god bless you one and all; next time i pass this good saloon, i'll make another call. _give you a song?_ no, i can't do that, my singing days are past; my voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. "say! give me another whisky, and i'll tell you what i'll do-- i'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, i promise, too. that i was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; but i was, some four or five years back. say, give me another drink. "fill her up, joe, i want to put some life into my frame-- such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame; five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too. well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you. "you've treated me pretty kindly, and i'd like to tell you how i came to be the dirty sot you see before you now. as i told you, once i was a man, with muscle, frame and health, and but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. "i was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good. i worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, for gradually i saw the star of fame before my eyes. "i made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'chase of fame.' it brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. and then i met a woman--now comes the funny part-- with eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart. "why don't you laugh? 'tis funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me; but 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven. "did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the milo venus, too beautiful to live; with eyes that would beat the koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair? if so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair. "i was working on a portrait, one afternoon in may, of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; and madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise, said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. "it didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, my friend had stolen my darling, and i was left alone; and ere a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel i had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. "that's why i took to drink, boys. why, i never saw you smile,-- i thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while. why, what's the mattter, friend? there's a teardrop in your eye, come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babes and women that should cry. "say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, i'll be glad, and i'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score-- you shall see the lovely madeline upon the bar-room floor." another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leaped, and fell across the picture dead. _h. antoine d'arcy._ the calf path one day through the primeval wood, a calf walked home, as good calves should; but made a trail all bent askew, a crooked trail, as all calves do. since then three hundred years have fled, and, i infer, the calf is dead. but still he left behind his trail, and thereby hangs a moral tale. the trail was taken up next day by a lone dog that passed that way, and then the wise bell-wether sheep pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, and drew the flock behind him, too, as good bell-wethers always do. and from that day, o'er hill and glade, through those old woods a path was made. and many men wound in and out, and turned and dodged and bent about, and uttered words of righteous wrath because 'twas such a crooked path: but still they followed--do not laugh-- the first migrations of that calf, and through this winding woodway stalked because he wabbled when he walked. this forest path became a lane, that bent and turned and turned again; this crooked path became a road. where many a poor horse, with his load, toiled on beneath the burning sun, and traveled some three miles in one. and thus a century and a half they trod the footsteps of that calf. the years passed on in swiftness fleet, the road became a village street; and this, before men were aware, a city's crowded thoroughfare. and soon the central street was this of a renowned metropolis. and men two centuries and a half trod in the footsteps of that calf! each day a hundred thousand rout followed the zigzag calf about; and o'er his crooked journey went the traffic of a continent. a hundred thousand men were led by a calf near three centuries dead. they followed still his crooked way and lost one hundred years a day; for thus such reverence is lent to well-established precedent. a moral lesson this might teach were i ordained and called to preach; for men are prone to go it blind, along the calf-paths of the mind, and work away from sun to sun to do what other men have done. they follow in the beaten track, and out and in, and forth and back, and still their devious course pursue, to keep the path that others do. but how the wise wood-gods must laugh, who saw the first primeval calf; ah, many things this tale might teach-- but i am not ordained to preach. _sam walter foss._ the ride of jennie m'neal paul revere was a rider bold-- well has his valorous deed been told; sheridan's ride was a glorious one-- often it has been dwelt upon; but why should men do all the deeds on which the love of a patriot feeds? hearken to me, while i reveal the dashing ride of jennie m'neal. on a spot as pretty as might be found in the dangerous length of the neutral ground, in a cottage, cozy, and all their own, she and her mother lived alone. safe were the two, with their frugal store, from all of the many who passed their door; for jennie's mother was strange to fears, and jennie was large for fifteen years; with vim her eyes were glistening, her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing; and while the friends who knew her well the sweetness of her heart could tell, a gun that hung on the kitchen wall looked solemnly quick to heed her call; and they who were evil-minded knew her nerve was strong and her aim was true. so all kind words and acts did deal to generous, black-eyed jennie m'neal. one night, when the sun had crept to bed, and rain-clouds lingered overhead, and sent their surly drops for proof to drum a tune on the cottage roof, close after a knock at the outer door there entered a dozen dragoons or more. their red coats, stained by the muddy road, that they were british soldiers showed; the captain his hostess bent to greet, saying, "madam, please give us a bit to eat; we will pay you well, and, if may be, this bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; then we must dash ten miles ahead, to catch a rebel colonel abed. he is visiting home, as doth appear; we will make his pleasure cost him dear." and they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, close-watched the while by jennie m'neal. for the gray-haired colonel they hovered near had been her true friend, kind and dear; and oft, in her younger days, had he right proudly perched her upon his knee, and told her stories many a one concerning the french war lately done. and oft together the two friends were, and many the arts he had taught to her; she had hunted by his fatherly side, he had shown her how to fence and ride; and once had said, "the time may be, your skill and courage may stand by me." so sorrow for him she could but feel, brave, grateful-hearted jennie m'neal. with never a thought or a moment more, bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, ran out where the horses were left to feed, unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, and down the hilly and rock-strewn way she urged the fiery horse of gray. around her slender and cloakless form pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; secure and tight a gloveless hand grasped the reins with stern command; and full and black her long hair streamed, whenever the ragged lightning gleamed. and on she rushed for the colonel's weal, brave, lioness-hearted jennie m'neal. hark! from the hills, a moment mute, came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; and a cry from the foremost trooper said, "halt! or your blood be on your head"; she heeded it not, and not in vain she lashed the horse with the bridle-rein. so into the night the gray horse strode; his shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; and the high-born courage that never dies flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes. the pebbles flew from the fearful race: the raindrops grasped at her glowing face. "on, on, brave beast!" with loud appeal, cried eager, resolute jennie m'neal. "halt!" once more came the voice of dread; "halt! or your blood be on your head!" then, no one answering to the calls, sped after her a volley of balls. they passed her in her rapid flight, they screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; but, rushing still o'er the slippery track, she sent no token of answer back, except a silvery laughter-peal, brave, merry-hearted jennie m'neal. so on she rushed, at her own good will, through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill; the gray horse did his duty well, till all at once he stumbled and fell, himself escaping the nets of harm, but flinging the girl with a broken arm. still undismayed by the numbing pain, she clung to the horse's bridle-rein and gently bidding him to stand, petted him with her able hand; then sprung again to the saddle bow, and shouted, "one more trial now!" as if ashamed of the heedless fall, he gathered his strength once more for all, and, galloping down a hillside steep, gained on the troopers at every leap; no more the high-bred steed did reel, but ran his best for jennie m'neal. they were a furlong behind, or more, when the girl burst through the colonel's door, her poor arm helpless hanging with pain, and she all drabbled and drenched with rain, but her cheeks as red as fire-brands are, and her eyes as bright as a blazing star, and shouted, "quick! be quick, i say! they come! they come! away! away!" then, sunk on the rude white floor of deal, poor, brave, exhausted jennie m'neal. the startled colonel sprung, and pressed the wife and children to his breast, and turned away from his fireside bright, and glided into the stormy night; then soon and safely made his way to where the patriot army lay. but first he bent in the dim firelight, and kissed the forehead broad and white, and blessed the girl who had ridden so well to keep him out of a prison-cell. the girl roused up at the martial din, just as the troopers came rushing in, and laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan, saying, "good sirs, your bird has flown. 'tis i who have scared him from his nest; so deal with me now as you think best." but the grand young captain bowed, and said, "never you hold a moment's dread. of womankind i must crown you queen; so brave a girl i have never seen. wear this gold ring as your valor's due; and when peace comes i will come for you." but jennie's face an arch smile wore, as she said, "there's a lad in putnam's corps, who told me the same, long time ago; you two would never agree, i know. i promised my love to be as true as steel," said good, sure-hearted jennie m'neal. _will carleton._ the hand that rules the world they say that man is mighty, he governs land and sea; he wields a mighty scepter o'er lesser powers that be; by a mightier power and stronger, man from his throne is hurled, and the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. blessings on the hand of woman! angels guard its strength and grace, in the palace, cottage, hovel, oh, no matter where the place! would that never storms assailed it, rainbows ever gently curled; for the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. infancy's the tender fountain, power may with beauty flow; mother's first to guide the streamlets, from them souls unresting grow; grow on for the good or evil, sunshine streamed or darkness hurled; for the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. woman, how divine your mission here upon our natal sod! keep, oh, keep the young heart open always to the breath of god! all true trophies of the ages are from mother-love impearled, for the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. blessings on the hand of woman! fathers, sons and daughters cry, and the sacred song is mingled with the worship in the sky-- mingles where no tempest darkens, rainbows evermore are curled; for the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. _william ross wallace._ what i live for i live for those who love me, whose hearts are kind and true, for the heaven that smiles above me, and awaits my spirit, too; for the human ties that bind me, for the task by god assigned me, for the bright hopes left behind me, and the good that i can do. i live to learn their story who've suffered for my sake, to emulate their glory, and to follow in their wake; bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, the noble of all ages, whose deeds crowd history's pages, and time's great volume make. i live to hold communion with all that is divine, to feel there is a union 'twixt nature's heart and mine; to profit by affliction, reap truths from fields of fiction, grow wiser from conviction, and fulfill each grand design. i live to hail that season, by gifted minds foretold, when men shall rule by reason, and not alone by gold; when man to man united, and every wrong thing righted, the whole world shall be lighted as eden was of old. i live for those who love me, for those who know me true, for the heaven that smiles above me, and awaits my spirit, too; for the cause that lacks assistance, for the wrong that needs resistance, for the future in the distance, and the good that i can do. _george linnaeus banks._ my love ship if all the ships i have at sea should come a-sailing home to me, weighed down with gems, and silk and gold, ah! well, the harbor would not hold so many ships as there would be, if all my ships came home from sea. if half my ships came home from sea, and brought their precious freight to me, ah! well, i should have wealth as great as any king that sits in state, so rich the treasure there would be in half my ships now out at sea. if but one ship i have at sea should come a-sailing home to me, ah! well, the storm clouds then might frown, for, if the others all went down, still rich and glad and proud i'd be if that one ship came home to me. if that one ship went down at sea and all the others came to me weighed down with gems and wealth untold, with honor, riches, glory, gold, the poorest soul on earth i'd be if that one ship came not to me. o skies, be calm; o winds, blow free! blow all my ships safe home to me, but if thou sendest some awrack, to nevermore come sailing back, send any, all that skim the sea, but send my love ship home to me. _ella wheeler wilcox._ the man with the hoe _(written after seeing millet's famous painting.)_ god made man in his own image; in the image of god made he him.--genesis. bowed by the weight of centuries he leans upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, the emptiness of ages in his face, and on his back the burden of the world. who made him dead to rapture and despair, a thing that grieves not and that never hopes, stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? whose breath blew out the light within this brain? is this the thing, the lord god made and gave to have dominion over sea and land; to trace the stars and search the heavens for power; to feel the passion of eternity? is this the dream he dreamed who shaped the suns and pillared the blue firmament with light? down all the stretch of hell to its last gulf there is no shape more terrible than this-- more tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-- more filled with signs and portents for the soul-- more fraught with menace to the universe. what gulfs between him and the seraphim! slave of the wheel of labor, what to him are plato and the swing of pleiades? what the long reaches of the peaks of song, the rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? through this dread shape the suffering ages look; time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; through this dread shape humanity betrayed, plundered, profaned and disinherited, cries protest to the judges of the world, a protest that is also prophecy. o masters, lords and rulers in all lands, is this the handiwork you give to god, this monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? how will you ever straighten up this shape; touch it again with immortality; give back the upward looking and the light, rebuild it in the music and the dream; make right the immemorial infamies, perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? o masters, lords and rulers in all lands, how will the future reckon with this man? how answer his brute question in that hour when whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? how will it be with kingdom and with kings-- with those who shaped him to the thing he is-- when this dumb terror shall reply to god, after the silence of the centuries? _edwin markham._ poorhouse nan did you say you wished to see me, sir? step in; 'tis a cheerless place, but you're heartily welcome all the same; to be poor is no disgrace. have i been here long? oh, yes, sir! 'tis thirty winters gone since poor jim took to crooked ways and left me all alone! jim was my son, and a likelier lad you'd never wish to see, till evil counsels won his heart and led him away from me. 'tis the old, sad, pitiful story, sir, of the devil's winding stair, and men go down--and down--and down--to blackness and despair; tossing about like wrecks at sea, with helm and anchor lost, on and on, through the surging waves, nor caring to count the cost; i doubt sometimes if the savior sees, he seems so far away, how the souls he loved and died for, are drifting--drifting astray! indeed,'tis little wonder, sir, if woman shrinks and cries when the life-blood on rum's altar spilled is calling to the skies; small wonder if her own heart feels each sacrificial blow, for isn't each life a part of hers? each pain her hurt and woe? read all the records of crime and shame--'tis bitterly, sadly true; where manliness and honor die, there some woman's heart dies, too. i often think, when i hear folks talk so prettily and so fine of "alcohol as needful food"; of the "moderate use of wine"; how "the world couldn't do without it, there was clearly no other way but for a man to drink, or let it alone, as his own strong will might say"; that "to use it, but not abuse it, was the proper thing to do," how i wish they'd let old poorhouse nan preach her little sermon, too! i would give them scenes in a woman's life that would make their pulses stir, for i was a drunkard's child and wife--aye, a drunkard's mother, sir! i would tell of childish terrors, of childish tears and pain. of cruel blows from a father's hand when rum had crazed his brain; he always said he could drink his fill, or let it alone as well; perhaps he might, he was killed one night in a brawl--in a grog-shop hell! i would tell of years of loveless toil the drunkard's child had passed, with just one gleam of sunshine, too beautiful to last. when i married tom i thought for sure i had nothing more to fear, that life would come all right at last; the world seemed full of cheer. but he took to moderate drinking--he allowed 'twas a harmless thing, so the arrow sped, and my bird of hope came down with a broken wing. tom was only a moderate drinker; ah, sir, do you bear in mind how the plodding tortoise in the race left the leaping hare behind? 'twas because he held right on and on, steady and true, if slow, and that's the way, i'm thinking, that the moderate drinkers go! step over step--day after day--with sleepless, tireless pace, while the toper sometimes looks behind and tarries in the race! ah, heavily in the well-worn path poor tom walked day by day, for my heart-strings clung about his feet and tangled up the way; the days were dark, and friends were gone, and life dragged on full slow, and children came, like reapers, and to a harvest of want and woe! two of them died, and i was glad when they lay before me dead; i had grown so weary of their cries--their pitiful cries for bread. there came a time when my heart was stone; i could neither hope nor pray; poor tom lay out in the potter's field, and my boy had gone astray; my boy who'd been my idol, while, like hound athirst for blood, between my breaking heart and him the liquor seller stood, and lured him on with pleasant words, his pleasures and his wine; ah, god have pity on other hearts as bruised and hurt as mine. there were whispers of evil-doing, of dishonor, and of shame, that i cannot bear to think of now, and would not dare to name! there was hiding away from the light of day, there was creeping about at night, a hurried word of parting--then a criminal's stealthy flight! his lips were white with remorse and fright when he gave me a good-by kiss; and i've never seen my poor lost boy from that black day to this. ah, none but a mother can tell you, sir, how a mother's heart will ache, with the sorrow that comes of a sinning child, with grief for a lost one's sake, when she knows the feet she trained to walk have gone so far astray, and the lips grown bold with curses that she taught to sing and pray; a child may fear--a wife may weep, but of all sad things, none other seems half so sorrowful to me as being a drunkard's mother. they tell me that down in the vilest dens of the city's crime and murk, there are men with the hearts of angels, doing the angels' work; that they win back the lost and the straying, that they help the weak to stand, by the wonderful power of loving words--and the help of god's right hand! and often and often, the dear lord knows, i've knelt and prayed to him, that somewhere, somehow, 'twould happen that they'd find and save my jim! you'll say 'tis a poor old woman's whim; but when i prayed last night, right over yon eastern window there shone a wonderful light! (leastways it looked that way to me) and out of the light there fell the softest voice i had ever heard: it rung like a silver bell; and these were the words, "the prodigal turns, so tired by want and sin, he seeks his father's open door--he weeps--and enters in." why, sir, you're crying as hard as i; what--is it really done? have the loving voice and the helping hand brought back my wandering son? did you kiss me and call me "mother"--and hold me to your breast, or is it one of the taunting dreams that come to mock my rest? no--no! thank god, 'tis a dream come true! i can die, for he's saved my boy! and the poor old heart that had lived on grief was broken at last by joy! _lucy m. blinn._ why should the spirit of mortal be proud! oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud! like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud, a flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, he passes from life to his rest in the grave. the leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, be scattered around, and together be laid; and the young and the old, and the low and the high shall moulder to dust, and together shall die. the child whom a mother attended and loved, the mother that infant's affection who proved, the husband that mother and infant who blessed, each--all are away to their dwelling of rest. the maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye shone beauty and pleasure--her triumphs are by; and the memory of those who loved her and praised are alike from the minds of the living erased. the hand of the king who the scepter hath borne, the brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn, the eye of the sage and the heart of the brave are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. the peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, the herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, the beggar who wandered in search of his bread have faded away like the grass that we tread. the saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, the sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, the wise and the foolish, the guilty and just have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. so the multitude goes--like the flower and the weed that wither away to let others succeed; so the multitude comes--even those we behold, to repeat every tale that has often been told. for we are the same things that our fathers have been, we see the same sights that our fathers have seen; we drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, and we run the same course that our fathers have run. the thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, from the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink, to the life we are clinging to, they too would cling, but it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. they loved--but their story we cannot enfold, they scorned--but the heart of the haughty is cold, they grieved--but no wail from their slumbers may come, they joy'd--but the voice of their gladness--is dumb. they died, ay, they died! and we things that are now, who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, who make in their dwellings a transient abode meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, are mingled together in sunshine and rain; and the smile, and the tear, and the song and the dirge still follow each other like surge upon surge. 'tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath from the blossoms of health to the paleness of death; from the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-- oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud! _william knox._ how he saved st. michael's 'twas long ago--ere ever the signal gun that blazed before fort sumter had wakened the north as one; long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their heart's desire. on roofs and glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down, the mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown, and, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, they saw the pride of the city, the spire of st. michael's rise high over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball that hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; first glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, and last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. the gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; the children prayed at their bedsides as they were wont each night; the noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, and in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. but another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, for a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and smoke, while the frantic bells went clashing clamorous, stroke on stroke. by the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, with the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread; while the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and cap-stone high, and painted their glaring banners against an inky sky. from the death that raged behind them, and the crush of ruin loud, to the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, with its heavenward pointing finger the church of st. michael's stood. but e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, a cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, on whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand, aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand, "will it fade?" the whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips; far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships. a baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown. "uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, for the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand!" so cried the mayor of charleston, that all the people heard, but they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word, who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky-- clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height, or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight? but see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands, and firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him, he stands! now once, and once only, they cheer him--a single tempestuous breath, and there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death. slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire: he stops! will he fall? lo! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track, and, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and black! once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air; at the church door mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair, and the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand-- the unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so grand. but why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze? and what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze? he stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life to save, and the face of the unknown hero was the sable face of a slave! with folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, not loud, and his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd. "ye may keep your gold, i scorn it! but answer me, ye who can, if the deed i have done before you be not the deed of a _man?_" he stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men there were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a pen, and the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, and the slave who saved st. michael's went out from its door a man. _mary a.p. stansbury._ bingen on the rhine a soldier of the legion lay dying in algiers, there was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; but a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, and bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. the dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, and he said, "i never more shall see my own, my native land; take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, for i was born at bingen--at bingen on the rhine! "tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around to hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, that we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. and 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, the death-wound on their gallant breasts the last of many scars: but some were young--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; and one had come from bingen--fair bingen on the rhine! "tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, and i was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: for my father was a soldier, and even as a child my heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; and when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, i let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, and with boyish love i hung it where the bright light used to shine, on the cottage-wall at bingen--calm bingen on the rhine! "tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, when the troops are marching home again with glad and gallant tread; but to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, for her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. and if a comrade seek her love, i ask her in my name to listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; and to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), for the honor of old bingen--dear bingen on the rhine! "there's another--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, you'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; too innocent for coquetry--too fond for idle scorning-- oh, friend! i fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen my body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), i dreamed i stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine on the vine-clad hills of bingen--fair bingen on the rhine! "i saw the blue rhine sweep along--i heard, or seemed to hear. the german songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; and down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, the echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; and her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, and her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine: but we'll meet no more at bingen--loved bingen on the rhine!" his voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- his eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak; his comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- the soldier of the legion, in a foreign land--was dead! and the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down on the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine as it shone on distant bingen--fair bingen on the rhine! _caroline norton._ college oil cans on a board of bright mosaic wrought in many a quaint design, gleam a brace of silver goblets wreathed with flowers and filled with wine. round the board a group is seated; here and there are threads of white which their dark locks lately welcomed; but they're only boys tonight. some whose words have thrilled the senate, some who win the critic's praise-- all are "chums" to-night, with voices redolent of college days. "boys," said one, "do you remember that old joke--about the wine-- how we used to fill our oil cans and repair to 'no. '? but at last the old professor--never long was he outdone-- opened up our shining oil cans and demolished all our fun!" in the laugh that rings so gayly through the richly curtained room, join they all, save one; why is it? does he see the waxen bloom tremble in its vase of silver? does he see the ruddy wine shiver in its crystal goblet, or do those grave eyes divine something sadder yet? he pauses till their mirth has died away, then in measured tones speaks gravely: "boys, a story, if i may, i will tell you, though it may not merit worthily your praise, it is bitter fruitage ripened from our pranks of college days," eagerly they claim the story, for they know the ll.d. with his flexible voice would garnish any tale, whate'er it be. "just a year ago to-night, boys, i was in my room alone, at the san francisco l---- house, when i heard a plaintive moan sounding from the room adjoining. hoping to give some relief to the suffering one, i entered; but it thrilled my heart with grief just to see that wreck of manhood--bloated face, disheveled hair-- wildly tossing, ever moaning, while his thin hands beat the air. broken prayers, vile oaths and curses filled the air as i drew near; then in faint and piteous accents, these words i could plainly hear: 'give me one more chance--one only--let me see my little belle-- then i'll follow where they lead me, be it to the depths of hell!' when he saw me he grew calmer, started strangely--looked me o'er-- oh, the glory of expression! i had seen those eyes before! yes, i knew him; it was horace, he who won the college prize; naught remained of his proud beauty but the splendor of his eyes. he whom we were all so proud of, lay there in the fading light. if my years should number fourscore, i shall ne'er forget that sight. and he knew me--called me 'albert,' ere a single word i'd said-- we were comrades in the old days; i sat down beside the bed. "horace seemed to grow more quiet, but he would not go to sleep; he kept talking of our boyhood while my hand he still would keep in his own so white and wasted, and with burning eyes would gaze on my face, still talking feebly of the dear old college days. 'ah,' he said, 'life held such promise; but, alas! i am to-day but a poor degraded outcast--hopes, ambition swept away, and it dates back to those oil cans that we filled in greatest glee. little did i think in those days what the harvest now would be!' "for a moment he was silent, then a cry whose anguish yet wrings my heart, burst from his white lips, though his teeth were tightly set, and with sudden strength he started--sprang from my detaining arm, shrieking wildly, 'curse the demons; do they think to do me harm? back! i say, ye forked-tongued serpents reeking with the filth of hell! don't ye see i have her with me--my poor sainted little belle?' "when i'd soothed him into quiet, with a trembling arm he drew my head down, 'oh, al,' he whispered, 'such remorse you never knew.' and again i tried to soothe him, but my eyes o'erbrimmed with tears; his were dry and clear, as brilliant as they were in college years. all the flush had left his features, he lay white as marble now; tenderly i smoothed his pillow, wiped the moisture from his brow. though i begged him to be quiet, he would talk of those old days, brokenly at times, but always of 'the boys' with loving praise. "once i asked him of lorena--the sweet girl whom he had wed-- you remember rena barstow. when i asked if she were dead, 'no,' he said, his poor voice faltering, 'she is far beyond the rhine, but i wish, to god, it were so, and i still might call her mine. she's divorced--she's mine no longer,' here his voice grew weak and hoarse 'but although i am a drunkard, _i have one they can't divorce_. i've a little girl in heaven, playing round the savior's knee, always patient and so faithful that at last she died for me. "'i had drank so much, so often, that my brain was going wild; every one had lost hope in me but my faithful little child. she would say, "now stop, dear papa, for i know you can stop _now_." i would promise, kiss my darling, and the next day break my vow. so it went until one christmas, dark and stormy, cold and drear; out i started, just as usual, for the cursed rum shop near, and my darling followed after, in the storm of rain and sleet, with no covering wrapped about her, naught but slippers on her feet; no one knew it, no one missed her, till there came with solemn tread, stern-faced men unto our dwelling, bringing back our darling--_dead!_ they had found her cold and lifeless, like, they said, an angel fair, leaning 'gainst the grog shop window--oh, she thought that _i was there!_ then he raised his arms toward heaven, called aloud unto the dead, for his mind again was wandering: 'belle, my precious belle!' he said, 'papa's treasure--papa's darling! oh, my baby--did--you--come all the way--alone--my darling--just to lead--poor--papa--home?' and he surely had an answer, for a silence o'er him fell. and i sat alone and lonely--death had come with little belle." silence in that princely parlor--head of every guest is bowed. they still see the red wine sparkle, but 'tis through a misty cloud. said the host at last, arising, "i have scorned the pledge to sign, laughed at temperance all my life long. never more shall drop of wine touch my lips. the fruit _was_ bitter, boys; 'twas i proposed it first-- that foul joke from which poor horace ever bore a life accurst! let us pledge ourselves to-night, boys, never more by word, or deed, in our own fair homes, or elsewhere, help to plant the poison seed." silence once again, but only for a moment's space, and then, in one voice they all responded with a low and firm "amen." _will victor mcguire._ god's judgment on a wicked bishop the summer and autumn had been so wet, that in winter the corn was growing yet. 'twas a piteous sight to see all round the grain lie rotting on the ground. every day the starving poor crowded round bishop hatto's door, for he had a plentiful last year's store, and all the neighborhood could tell his granaries were furnish'd well. at last bishop hatto appointed a day to quiet the poor without delay; he bade them to his great barn repair, and they should have food for the winter there. rejoiced the tidings good to hear, the poor folk flock'd from far and near; the great barn was full as it could hold of women and children, and young and old. then, when he saw it could hold no more, bishop hatto he made fast the door, and while for mercy on christ they call, he set fire to the barn and burnt them all. "i' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he, "and the country is greatly obliged to me for ridding it, in these times forlorn, of rats that only consume the corn." so then to his palace returned he, and he sat down to supper merrily, and he slept that night like an innocent man; but bishop hatto never slept again. in the morning, as he enter'd the hall where his picture hung against the wall, a sweat like death all over him came, for the rats had eaten it out of the frame. as he look'd, there came a man from his farm, he had a countenance white with alarm: "my lord, i open'd your granaries this morn, and the rats had eaten all your corn." another came running presently, and he was pale as pale could be. "fly, my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he, "ten thousand rats are coming this way, the lord forgive you for yesterday!" "i'll go to my tower on the rhine," replied he; "'tis the safest place in germany; the walls are high, and the shores are steep and the stream is strong, and the water deep." bishop hatto fearfully hasten'd away, and he cross'd the rhine without delay, and reach'd his tower and barr'd with care all the windows, doors, and loopholes there. he laid him down and closed his eyes, but soon a scream made him arise; he started, and saw two eyes of flame on his pillow, from whence the screaming came. he listen'd and look'd,--it was only the cat, but the bishop he grew more fearful for that, for she sat screaming, mad with fear at the army of rats that were drawing near. for they have swum over the river so deep, and they have climb'd the shores so steep, and up the tower their way is bent, to do the work for which they were sent. they are not to be told by the dozen or score; by thousands they come, and by myriads and more; such numbers had never been heard of before, such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. | down on his knees the bishop fell, and faster and faster his beads did he tell, as louder and louder, drawing near, the gnawing of their teeth he could hear. and in at the windows and in at the door, and through the walls helter-skelter they pour; and down from the ceiling and up through the floor, from the right and the left, from behind and before, from within and without, from above and below,-- and all at once to the bishop they go. they have whetted their teeth against the stones, and now they pick the bishop's bones; they gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, for they were sent to do judgment on him! _robert southey._ the last hymn the sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, the uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, and they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west, and then hastened to their dwellings for god's blessed boon of rest. bat they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there; a fierce spirit moved above them--the wild spirit of the air-- and it lashed and shook and tore them till they thundered, groaned and boomed, and, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed. very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of wales, lest the dawn of coming morrow should be telling awful tales, when the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore bits of wreck and swollen victims as it had done heretofore. with the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes, as she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. oh, it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, for no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea! then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach. oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach! helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread, and the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock-shore sped. "she's parted in the middle! oh, the half of her goes down!" "god have mercy! is his heaven far to seek for those who drown?" lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be. nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave, and the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save. "could we send him a short message? here's a trumpet. shout away!" 'twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. any memory of his sermon? firstly? secondly? ah, no! there was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe. so he shouted through the trumpet, "look to jesus! can you hear?" and "aye, aye, sir," rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear. then they listened,--"he is singing, 'jesus, lover of my soul.'" and the winds brought back the echo, "while the nearer waters roll." strange, indeed, it was to hear him,--"till the storm of life is past," singing bravely o'er the waters, "oh, receive my soul at last!" he could have no other refuge,--"hangs my helpless soul on thee." "leave, ah! leave me not"--the singer dropped at last into the sea. and the watchers, looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim, said, "he passed to be with jesus in the singing of that hymn." _marianne faringham._ a fence or an ambulance 'twas a dangerous cliff, as they freely confessed, though to walk near its crest was so pleasant; but over its terrible edge there had slipped a duke and full many a peasant. so the people said something would have to be done, but their projects did not at all tally; some said, "put a fence around the edge of the cliff," some, "an ambulance down in the valley." but the cry for the ambulance carried the day, for it spread through the neighboring city; a fence may be useful or not, it is true, but each heart became brimful of pity for those who slipped over that dangerous cliff; and the dwellers in highway and alley gave pounds or gave pence, not to put up a fence, but an ambulance down in the valley. "for the cliff is all right, if you're careful," they said, "and, if folks even slip and are dropping, it isn't the slipping that hurts them so much, as the shock down below when they're stopping." so day after day, as these mishaps occurred, quick forth would these rescuers sally to pick up the victims who fell off the cliff, with their ambulance down in the valley. then an old sage remarked: "it's a marvel to me that people give far more attention to repairing results than to stopping the cause, when they'd much better aim at prevention. let us stop at its source all this mischief," cried he, "come, neighbors and friends, let us rally, if the cliff we will fence, we might almost dispense with the ambulance down in the valley." "oh, he's a fanatic," the others rejoined, "dispense with the ambulance? never. he'd dispense with all charities, too, if he could; no! no! we'll support them forever. aren't we picking up folks just as fast as they fall? and shall this man dictate to us? shall he? why should people of sense stop to put up a fence, while the ambulance works in the valley?" but a sensible few, who are practical too, will not bear with such nonsense much longer; they believe that prevention is better than cure, and their party will soon be the stronger. encourage them then, with your purse, voice, and pen, and while other philanthropists dally, they will scorn all pretense and put up a stout fence on the cliff that hangs over the valley. better guide well the young than reclaim them when old, for the voice of true wisdom is calling, "to rescue the fallen is good, but 'tis best to prevent other people from falling." better close up the source of temptation and crime, than deliver from dungeon or galley; better put a strong fence 'round the top of the cliff than an ambulance down in the valley." _joseph malins._ the smack in school a district school, not far away, 'mid berkshire hills, one winter's day, was humming with its wonted noise of three-score mingled girls and boys; some few upon their tasks intent, but more on furtive mischief bent. the while the master's downward look was fastened on a copy-book; when suddenly, behind his back, rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! as 'twere a battery of bliss let off in one tremendous kiss! "what's that?" the startled master cries; "that, thir," a little imp replies, "wath william willith, if you pleathe, i thaw him kith thuthanna peathe!" with frown to make a statue thrill, the master thundered, "hither, will!" like wretch o'ertaken in his track with stolen chattels on his back, will hung his head in fear and shame, and to the awful presence came,-- a great, green, bashful simpleton, the butt of all good-natured fun, with smile suppressed, and birch upraised the threatener faltered, "i'm amazed that you, my biggest pupil, should be guilty of an act so rude-- before the whole set school to boot-- what evil genius put you to 't?" "'twas she, herself, sir," sobbed the lad; "i did not mean to be so bad; but when susanna shook her curls, and whispered i was 'fraid of girls, and dursn't kiss a baby's doll, i couldn't stand it, sir, at all, but up and kissed her on the spot! i know--boo-hoo--i ought to not, but, somehow, from her looks--boo-hoo-- i thought she kind o' wished me to!" _william pitt palmer._ a woman's question do you know you have asked for the costliest thing ever made by the hand above-- a woman's heart and a woman's life, and a woman's wonderful love? do you know you have asked for this priceless thing as a child might ask for a toy; demanding what others have died to win, with the reckless dash of a boy? you have written my lesson of duty out, man-like you have questioned me-- now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, until i shall question thee. you require your mutton shall always be hot, your socks and your shirts shall be whole. i require your heart to be true as god's stars, and pure as heaven your soul. you require a cook for your mutton and beef; i require a far better thing-- a seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts-- i look for a man and a king. a king for a beautiful realm called home, and a man that the maker, god, shall look upon as he did the first, and say, "it is very good." i am fair and young, but the rose will fade from my soft, young cheek one day-- will you love then, 'mid the falling leaves, as you did 'mid the bloom of may? is your heart an ocean so strong and deep i may launch my all on its tide? a loving woman finds heaven or hell on the day she is made a bride. i require all things that are grand and true, all things that a man should be; if you give this all, i would stake my life to be all you demand of me. if you cannot do this, a laundress and cook you can hire with little to pay; but a woman's heart and a woman's life are not to be won that way. _lena lathrop._ lasca i want free life and i want fresh air; and i sigh for the canter after the cattle, the crack of the whips like shots in battle, the mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads that wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads; the green beneath and the blue above, and dash and danger, and life and love; and lasca! lasca used to ride on a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side, with blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; i laughed with joy as i looked at her! little knew she of books or creeds; an _ave maria_ sufficed her needs; little she cared, save to be by my side, to ride with me, and ever to ride, from san saba's shore to lavaca's tide. she was as bold as the billows that beat, she was as wild as the breezes that blow; from her little head to her little feet she was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro by each gust of passion; a sapling pine, that grows on the edge of a kansas bluff and wars with the wind when the weather is rough, is like this lasca, this love of mine. she would hunger that i might eat, would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; but once, when i made her jealous for fun, at something i'd whispered, or looked, or done, one sunday, in san antonio, to a glorious girl on the alamo, she drew from her girdle a dear little dagger, and--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger! an inch to the left or an inch to the right, and i shouldn't be maundering here to-night; but she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound her torn _rebosa_ about the wound that i quite forgave her. scratches don't count in texas, down by the rio grande. her eye was brown,--a deep, deep brown; her hair was darker than her eye; and something in her smile and frown, curled crimson lip, and instep high, showed that there ran in each blue vein, mixed with the milder aztec strain, the vigorous vintage of old spain. she was alive in every limb with feeling, to the finger tips; and when the sun is like a fire, and sky one shining, soft sapphire, one does not drink in little sips. the air was heavy, the night was hot, i sat by her side, and forgot--forgot; forgot the herd that were taking their rest; forgot that the air was close opprest; that the texas norther comes sudden and soon, in the dead of night or the blaze of noon; that once let the herd at its breath take fright, that nothing on earth can stop the flight; and woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, who falls in front of their mad stampede! was that thunder? no, by the lord! i sprang to my saddle without a word, one foot on mine, and she clung behind. away on a hot chase down the wind! but never was fox-hunt half so hard, and never was steed so little spared, for we rode for our lives. you shall hear how we fared in texas, down by the rio grande. the mustang flew, and we urged him on; there was one chance left, and you have but one; halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; and if the steers, in their frantic course, don't batter you both to pieces at once, you may thank your star; if not, good-by to the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, and the open air and the open sky, in texas, down by the rio grande. the cattle gained on us, and just as i felt for my old six-shooter, behind in my belt, down came the mustang, and down came we, clinging together, and--what was the rest? a body that spread itself on my breast, two arms that shielded my dizzy head, two lips that hard on my lips were pressed; then came thunder in my ears, as over us surged the sea of steers, blows that beat blood into my eyes, and when i could rise, lasca was dead! i gouged out a grave a few feet deep, and there in earth's arms i laid her to sleep! and there she is lying, and no one knows, and the summer shines and the winter snows; for many a day the flowers have spread a pall of petals over her head; and the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, and the sly coyote trots here and there, and the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides into the rift in a cotton-wood tree; and the buzzard sails on, and comes and is gone, stately and still like a ship at sea; and i wonder why i do not care for the things that are like the things that were. does half my heart lie buried there in texas, down by the rio grande? _frank desprez._ over the hill to the poor-house over the hill to the poor-house i'm trudgin' my weary way-- i, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- i, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years i've told, as many another woman that's only half as old. over the hill to the poor-house--i can't quite make it clear! over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer! many a step i've taken a-toiling to and fro, but this is a sort of journey i never thought to go. what is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? am i lazy or crazy? am i blind or lame? true, i am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; but charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. i am willin' and anxious an' ready any day to work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; for i can earn my victuals, an' more too, i'll be bound, if anybody only is willin' to have me round. once i was young an' han'some--i was upon my soul-- once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; and i can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, for any kind of a reason, that i was in their way. 'tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over-free, but many a house an' home was open then to me; many a han'some offer i had from likely men, and nobody ever hinted that i was a burden then. and when to john i was married, sure he was good and smart, but he and all the neighbors would own i done my part; for life was all before me, an' i was young an' strong, and i worked the best that i could in tryin' to get along. and so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, with now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, an' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. so we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one, worked for 'em summer and winter just as we ought to've done; only, perhaps, we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn-- but every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them. strange how much we think of our blessed little ones! i'd have died for my daughters, i'd have died for my sons; and god he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, i've noticed it sometimes, somehow, fails to work the other way. strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, and when, exceptin' charley, they'd left us there alone; when john he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, the lord of hosts he come one day, an' took him away from me. still i was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- still i worked for charley, for charley was now my all; and charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town. she was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- she was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; but if ever i tried to be friends, i did with her, i know; but she was hard and proud, an' i couldn't make it go. she had an edication, an' that was good for her; but when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; an' i told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), that i never swallowed a grammar, or eat a 'rithmetic. so 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- they was a family of themselves, and i another one; and a very little cottage one family will do, but i never have seen a house that was big enough for two. an' i never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, an' it made me independent, an' then i didn't try; but i was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, when charley turn'd agin me, an' told me i could go. i went to live with susan, but susan's house was small, and she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; and what with her husband's sisters, and what with childr'n three, 'twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. an' then i went to thomas, the oldest son i've got, for thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; but all the childr'n was on me--i couldn't stand their sauce-- and thomas said i needn't think i was comin' there to boss. an' then i wrote rebecca, my girl who lives out west, and to isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles, at best; and one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, and t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. so they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- so they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; but still i've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, till charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. over the hill to the poor-house--my childr'n dear, good-by! many a night i've watched you when only god was nigh; and god'll judge between us; but i will always pray that you shall never suffer the half i do to-day. _will carleton._ the american flag when freedom from her mountain height unfurled her standard to the air, she tore the azure robe of night, and set the stars of glory there. she mingled with its gorgeous dyes the milky baldric of the skies, and striped its pure celestial white with streakings of the morning light; then from his mansion in the sun she called her eagle bearer down, and gave into his mighty hand the symbol of her chosen land. majestic monarch of the cloud, who rear'st aloft thy regal form, to hear the tempest trumpings loud and see the lightning lances driven, when strive the warriors of the storm, and rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, child of the sun! to thee 'tis given to guard the banner of the free, to hover in the sulphur smoke, to ward away the battle stroke, and bid its blendings shine afar, like rainbows on the cloud of war, the harbingers of victory! flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, the sign of hope and triumph high, when speaks the signal trumpet tone, and the long line comes gleaming on. ere yet the lifeblood, warm and wet, has dimmed the glistening bayonet, each soldier eye shall brightly turn to where thy sky-born glories burn, and, as his springing steps advance, catch war and vengeance from the glance. and when the cannon-mouthings loud heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, and gory sabres rise and fall like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, then shall thy meteor glances glow, and cowering foes shall shrink beneath each gallant arm that strikes below that lovely messenger of death. flag of the seas! on ocean wave thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; when death, careering on the gale, sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, and frighted waves rush wildly back before the broadside's reeling rack, each dying wanderer of the sea shall look at once to heaven and thee, and smile to see thy splendors fly in triumph o'er his closing eye. flag of the free heart's hope and home! by angel hands to valor given; thy stars have lit the welkin dome, and all thy hues were born in heaven. forever float that standard sheet! where breathes the foe but falls before us, with freedom's soil beneath our feet, and freedom's banner streaming o'er us? _joseph rodman drake._ golden keys a bunch of golden keys is mine to make each day with gladness shine. "good morning!" that's the golden key that unlocks every door for me. when evening comes, "good night!" i say, and close the door of each glad day. when at the table "if you please" i take from off my bunch of keys. when friends give anything to me, i'll use the little "thank you" key. "excuse me," "beg your pardon," too, when by mistake some harm i do. or if unkindly harm i've given, with "forgive me" key i'll be forgiven. on a golden ring these keys i'll bind, this is its motto: "be ye kind." i'll often use each golden key, and so a happy child i'll be. the four-leaf clover i know a place where the sun is like gold, and the cherry blooms burst like snow; and down underneath is the loveliest nook, where the four-leaf clovers grow. one leaf is for faith, and one is for hope, and one is for love, you know; and god put another one in for luck-- if you search, you will find where they grow. but you must have faith and you must have hope, you must love and be strong, and so if you work, if you wait, you will find the place where the four-leaf clovers grow. _ella higginson._ telling the bees note: a remarkable custom, brought from the old country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of new england. on the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. this ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home. here is the place; right over the hill runs the path i took; you can see the gap in the old wall still. and the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. there is the house, with the gate red-barred, and the poplars tall; and the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, and the white horns tossing above the wall. there are the beehives ranged in the sun; and down by the brink of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. a year has gone, as the tortoise goes, heavy and slow; and the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, and the same brook sings of a year ago. there's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; and the june sun warm tangles his wings of fire in the trees, setting, as then, over fernside farm. i mind me how with a lover's care from my sunday coat i brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, and cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. since we parted, a month had passed,-- to love, a year; down through the beeches i looked at last on the little red gate and the well-sweep near. i can see it all now,--the slantwise rain of light through the leaves, the sundown's blaze on her window-pane, the bloom of her roses under the eaves. just the same as a month before,-- the house and the trees, the barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- nothing changed but the hives of bees. before them, under the garden wall, forward and back, went drearily singing the chore-girl small, draping each hive with a shred of black. trembling, i listened; the summer sun had the chill of snow; for i knew she was telling the bees of one gone on the journey we all must go! then i said to myself, "my mary weeps for the dead to-day: haply her blind grandsire sleeps the fret and pain of his age away." but her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, with his cane to his chin, the old man sat; and the chore-girl still sung to the bees stealing out and in. and the song she was singing ever since in my ear sounds on:-- "stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! mistress mary is dead and gone!" _john g. whittier._ "not understood" not understood, we move along asunder, our paths grow wider as the seasons creep along the years. we marvel and we wonder, why life is life, and then we fall asleep, not understood. not understood, we gather false impressions, and hug them closer as the years go by, till virtues often seem to us transgressions; and thus men rise and fall and live and die, not understood. not understood, poor souls with stunted visions often measure giants by their narrow gauge; the poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age, not understood. not understood, the secret springs of action which lie beneath the surface and the show are disregarded; with self-satisfaction we judge our neighbors, and they often go not understood. not understood, how trifles often change us-- the thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight-- destroy long years of friendship and estrange us, and on our souls there falls a freezing blight-- not understood. not understood, how many hearts are aching for lack of sympathy! ah! day by day how many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking, how many noble spirits pass away not understood. o god! that men would see a little clearer, or judge less hardly when they cannot see! o god! that men would draw a little nearer to one another! they'd be nearer thee, and understood. somebody's mother the woman was old, and ragged, and gray, and bent with the chill of a winter's day; the streets were white with a recent snow, and the woman's feet with age were slow. at the crowded crossing she waited long, jostled aside by the careless throng of human beings who passed her by, unheeding the glance of her anxious eye. down the street with laughter and shout, glad in the freedom of "school let out," come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, hailing the snow piled white and deep; past the woman, so old and gray, hastened the children on their way. none offered a helping hand to her, so weak and timid, afraid to stir, lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet should trample her down in the slippery street. at last came out of the merry troop the gayest boy of all the group; he paused beside her, and whispered low, "i'll help you across, if you wish to go." her aged hand on his strong young arm she placed, and so without hurt or harm, he guided the trembling feet along, proud that his own were young and strong; then back again to his friends he went, his young heart happy and well content. "she's somebody's mother, boys, you know, for all she's aged, and poor, and slow; and some one, some time, may lend a hand to help my mother--you understand?-- if ever she's poor, and old, and gray, and her own dear boy is far away." "somebody's mother" bowed low her head, in her home that 'night, and the prayer she said was: "god, be kind to that noble boy, who is somebody's son, and pride and joy." faint was the voice, and worn and weak, but the father hears when his children speak; angels caught the faltering word, and "somebody's mother's" prayer was heard. to a waterfowl whither, midst falling dew, while glow the heavens with the last steps of day, far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue thy solitary way? vainly the fowler's eye might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, as, darkly seen against the crimson sky, thy figure floats along. seek'st thou the plashy brink of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, or where the rocking billows rise and sink on the chafed ocean-side? there is a power whose care teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- the desert and illimitable air-- lone wandering, but not lost. all day thy wings have fanned, at that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, though the dark night is near. and soon that toil shall end; soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, and scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, and shall not soon depart. he who, from zone to zone, guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, in the long way that i must tread alone, will lead my steps aright. _william cullen bryant._ my mother who fed me from her gentle breast and hushed me in her arms to rest, and on my cheek sweet kisses prest? my mother. when sleep forsook my open eye, who was it sung sweet lullaby and rocked me that i should not cry? my mother. who sat and watched my infant head when sleeping in my cradle bed, and tears of sweet affection shed? my mother. when pain and sickness made me cry, who gazed upon my heavy eye, and wept, for fear that i should die? my mother. who ran to help me when i fell and would some pretty story tell, or kiss the part to make it well? my mother. who taught my infant lips to pray, to love god's holy word and day, and walk in wisdom's pleasant way? my mother. and can i ever cease to be affectionate and kind to thee who wast so very kind to me,-- my mother. oh, no, the thought i cannot bear; and if god please my life to spare i hope i shall reward thy care, my mother. when thou art feeble, old and gray, my healthy arms shall be thy stay, and i will soothe thy pains away, my mother. and when i see thee hang thy head, 'twill be my turn to watch thy bed, and tears of sweet affection shed,-- my mother. the walrus and the carpenter the sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might: he did his very best to make the billows smooth and bright-- and this was odd, because it was the middle of the night. the moon was shining sulkily, because she thought the sun had got no business to be there after the day was done-- "it's very rude of him," she said, "to come and spoil the fun!" the sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry. you could not see a cloud, because no cloud was in the sky: no birds were flying overhead-- there were no birds to fly. the walrus and the carpenter were walking close at hand: they wept like anything to see such quantities of sand: "if this were only cleared away," they said, "it would be grand!" "if seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, do you suppose," the walrus said, "that they could get it clear?" "i doubt it," said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear. "o oysters, come and walk with us!" the walrus did beseech. "a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, along the briny beach: we cannot do with more than four, to give a hand to each." the eldest oyster looked at him, but never a word he said: the eldest oyster winked his eye, and shook his heavy head-- meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster-bed. but four young oysters hurried up, all eager for the treat: their coats were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat-- and this was odd, because, you know, they hadn't any feet. four other oysters followed them, and yet another four; and thick and fast they came at last, and more, and more, and more-- all hopping through the frothy waves, and scrambling to the shore. the walrus and the carpenter walked on a mile or so, and then they rested on a rock conveniently low: and all the little oysters stood and waited in a row. "the time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things: of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- of cabbages and kings-- and why the sea is boiling hot-- and whether pigs have wings." "but wait a bit," the oysters cried, "before we have our chat; for some of us are out of breath, and all of us are fat!" "no hurry!" said the carpenter. they thanked him much for that. "a loaf of bread," the walrus said, "is what we chiefly need: pepper and vinegar besides are very good indeed-- now, if you're ready, oysters dear, we can begin to feed." "but not on us!" the oysters cried, turning a little blue. "after such kindness, that would be a dismal thing to do!" "the night is fine," the walrus said, "do you admire the view? "it was so kind of you to come! and you are very nice!" the carpenter said nothing but "cut us another slice. i wish you were not quite so deaf-- i've had to ask you twice!" "it seems a shame," the walrus said, "to play them such a trick. after we've brought them out so far, and made them trot so quick!" the carpenter said nothing but "the butter's spread too thick!" "i weep for you," the walrus said; "i deeply sympathize." with sobs and tears he sorted out those of the largest size, holding his pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes. "o oysters," said the carpenter, "you've had a pleasant run! shall we be trotting home again?" but answer came there none-- and this was scarcely odd, because they'd eaten every one. _lewis carroll._ the teacher's dream the weary teacher sat alone while twilight gathered on: and not a sound was heard around,-- the boys and girls were gone. the weary teacher sat alone; unnerved and pale was he; bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke in sad soliloquy: "another round, another round of labor thrown away, another chain of toil and pain dragged through a tedious day. "of no avail is constant zeal, love's sacrifice is lost. the hopes of morn, so golden, turn, each evening, into dross. "i squander on a barren field my strength, my life, my all: the seeds i sow will never grow,-- they perish where they fall." he sighed, and low upon his hands his aching brow he pressed; and o'er his frame ere long there came a soothing sense of rest. and then he lifted up his face, but started back aghast,-- the room, by strange and sudden change, assumed proportions vast. it seemed a senate-hall, and one addressed a listening throng; each burning word all bosoms stirred, applause rose loud and long. the 'wildered teacher thought he knew the speaker's voice and look, "and for his name," said he, "the same is in my record book." the stately senate-hall dissolved, a church rose in its place, wherein there stood a man of god, dispensing words of grace. and though he spoke in solemn tone, and though his hair was gray, the teacher's thought was strangely wrought-- "i whipped that boy to-day." the church, a phantom, vanished soon; what saw the teacher then? in classic gloom of alcoved room an author plied his pen. "my idlest lad!" the teacher said, filled with a new surprise; "shall i behold his name enrolled among the great and wise?" the vision of a cottage home the teacher now descried; a mother's face illumed the place her influence sanctified. "a miracle! a miracle! this matron, well i know, was but a wild and careless child, not half an hour ago. "and when she to her children speaks of duty's golden rule, her lips repeat in accents sweet, my words to her at school." the scene was changed again, and lo! the schoolhouse rude and old; upon the wall did darkness fall, the evening air was cold. "a dream!" the sleeper, waking, said, then paced along the floor, and, whistling slow and soft and low, he locked the schoolhouse door. and, walking home, his heart was full of peace and trust and praise; and singing slow and soft and low, said, "after many days." _w.h. venable._ a legend of bregenz girt round with rugged mountains, the fair lake constance lies; in her blue heart reflected shine back the starry skies; and watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow, you think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below! midnight is there: and silence, enthroned in heaven, looks down upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town: for bregenz, that quaint city upon the tyrol shore, has stood above lake constance a thousand years and more. her battlement and towers, from off their rocky steep, have cast their trembling shadow for ages on the deep; mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know, of how the town was saved, one night three hundred years ago. far from her home and kindred, a tyrol maid had fled, to serve in the swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread; and every year that fleeted so silently and fast, seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past. she served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change; her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange; and when she led her cattle to pasture every day, she ceased to look and wonder on which side bregenz lay. she spoke no more of bregenz, with longing and with tears; her tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years; she heeded not the rumors of austrian war and strife; each day she rose, contented, to the calm toils of life. yet when her master's children would clustering round her stand, she sang them ancient ballads of her own native land; and when at morn and evening she knelt before god's throne, the accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. and so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year; when suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near. the golden corn was bending upon its fragile stock, while farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk. the men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the ground; with anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round; all talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away; the very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. one day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town, some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down, yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain, gleam, that looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream. at eve they all assembled, then care and doubt were fled; with jovial laugh they feasted; the board was nobly spread. the elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, and cried, "we drink the downfall of an accursed land! "the night is growing darker,--ere one more day is flown, bregenz, our foeman's stronghold, bregenz shall be our own!" the women shrank in terror, (yet pride, too, had her part,) but one poor tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. before her stood fair bregenz, once more her towers arose; what were the friends beside her? only her country's foes! the faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown, the echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as their own! nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth again,) gone were the green swiss valleys, the pasture, and the plain; before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry, that said, "go forth, save bregenz, and then, if need be, die!" with trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step, she sped; horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed; she loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her hand, she mounted, and she turned his head towards her native land. out--out into the darkness--faster, and still more fast; the smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is past; she looks up; clouds are heavy: why is her steed so slow?-- scarcely the wind beside them can pass them as they go. "faster!" she cries. "oh, faster!" eleven the church-bells chime; "o god," she cries, "help bregenz, and bring me there in time!" but louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine, grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the rhine. shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check? the steed draws back in terror, she leans upon his neck to watch the flowing darkness,--the bank is high and steep; one pause--he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. she strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein; her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. how gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, and see--in the far distance shine out the lights of home! up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again toward the heights of bregenz, that tower above the plain. they reach the gate of bregenz, just as the midnight rings, and out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. bregenz is saved! ere daylight her battlements are manned; defiance greets the army that marches on the land. and if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, bregenz does well to honor the noble tyrol maid. three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill an old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still. and there, when bregenz women sit spinning in the shade, they see in quaint old carving the charger and the maid. and when, to guard old bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower, the warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour: "nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, and then (o crown of fame!) when midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's name! _adelaide a. procter._ better than gold better than grandeur, better than gold, than rank and title a thousand fold, is a healthy body, a mind at ease, and simple pleasures that always please; a heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe and share his joys with a genial glow,-- with sympathies large enough to enfold all men as brothers,--is better than gold. better than gold is a conscience clear, though toiling for bread in an humble sphere: doubly blest with content and health, untried by the lusts or cares of wealth. lowly living and lofty thought adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; for mind and morals, in nature's plan, are the genuine test of a gentleman. better than gold is the sweet repose of the sons of toil when their labors close; better than gold is the poor man's sleep, and the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed, where luxury pillows his aching head; his simple opiate labor deems a shorter road to the land of dreams. better than gold is a thinking mind that in the realm of books can find a treasure surpassing australian ore, and live with the great and good of yore. the sage's lore and the poet's lay, the glories of empires pass'd away, the world's great drama will thus unfold and yield a pleasure better than gold. better than gold is a peaceful home, where all the fireside charities come;-- the shrine of love and the heaven of life, hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. however humble the home may be, or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree, the blessings that never were bought or sold, and center there, are better than gold. _alexander smart._ october's bright blue weather o suns and skies and clouds of june, and flowers of june together, ye cannot rival for one hour october's bright blue weather; when loud the bumblebee makes haste, belated, thriftless vagrant, and goldenrod is dying fast, and lanes with grapes are fragrant; when gentians roll their fringes tight to save them for the morning, and chestnuts fall from satin burrs without a sound of warning; when on the ground red apples lie in piles like jewels shining, and redder still on old stone walls are leaves of woodbine twining; when all the lovely wayside things their white-winged seeds are sowing, and in the fields, still green and fair, late aftermaths are growing; when springs run low, and on the brooks, in idle, golden freighting, bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush of woods, for winter waiting; when comrades seek sweet country haunts, by twos and threes together, and count like misers hour by hour, october's bright blue weather. o suns and skies and flowers of june, count all your boasts together, love loveth best of all the year october's bright blue weather. _helen hunt jackson._ brier-rose said brier-rose's mother to the naughty brier-rose: "what _will_ become of you, my child, the lord almighty knows. you will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch the broom; you never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel or loom." thus grumbled in the morning, and grumbled late at eve, the good-wife as she bustled with pot and tray and sieve; but brier-rose, she laughed and she cocked her dainty head: "why, i shall marry, mother dear," full merrily she said. "_you_ marry; saucy brier-rose! the man, he is not found to marry such a worthless wench, these seven leagues around." but brier-rose, she laughed and she trilled a merry lay: "perhaps he'll come, my mother dear, from eight leagues away." the good-wife with a "humph" and a sigh forsook the battle, and flung her pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle; "o lord, what sin did i commit in youthful days, and wild, that thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child?" up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none her step could hear, and laughing pressed an airy kiss behind the good-wife's ear. and she, as e'er relenting, sighed: "oh, heaven only knows whatever will become of you, my naughty brier-rose!" the sun was high and summer sounds were teeming in the air; the clank of scythes, the cricket's whir, and swelling woodnotes rare, from fields and copse and meadow; and through the open door sweet, fragrant whiffs of new-mown hay the idle breezes bore. then brier-rose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful mien, whose little life has problems among the branches green. she heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong, she heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song. and out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky; her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why, and to a merry tune she hummed, "oh, heaven only knows whatever will become of the naughty brier-rose!" whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied, she shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide; for girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and loom, and not to drink the sunshine and wild flower's sweet perfume. and oft the maidens cried, when the brier-rose went by, "you cannot knit a stocking, and you cannot make a pie." but brier-rose, as was her wont, she cocked her curly head: "but i can sing a pretty song," full merrily she said. and oft the young lads shouted, when they saw the maid at play: "ho, good-for-nothing brier-rose, how do you do to-day?" then she shook her tiny fist; to her cheeks the color flew: "however much you coax me, i'll _never_ dance with you." * * * * * thus flew the years light winged over brier-rose's head, till she was twenty summers old and yet remained unwed. and all the parish wondered: "the lord almighty knows whatever will become of that naughty brier-rose!" and while they wondered came the spring a-dancing o'er the hills; her breath was warmer than of yore, and all the mountain rills, with their tinkling and their rippling and their rushing, filled the air, and the misty sounds of water forth-welling everywhere. and in the valley's depth, like a lusty beast of prey, the river leaped and roared aloud and tossed its mane of spray; then hushed again its voice to a softly plashing croon, as dark it rolled beneath the sun and white beneath the moon. it was a merry sight to see the lumber as it whirled adown the tawny eddies that hissed and seethed and swirled, now shooting through the rapids and, with a reeling swing, into the foam-crests diving like an animated thing. but in the narrows of the rocks, where o'er a steep incline the waters plunged, and wreathed in foam the dark boughs of the pine, the lads kept watch with shout and song, and sent each straggling beam a-spinning down the rapids, lest it should lock the stream. * * * * * and yet--methinks i hear it now--wild voices in the night, a rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a torch's flaring light, and wandering gusts of dampness, and round us far and nigh, a throbbing boom of water like a pulse-beat in the sky. the dawn just pierced the pallid east with spears of gold and red. as we, with boat-hooks in our hands, toward the narrows sped. and terror smote us; for we heard the mighty tree-tops sway, and thunder, as of chariots, and hissing showers of spray. "now, lads," the sheriff shouted, "you are strong, like norway's rock: a hundred crowns i give to him who breaks the lumber lock! for if another hour go by, the angry waters' spoil our homes will be, and fields, and our weary years of toil." we looked each at the other; each hoped his neighbor would brave death and danger for his home, as valiant norsemen should. but at our feet the brawling tide expanded like a lake, and whirling beams came shooting on, and made the firm rock quake. "two hundred crowns!" the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the crowd. "two hundred crowns, my bonny lads!" in anxious tones and loud. but not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred, and nothing save the thunder of the cataract was heard. but as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood, we spied a little curly head emerging from the wood. we heard a little snatch of a merry little song, and saw the dainty brier-rose come dancing through the throng. an angry murmur rose from the people round about. "fling her into the river," we heard the matrons shout; "chase her away, the silly thing; for god himself scarce knows why ever he created that worthless brier-rose." sweet brier-rose, she heard their cries; a little pensive smile across her fair face flitted that might a stone beguile; and then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock: "hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said; "i think i'll break the lock." derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old: "ho! good-for-nothing brier-rose, your tongue was ever bold." and, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung, when, lo! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung! we saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding spray; from beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play. and now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the mist: a crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist. in terror pressed the people to the margin of the hill, a hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still. for, hark! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound, and then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground. the waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky steep. we heard a muffled rumbling and a rolling in the deep; we saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly bore and flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more. ah, little naughty brier-rose, thou couldst not weave nor spin; yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin; for thou hadst courage e'en to die, and by thy death to save a thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave. and yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth, when wayward children spend their days in heedless play and mirth, oft mothers say, half smiling, half sighing, "heaven knows whatever will become of the naughty brier-rose!" _hjalmar hjorth boyesen._ king robert of sicily robert of sicily, brother of pope urbane and valmond, emperor of allemaine, appareled in magnificent attire with retinue of many a knight and squire, on st. john's eve, at vespers, proudly sat and heard the priests chant the magnificat. and as he listened, o'er and o'er again repeated, like a burden or refrain, he caught the words, _"deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles"_; and slowly lifting up his kingly head, he to a learned clerk beside him said, "what mean those words?" the clerk made answer meet, "he has put down the mighty from their seat, and has exalted them of low degree." thereat king robert muttered scornfully, "'tis well that such seditious words are sung only by priests, and in the latin tongue; for unto priests, and people be it known, there is no power can push me from my throne," and leaning back he yawned and fell asleep, lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. when he awoke, it was already night; the church was empty, and there was no light, save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, lighted a little space before some saint. he started from his seat and gazed around, but saw no living thing and heard no sound. he groped towards the door, but it was locked; he cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, and uttered awful threatenings and complaints, and imprecations upon men and saints. the sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls as if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. at length the sexton, hearing from without the tumult of the knocking and the shout, and thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, came with his lantern, asking "who is there?" half choked with rage, king robert fiercely said, "open; 'tis i, the king! art thou afraid?" the frightened sexton, muttering with a curse, "this is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" turned the great key and flung the portal wide; a man rushed by him at a single stride, haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak, who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, but leaped into the blackness of the night, and vanished like a spectre from his sight. robert of sicily, brother of pope urbane and valmond, emperor of allemaine, despoiled of his magnificent attire, bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, with sense of wrong and outrage desperate, strode on and thundered at the palace gate; rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage to right and left each seneschal and page, and hurried up the broad and sounding stair, his white face ghastly in the torches' glare. from hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, until at last he reached the banquet-room, blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. there on the dais sat another king, wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring-- king robert's self in features, form, and height, but all transfigured with angelic light! it was an angel; and his presence there with a divine effulgence filled the air, an exaltation, piercing the disguise, though none the hidden angel recognize. a moment speechless, motionless, amazed, the throneless monarch on the angel gazed, who met his look of anger and surprise with the divine compassion of his eyes! then said, "who art thou, and why com'st thou here?" to which king robert answered with a sneer, "i am the king, and come to claim my own from an impostor, who usurps my throne!" and suddenly, at these audacious words, up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; the angel answered with unruffled brow, "nay, not the king, but the king's jester; thou henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape and for thy counselor shalt lead an ape; thou shalt obey my servants when they call, and wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" deaf to king robert's threats and cries and prayers, they thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; a group of tittering pages ran before, and as they opened wide the folding door, his heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, the boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, and all the vaulted chamber roar and ring with the mock plaudits of "long live the king!" next morning, waking with the day's first beam, he said within himself, "it was a dream!" but the straw rustled as he turned his head, there were the cap and bells beside his bed; around him rose the bare, discolored walls, close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, and in the corner, a revolting shape, shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. it was no dream; the world he loved so much had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! days came and went; and now returned again to sicily the old saturnian reign; under the angel's governance benign the happy island danced with corn and wine, and deep within the mountain's burning breast enceladus, the giant, was at rest. meanwhile king robert yielded to his fate, sullen and silent and disconsolate. dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear, with look bewildered, and a vacant stare, close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, by courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, his only friend the ape, his only food what others left--he still was unsubdued. and when the angel met him on his way, and half in earnest, half in jest, would say, sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel the velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, "art thou the king?" the passion of his woe burst from him in resistless overflow. and lifting high his forehead, he would fling the haughty answer back, "i am, i am the king!" almost three years were ended, when there came ambassadors of great repute and name from valmond, emperor of allemaine, unto king robert, saying that pope urbane by letter summoned them forthwith to come on holy thursday to his city of rome. the angel with great joy received his guests, and gave them presents of embroidered vests, and velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, and rings and jewels of the rarest kind. then he departed with them o'er the sea into the lovely land of italy, whose loveliness was more resplendent made by the mere passing of that cavalcade with plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir of jeweled bridle and of golden spur. and lo! among the menials, in mock state, upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, his cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, the solemn ape demurely perched behind, king robert rode, making huge merriment in all the country towns through which they went. the pope received them with great pomp, and blare of bannered trumpets, on st. peter's square, giving his benediction and embrace, fervent, and full of apostolic grace. while with congratulations and with prayers he entertained the angel unawares, robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd, into their presence rushed, and cried aloud: "i am the king! look and behold in me robert, your brother, king of sicily! this man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, is an impostor in a king's disguise. do you not know me? does no voice within answer my cry, and say we are akin?" the pope in silence, but with troubled mien, gazed at the angel's countenance serene; the emperor, laughing, said, "it is strange sport to keep a mad man for thy fool at court!" and the poor, baffled jester, in disgrace was hustled back among the populace. in solemn state the holy week went by, and easter sunday gleamed upon the sky; the presence of the angel, with its light, before the sun rose, made the city bright, and with new fervor filled the hearts of men, who felt that christ indeed had risen again. even the jester, on his bed of straw, with haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw; he felt within a power unfelt before, and kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, he heard the rustling garments of the lord sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. and now the visit ending, and once more valmond returning to the danube's shore, homeward the angel journeyed, and again the land was made resplendent with his train, flashing along the towns of italy unto salerno, and from thence by sea. and when once more within palermo's wall, and, seated on the throne in his great hall, he heard the angelus from convent towers, as if the better world conversed with ours, he beckoned to king robert to draw nigher, and with a gesture bade the rest retire. and when they were alone, the angel said, "art thou the king?" then, bowing down his head, king robert crossed both hands upon his breast, and meekly answered him, "thou knowest best! my sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, and in some cloister's school of penitence, across those stones that pave the way to heaven walk barefoot till my guilty soul be shriven!" the angel smiled, and from his radiant face a holy light illumined all the place, and through the open window, loud and clear, they heard the monks chant in the chapel near, above the stir and tumult of the street, "he has put down the mighty from their seat, and has exalted them of low degree!" and through the chant a second melody rose like the throbbing of a single string: "i am an angel, and thou art the king!" king robert, who was standing near the throne, lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! but all appareled as in days of old, with ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; and when his courtiers came they found him there, kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. _h.w. longfellow._ the huskers it was late in mild october, and the long autumnal rain had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again; the first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay with the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of may. through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red, at first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped; yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued, on the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood. and all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, he wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light; slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill; and beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still. and shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky, flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why; and schoolgirls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks. from spire and ball looked westerly the patient weathercock, but even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. no sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell, and the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell. the summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry, where june winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye; but still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood. bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere, unfolded by their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, and glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold. there wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last, and like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. and lo! as through the western pines on meadow, stream, and pond, flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, and the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one! as thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, and deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay; from many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came. swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; the growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, and laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er. half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, talking their old times over, the old men sat apart; while, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, at hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played. urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, the master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, to the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung. _john g. whittier._ darius green and his flying machine if ever there lived a yankee lad, wise or otherwise, good or bad, who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump with flapping arms from stake or stump, or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail, take a soaring leap from post or rail, and wonder why he couldn't fly, and flap and flutter and wish and try-- if ever you knew a country dunce who didn't try that as often as once, all i can say is, that's a sign he never would do for a hero of mine. an aspiring genius was d. green: the son of a farmer,--age fourteen; his body was long and lank and lean,-- just right for flying, as will be seen; he had two eyes, each bright as a bean, and a freckled nose that grew between, a little awry,--for i must mention that he had riveted his attention upon his wonderful invention, twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, working his face as he worked the wings, and with every turn of gimlet and screw turning and screwing his mouth round, too, till his nose seemed bent to catch the scent, around some corner, of new-baked pies, and his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes grew puckered into a queer grimace, that made him look very droll in the face, and also very wise. and wise he must have been, to do more than ever a genius did before, excepting daedalus of yore and his son icarus, who wore upon their backs those wings of wax he had read of in the old almanacs. darius was clearly of the opinion that the air is also man's dominion, and that, with paddle or fin or pinion, we soon or late shall navigate the azure as now we sail the sea. the thing looks simple enough to me; and if you doubt it, hear how darius reasoned about it. "birds can fly, an' why can't i? must we give in," says he with a grin, "'t the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter'n we be? jest fold our hands an' see the swaller, an' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? does the leetle, chatterin', sassy wren, no bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? jest show me that! er prove 't the bat has got more brains than's in my hat, an' i'll back down, an' not till then!" he argued further: "ner i can't see what's ta' use o' wings to a bumblebee, fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;-- ain't my business important's his'n is? that icarus was a silly cuss,-- him an' his daddy daedalus. they might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks. i'll make mine o' luther, er suthin' er other." and he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "but i ain't goin' to show my hand to mummies that never can understand the fust idee that's big an' grand. they'd 'a' laft an' made fun o' creation itself afore't was done!" so he kept his secret from all the rest safely buttoned within his vest; and in the loft above the shed himself he locks, with thimble and thread and wax and hammer and buckles and screws, and all such things as geniuses use;-- two bats for patterns, curious fellows! a charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows; an old hoop-skirt or two, as well as some wire and several old umbrellas; a carriage-cover, for tail and wings; a piece of harness; and straps and strings; and a big strong boxs in which he locks these and a hundred other things. his grinning brothers, reuben and burke and nathan and jotham and solomon, lurk around the corner to see him work,-- sitting cross-legged, like a turk, drawing the waxed end through with a jerk, and boring the holes with a comical quirk of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. but vainly they mounted each other's backs, and poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; with wood from the pile and straw from the stacks he plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; and a bucket of water, which one would think he had brought up into the loft to drink when he chanced to be dry, stood always nigh, for darius was sly! and whenever at work he happened to spy at chink or crevice a blinking eye, he let a dipper of water fly. "take that! an' ef ever ye get a peep, guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" and he sings as he locks his big strong box:-- "the weasel's head is small an' trim, an' he is leetle an' long an' slim, an' quick of motion an' nimble of limb, an' ef yeou'll be advised by me keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!" so day after day he stitched and tinkered and hammered away, till at last 'twas done,-- the greatest invention under the sun! "an' now," says darius, "hooray fer some fun!" 'twas the fourth of july, and the weather was dry, and not a cloud was on all the sky, save a few light fleeces, which here and there, half mist, half air, like foam on the ocean went floating by: just as lovely a morning as ever was seen for a nice little trip in a flying-machine. thought cunning darius: "now i sha'n't go along 'ith the fellers to see the show. i'll say i've got sich a terrible cough! an' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off i'll hev full swing for to try the thing, an' practyse a leetle on the wing." "ain't goin' to see the celebration?" says brother nate. "no; botheration! i've got sich a cold--a toothache--i-- my gracious!--feel's though i should fly!" said jotham, "sho! guess ye better go." but darius said, "no! shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though, 'long 'bout noon, ef i git red o' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." for all the while to himself he said:-- "i'll tell ye what! i'll fly a few times around the lot, to see how 't seems, then soon's i've got the hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, i'll astonish the nation, and all creation, by flyin' over the celebration! over their heads i'll sail like an eagle; i'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; i'll dance on the chimbleys; i'll stan' on the steeple; i'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! i'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow; an' i'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 'what world's this 'ere that i've come near?' fer i'll make 'em believe i'm a chap f'm the moon! an' i'll try a race 'ith their ol' bulloon." he crept from his bed; and, seeing the others were gone, he said, i'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head." and away he sped, to open the wonderful box in the shed. his brothers had walked but a little way when jotham to nathan chanced to say, "what on airth is he up to, hey?" "don'o,--the' 's suthin' er other to pay, er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." says burke, "his toothache's all 'n his eye! _he_ never'd miss a fo'th-o'-july, ef he hedn't some machine to try. le's hurry back and hide in the barn, an' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!" "agreed!" through the orchard they creep back, along by the fences, behind the stack, and one by one, through a hole in the wall, in under the dusty barn they crawl, dressed in their sunday garments all; and a very astonishing sight was that, when each in his cobwebbed coat and hat came up through the floor like an ancient rat. and there they hid; and reuben slid the fastenings back, and the door undid. "keep dark!" said he, "while i squint an' see what the' is to see." as knights of old put on their mail,-- from head to foot an iron suit, iron jacket and iron boot, iron breeches, and on the head no hat, but an iron pot instead, and under the chin the bail,-- i believe they called the thing a helm; and the lid they carried they called a shield; and, thus accoutred, they took the field, sallying forth to overwhelm the dragons and pagans that plagued the realm:-- so this modern knight prepared for flight, put on his wings and strapped them tight; jointed and jaunty, strong and light; buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,-- ten feet they measured from tip to tip! and a helm had he, but that he wore, not on his head like those of yore, but more like the helm of a ship. "hush!" reuben said, "he's up in the shed! he's opened the winder,--i see his head! he stretches it out, an' pokes it about, lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, an' nobody near;-- guess he don'o' who's hid in here! he's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! stop laffin', solomon! burke, keep still! he's a climbin' out now--of all the things! what's he got on? i van, it's wings! an' that t'other thing? i vum, it's a tail! an' there he sets like a hawk on a rail! steppin' careful, he travels the length of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, fer to see 'f the' 's anyone passin' by; but the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. _they_ turn up at him a wonderin' eye, to see--the dragon! he's goin' to fly! away he goes! jimmmy! what a jump! flop-flop-an' plump to the ground with a thump! flutt'rin an' flound'rin', all in a lump!" as a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, heels over head, to his proper sphere,-- heels over head, and head over heels, dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-- so fell darius. upon his crown, in the midst of the barnyard, he came down, in a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, broken braces and broken springs, broken tail and broken wings, shooting-stars, and various things! away with a bellow fled the calf, and what was that? did the gosling laugh? 'tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, and he hears the voice of jotham crying, "say, d'rius! how de yeou like flyin'? slowly, ruefully, where he lay, darius just turned and looked that way, as he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. "wall, i like flyin' well enough," he said; "but the' ain't sich a thunder-in' sight o' fun in 't when ye come to light." moral i just have room for the moral here: and this is the moral,--stick to your sphere. or if you insist, as you have the right, on spreading your wings for a loftier flight, the moral is,--take care how you light. _john t. trowbridge._ song of the shirt with fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread-- stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger and dirt, and still with a voice of dolorous pitch she sang the "song of the shirt!" "work! work! work! while the cock is crowing aloof! and work--work--work, till the stars shine through the roof! it's oh! to be a slave along with the barbarous turk, where a woman has never a soul to save, if this is christian work! "work--work--work, till the brain begins to swim; work--work--work, till the eyes are heavy and dim! seam, and gusset, and band, band, and gusset, and seam, till over the buttons i fall asleep, and sew them on in a dream! "o men, with sisters dear! o men, with mothers and wives! it is not linen you're wearing out, but human creatures' lives! stitch--stitch--stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt,-- sewing at once, with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt! "but why do i talk of death,-- that phantom of grisly bone? i hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own,-- it seems so like my own, because of the fasts i keep; o god! that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap! "work! work! work! my labor never flags; and what are its wages? a bed of straw, a crust of bread--and rags, that shattered roof--this naked floor-- a table--a broken chair-- and a wall so blank, my shadow i thank for sometimes falling there! "work--work--work! from weary chime to chime! work--work--work as prisoners work for crime! band, and gusset, and seam, seam, and gusset, and band,-- till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, as well as the weary hand. "work--work--work! in the dull december light! and work--work--work! when the weather is warm, and bright! while underneath the eaves the brooding swallows cling, as if to show me their sunny backs, and twit me with the spring. "oh, but to breathe the breath of the cowslip and primrose sweet,-- with the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet! for only one short hour to feel as i used to feel, before i knew the woes of want and the walk that costs a meal! "oh, but for one short hour,-- a respite, however brief! no blessed leisure for love or hope, but only time for grief! a little weeping would ease my heart; but in their briny bed my tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread!" with fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread,-- stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger and dirt; and still with a voice of dolorous pitch-- would that its tone could reach the rich!-- she sang this "song of the shirt." _thomas hood._ christmas everywhere everywhere, everywhere, christmas to-night! christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine, christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine, christmas where snow-peaks stand solemn and white, christmas where corn-fields lie sunny and bright, everywhere, everywhere, christmas to-night! christmas where children are hopeful and gay, christmas where old men are patient and gray, christmas where peace, like a dove in its flight, broods o'er brave men in the thick of the fight; everywhere, everywhere, christmas tonight! for the christ-child who comes is the master of all, no palace too great and no cottage too small, the angels who welcome him sing from the height: "in the city of david, a king in his might." everywhere, everywhere, christmas tonight! then let every heart keep its christmas within, christ's pity for sorrow, christ's hatred of sin, christ's care for the weakest, christ's courage for right, christ's dread of the darkness, christ's love of the light. everywhere, everywhere, christmas tonight! so the stars of the midnight which compass us round shall see a strange glory, and hear a sweet sound, and cry, "look! the earth is aflame with delight, o sons of the morning, rejoice at the sight." everywhere, everywhere, christmas tonight! _philllips brooks._ the cloud i bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, from the seas and the streams; i bear light shade for the leaves when laid in their noon-day dreams. from my wings are shaken the dews that waken the sweet buds every one, when rocked to rest on their mother's breast, as she dances about the sun. i wield the flail of the lashing hail, and whiten the green plains under, and then again i dissolve it in rain, and laugh as i pass in thunder. i sift the snow on the mountains below, and their great pines groan aghast; and all the night 'tis my pillow white, while i sleep in the arms of the blast. sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, lightning my pilot sits, in a cavern under is fettered the thunder, it struggles and howls at fits; over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, this pilot is guiding me, lured by the love of the genii that move in the depths of the purple sea; over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, over the lakes and the plains, wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, the spirit he loves remains; and i all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, whilst he is dissolving in rains. the sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, and his burning plumes outspread, leaps on the back of my sailing rack, when the morning star shines dead; as on the jag of a mountain crag, which an earthquake rocks and swings, an eagle alit one moment may sit in the light of its golden wings. and when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, its ardors of rest and of love, and the crimson pall of eve may fall from the depth of heaven above, with wings folded i rest, on mine airy nest, as still as a brooding dove. that orbed maiden, with white fire laden, whom mortals call the moon, glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, by the midnight breezes strewn; and wherever the beat of her unseen feet, which only the angels hear, may have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, the stars peep behind her and peer; and i laugh to see them whirl and flee, like a swarm of golden bees, when i widen the rent in my windbuilt tent, till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, like strips of the sky fallen thro' me on high, are each paved with the moon and these. i bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, and the moon's with a girdle of pearl; the volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, when the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. from cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, over a torrent sea, sunbeam-proof, i hang like a roof, the mountains its columns be. the triumphal arch thro' which i march, with hurricane, fire, and snow, when the powers of the air are chained to my chair, is the million-colored bow; the sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, whilst the moist earth was laughing below. i am the daughter of earth and water, and the nursling of the sky; i pass thro' the pores of the ocean and shores; i change, but i cannot die. for after the rain, when, with never a stain the pavilion of heaven is bare, and the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams build up the blue dome of air, i silently laugh at my own cenotaph, and out of the caverns of rain, like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, i arise and unbuild it again, _percy bysshe shelley._ to a skylark hail to thee, blithe spirit! bird thou never wert, that from heaven, or near it, pourest thy full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. higher still and higher from the earth thou springest like a cloud of fire; the blue deep thou wingest, and singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. in the golden lightning of the sunken sun, o'er which clouds are bright'ning, thou dost float and run, like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. the pale purple even melts around thy flight; like a star of heaven, in the broad daylight thou art unseen, but yet i hear thy shrill delight: keen as are the arrows of that silver sphere whose intense lamp narrows in the white dawn clear. until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. all the earth and air with thy voice is loud, as, when night is bare, from one lonely cloud the moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. what thou art we know not; what is most like thee? from rainbow clouds there flow not drops so bright to see, as from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns unbidden, till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: like a high-born maiden in a palace-tower, soothing her love-laden soul in secret hour with music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: like a glow-worm golden in a dell of dew, scattering unbeholden its aerial hue among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: like a rose embowered in its own green leaves, by warm winds deflowered, till the scent it gives makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves: sound of vernal showers on the twinkling grass, rain-awakened flowers, all that ever was joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. teach us, sprite or bird, what sweet thoughts are thine: i have never heard praise of love or wine that panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. chorus hymeneal, or triumphal chaunt, matched with thine would be all but an empty vaunt, a thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. what objects are the fountains of thy happy strain? what fields, or waves, or mountains? what shapes of sky or plain? what love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? with thy clear keen joyance languor cannot be: shadow of annoyance never came near thee: thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. waking or asleep, thou of death must deem things more true and deep than we mortals dream, or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? we look before and after and pine for what is not: our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught; our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. yet if we could scorn hate, and pride, and fear; if we were things born not to a shed a tear, i know not how thy joy we ever should come near. better than all measures of delightful sound, better than all treasures that in books are found. thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know, such harmonious madness from my lips would flow, the world should listen then, as i am listening now, _percy bysshe shelley._ the brook i come from haunts of coot and hern, i make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. by thirty hills i hurry down, or slip between the ridges, by twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. till last by philip's farm i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but i go on forever. i chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, i bubble into eddying bays, i babble on the pebbles. with many a curve my banks i fret by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow. i chatter, chatter as i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but i go on forever. i wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, and here and there a foamy flake upon me as i travel with many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel, and draw them all along, and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but i go on forever. i steal by lawns and grassy plots, i slide by hazel covers; i move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, among my skimming swallows; i make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. i murmur under moon and stars, in brambly wildernesses; i linger by my shingly bars; i loiter round my cresses; and out again i curve and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but i go on forever. _alfred, lord tennyson._ june (_from "the vision of sir launfal"_) no price is set on the lavish summer, june may be had by the poorest comer. and what is so rare as a day in june? then, if ever, come perfect days; then heaven tries earth if it be in tune, and over it softly her warm ear lays; whether we look, or whether we listen, we hear life murmur, or see it glisten; every clod feels a stir of might, an instinct within it that reaches and towers, and, groping blindly above it for light, climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; the flush of life may well be seen thrilling back over hills and valleys; the cowslip startles in meadows green, the buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, and there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean to be some happy creature's palace; the little bird sits at his door in the sun, atilt like a blossom among the leaves, and lets his illumined being o'errun with the deluge of summer it receives; his mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, and the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; he sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- in the nice ear of nature, which song is the best? now is the high-tide of the year, and whatever of life hath ebbed away comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, into every bare inlet and creek and bay; now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, we are happy now because god wills it; no matter how barren the past may have been, 't is enough for us now that the leaves are green; we sit in the warm shade and feel right well how the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; we may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing that skies are clear and grass is growing; the breeze comes whispering in our ear, that dandelions are blossoming near, that maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, that the river is bluer than the sky, that the robin is plastering his house hard by; and if the breeze kept the good news back, for other couriers we should not lack; we could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-- and hark! how clear bold chanticleer, warmed with the new wine of the year, tells all in his lusty crowing! joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; everything is happy now, everything is upward striving; 't is as easy now for the heart to be true as for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-- 't is the natural way of living. who knows whither the clouds have fled? in the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, and the eyes forget the tears they have shed, the heart forgets its sorrow and ache; the soul partakes the season's youth, and the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, like burnt-out craters healed with snow. _james russell lowell._ the planting of the apple-tree come, let us plant the apple-tree. cleave the tough greensward with the spade; wide let its hollow bed be made; there gently lay the roots, and there sift the dark mould with kindly care. and press it o'er them tenderly, as round the sleeping infant's feet we softly fold the cradle-sheet; so plant we the apple tree. what plant we in this apple-tree? buds, which the breath of summer days shall lengthen into leafy sprays; boughs where the thrush with crimson breast shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; we plant, upon the sunny lea, a shadow for the noontide hour, a shelter from the summer shower, when we plant the apple-tree. what plant we in this apple-tree? sweets for a hundred flowery springs, to load the may-wind's restless wings, when, from the orchard row, he pours its fragrance through our open doors; a world of blossoms for the bee, flowers for the sick girl's silent room, for the glad infant sprigs of bloom, we plant with the apple-tree. what plant we in this apple-tree? fruits that shall swell in sunny june, and redden in the august noon, and drop, when gentle airs come by, that fan the blue september sky. while children come, with cries of glee, and seek them where the fragrant grass betrays their bed to those who pass, at the foot of the apple tree. and when, above this apple tree, the winter stars are quivering bright, and winds go howling through the night, girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, and guests in prouder homes shall see, heaped with the grape of cintra's vine, and golden orange of the line, the fruit of the apple-tree. the fruitage of this apple-tree winds, and our flag of stripe and star shall bear to coasts that lie afar, where men shall wonder at the view, and ask in what fair groves they grew; and sojourners beyond the sea shall think of childhood's careless day and long, long hours of summer play, in the shade of the apple-tree. each year shall give this apple-tree a broader flush of roseate bloom, a deeper maze of verdurous gloom, and loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, the crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. the years shall come and pass, but we shall hear no longer, where we lie, the summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, in the boughs of the apple-tree. and time shall waste this apple tree. oh, when its aged branches throw thin shadows on the ground below, shall fraud and force and iron will oppress the weak and helpless still? what shall the tasks of mercy be, amid the toils, the strifes, the tears of those who live when length of years is wasting this apple-tree? "who planted this old apple-tree?" the children of that distant day thus to some aged man shall say; and, gazing on its mossy stem, the gray-haired man shall answer them: "a poet of the land was he, born in the rude but good old times; 'tis said he made some quaint old rhymes on planting the apple-tree." _william cullen bryant._ character of the happy warrior who is the happy warrior? who is he that every man in arms should wish to be? --it is the generous spirit, who, when brought among the tasks of real life, hath wrought upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: whose high endeavors are an inward light that makes the path before him always bright: who, with a natural instinct to discern what knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; abides by this resolve, and stops not there, but makes his moral being his prime care; who, doomed to go in company with pain, and fear, and bloodshed, miserable train! turns his necessity to glorious gain; in face of these doth exercise a power which is our human nature's highest dower; controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves of their bad influence, and their good receives: by objects, which might force the soul to abate her feeling, rendered more compassionate; is placable--because occasions rise so often that demand such sacrifice; more skillful in self-knowledge, even more pure, as tempted more; more able to endure, as more exposed to suffering and distress; thence also, more alive to tenderness. --'tis he whose law is reason; who depends upon that law as on the best of friends; whence, in a state where men are tempted still to evil for a guard against worse ill, and what in quality or act is best doth seldom on a right foundation rest, he labors good on good to fix, and owes to virtue every triumph that he knows: --who, if he rise to station of command, rises by open means; and there will stand on honorable terms, or else retire, and in himself possess his own desire; who comprehends his trust, and to the same keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; and therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait for wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, like showers of manna, if they come at all; whose powers shed round him in the common strife, or mild concerns of ordinary life, a constant influence, a peculiar grace; but who, if he be called upon to face some awful moment to which heaven has joined great issues, good or bad for human kind, is happy as a lover; and attired with sudden brightness, like a man inspired; and, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law in calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; or if an unexpected call succeed, come when it will, is equal to the need: --he who, though thus endued as with a sense and faculty for storm and turbulence, is yet a soul whose master-bias leans to homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, are at his heart; and such fidelity it is his darling passion to approve; more brave for this, that he hath much to love:-- 'tis, finally, the man who lifted high, conspicuous object in a nation's eye, or left unthought-of in obscurity,-- who, with a toward or untoward lot, prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-- plays, in the many games of life, that one where what he most doth value must be won: whom neither shape of danger can dismay, nor thought of tender happiness betray; who, not content that former worth stand fast, looks forward, persevering to the last, from well to better, daily self-surpast: who, whether praise of him must walk the earth forever, and to noble deeds give birth, or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, and leave a dead unprofitable name-- finds comfort in himself and in his cause; and, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws his breath in confidence of heaven's applause: this is the happy warrior; this is he that every man in arms should wish to be. _william wordsworth._ the charge of the light brigade half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred. "forward, the light brigade! charge for the guns," he said: into the valley of death rode the six hundred. "forward, the light brigade!" was there a man dismay'd? not tho' the soldier knew some one had blunder'd: theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die: into the valley of death rode the six hundred. cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them volley'd and thunder'd; storm'd at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell rode the six hundred, flash'd all their sabres bare, flash'd as they turn'd in air, sabring the gunners there, charging an army, while all the world wonder'd: plung'd in the battery-smoke right thro' the line they broke; cossack and russian reel'd from the sabre-stroke shatter'd and sunder'd. then they rode back, but not,-- not the six hundred. cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon behind them volley'd and thunder'd; storm'd at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell, they that had fought so well came thro' the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell, all that was left of them, left of six hundred. when can their glory fade? o the wild charge they made! all the world wonder'd. honor the charge they made! honor the light brigade, noble six hundred! _alfred, lord tennyson._. sheridan's ride october , up from the south at break of day, bringing to winchester fresh dismay, the affrighted air with a shudder bore, like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, the terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, telling the battle was on once more, and sheridan--twenty miles away. and wider still those billows of war thundered along the horizon's bar; and louder yet into winchester rolled the roar of that red sea uncontrolled, making the blood of the listener cold as he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, and sheridan--twenty miles away. but there is a road from winchester town, a good broad highway leading down; and there, through the flush of the morning light, a steed, as black as the steeds of night, was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; as if he knew the terrible need, he stretched away with the utmost speed; hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, with sheridan fifteen miles away. still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south, the dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, foreboding to foemen the doom of disaster. the heart of the steed and the heart of the master were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, impatient to be where the battle-field calls; every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, with sheridan only ten miles away. under his spurning feet the road like an arrowy alpine river flowed, and the landscape sped away behind like an ocean flying before the wind; and the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire. but lo! he is nearing his heart's desire-- he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with sheridan only five miles away. the first that the general saw were the groups of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. what was done? what to do? a glance told him both, then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, he dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, and the wave of retreat checked its course there, because the sight of the master compelled it to pause. with foam and with dust the black charger was gray; by the flash of his eye and the red nostril's play he seemed to the whole great army to say, "i have brought you sheridan all the way from winchester down to save the day!" hurrah, hurrah for sheridan! hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! and when their statues are placed on high, under the dome of the union sky-- the american soldier's temple of fame-- there, with the glorious general's name, be it said in letters both bold and bright: "here is the steed that saved the day, by carrying sheridan into the fight, from winchester--twenty miles away!" _thomas buchanan read._ o little town of bethlehem o little town of bethlehem, how still we see thee lie! above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by; yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee to-night. for christ is born of mary, and, gathered all above, while mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wondering love. o morning stars, together proclaim the holy birth! and praises sing to god the king, and peace to men on earth. how silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given! so god imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven. no ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive him still, the dear christ enters in. o holy child of bethlehem! descend to us, we pray; cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us to-day. we hear the christmas angels the great glad tidings tell; oh, come to us, abide with us, our lord emmanuel! _phillips brooks._ the chambered nautilus this is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, sails the unshadowed main,-- the venturous bark that flings on the sweet summer wind its purpled wings in gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, and coral reefs lie bare, where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; wrecked is the ship of pearl! and every chambered cell, where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, as the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, before thee lies revealed,-- its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! year after year beheld the silent toil that spread his lustrous coil; still, as the spiral grew, he left the past year's dwelling for the new, stole with soft step its shining archway through, built up its idle door, stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, child of the wandering sea, cast from her lap, forlorn! from thy dead lips a clearer note is born than ever triton blew from wreathed horn! while on mine ear it rings, through the deep caves of thought i hear a voice that sings:-- build thee more stately mansions, o my soul, as the swift seasons roll! leave thy low-vaulted past! let each new temple, nobler than the last, shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, till thou at length art free, leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! _oliver wendell holmes._ nobility true worth is in _being_, not _seeming_,-- in doing, each day that goes by, some little good--not in dreaming of great things to do by and by. for whatever men say in their blindness, and spite of the fancies of youth, there's nothing so kingly as kindness, and nothing so royal as truth. we get back our mete as we measure-- we cannot do wrong and feel right, nor can we give pain and gain pleasure, for justice avenges each slight. the air for the wing of the sparrow, the bush for the robin and wren, but alway the path that is narrow and straight, for the children of men. 'tis not in the pages of story the heart of its ills to beguile, though he who makes courtship to glory gives all that he hath for her smile. for when from her heights he has won her, alas! it is only to prove that nothing's so sacred as honor, and nothing so loyal as love! we cannot make bargains for blisses, nor catch them like fishes in nets; and sometimes the thing our life misses helps more than the thing which it gets. for good lieth not in pursuing, nor gaining of great nor of small, but just in the doing, and doing as we would be done by, is all. through envy, through malice, through hating, against the world, early and late, no jot of our courage abating-- our part is to work and to wait. and slight is the sting of his trouble whose winnings are less than his worth; for he who is honest is noble, whatever his fortunes or birth. _alice cary._ the wind who has seen the wind? neither i nor you: but when the leaves hang trembling, the wind is passing through. who has seen the wind? neither you nor i: but when the trees bow down their heads, the wind is passing by. _christina g. rosetti._ the owl and the pussy-cat the owl and the pussy-cat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat; they took some honey, and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note. the owl looked up to the moon above and sang to a small guitar, "o lovely pussy! o pussy, my love! what a beautiful pussy you are,-- you are, what a beautiful pussy you are!" pussy said to the owl, "you elegant fowl! how wonderful sweet you sing! oh, let us be married,--too long we have tarried,-- but what shall we do for a ring?" they sailed away for a year and a day to the land where the bong-tree grows, and there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood with a ring in the end of his nose,-- his nose, with a ring in the end of his nose. "dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?" said the piggy, "i will." so they took it away, and were married next day by the turkey who lives on the hill. they dined upon mince and slices of quince which they ate with a runcible spoon, and hand in hand on the edge of the sand they danced by the light of the moon,-- the moon, they danced by the light of the moon. _edward lear._ the frost the frost looked forth one still, clear night, and whispered, "now i shall be out of sight; so through the valley and over the height in silence i'll take my way. i will not go on like that blustering train, the wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, that make so much bustle and noise in vain, but i'll be as busy as they!" so he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; he lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest in diamond beads--and over the breast of the quivering lake he spread a coat of mail, that it need not fear the downward point of many a spear that he hung on its margin, far and near, where a rock could rear its head. he went to the windows of those who slept, and over each pane like a fairy crept; wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, by the light of the morn were seen most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; there were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; there were cities with temples and towers; and these all pictured in silver sheen! but he did one thing that was hardly fair,-- he peeped in the cupboard, and finding there that all had forgotten for him to prepare, "now, just to set them a-thinking, i'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; "this costly pitcher i'll burst in three; and the glass of water they've left for me shall 'tchick!' to tell them i'm drinking!" _hannah f. gould._ the corn song heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! heap high the golden corn! no richer gift has autumn poured from out her lavish horn! let other lands, exulting, glean the apple from the pine, the orange from its glossy green, the cluster from the vine; we better love the hardy gift our rugged vales bestow, to cheer us when the storm shall drift our harvest-fields with snow. through vales of grass and meads of flowers, our plows their furrows made, while on the hills the sun and showers of changeful april played. we dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, beneath the sun of may, and frightened from our sprouting grain the robber crows away. all through the long, bright days of june, its leaves grew green and fair, and waved in hot midsummer's noon its soft and yellow hair. and now, with autumn's moonlit eyes, its harvest time has come, we pluck away the frosted leaves and bear the treasure home. there, richer than the fabled gift apollo showered of old, fair hands the broken grain shall sift, and knead its meal of gold. let vapid idlers loll in silk, around their costly board; give us the bowl of samp and milk, by homespun beauty poured! where'er the wide old kitchen hearth sends up its smoky curls, who will not thank the kindly earth, and bless our farmer girls! then shame on all the proud and vain, whose folly laughs to scorn the blessing of our hardy grain, our wealth of golden corn! let earth withhold her goodly root, let mildew blight her rye, give to the worm the orchard's fruit, the wheat-field to the fly: but let the good old crop adorn the hills our fathers trod; still let us, for his golden corn, send up our thanks to god! _john g. whittier._ on his blindness when i consider how my light is spent ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, and that one talent which is death to hide, lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent to serve therewith my maker, and present my true account, lest he, returning, chide; "doth god exact day-labor, light denied?" i fondly ask. but patience, to prevent that murmur, soon replies, "god doth not need either man's work or his own gifts. who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. his state is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, and post o'er land and ocean without rest; they also serve who only stand and wait." _john milton._ a boy's song where the pools are bright and deep, where the gray trout lies asleep, up the river and o'er the lea, that's the way for billy and me. where the blackbird sings the latest, where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, where the nestlings chirp and flee. that's the way for billy and me. where the mowers mow the cleanest, where the hay lies thick and greenest; there to trace the homeward bee, that's the way for billy and me. where the hazel bank is steepest, where the shadow falls the deepest, where the clustering nuts fall free, that's the way for billy and me. why the boys should drive away little sweet maidens from their play, or love to banter and fight so well, that's the thing i never could tell. but this i know, i love to play, through the meadow, among the hay, up the water and o'er the lea, that's the way for billy and me. _james hogg._ november the leaves are fading and falling, the winds are rough and wild, the birds have ceased their calling, but let me tell you, my child, though day by day, as it closes, doth darker and colder grow, the roots of the bright red roses will keep alive in the snow. and when the winter is over, the boughs will get new leaves, the quail come back to the clover, and the swallow back to the eaves. there must be rough, cold weather, and winds and rains so wild; not all good things together come to us here, my child. so, when some dear joy loses its beauteous summer glow, think how the roots of the roses are kept alive in the snow. _alice gary._ little birdie what does little birdie say, in her nest at peep of day? "let me fly," says little birdie-- "mother, let me fly away." "birdie, rest a little longer, till the little wings are stronger." so she rests a little longer, then she flies away. what does little baby say in her bed at peep of day? baby says, like little birdie, "let me rise and fly away." "baby, sleep a little longer, till the little limbs are stronger. if she sleeps a little longer, baby, too, shall fly away." _alfred, lord tennyson._ the fairies up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting for fear of little men; wee folk, good folk, trooping all together; green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather! down along the rocky shore some make their home; they live on crispy pancakes of yellow tide foam; some in the reeds of the black mountain-lake, with frogs for their watch dogs, all night awake. high on the hill-top the old king sits; he is now so old and gray he's nigh lost his wits. with a bridge of white mist columbkill he crosses, on his stately journeys from slieveleague to rosses; or going up with music on cold, starry nights, to sup with the queen of the gay northern lights. by the craggy hillside, through the mosses bare, they have planted thorn trees for pleasure here and there; is any man so daring, as dig them up in spite? he shall find their sharpest thorns in his bed at night. up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting for fear of little men; wee folk, good folk, trooping all together; green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather, _william allingham._ the wonderful world great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world, with the wonderful water round you curled, and the wonderful grass upon your breast, world, you are beautifully drest. the wonderful air is over me. and the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-- it walks on the water, and whirls the mills, and talks to itself on the top of the hills. you friendly earth, how far do you go, with the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, with cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, and people upon you for thousands of miles? ah! you are so great, and i am so small, i hardly can think of you, world, at all; and yet, when i said my prayers today, a whisper within me seemed to say: "you are more than the earth, though you are such a dot! you can love and think, and the earth can not." _william brighty rands._ be strong be strong! we are not here to play, to dream, to drift; we have hard work to do, and loads to lift; shun not the struggle--face it; 'tis god's gift. be strong! say not, "the days are evil. who's to blame?" and fold the hands and acquiesce--oh shame! stand up, speak out, and bravely, in god's name. be strong! it matters not how deep intrenched the wrong. how hard the battle goes, the day how long; faint not--fight on! to-morrow comes the song. _maltbie davenport babcock._ song: the owl when cats run home and light is come, and dew is cold upon the ground, and the far-off stream is dumb, and the whirring sail goes round, and the whirring sail goes round, alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. when merry milkmaids click the latch, and rarely smells the new-mown hay, and the cock hath sung beneath the thatch twice or thrice his roundelay, twice or thrice his roundelay; alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. _alfred, lord tennyson._ opportunity master of human destinies am i! fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait. cities and fields i walk: i penetrate deserts and fields remote, and, passing by hovel and mart and palace, soon or late i knock unbidden once at every gate! if sleeping, wake: if feasting, rise before i turn away. it is the hour of fate, and they who follow me reach every state mortals desire, and conquer every foe save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, condemned to failure, penury and woe, seek me in vain and uselessly implore-- i answer not, and i return no more. _john j. ingalls._ opportunity they do me wrong who say i come no more when once i knock and fail to find you in; for every day i stand outside your door and bid you wake and rise to fight and win. wail not for precious chances passed away! weep not for golden ages on the wane! each night i burn the records of the day; at sunrise every soul is born again. laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped; to vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; my judgments seal the dead past with its dead, but never bind a moment yet to come. though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; i lend an arm to all who say: "i can!" no shamefac'd outcast ever sank so deep but yet might rise and be again a man. dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? dost reel from righteous retribution's blow? then turn from blotted archives of the past and find the future's pages white as snow! art thou a mourner? rouse thee from thy spell; art thou a sinner? sins may be forgiven! each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell; each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. _walter malone._ sweet and low (_from "the princess"_) sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon, and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon; rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon; sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. _alfred, lord tennyson._ the barefoot boy blessings on thee, little man, barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! with thy turned-up pantaloons, and thy merry whistled tunes; with thy red lip, redder still kissed by strawberries on the hill; with the sunshine on thy face, through thy torn brim's jaunty grace: from, my heart i give thee joy,-- i was once a barefoot boy! prince thou art,--the grown-up man only is republican. let the million-dollared ride! barefoot, trudging at his side, thou hast more than he can buy in the reach of ear and eye,-- outward sunshine, inward joy: blessings on thee, barefoot boy! o for boyhood's painless play, sleep that wakes in laughing day, health that mocks the doctor's rules, knowledge never learned of schools, of the wild bee's morning chase, of the wild-flower's time and place. flight of fowl and habitude of the tenants of the wood; how the tortoise bears his shell, how the woodchuck digs his cell, and the ground-mole sinks his well; how the robin feeds her young, how the oriole's nest is hung; where the whitest lilies blow, where the freshest berries grow, where the groundnut trails its vine, where the wood-grape's clusters shine; of the black wasp's cunning way, mason of his walls of clay, and the architectural plans of gray hornet artisans!-- for, eschewing books and tasks, nature answers all he asks; hand in hand with her he walks, face to face with her he talks, part and parcel of her joy,-- blessings on the barefoot boy! o for boyhood's time of june, crowding years in one brief moon, when all things i heard or saw, me, their master, waited for. i was rich in flowers and trees, humming-birds and honey-bees; for my sport the squirrel played, plied the snouted mole his spade; for my taste the blackberry cone purpled over hedge and stone; laughed the brook for my delight through the day and through the night whispering at the garden wall, talked with me from fall to fall; mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, mine the walnut slopes beyond, mine, on bending orchard trees, apples of hesperides! still as my horizon grew, larger grew my riches too; all the world i saw or knew seemed a complex chinese toy, fashioned for a barefoot boy! o for festal dainties spread, like my bowl of milk and bread,-- pewter spoon and bowl of wood, on the door-stone, gray and rude! o'er me, like a regal tent, cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, purple-curtained, fringed with gold. looped in many a wind-swung fold; while for music came the play of the pied frogs' orchestra; and, to light the noisy choir, lit the fly his lamp of fire. i was monarch: pomp and joy waited on the barefoot boy! cheerily, then, my little man, live and laugh, as boyhood can! though the flinty slopes be hard, stubble-speared the new-mown sward, every morn shall lead thee through fresh baptisms of the dew; every evening from thy feet shall the cool wind kiss the heat: all too soon these feet must hide in the prison cells of pride, lose the freedom of the sod, like a colt's for work be shod, made to tread the mills of toil, up and down in ceaseless moil: happy if their track be found never on forbidden ground, happy if they sink not in quick and treacherous sands of sin. ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, ere it passes, barefoot boy! _john greenleaf whittier._ polonius' advice to laertes (_from "hamlet"_) there,--my blessing with you! and these few precepts in thy memory see thou character.--give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportion'd thought his act. be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. the friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. beware of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, but not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: for the apparel oft proclaims the man. neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. this above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. _william shakespeare._ a fable the mountain and the squirrel had a quarrel, and the former called the latter "little prig." bun replied, "you are doubtless very big; but all sorts of things and weather must be taken in together, to make up a year and a sphere. and i think it no disgrace to occupy my place. if i'm not so large as you, you are not so small as i, and not half as spry. i'll not deny you make a very pretty squirrel track; talents differ; all is well and wisely put; if i cannot carry forests on my back, neither can you crack a nut." _ralph waldo emerson._ suppose suppose, my little lady, your doll should break her head, could you make it whole by crying till your eyes and nose are red? and wouldn't it be pleasanter to treat it as a joke, and say you're glad "'twas dolly's and not your head that broke"? suppose you're dressed for walking, and the rain comes pouring down, will it clear off any sooner because you scold and frown? and wouldn't it be nicer for you to smile than pout, and so make sunshine in the house when there is none without? suppose your task, my little man, is very hard to get, will it make it any easier for you to sit and fret? and wouldn't it be wiser than waiting like a dunce, to go to work in earnest and learn the thing at once? suppose that some boys have a horse, and some a coach and pair, will it tire you less while walking to say, "it isn't fair"? and wouldn't it be nobler to keep your temper sweet, and in your heart be thankful you can walk upon your feet? and suppose the world don't please you, nor the way some people do, do you think the whole creation will be altered just for you? and isn't it, my boy or girl, the wisest, bravest plan, whatever comes, or doesn't come, to do the best you can? _phoebe cary._ i like little pussy i like little pussy, her coat is so warm; and if i don't hurt her she'll do me no harm. so i'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, but pussy and i very gently will play; she shall sit by my side, and i'll give her some food; and she'll love me because i am gentle and good. i'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr, and thus show her thanks for my kindness to her; i'll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw, lest i should provoke her to use her sharp claw; i never will vex her, nor make her displeased, for pussy don't like to be worried or teased. _jane taylor._ thanksgiving-day over the river and through the wood, to grandfather's house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow. over the river and through the wood,-- oh, how the wind does blow! it stings the toes, and bites the nose, as over the ground we go. over the river and through the wood, trot fast, my dapple gray! spring over the ground, like a hunting hound, for this is thanksgiving-day. over the river and through the wood, and straight through the barnyard gate! we seem to go extremely slow,-- it is so hard to wait! over the river and through the wood; now grandmother's cap i spy! hurrah for the fun! is the pudding done? hurrah for the pumpkin pie! _lydia maria child._ daffodils i wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once i saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils; beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay; ten thousand saw i at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. the waves beside them danced; but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee; a poet could not but be gay in such a jocund company; i gazed--and gazed--but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. for oft, when on my couch i lie in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude; and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils. _william wordsworth._ to a butterfly i've watched you now a full half-hour, self-poised upon that yellow flower; and, little butterfly! indeed i know not if you sleep or feed. more motionless! and then how motionless!--not frozen seas what joy awaits you, when the breeze hath found you out among the trees, and calls you forth again; this plot of orchard-ground is ours; my trees they are, my sister's flowers; here rest your wings when they are weary; here lodge as in a sanctuary! come often to us, fear no wrong; sit near us on the bough! we'll talk of sunshine and of song, and summer days when we were young; sweet childish days, that were as long as twenty days are now. _william wordsworth._ to the fringed gentian thou blossom bright with autumn dew, and colored with the heaven's own blue, that openest when the quiet light succeeds the keen and frosty night, thou comest not when violets lean o'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, or columbines, in purple dressed, nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. thou waitest late and com'st alone, when woods are bare and birds are flown, and frosts and shortening days portend the aged year is near his end. then doth thy sweet and quiet eye look through its fringes to the sky, blue--blue--as if that sky let fall a flower from its cerulean wall. i would that thus, when i shall see the hour of death draw near to me, hope, blossoming within my heart, may look to heaven as i depart. _william cullen bryant._ the song of the camp "give us a song!" the soldiers cried, the outer trenches guarding, when the heated guns of the camps allied grew weary of bombarding. the dark redan, in silent scoff, lay, grim and threatening, under; and the tawny mound of the malakoff no longer belched its thunder. there was a pause. a guardsman said, "we storm the forts to-morrow; sing while we may, another day will bring enough of sorrow." they lay along the battery's side below the smoking cannon: brave hearts, from severn and from clyde, and from the banks of shannon. they sang of love, and not of fame; forgot was britain's glory: each heart recalled a different name, but all sang "annie laurie." voice after voice caught up the song, until its tender passion rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- their battle-eve confession. dear girl, her name he dared not speak, but, as the song grew louder, something upon the soldier's cheek washed off the stains of powder. beyond the darkening ocean burned the bloody sunset's embers, while the crimean valleys learned how english love remembers. and once again a fire of hell rained on the russian quarters, with scream of shot, and burst of shell, and bellowing of the mortars! and irish nora's eyes are dim for a singer, dumb and gory; and english mary mourns for him who sang of "annie laurie." sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest your truth and valor wearing: the bravest are the tenderest,-- the loving are the daring. _bayard taylor._ she walks in beauty she walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. and on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent! _lord byron._ the builders all are architects of fate, working in these walls of time; some with massive deeds and great, some with ornaments of rhyme. nothing useless is, or low; each thing in its place is best; and what seems but idle show strengthens and supports the rest. for the structure that we raise, time is with materials filled; our to-days and yesterdays are the blocks with which we build. truly shape and fashion these; leave no yawning gaps between; think not, because no man sees, such things will remain unseen. in the elder days of art, builders wrought with greatest care each minute and unseen part; for the gods see everywhere. let us do our work as well, both the unseen and the seen! make the house, where gods may dwell, beautiful, entire, and clean. else our lives are incomplete, standing in these walls of time, broken stairways, where the feet stumble as they seek to climb. build to-day, then, strong and sure, with a firm and ample base; and ascending and secure shall to-morrow find its place. thus alone can we attain to those turrets, where the eye sees the world as one vast plain, and one boundless reach of sky. _henry w. longfellow._ the brown thrush there's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, he's singing to me! he's singing to me! and what does he say, little girl, little boy? "oh, the world's running over with joy! don't you hear? don't you see? hush! look! in my tree, i'm as happy as happy can be!" and the brown thrush keeps singing, "a nest do you see, and five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree? don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, or the world will lose some of its joy! now i'm glad! now i'm free! and i always shall be, if you never bring sorrow to me." so the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, to you and to me, to you and to me; and he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "oh, the world's running over with joy; but long it won't be, don't you know? don't you see? unless we are as good as can be!" _lucy larcom._ the quality of mercy (_from, "the merchant of venice"_) the quality of mercy is not strain'd. it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. it is twice bless'd: it blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown. his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; but mercy is above this sceptred sway; it is enthroned in the hearts of kings; it is an attribute to god himself; and earthly power doth then show likest god's when mercy seasons justice. therefore, jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this, that, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy. _william shakespeare._ don't give up if you've tried and have not won, never stop for crying; all's that's great and good is done just by patient trying. though young birds, in flying, fall, still their wings grow stronger; and the next time they can keep up a little longer. though the sturdy oak has known many a blast that bowed her, she has risen again, and grown loftier and prouder. if by easy work you beat, who the more will prize you? gaining victory from defeat,-- that's the test that tries you! _phoebe cary._ incident of the french camp you know we french stormed ratisbon: a mile or so away on a little mound, napoleon stood on our storming-day; with neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone brow, oppressive with its mind. just as perhaps he mused, "my plans that soar, to earth may fall, let once my army-leader lannes waver at yonder wall,"-- out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound. then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect by just his horse's mane, a boy: you hardly could suspect-- (so tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through) you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two. "well," cried he, "emperor, by god's grace we've got you ratisbon! the marshall's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon to see your flag-bird flap his vans where i, to heart's desire, perched him!" the chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire. the chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself, as sheathes a film the mother-eagle's eye when her bruised eaglet breathes; "you're wounded!" "nay," his soldier's pride touched to the quick, he said: "i'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside, smiling, the boy fell dead. _robert browning._ the bugle song (_from "the princess"_) the splendor falls on castle walls and snowy summits old in story: the long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o hark, o hear! how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going! o sweet and far from cliff and scar[a] the horns of elfland faintly blowing! blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill or field or river: our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow for ever and for ever. blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, and answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. _alfred, lord tennyson._ [footnote a: scar, a deep bank.] a child's thought of god they say that god lives very high; but if you look above the pines you cannot see our god; and why? and if you dig down in the mines, you never see him in the gold, though from him all that's glory shines. god is so good, he wears a fold of heaven and earth across his face, like secrets kept for love untold. but still i feel that his embrace slides down by thrills through all things made, through sight and sound of every place; as if my tender mother laid on my shut lips her kisses' pressure, half waking me at night, and said, "who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?" _elizabeth barrett browning._ the blue and the gray by the flow of the inland river, where the fleets of iron have fled, where the blades of grave grass quiver, asleep are the ranks of the dead; under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment day-- under the one, the blue; under the other, the gray. these in the robings of glory, those in the gloom of defeat, all, with the battle blood gory, in the dusk of eternity meet; under the sod and the dew,-- waiting the judgment day-- under the laurel, the blue; under the willow, the gray. from the silence of sorrowful hours the desolate mourners go, lovingly laden with flowers alike for the friend and the foe; under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment day-- under the roses, the blue; under the lilies, the gray. so with an equal splendor the morning sun-rays fall, with a touch impartially tender, on the blossoms blooming for all; under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment day-- 'broidered with gold, the blue; mellowed with gold, the gray. so, when the summer calleth, on forest and field of grain with an equal murmur falleth the cooling drip of the rain; under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment day-- wet with the rain, the blue; wet with the rain, the gray. sadly, but not with upbraiding, the generous deed was done; in the storm of the years that are fading. no braver battle was won; under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment day-- under the blossoms, the blue; under the garlands, the gray. no more shall the war-cry sever, or the winding rivers be red; they banish our anger forever when they laurel the graves of our dead! under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment day-- love and tears for the blue; tears and love for the gray. _francis miles finch._ good night and good morning a fair little girl sat under a tree, sewing as long as her eyes could see, then smoothed her work, and folded it right, and said, "dear work, good night, good night!" such a number of rooks came over her head, crying "caw, caw," on their way to bed; she said, as she watched their curious flight, "little black things, good night, good night!" the horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, the sheep's "bleat, bleat" came over the road, and all seemed to say, with a quiet delight, "good little girl, good night, good night!" she did not say to the sun "good night," tho' she saw him there like a ball of light; for she knew he had god's own time to keep all over the world, and never could sleep. the tall pink foxglove bowed his head, the violets curtseyed and went to bed; and good little lucy tied up her hair, and said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. and, while on her pillow she softly lay, she knew nothing more till again it was day; and all things said to the beautiful sun, "good morning, good morning, our work is begun!" _lord houghton._ lady moon "lady moon, lady moon, where are you roving?" "over the sea." "lady moon, lady moon, whom are you loving?" "all that love me." "are you not tired with rolling and never resting to sleep? why look so pale and so sad, as for ever wishing to weep?" "ask me not this, little child, if you love me; you are too bold i must obey my dear father above me, and do as i'm told." "lady moon, lady moon, where are you roving?" "over the sea." "lady moon, lady moon, whom are you loving?" "all that love me." _lord houghton._ breathes there the man with soul so dead? _(from "the lay of the last minstrel")_ breathes there the man with soul so dead who never to himself hath said, this is my own, my native land? whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, as home his footsteps he hath turned from wandering on a foreign strand? if such there breathe, go, mark him well; for him no minstrel raptures swell; high though his titles, proud his name, boundless his wealth as wish can claim,-- despite those titles, power, and pelf, the wretch, concentred all in self, living, shall forfeit fair renown, and, doubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonored and unsung. _sir walter scott._ pippa's song the year's at the spring, and day's at the morn; morning's at seven; the hillside's dew-pearled; the lark's on the wing; the snail's on the thorn; god's in his heaven-- all's right with the world! _robert browning._ twinkle, twinkle, little star twinkle, twinkle, little star; how i wonder what you are! up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky. when the glorious sun is set, when the grass with dew is wet, then you show your little light, twinkle, twinkle, all the night. in the dark blue sky you keep, and often through my curtains peep; for you never shut your eye till the sun is in the sky. as your bright and tiny spark lights the traveler in the dark, though i know not what you are, twinkle, twinkle, little star. _jane taylor._ crossing the bar sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me! and may there be no moaning of the bar, when i put out to sea, but such a tide as moving seems asleep, too full for sound and foam, when that which drew from out the boundless deep turns again home. twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! and may there be no sadness of farewell, when i embark; for tho' from out our bourne of time and place the flood may bear me far, i hope to see my pilot face to face when i have crost the bar. _alfred, lord tennyson._ the tree the tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown; "shall i take them away?" said the frost, sweeping down. "no, leave them alone till the blossoms have grown," prayed the tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown. the tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: "shall i take them away?" said the wind, as he swung, "no, leave them alone till the blossoms have grown," said the tree, while his leaflets quivering hung. the tree bore his fruit in the midsummer glow: said the child, "may i gather thy berries now?" "yes, all thou canst see: take them; all are for thee," said the tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low. _bjorrstjerne bjornson._ the fountain into the sunshine, full of the light, leaping and flashing from morn till night; into the moonlight, whiter than snow, waving so flower-like when the winds blow; into the starlight rushing in spray, happy at midnight, happy by day; ever in motion, blithesome and cheery, still climbing heavenward, never aweary; glad of all weathers, still seeming best, upward or downward, motion thy rest; full of a nature nothing can tame, changed every moment, ever the same; ceaseless aspiring, ceaseless content, darkness or sunshine thy element; glorious fountain, let my heart be fresh, changeful, constant, upward, like thee! _james russell lowell._ the leak in the dike the good dame looked from her cottage at the close of the pleasant day, and cheerily called to her little son, outside the door at play: "come, peter, come! i want you to go, while there is light to see. to the hut of the blind old man who lives across the dike, for me; and take these cakes i made for him-- they are hot and smoking yet; you have time enough to go and come before the sun is set." then the good-wife turned to her labor, humming a simple song, and thought of her husband, working hard at the sluices all day long; and set the turf a-blazing, and brought the coarse black bread, that he might find a fire at night and find the table spread. and peter left the brother with whom all day he had played, and the sister who had watched their sports in the willow's tender shade; and told them they'd see him back before they saw a star in sight, though he wouldn't be afraid to go in the very darkest night! for he was a brave, bright fellow, with eye and conscience clear; he could do whatever a boy might do, and he had not learned to fear. why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, nor brought a stork to harm, though never a law in holland had stood to stay his arm! and now with his face all glowing, and eyes as bright as the day with the thoughts of his pleasant errand, he trudged along the way; and soon his joyous prattle made glad a lonesome place-- alas! if only the blind old man, could have seen that happy face! yet he somehow caught the brightness which his voice and presence lent; and he felt the sunshine come and go as peter came and went. and now, as the day was sinking, and the winds began to rise, the mother looked from her door again, shading her anxious eyes, and saw the shadows deepen and birds to their homes come back, but never a sign of peter along the level track. but she said, "he will come at morning, so i need not fret nor grieve-- though it isn't like my boy at all to stay without my leave." but where was the child delaying? on the homeward way was he, across the dike while the sun was up an hour above the sea. he was stopping now to gather flowers, now listening to the sound, as the angry waters dashed themselves against their narrow bound. "ah! well for us," said peter, "that the gates are good and strong, and my father tends them carefully, or they would not hold you long! you're a wicked sea," said peter," "i know why you fret and chafe; you would like to spoil our lands and homes, but our sluices keep you safe! but hark! through the noise of waters comes a low, clear, trickling sound; and the child's face pales with terror, and his blossoms drop to the ground, he is up the bank in a moment, and, stealing through the sand, he sees a stream not yet so large as his slender, childish hand. 'tis a leak in the dike! he is but a boy, unused to fearful scenes; but, young as he is, he has learned to know the dreadful thing that means. a leak in the dike! the stoutest heart grows faint that cry to hear, and the bravest man in all the land turns white with mortal fear; for he knows the smallest leak may grow to a flood in a single night; and he knows the strength of the cruel sea when loosed in its angry might. and the boy! he has seen the danger and shouting a wild alarm, he forces back the weight of the sea with the strength of his single arm! he listens for the joyful sound of a footstep passing nigh; and lays his ear to the ground, to catch the answer to his cry. and he hears the rough winds blowing, and the waters rise and fall, but never an answer comes to him save the echo of his call. he sees no hope, no succor, his feeble voice is lost; yet what shall he do but watch and wait, though he perish at his post! so, faintly calling and crying till the sun is under the sea; crying and moaning till the stars come out for company; he thinks of his brother and sister, asleep in their safe warm bed; he thinks of his father and mother, of himself as dying--and dead; and of how, when the night is over, they must come and find him at last; but he never thinks he can leave the place where duty holds him fast. the good dame in the cottage is up and astir with the light, for the thought of her little peter has been with her all night. and now she watches the pathway, as yester eve she had done; but what does she see so strange and black against the rising sun? her neighbors are bearing between them something straight to her door; her child is coming home, but not as he ever came before! "he is dead!" she cries, "my darling!" and the startled father hears. and comes and looks the way she looks, and fears the thing she fears; till a glad shout from the bearers thrills the stricken man and wife-- "give thanks, for your son, has saved our land, and god has saved his life!" so, there in the morning sunshine they knelt about the boy; and every head was bared and bent in tearful, reverent joy. 'tis many a year since then, but still, when the sea roars like a flood, their boys are taught what a boy can do who is brave and true and good; for every man in that country takes his son by the hand, and tells him of little peter whose courage saved the land. they have many a valiant hero remembered through the years; but never one whose name so oft is named with loving tears; and his deed shall be sung by the cradle, and told to the child on the knee, so long as the dikes of holland divide the land from the sea! _phoebe cary._ robert of lincoln merrily swinging on briar and weed, near to the nest of his little dame, over the mountain-side or mead, robert of lincoln is telling his name: bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; snug and safe is that nest of ours, hidden among the summer flowers. chee, chee, chee. robert of lincoln is gaily drest, wearing a bright black wedding coat; white are his shoulders and white his crest, hear him call in his merry note: bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; look, what a nice new coat is mine, sure there was never a bird so fine. chee, chee, chee. robert of lincoln's quaker wife, pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, passing at home a patient life, broods in the grass while her husband sings: bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; brood, kind creature; you need not fear thieves and robbers while i am here. chee, chee, chee. modest and shy as a nun is she; one weak chirp is her only note. braggart and prince of braggarts is he, pouring boasts from his little throat: bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; never was i afraid of man; catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. chee, chee, chee. six white eggs on a bed of hay, flecked with purple, a pretty sight! there as the mother sits all day, robert is singing with all his might: bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; nice, good wife, that never goes out, keeping the house while i frolic about. chee, chee, chee. soon as the little ones chip the shell six wide mouths are open for food; robert of lincoln bestirs him well, gathering seeds for the hungry brood. bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; this new life is likely to be hard for a gay young fellow like me. chee, chee, chee. robert of lincoln at length is made sober with work, and silent with care; off is his holiday garment laid, half forgotten that merry air, bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; nobody knows but my mate and i where our nest and our nestlings lie. chee, chee, chee. summer wanes; the children are grown; fun and frolic no more he knows; robert of lincoln's a humdrum crone; off he flies, and we sing as he goes: bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; when you can pipe that merry old strain, robert of lincoln, come back again. chee, chee, chee, _william cullen bryant._ wishing ring-ting! i wish i were a primrose, a bright yellow primrose, blowing in the spring! the stooping boughs above me, the wandering bee to love me, the fern and moss to creep across, and the elm tree for our king! nay--stay! i wish i were an elm tree, a great, lofty elm tree, with green leaves gay! the winds would set them dancing, the sun and moonshine glance in, the birds would house among the boughs, and sweetly sing. oh no! i wish i were a robin, a robin or a little wren, everywhere to go; through forest, field, or garden, and ask no leave or pardon, till winter comes with icy thumbs to ruffle up our wing! well--tell! where should i fly to, where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? before a day was over, home comes the rover. for mother's kiss--sweeter this than any other thing. _william allingham._ the burial of sir john moore at corunna not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corse to the rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. we buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by struggling moonbeam's misty light, and the lantern dimly burning. no useless coffin enclosed his breast, nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow; but we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. we thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head; and we far away on the billow! lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; but little he'll reck; if they let him sleep on in the grave where a briton has laid him. but half of our heavy task was done, when the clock tolled the hour for retiring; and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. slowly and sadly we laid him down. from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory! _charles wolfe._ how many seconds in a minute? how many seconds in a minute? sixty, and no more in it. how many minutes in an hour? sixty for sun and shower. how many hours in a day? twenty-four for work and play. how many days in a week? seven both to hear and speak. how many weeks in a month? four, as the swift moon runn'th. how many months in a year? twelve, the almanack makes clear. how many years in an age? one hundred, says the sage. how many ages in time? no one knows the rhyme. _christina g. rossetti._ to-day here hath been dawning another blue day: think, wilt thou let it slip useless away? out of eternity this new day was born; into eternity, at night, will return. behold it aforetime no eye ever did; so soon it forever from all eyes is hid. here hath been dawning another blue day: think, wilt thou let it slip useless away? _thomas carlyle._ the wind and the moon said the wind to the moon, "i will blow you out. you stare in the air like a ghost in a chair, always looking what i am about; i hate to be watched--i will blow you out." the wind blew hard, and out went the moon. so deep, on a heap of clouds, to sleep, down lay the wind, and slumbered soon-- muttering low, "i've done for that moon." he turned in his bed; she was there again! on high in the sky with her one clear eye, the moon shone white and alive and plain. said the wind--"i will blow you out again." the wind blew hard, and the moon grew dim. "with my sledge and my wedge i have knocked off her edge! if only i blow right fierce and grim, the creature will soon be dimmer than dim." he blew and blew, and she thinned to a thread. "one puff more's enough to blow her to snuff! one good puff more where the last was bred, and glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!" he blew a great blast, and the thread was gone; in the air nowhere was a moonbeam bare; far off and harmless the shy stars shone; sure and certain the moon was gone. the wind, he took to his revels once more; on down in town, like a merry-mad clown, he leaped and halloed with whistle and roar, "what's that?" the glimmering thread once more! he flew in a rage--he danced and blew; but in vain was the pain of his bursting brain; for still the broader the moon-scrap grew, the broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. slowly she grew--till she filled the night, and shone on her throne in the sky alone, a matchless, wonderful, silvery light, radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. said the wind--"what a marvel of power am i! with my breath, good faith! i blew her to death-- first blew her away right out of the sky-- then blew her in; what a strength have i!" but the moon, she knew nothing about the affair, for, high in the sky, with her one white eye motionless, miles above the air, she had never heard the great wind blare. _george macdonald._ the little plant in the heart of a seed, buried deep, so deep, a dear little plant lay fast asleep! "wake!" said the sunshine, "and creep to the light!" "wake!" said the voice of the raindrop bright. the little plant heard and it rose to see what the wonderful outside world might be. _kate l. brown._ paul revere's ride listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of paul revere, on the eighteenth of april, in seventy-five; hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year. he said to his friend, "if the british march by land or sea from the town tonight, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the north church tower, as a signal light,-- one, if by land, and two, if by sea; and i on the opposite shore will be, ready to ride and spread the alarm through every middlesex village and farm, for the country folk to be up and to arm." then he said, "good-night"; and with muffled oar silently rowed to the charlestown shore, just as the moon rose over the bay, where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay the somerset, british man-of-war, a phantom ship, with each mast and spar across the moon like a prison bar, and a huge black hulk, that was magnified by its own reflection in the tide. meanwhile, his friend through alley and street wanders and watches with eager ears, till, in the silence around him, he hears the muster of men at the barrack door, the sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, and the measured tread of the grenadiers marching down to their boats on the shore. then he climbed to the tower of the old north church, by the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, to the belfry chamber overhead, and startled the pigeons from their perch on the sombre rafters, that round him made masses and moving shapes of shade; by the trembling ladder, steep and tall, to the highest window in the wall, where he paused to listen, and look down a moment on the roofs of the town, and the moonlight flowing over all. beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead in their night encampment on the hill, wrapped in silence so deep and still that he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, the watchful night wind, as it went, creeping along from tent to tent, and seeming to whisper, "all is well!" a moment only he feels the spell of the place and hour, and the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead, for suddenly all his thoughts are bent on a shadowy something far away, where the river widens to meet the bay, a line of black, that bends and floats on the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurred, with a heavy stride on the opposite shore walked paul revere. now he patted his horse's side, now gazed on the landscape far and near, then impetuous stamped the earth, and turned and tightened his saddle girth; but mostly he watched with eager search the belfry tower of the old north church, as it rose above the graves on the hill, lonely and spectral, and sombre and still. and lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height a glimmer, and then a gleam of light! he springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, but lingers and gazes, till full on his sight a second lamp in the belfry burns. a harry of hoofs in a village street, a shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, and beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; that was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light, the fate of a nation was riding that night; and the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, kindled the land into flame with its heat. he has left the village and mounted the steep, and beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, is the mystic, meeting the ocean tides; and under the alders, that skirt its edge, now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. it was twelve by the village clock when he crossed the bridge into medford town. he heard the crowing of the cock, and the barking of the farmer's dog, and felt the damp of the river fog, that rises after the sun goes down. it was one by the village clock when he galloped into lexington, he saw the gilded weathercock swim in the moonlight as he passed, and the meeting house windows, blank and bare, gaze at him with a spectral glare as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon. it was two by the village clock when he came to the bridge in concord town. he heard the bleating of the flock, and the twittering of birds among the trees, and felt the breath of the morning breeze blowing over the meadows brown. and one was safe and asleep in his bed who at the bridge would be first to fall, who that day would be lying dead, pierced by a british musket ball. you know the rest. in the books you have read how the british regulars fired and fled-- how the farmers gave them ball for ball, from behind each fence and farmyard wall, chasing the red coats down the lane, then crossing the fields to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road, and only pausing to fire and load. so through the night rode paul revere; and so through the night went his cry of alarm to every middlesex village and farm-- a cry of defiance, and not of fear-- a voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, and a word that shall echo forever-more; for borne on the night wind of the past, through all our history to the last, in the hour of darkness and peril and need, the people will waken and listen to hear the hurrying hoof beats of that steed, and the midnight message of paul revere. _henry w. longfellow._ in flanders fields in flanders fields the poppies grow between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly, scarce heard amid the guns below. we are the dead. short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved; and now we lie in flanders fields. take up our quarrel with the foe! to you, from failing hands, we throw the torch. be yours to hold it high! if ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies blow in flanders fields. _john mccrae._ in flanders fields: an answer in flanders fields the cannon boom and fitful flashes light the gloom, while up above, like eagles, fly the fierce destroyers of the sky; with stains the earth wherein you lie is redder than the poppy bloom, in flanders fields. sleep on, ye brave. the shrieking shell, the quaking trench, the startled yell, the fury of the battle hell shall wake you not; for all is well. sleep peacefully; for all is well. your flaming torch aloft we bear, with burning heart an oath we swear to keep the faith, to fight it through, to crush the foe, or sleep with you in flanders fields. _c.b. galbreath._ little boy blue the little toy dog is covered with dust, but sturdy and stanch he stands; and the little toy soldier is red with rust, and his musket moulds in his hands. time was when the little toy dog was new and the soldier was passing fair, and that was the time when our little boy blue kissed them and put them there. "now, don't you go till i come," he said, "and don't you make any noise!" so toddling off to his trundle-bed he dreamt of the pretty toys. and as he was dreaming, an angel song awakened our little boy blue,-- oh, the years are many, the years are long, but the little toy friends are true. ay, faithful to little boy blue they stand, each in the same old place, awaiting the touch of a little hand, the smile of a little face. and they wonder, as waiting these long years through, in the dust of that little chair, what has become of our little boy blue since he kissed them and put them there. _eugene field._ thanatopsis to him who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible forms, she speaks a various language; for his gayer hours she has a voice of gladness, and a smile and eloquence of beauty, and she glides into his darker musings with a mild and healing sympathy, that steals away their sharpness, ere he is aware. when thoughts of the last bitter hoar come like a blight over thy spirit, and sad images of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, and breathless darkness, and the narrow house, make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-- go forth, under the open sky, and list to nature's teachings, while from all around-- earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-- comes a still voice--yet a few days, and thee the all-beholding sun shall see no more in all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, where thy pale form was laid with many tears. nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist thy image. earth, that nourished thee, shall claim thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, and, lost each human trace, surrendering up thine individual being, shalt thou go to mix forever with the elements, to be a brother to the insensible rock and to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain turns with his share, and treads upon. the oak shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. yet not to thine eternal resting-place shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish couch more magnificent. thou shalt lie down with patriarchs of the infant world--with kings. the powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, all in one mighty sepulchre. the hills, rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun,--the vales stretching in pensive quietness between; the venerable woods--rivers that move in majesty, and the complaining brooks that make the meadows green; and, poured round all, old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- are but the solemn decorations all of the great tomb of man. the golden sun, the planets, all the infinite host of heaven, are shining on the sad abodes of death, through the still lapse of ages. all that tread the globe are but a handful to the tribes that slumber in its bosom. take the wings of morning, pierce the barcan wilderness, or lose thyself in the continuous woods where rolls the oregon, and hears no sound, save his own dashings--yet, the dead are there; and millions in those solitudes, since first the flight of years began, have laid them down in their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. so shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw in silence from the living, and no friend take note of thy departure? all that breathe will share thy destiny. the gay will laugh when thou art gone, the solemn brood of care plod on, and each one as before will chase his favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave their mirth and their employments, and shall come and make their bed with thee. as the long train of ages glide away, the sons of men,-- the youth in life's green spring, and he who goes in the full strength of years, matron, and maid, and the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,-- shall one by one be gathered to thy side, by those who in their turn shall follow them. so live, that when thy summons comes to join the innumerable caravan which moves to the pale realms of shade, where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death, thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. _william cullen bryant._ the first settler's story it ain't the funniest thing a man can do-- existing in a country when it's new; nature, who moved in first--a good long while-- has things already somewhat her own style, and she don't want her woodland splendors battered, her rustic furniture broke up and scattered, her paintings, which long years ago were done by that old splendid artist-king, the sun, torn down and dragged in civilization's gutter, or sold to purchase settlers' bread and butter. she don't want things exposed from porch to closet, and so she kind o' nags the man who does it. she carries in her pockets bags of seeds, as general agent of the thriftiest weeds; she sends her blackbirds, in the early morn, to superintend his fields of planted corn; she gives him rain past any duck's desire-- then maybe several weeks of quiet fire; she sails mosquitoes--leeches perched on wings-- to poison him with blood-devouring stings; she loves her ague-muscle to display, and shake him up--say every other day; with, thoughtful, conscientious care she makes those travelin' poison-bottles, rattlesnakes; she finds time, 'mongst her other family cares, to keep in stock good wild-cats, wolves, and bears. well, when i first infested this retreat, things to my view looked frightful incomplete; but i had come with heart-thrift in my song, and brought my wife and plunder right along; i hadn't a round trip ticket to go back, and if i had there wasn't no railroad track; and drivin' east was what i couldn't endure: i hadn't started on a circular tour. my girl-wife was as brave as she was good, and helped me every blessed way she could; she seemed to take to every rough old tree, as sing'lar as when first she took to me. she kep' our little log-house neat as wax, and once i caught her fooling with my axe. she learned a hundred masculine things to do: she aimed a shot-gun pretty middlin' true, although in spite of my express desire, she always shut her eyes before she'd fire. she hadn't the muscle (though she _had_ the heart) in out-door work to take an active part; though in our firm of duty and endeavor she wasn't no silent partner whatsoever. when i was logging, burning, choppin' wood, she'd linger round and help me all she could, and keep me fresh-ambitious all the while, and lifted tons just with her voice and smile. with no desire my glory for to rob, she used to stan' around and boss the job; and when first-class success my hands befell, would proudly say, "_we_ did that pretty well!" she _was_ delicious, both to hear and see-- that pretty wife-girl that kep' house for me. well, neighborhoods meant counties in those days; the roads didn't have accommodating ways; and maybe weeks would pass before she'd see-- and much less talk with--any one but me. the indians sometimes showed their sun-baked faces, but they didn't teem with conversational graces; some ideas from the birds and trees she stole, but 'twasn't like talking with a human soul; and finally i thought that i could trace a half heart-hunger peering from her face. then she would drive it back and shut the door; of course that only made me see it more. 'twas hard to see her give her life to mine, making a steady effort not to pine; 'twas hard to hear that laugh bloom out each minute, and recognize the seeds of sorrow in it. no misery makes a close observer mourn like hopeless grief with hopeful courage borne; there's nothing sets the sympathies to paining like a complaining woman uncomplaining. it always draws my breath out into sighs to see a brave look in a woman's eyes. well, she went on, as plucky as could be, fighting the foe she thought i did not see, and using her heart-horticultural powers to turn that forest to a bed of flowers. you cannot check an unadmitted sigh, and so i had to soothe her on the sly, and secretly to help her draw her load; and soon it came to be an up-hill road. hard work bears hard upon the average pulse, even with satisfactory results; but when effects are scarce, the heavy strain falls dead and solid on the heart and brain. and when we're bothered, it will oft occur we seek blame-timber; and i lit on her; and looked at her with daily lessening favor, for what i knew she couldn't help, to save her. and discord, when he once had called and seen us, came round quite often, and edged in between us. one night, when i came home unusual late, too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate, her supper struck me wrong (though i'll allow she hadn't much to strike with, anyhow); and when i went to milk the cows, and found they'd wandered from their usual feeding ground, and maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em, which i must copy, if i meant to find 'em, flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, and in a, trice these hot words i had spoke: "you ought to've kept the animals in view, and drove 'em in; you'd nothing else to do. the heft of all our life on me must fall; you just lie round and let me do it all." that speech--it hadn't been gone a half a minute before i saw the cold black poison in it; and i'd have given all i had, and more, to've only safely got it back in-door. i'm now what most folks "well-to-do" would call i feel to-day as if i'd give it all, provided i through fifty years might reach and kill and bury that half-minute speech. she handed back no words, as i could hear; she didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear; half proud, half crushed, she stood and looked me o'er, like some one she had never seen before! but such a sudden anguish-lit surprise i never viewed before in human eyes. (i've seen it oft enough since in a dream; it sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.) next morning, when, stone-faced, but heavy-hearted, with dinner pail and sharpened axe i started away for my day's work--she watched the door. and followed me half way to it or more; and i was just a-turning round at this, and asking for my usual good-by kiss; but on her lip i saw a proudish curve, and in her eye a shadow of reserve; and she had shown--perhaps half unawares-- some little independent breakfast airs; and so the usual parting didn't occur, although her eyes invited me to her! or rather half invited me, for she didn't advertise to furnish kisses free; you always had--that is, i had--to pay full market price, and go more'n half the way. so, with a short "good-by," i shut the door, and left her as i never had before. but when at noon my lunch i came to eat. put up by her so delicately neat-- choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been, and some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in-- "tender and pleasant thoughts," i knew they meant-- it seemed as if her kiss with me she'd sent; then i became once more her humble lover, and said, "to-night i'll ask forgiveness of her." i went home over-early on that eve, having contrived to make myself believe, by various signs i kind o' knew and guessed, a thunder-storm was coming from the west. ('tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart, how many honest ones will take its part: a dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right that i should strike home early on that night.) half out of breath, the cabin door i swung, with tender heart-words trembling on my tongue; but all within looked desolate and bare: my house had lost its soul,--she was not there! a penciled note was on the table spread, and these are something like the words it said: "the cows have strayed away again, i fear; i watched them pretty close; don't scold me, dear. and where they are, i think i nearly know: i heard the bell not very long ago.... i've hunted for them all the afternoon; i'll try once more--i think i'll find them soon. dear, if a burden i have been to you, and haven't helped you as i ought to do. let old-time memories my forgiveness plead; i've tried to do my best--i have indeed. darling, piece out with love the strength i lack, and have kind words for me when i get back." scarce did i give this letter sight and tongue-- some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, and from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded: my thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed. i rushed out-door. the air was stained with black: night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back: and everything kept dimming to the sight, save when the clouds threw their electric light; when for a flash, so clean-cut was the view, i'd think i saw her--knowing 'twas not true. through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray, as if the ocean waves had lost their way; scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, in the bold clamor of its cannonade. and she, while i was sheltered, dry, and warm, was somewhere in the clutches of this storm! she who, when storm-frights found her at her best, had always hid her white face on my breast! my dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day, now crouched and whimpering, in a corner lay; i dragged him by the collar to the wall, i pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl-- "track her, old boy!" i shouted; and he whined, matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind, then with a yell went tearing through the wood, i followed him, as faithful as i could. no pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame; we raced with death: we hunted noble game. all night we dragged the woods without avail; the ground got drenched--we could not keep the trail, three times again my cabin home i found, half hoping she might be there, safe and sound; but each time 'twas an unavailing care: my house had lost its soul; she was not there! when, climbing--the wet trees, next morning-sun. laughed at the ruin that the night had done, bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent, back to what used to be my home i went. but as i neared our little clearing-ground-- listen!--i heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound. the cabin door was just a bit ajar; it gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star, "brave heart," i said, "for such a fragile form! she made them guide her homeward through the storm!" such pangs of joy i never felt before. "you've come!" i shouted and rushed through the door. yes, she had come--and gone again. she lay with all her young life crushed and wrenched away-- lay, the heart-ruins of oar home among, not far from where i killed her with my tongue. the rain-drops glittered 'mid her hair's long strands, the forest thorns had torn her feet and hands, and 'midst the tears--brave tears--that one could trace upon the pale but sweetly resolute face, i once again the mournful words could read, "i have tried to do my best--i have, indeed." and now i'm mostly done; my story's o'er; part of it never breathed the air before. 'tisn't over-usual, it must be allowed, to volunteer heart-history to a crowd, and scatter 'mongst them confidential tears, but you'll protect an old man with his years; and wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach, this is the sermon i would have it preach: boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds: you can't do that way when you're flying words. "careful with fire," is good advice we know: "careful with words," is ten times doubly so. thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead, but god himself can't kill them when they're said! yon have my life-grief: do not think a minute 'twas told to take up time. there's business in it. it sheds advice: whoe'er will take and live it, is welcome to the pain it cost to give it. _will carleton._ seein' things i ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice, an' things 'at girls are skeered uv i think are awful nice! i'm pretty brave, i guess; an' yet i hate to go to bed, for, when i'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, mother tells me "happy dreams!" and takes away the light, an' leaves me lying all alone an' seein' things at night! sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door, sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor; sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round so softly an' so creepylike they never make a sound! sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white-- but the color ain't no difference when you see things at night! once, when i licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street, an' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, i woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row, a-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me--so! oh, my! i was so skeered that time i never slep' a mite-- it's almost alluz when i'm bad i see things at night! lucky thing i ain't a girl, or i'd be skeered to death! bein' i'm a boy, i duck my head an' hold my breath; an' i am, oh! so sorry i'm a naughty boy, an' then i promise to be better an' i say my prayers again! gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right when a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night! an' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, i try to skwush the tempter's voice 'at urges me within; an' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice, i want to--but i do not pass my plate f'r them things twice! no, ruther let starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight than i should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night! _eugene field._ the raggedy man oh, the raggedy man! he works fer pa; an' he's the goodest man ever you saw! he comes to our house every day, an' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; an' he opens the shed--an' we all ist laugh when he drives out our little old wobblely calf; an' nen--ef our hired girl says he can-- he milks the cows fer 'lizabuth ann.-- ain't he a' awful good raggedy man? raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! w'y, the raggedy man--he's ist so good, he splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; an' nen he spades in our garden, too, an' does most things 'at _boys_ can't do.-- he clumbed clean up in our big tree an' shocked a' apple down fer me-- an' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'lizabuth ann-- an' 'nother 'n', too, fer the raggedy man.-- ain't he a' awful kind raggedy man? raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! an' the raggedy man one time say he pick' roast' rambos from a' orchard-tree, an' et 'em--all ist roas' an' hot! an' it's so, too!--'cause a corn-crib got afire one time an' all burn' down on "the smoot farm," 'bout four mile from town-- on "the smoot farm"! yes--an' the hired han' 'at worked there nen 'uz the raggedy man! ain't he the beanin'est raggedy man? raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! the raggedy man's so good an' kind he'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind ever'thing 'at you make him do-- an' won't run off--'less you want him to! i drived him wunst 'way down our lane an' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain, an' ist rared up an' squealed and run purt' nigh away!--an' it's all in fun! nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can. whoa! y' old runaway raggedy man! raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! an' the raggedy man, he knows most rhymes, an' tells 'em, ef i be good, sometimes: knows 'bout giants, an' griffuns, an' elves, an' the squidgicum-squees 'at swallers the'rselves! an', wite by the pump la our pasture-lot, he showed me the hole 'at the wunks is got, 'at lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can turn into me, er 'lizabuth ann! er ma, er pa, er the raggedy man! ain't he a funny old raggedy man? raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! an' wunst when the raggedy man come late, an' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate, he 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said, "old bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!" an' race' an' chase' em, an' they'd ist run when he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun an' go "bang!-bang!" nen 'tend he stan' an' load up his gun ag'in! raggedy man! he's an old bear-shooter raggedy man! raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! an' sometimes the raggedy man lets on we're little prince-children, an' old king's gone to get more money, an' lef us there-- and robbers is ist thick ever'where; an' nen-ef we all won't cry, fer shore-- the raggedy man he'll come and "splore the castul-halls," an' steal the "gold"-- and steal us, too, an' grab an' hold an' pack us off to his old "cave"!-an' haymow's the "cave" o' the raggedy man!-- raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! the raggedy man--one time, when he wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me, says "when you're big like your pa is, air you go' to keep a fine store like his-- an' be a rich merchunt--an' wear fine clothes?-- er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?" an' nen he laughed at 'lizabuth ann, an' i says "'m go' to be a raggedy man!-- i'm ist go' to be a nice raggedy man!" raggedy! raggedy! raggedy man! _james whitcomb riley._ maud muller maud muller, on a summer's day, raked the meadow sweet with hay. beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth of simple beauty and rustic health. singing, she wrought, and her merry glee the mock-bird echoed from his tree. but when she glanced to the far-off town, white from its hill-slope looking down, the sweet song died, and a vague unrest and a nameless longing filled her breast,-- a wish, that she hardly dared to own, for something better than she had known. the judge rode slowly down the lane, smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. he drew his bridle in the shade of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, and asked a draught from the spring that flowed through the meadow across the road. she stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, and filled for him her small tin cup, and blushed as she gave it, looking down on her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "thanks!" said the judge; "a sweeter draught from a fairer hand was never quaffed." he spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, of the singing birds and the humming' bees; then talked of the haying, and wondered whether the cloud in the west would bring foul weather. and maud forgot her brier-torn gown, and her graceful ankles bare and brown; and listened, while a pleased surprise looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. at last, like one who for delay seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. maud muller looked and sighed: "ah, me! that i the judge's bride might be! "he would dress me up in silks so fine, and praise and toast me at his wine. "my father should wear a broadcloth coat; my brother should sail a painted boat. "i'd dress my mother, so grand and gay, and the baby should have a new toy each day. "and i'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, and all should bless me who left our door." the judge looked back as he climbed the hill, and saw maud muller standing still. "a form more fair, a face more sweet. ne'er hath it been my lot to meet, "and her modest answer and graceful air show her wise and good as she is fair. "would she were mine, and i to-day, like her, a harvester of hay: "no doubtful balance of rights and, wrongs nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "but low of cattle and song of birds, and health and quiet and loving words." but he thought of his sisters proud and cold, and his mother vain of her rank and gold. so, closing his heart, the judge rode on, and maud was left in the field alone. but the lawyers smiled that afternoon, when he hummed in court an old love-tune; and the young girl mused beside the well till the rain on the unraked clover fell. he wedded a wife of richest dower, who lived for fashion, as he for power. yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, he watched a picture come and go; and sweet maud muller's hazel eyes looked out in their innocent surprise. oft, when the wine in his glass was red, he longed for the wayside well instead; and closed his eyes on his garnished rooms to dream of meadows and clover-blooms. and the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "ah, that i were free again! "free as when i rode that day, where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." she wedded a man unlearned and poor, and many children played round her door. but care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, left their traces on heart and brain. and oft, when the summer sun shone hot on the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, and she heard the little spring brook fall over the roadside, through the wall, in the shade of the apple-tree again she saw a rider draw his rein. and, gazing down with timid grace, she felt his pleased eyes read her face. sometimes her narrow kitchen walls stretched away into stately halls; the weary wheel to a spinnet turned, the tallow candle an astral burned, and for him who sat by the chimney lug, dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, a manly form at her side she saw, and joy was duty and love was law. then she took up her burden of life again, saying only, "it might have been." alas for maiden, alas for judge, for rich repiner and household drudge! god pity them both! and pity us all, who vainly the dreams of youth recall. for of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: "it might have been!" ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies deeply buried from human eyes; and, in the hereafter, angels may roll the stone from its grave away! _john g. whittier._ sister and i we were hunting for wintergreen berries, one may-day, long gone by, out on the rocky cliff's edge, little sister and i. sister had hair like the sunbeams; black as a crow's wing, mine; sister had blue, dove's eyes; wicked, black eyes are mine. why, see how my eyes are faded-- and my hair, it is white as snow! and thin, too! don't you see it is? i tear it sometimes; so! there, don't hold my hands, maggie, i don't feel like tearing it now; but--where was i in my story? oh, i was telling you how we were looking for wintergreen berries; 'twas one bright morning in may, and the moss-grown rocks were slippery with the rains of yesterday. but i was cross that morning, though the sun shone ever so bright-- and when sister found the most berries, i was angry enough to fight! and when she laughed at my pouting-- we were little things, you know-- i clinched my little fist up tight, and struck her the biggest blow! i struck her--i tell you--i struck her, and she fell right over below-- there, there, maggie, i won't rave now; you needn't hold me so-- she went right over, i tell you, down, down to the depths below! 'tis deep and dark and horrid there where the waters flow! she fell right over, moaning, "bessie, oh, bessie!" so sad, that, when i looked down affrighted, it drove me _mad--mad_! only her golden hair streaming out on the rippling wave, only her little hand reaching up, for someone to save; and she sank down in the darkness, i never saw her again, and this is a chaos of blackness and darkness and grief since then. no more playing together down on the pebbly strand; nor building our dolls stone castles with halls and parlors grand; no more fishing with bent pins, in the little brook's clear waves; no more holding funerals o'er dead canaries' graves; no more walking together to the log schoolhouse each morn; no more vexing the master with putting his rules to scorn; no more feeding of white lambs with milk from the foaming pail; no more playing "see-saw" over the fence of rail; no more telling of stories after we've gone to bed; nor talking of ghosts and goblins till we fairly shiver with dread; no more whispering fearfully and hugging each other tight, when the shutters shake and the dogs howl in the middle of the night; no more saying "our father," kneeling by mother's knee-- for, maggie, i _struck_ sister! and mother is dead, you see. maggie, sister's an angel, isn't she? isn't it true? for angels have golden tresses and eyes like sister's, blue? now _my_ hair isn't golden, my eyes aren't blue, you see-- now tell me, maggie, if i were to die, could they make an angel of me? you say, "oh, yes"; you think so? well, then, when i come to die, we'll play up there, in god's garden-- we'll play there, sister and i. now, maggie, you needn't eye me because i'm talking so queer; because i'm talking so strangely; you needn't have the least fear, somehow i'm feeling to-night, maggie, as i never felt before-- i'm sure, i'm sure of it, maggie, i never shall rave any more. maggie, you know how these long years i've heard her calling, so sad, "bessie, oh, bessie!" so mournful? it always drives me _mad_! how the winter wind shrieks down the chimney, "bessie, oh, bessie!" oh! oh! how the south wind wails at the casement, "bessie, oh, bessie!" so low, but most of all when the may-days come back, with the flowers and the sun, how the night-bird, singing, all lonely, "bessie, oh, bessie!" doth moan; you know how it sets me raving-- for _she_ moaned, "_oh, bessie!_" just so, that time i _struck_ little sister, on the may-day long ago! now, maggie, i've something to tell you-- you know may-day is here-- well, this very morning, at sunrise, the robins chirped "bessie!" so clear-- all day long the wee birds singing, perched on the garden wall, called "bessie, oh, bessie!" so sweetly, i couldn't feel sorry at all. now, maggie, i've something to tell you-- let me lean up to you close-- do you see how the sunset has flooded the heavens with yellow and rose? do you see o'er the gilded cloud mountains sister's golden hair streaming out? do you see her little hand beckoning? do you hear her little voice calling out "bessie, oh, bessie!" so gladly, "bessie, oh, bessie! come, haste"? yes, sister, i'm coming; i'm coming, to play in god's garden at last! generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) fairy's album copyright, o. m. dunham cassell & company, limited, london, paris & new york. [illustration] fairy's album with rhymes of fairyland. [illustration] cassell & company, limited: _london, paris & new york_ [illustration] [illustration] _contents._ fairy's album the old woman who lived in a shoe fairy's friends peace and war fairy's dream [illustration] fairy's album. [illustration: fairy's album. with rhymes of fairyland. cassell & company, limited: _london, paris & new york_] this is fairy's album. this is fairy, bright as spring, loving every living thing with a love so sweet and true, that all creatures love her too! this is fairy, bright as spring, in fairy's album. [illustration] this is fairy, wondrous wise, sunshine laughing in her eyes, who will prattle on for hours to the brooks and trees and flowers, to the birds and butterflies, to all creatures 'neath the skies, understanding all they say in a curious sort of way! this is fairy, wondrous wise, in fairy's album. [illustration] this is fairy fanciful, never moping, never dull, for her mind is amply stored with an overflowing hoard of the tales of fairy times, and of quaint old nursery rhymes, so that she can always find good companions when inclined! this is fairy fanciful, in fairy's album. the old woman who lived in a shoe. this is a rhyme of ancient time of a certain old woman who lived in a shoe, and had so many children she didn't know what to do: fairy knows her, and says it's true. [illustration] this is the shoe. and this is the dame without a name, who lived in the shoe. [illustration] these are the children, quite a score-- perhaps one less, perhaps one more-- who worried the dame without a name, who lived in the shoe. [illustration] this is the broth so weak and thin, with never a bit of bread therein, made for the children, quite a score-- perhaps one less, perhaps one more-- who worried the dame without a name, who lived in the shoe. [illustration] [illustration] this is the stick so long and thick, that followed the broth so weak and thin, with never a bit of bread therein, made for the children, quite a score-- perhaps one less, perhaps one more-- who worried the dame without a name, who lived in the shoe. this is the bed within the shoe, that the children got in, two by two, urged by the stick so long and thick, that followed the broth so weak and thin, with never a bit of bread therein, made for the children, quite a score-- [illustration] perhaps one less, perhaps one more-- who worried the dame without a name, who lived in the shoe. and this is the end of a tale that is true, of a wonderful bed in a wonderful shoe, that the children got in, two by two, urged by the stick so long and thick, that followed the broth so weak and thin, with never a bit of bread therein, made for the children, quite a score-- perhaps one less, perhaps one more-- who worried the dame without a name, who lived in the shoe. [illustration] fairy's friends. these are some of fairy's friends. [illustration] this is little miss bo-peep, she who often lost her sheep, went home weeping sore, and found all her flock there safe and sound! this is little miss bo-peep-- one of fairy's friends. [illustration] [illustration] this is jack, and this is jill, who went forth their pail to fill, and came tumbling down the hill! fairy says they do it still, this strange couple--jack and jill-- and they're fairy's friends. this is lazy young boy-blue, dull in all he had to do: often fairy and bo-peep found him lying fast asleep, heedless of his cows and sheep! this is lazy young boy-blue-- one of fairy's friends. [illustration] [illustration] this is wonderful dame hubbard-- name that always rhymes with cupboard-- ever going out to buy something for her dog so sly, who would oft her patience try! this is wonderful dame hubbard-- one of fairy's friends. this is master simple simon: every day he meets a pie-man; every day, so runs the tale, he will try to catch a whale, fishing in his mother's pail! this is master simple simon-- one of fairy's friends. [illustration] [illustration] this is puss-in-boots, so clever, in all dangers ready ever, in his labours failing never: puss-in-boots, who has a name noted on the rolls of fame! this is puss-in-boots, so clever-- one of fairy's friends. [illustration] [illustration] this is giant-killing jack, with his bugle on his back, with his sword so keen and bright, ready ever foes to smite! this is giant-killing jack-- one of fairy's friends. this, too, is that other jack-- he who, fearless of attack, dared the magic stalk to climb, facing giants many a time! this is master bean-stalk jack-- one of fairy's friends. [illustration] [illustration] this is just a little gnome, one of those that make their home in the mines beneath the ground where the precious gold is found! this is just a little gnome-- one of fairy's friends. [illustration] this is master johnnie horner, sitting crying in a corner; many stop and ask him why, and to all he makes reply, "'cause no plums are in the pie!" this is selfish johnnie horner-- worst of fairy's friends. [illustration] this is cinderella sweet, with her slippers on her feet: cinderella at the ball, cinderella loved by all! this is cinderella sweet-- best of fairy's friends. this is where the story ends of miss fairy's many friends: others--fairies, gnomes, and elves-- you can think of for yourselves! this is where the story ends of fairy's friends. peace and war. fairy, when she was not dreaming, fairy, when she was not scheming wondrous tales of gnome and elf, oft drew pictures for herself, fanciful as they could be: two are here for you to see. this is peace: a little maiden who has gleaned all through the day, going home with arms well laden, when the sunlight fades away. [illustration] [illustration] this is war: a baby brother threatened by a wasp that stings, getting ready soon to smother that fierce yellow thing with wings. fairy's dream fairy fell asleep one day with her album in her hand, and she dreamt she lost her way on the edge of fairyland. there she met a little man. quaintly dressed, with cap and bells: [illustration] "read," he said, "miss, if you can, all the words the sign-post tells. "though your album you may fill with our portraits, understand hundreds more await you still here in wondrous fairyland." [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] sweets for leisure hours. _embellished with neat coloured engravings._ [illustration] london: printed and sold by dean & munday, threadneedle-street. _price six-pence._ * * * * * [illustration: frontispiece.] sweets for leisure hours. embellished with sixteen neatly coloured engravings. [illustration] london: printed and sold by dean and munday, threadneedle-street. _price six-pence._ * * * * * the frozen bird. [illustration] see, see, what a sweet little prize i have found! a robin that lay half-benumbed on the ground: well hous'd and well fed, in your cage you will sing, and make our dull winter as gay as the spring. but stay,--sure 'tis cruel, with wings made to soar, to be shut up in prison, and never fly more-- and i, who so often have long'd for a flight, shall i keep you prisoner?--mamma, is that right? no, come, pretty robin, i must set you free-- for your whistle, though sweet, would sound sadly to me. mamma and the baby. [illustration] what a little thing am i! hardly higher than the table; i can eat, and play, and cry, but to work i am not able. nothing in the world i know, but mamma will try and show me; sweet mamma, i love her so, she's so very kind unto me. and she sets me on her knee very often for some kisses: o! how good i'll try to be, to such a dear mamma as this is! the dutiful son. [illustration] poor susan was old and too feeble to spin, her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin; and she must have starv'd, as so many have done, if she had not been bless'd with a good little son. he went every morning, as gay as a lark, and work'd all day long in the fields till 'twas dark, then came home again to his dear mother's cot, and joyfully gave her the wages he got. oh then, was not little jem happier far than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are? for, as long as he liv'd, 'twas his comfort and joy, to think he'd not been an undutiful boy. the chimney-sweeper. [illustration] whilst you are asleep, the poor little sweep at the dawning of morning must go, with brushes and bags, and cloth'd all in rags, in the winter, thro' frost and thro' snow. we're oblig'd, i am sure, for what they endure, to save us from smoke and from fire; and often i weep to think that the sweep must do such sad work for his hire. then we'll keep in mind, that the sweep's very kind, for us such a service to do, and never feel fright when he comes in our sight, because of his dark sooty hue. tumble up. [illustration] tumble down, tumble up, never mind it, my sweet, no, no, never beat the poor ground; 'twas your fault you could not stand straight on your feet, fall you will, if you twirl yourself round. oh dear! what a noise:--will a noise make it well? will crying wash bruises away? suppose that it should bleed a little, and swell, 'twill all be gone down in a day. that's right; be a man, love, and dry up your tears, come, smile, and i'll give you a kiss; if you live in the world but a very few years, you must bear greater troubles than this. a walk to the meadows. [illustration] we'll go to the meadow, where cowslips do grow, and buttercups looking as yellow as gold; and the daisies and violets beginning to blow, for it is a most beautiful sight to behold. the honey-bee humming about there is seen, the butterfly merrily skims it along; the grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green, and the linnet there sings us his liveliest song. the birds and the insects are happy and gay; the beasts of the field all are glad, and rejoice; we, too, will be thankful to god every day, and praise his great name in a loftier voice. the old man's comforts. [illustration] "you are old, father william," a young man did say, "and life must be hast'ning away; you are cheerful, and love to converse upon death: now tell me the reason, i pray." "i am cheerful, young man," father william replied, "let the cause thy attention engage: in the days of my youth i remember'd my god, and he hath not forgotten my age." contentment. [illustration] no glory i covet, nor riches i want, ambition is nothing to me; the one thing i beg of kind heaven to grant, is a mind independent and free. with passion unruffled, untainted with pride, by reason my life let me square; the wants of my nature are cheaply supplied; and the rest is but folly and care. the blessing which providence kindly has lent i'll justly and gratefully prize; while sweet meditation and cheerful content shall make me both healthful and wise. morning hymn. [illustration] my father, i thank thee for sleep, for quiet and peaceable rest; i thank thee for stooping to keep an infant from being distrest. my voice shall be lisping thy praise, my heart would repay thee with love; o teach me to walk in thy ways, and fit me to see thee above. as long as thou seest it right that here upon earth i should stay, i pray thee to guard me by night, and help me to serve thee by day. evening hymn. [illustration] the sun that lately fill'd the skies with all his sparkling rays, now hides his glories from our eyes, and night comes on apace. and now to him who made the sun, the world by day to light, who gave the gentler moon to cheer the still and gloomy night. to him, o let my willing tongue send up the grateful strain; and let my heart join with the song, or all my praise is vain. to bless, is to be blest. [illustration] when young, what honest triumph flush'd my breast, this truth once known,--to bless, is to be blest! i led the bending beggar on his way; (bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey;) soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, and on his tale with mute attention dwelt. as in his script i dropp'd my little store, i griev'd to think that little was no more; he breath'd his pray'r,--"long may such goodness live!" 'twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. the little mouse. [illustration] in this neat little house liv'd a poor little mouse, he had plenty to eat every day; till, enticed by another, without leave of his mother, he ventured one day out to play. but the cat he soon spied, as he walk'd the bank-side, and soon of his folly repented. she put out her paw, seized him with her claw, and eat him before she relented. love to god produces love to men. [illustration] let gratitude in acts of goodness flow; our love to god, in love to man below. be this our joy--to calm the troubled breast, support the weak, and succour the distrest; direct the wand'rer, dry the widow's tear; the orphan guard, the sinking spirits cheer. tho' small our pow'r to act, tho' mean our skill, god sees the heart;--he judges by the will. true kindness. [illustration] "pray help me, young master," an old woman cried, who many an effort successlessly tried, across some rough pavement to go; "for i'm very lame, and besides, almost blind, and so, without danger, my way i can't find; you'll help a poor woman, i know." "with great pleasure i will," the little boy said, "come, lean on my shoulder, and be not afraid, i'm able to help you, indeed; and i'm sure i am willing, for i have been taught, that if, my good dame, i would do as i ought, i must help all i can, who're in need." * * * * * popular tales, published by dean & munday, threadneedle-street. _six-pence each._ ali baba, or the forty thieves; coloured frontispiece. aladdin, or the wonderful lamp, an eastern tale; with coloured frontispiece. beauty and the beast, or the magic rose; an entertaining fairy tale; with coloured frontispiece. children in the wood; with four coloured plates. cinderella, and the pretty glass slipper; with four coloured engravings. entertaining history of goody two shoes; with coloured frontispiece, and ten engravings on wood. jack and the bean stalk; with coloured frontispiece. jack the giant killer; coloured frontispiece. little thumb and the ogre, or the seven league boots; four coloured engravings. mother bunch's fairy tales; coloured frontispiece. peter puzzle-all's riddle book, an amusing collection of riddles, charades, &c.; coloured frontispiece. sleeping beauty in the wood, and little red riding hood; with coloured frontispiece; and ten engravings on wood. adventures of the seven champions of christendom; with coloured frontispiece. seven voyages of sinbad the sailor; with coloured frontispiece. tom thumb, and puss in boots; coloured frontispiece. valentine and orson, or the wild man of the woods; with coloured frontispiece. entertaining history of whittington and his cat; with coloured frontispiece. [illustration] the bad child's book of beasts verses by h. belloc pictures by b. t. b. duckworth, henrietta street, covent garden child! do not throw this book about; refrain from the unholy pleasure of cutting all the pictures out! preserve it as your chiefest treasure. child, have you never heard it said that you are heir to all the ages? why, then, your hands were never made to tear these beautiful thick pages! your little hands were made to take the better things and leave the worse ones. they also may be used to shake the massive paws of elder persons. and when your prayers complete the day, darling, your little tiny hands were also made, i think, to pray for men that lose their fairylands. _made and printed in great britain by the camelot press limited, london and southampton_ dedication to master evelyn bell of oxford evelyn bell, i love you well. [illustration] introduction i call you bad, my little child, upon the title page, because a manner rude and wild is common at your age. the moral of this priceless work (if rightly understood) will make you--from a little turk-- unnaturally good. do not as evil children do, who on the slightest grounds will imitate the kangaroo, with wild unmeaning bounds: [illustration] do not as children badly bred, who eat like little hogs, and when they have to go to bed will whine like puppy dogs: who take their manners from the ape, their habits from the bear, indulge the loud unseemly jape, and never brush their hair. but so control your actions that your friends may all repeat. 'this child is dainty as the cat, and as the owl discreet.' [illustration] the yak [illustration] as a friend to the children commend me the yak. you will find it exactly the thing: it will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, [illustration] or lead it about with a string. [illustration] the tartar who dwells on the plains of thibet (a desolate region of snow) has for centuries made it a nursery pet, and surely the tartar should know! [illustration] [illustration] then tell your papa where the yak can be got, and if he is awfully rich he will buy you the creature-- or else he will _not_. (i cannot be positive which.) [illustration] the polar bear the polar bear is unaware of cold that cuts me through: for why? he has a coat of hair. i wish i had one too! [illustration] the lion the lion, the lion, he dwells in the waste, he has a big head and a very small waist; but his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim, and a good little child will not play with him. [illustration] the tiger the tiger on the other hand, is kittenish and mild, he makes a pretty playfellow for any little child; and mothers of large families (who claim to common sense) will find a tiger well repay the trouble and expense. [illustration] the dromedary the dromedary is a cheerful bird: i cannot say the same about the kurd. [illustration] the whale [illustration] the whale that wanders round the pole is not a table fish. you cannot bake or boil him whole nor serve him in a dish; [illustration] [illustration] but you may cut his blubber up and melt it down for oil. and so replace the colza bean (a product of the soil). [illustration] these facts should all be noted down and ruminated on, by every boy in oxford town who wants to be a don. [illustration] the camel [illustration] "the ship of the desert." the hippopotamus [illustration] i shoot the hippopotamus with bullets made of platinum, because if i use leaden ones his hide is sure to flatten 'em. [illustration] the dodo [illustration] the dodo used to walk around, and take the sun and air. the sun yet warms his native ground-- [illustration] the dodo is not there! [illustration] the voice which used to squawk and squeak is now for ever dumb-- [illustration] yet may you see his bones and beak all in the mu-se-um. the marmozet the species man and marmozet are intimately linked; the marmozet survives as yet, but men are all extinct. [illustration] the camelopard [illustration] the camelopard, it is said by travellers (who never lie), he cannot stretch out straight in bed because he is so high. the clouds surround his lofty head, his hornlets touch the sky. [illustration] how shall i hunt this quadruped? i cannot tell! not i! (a picture of how people try and fail to hit that head so high.) i'll buy a little parachute (a common parachute with wings), i'll fill it full of arrowroot and other necessary things, and i will slay this fearful brute with stones and sticks and guns and slings. [illustration] (a picture of how people shoot with comfort from a parachute.) [illustration] the learned fish [illustration] this learned fish has not sufficient brains to go into the water when it rains. the elephant [illustration] when people call this beast to mind, they marvel more and more at such a +_little_+ tail behind, so _large_ a trunk before. [illustration] [illustration] the big baboon [illustration] the big baboon is found upon the plains of cariboo: he goes about with nothing on (a shocking thing to do). [illustration] [illustration] but if he dressed respectably and let his whiskers grow, how like this big baboon would be to mister so-and-so! [illustration] the rhinoceros [illustration] rhinoceros, your hide looks all undone, you do not take my fancy in the least: you have a horn where other brutes have none: rhinoceros, you are an ugly beast. [illustration] the frog [illustration] be kind and tender to the frog, and do not call him names, as 'slimy skin,' or 'polly-wog,' or likewise 'ugly james,' or 'gap-a-grin,' or 'toad-gone-wrong,' or 'bill bandy-knees': the frog is justly sensitive to epithets like these. [illustration] no animal will more repay a treatment kind and fair; at least so lonely people say who keep a frog (and, by the way, they are extremely rare). [illustration] [illustration] oh! my! * * * * * transcriber's note: the original edition was well-illustrated. the illustrations were scattered amongst the poetry. for ease of readability, the poems have been put back together with every effort of retaining the original style. for the poem titled "the elephant," a word in small-capitals is denoted by +. as usual, italics are indicated by _. more beasts for worse children [illustration] more beasts (for worse children) verses by h.b. pictures by b.t.b. london: duckworth and co. henrietta street, covent garden. dedication. to miss alice wolcott brinley, of philadelphia. [illustration] more beasts for worse children introduction the parents of the learned child (his father and his mother) were utterly aghast to note the facts he would at random quote on creatures curious, rare and wild; and wondering, asked each other: [illustration] "an idle little child like this, how is it that he knows what years of close analysis are powerless to disclose? our brains are trained, our books are big, and yet we always fail to answer why the guinea-pig is born without a tail. [illustration] or why the wanderoo[a] should rant in wild, unmeaning rhymes, whereas the indian elephant will only read _the times_. [illustration] [illustration] perhaps he found a way to slip unnoticed to the zoo, and gave the pachyderm a tip, or pumped the wanderoo. or even by an artful plan deceived our watchful eyes, and interviewed the pelican, who is extremely wise." [illustration] "oh! no," said he, in humble tone, with shy but conscious look, "such facts i never could have known but for this little book." the python [illustration] a python i should not advise,-- it needs a doctor for its eyes, and has the measles yearly. [illustration] however, if you feel inclined to get one (to improve your mind, and not from fashion merely), allow no music near its cage; and when it flies into a rage chastise it, most severely. [illustration] [illustration] i had an aunt in yucatan who bought a python from a man and kept it for a pet. she died, because she never knew these simple little rules and few;-- [illustration] the snake is living yet. the welsh mutton [illustration] the cambrian welsh or mountain sheep is of the ovine race, his conversation is not deep, but then--observe his face! the porcupine [illustration] what! would you slap the porcupine? unhappy child--desist! alas! that any friend of mine should turn tupto-philist.[b] [illustration] to strike the meanest and the least of creatures is a sin, how much more bad to beat a beast with prickles on its skin. [illustration] footnotes: [a] sometimes called the "lion-tailed or tufted baboon of ceylon." [b] from [greek: tuptô]=i strike; [greek: phileô]=i love; one that loves to strike. the word is not found in classical greek, nor does it occur among the writers of the renaissance--nor anywhere else. the scorpion [illustration] the scorpion is as black as soot, he dearly loves to bite; he is a most unpleasant brute to find in bed, at night. the crocodile [illustration] whatever our faults, we can always engage that no fancy or fable shall sully our page, so take note of what follows, i beg. this creature so grand and august in its age, in its youth is hatched out of an egg. [illustration] and oft in some far coptic town the missionary sits him down to breakfast by the nile: the heart beneath his priestly gown is innocent of guile; [illustration] when suddenly the rigid frown of panic is observed to drown his customary smile. [illustration] why does he start and leap amain, [illustration] and scour the sandy libyan plain [illustration] like one that wants to catch a train, [illustration] or wrestles with internal pain? [illustration] because he finds his egg contain-- green, hungry, horrible and plain-- an infant crocodile. the vulture [illustration] the vulture eats between his meals, and that's the reason why he very, very rarely feels as well as you and i. [illustration] his eye is dull, his head is bald, his neck is growing thinner. oh! what a lesson for us all to only eat at dinner! the bison [illustration] the bison is vain, and (i write it with pain) the door-mat you see on his head [illustration] is not, as some learned professors maintain, the opulent growth of a genius' brain; [illustration] but is sewn on with needle and thread. the viper [illustration] yet another great truth i record in my verse, that some vipers are venomous, some the reverse; a fact you may prove if you try, [illustration] by procuring two vipers, and letting them bite; [illustration] with the _first_ you are only the worse for a fright, [illustration] but after the _second_ you die. the llama [illustration] the llama is a woolly sort of fleecy hairy goat, with an indolent expression and an undulating throat like an unsuccessful literary man. [illustration] and i know the place he lives in (or at least--i think i do) it is ecuador, brazil or chili--possibly peru; you must find it in the atlas if you can. [illustration] the llama of the pampasses you never should confound (in spite of a deceptive similarity of sound) with the lhama who is lord of turkestan. [illustration] for the former is a beautiful and valuable beast, but the latter is not lovable nor useful in the least; and the ruminant is preferable surely to the priest who battens on the woful superstitions of the east, the mongol of the monastery of shan. the chamois [illustration] the chamois inhabits lucerne, where his habits (though why i have not an idea-r) give him sudden short spasms on the brink of deep chasms, and he lives in perpetual fear. the frozen mammoth [illustration] this creature, though rare, is still found to the east of the northern siberian zone. [illustration] it is known to the whole of that primitive group that the carcass will furnish an excellent soup, though the cooking it offers one drawback at least (of a serious nature i own): [illustration] if the skin be _but punctured_ before it is boiled, your confection is wholly and utterly spoiled. [illustration] and hence (on account of the size of the beast) the dainty is nearly unknown. the microbe [illustration] the microbe is so very small you cannot make him out at all, but many sanguine people hope to see him through a microscope. his jointed tongue that lies beneath a hundred curious rows of teeth; his seven tufted tails with lots of lovely pink and purple spots, [illustration] on each of which a pattern stands, composed of forty separate bands; his eyebrows of a tender green; all these have never yet been seen-- but scientists, who ought to know, assure us that they must be so. . . . oh! let us never, never doubt what nobody is sure about! cautionary tales for children cautionary tales for children _designed for the admonition of children between the ages of eight and fourteen years_ verses by h. belloc pictures by b. t. b. [illustration] duckworth henrietta street, london, w.c. first published by eveleigh nash, first published by gerald duckworth & co. ltd., thirteenth impression, _all rights reserved_ _made and printed in great britain by_ _thomas nelson and sons ltd_ _london and edinburgh_ dedicated to bobby, johnny, and eddie somerset introduction upon being asked by a reader whether the verses contained in this book were true. [illustration] and is it true? it is not true. and if it were it wouldn't do, for people such as me and you who pretty nearly all day long are doing something rather wrong. because if things were really so, you would have perished long ago, and i would not have lived to write the noble lines that meet your sight, nor b. t. b. survived to draw the nicest things you ever saw. h. b. * * * * * jim, _who ran away from his nurse, and was eaten by a lion._ [illustration] there was a boy whose name was jim; his friends were very good to him. they gave him tea, and cakes, and jam, and slices of delicious ham, and chocolate with pink inside, and little tricycles to ride, and [illustration] read him stories through and through, and even took him to the zoo-- but there it was the dreadful fate befell him, which i now relate. you know--at least you _ought_ to know. for i have often told you so-- that children never are allowed to leave their nurses in a crowd; now this was jim's especial foible, he ran away when he was able, and on this inauspicious day he slipped his hand and ran away! he hadn't gone a yard when-- [illustration] bang! with open jaws, a lion sprang, and hungrily began to eat the boy: beginning at his feet. now just imagine how it feels when first your toes and then your heels, and then by gradual degrees, your shins and ankles, calves and knees, are slowly eaten, bit by bit. [illustration] no wonder jim detested it! no wonder that he shouted "hi!" the honest keeper heard his cry, though very fat [illustration] he almost ran to help the little gentleman. "ponto!" he ordered as he came (for ponto was the lion's name), "ponto!" he cried, [illustration] with angry frown. "let go, sir! down, sir! put it down!" the lion made a sudden stop, he let the dainty morsel drop, and slunk reluctant to his cage, snarling with disappointed rage but when he bent him over jim, the honest keeper's [illustration] eyes were dim. the lion having reached his head, the miserable boy was dead! [illustration] when nurse informed his parents, they were more concerned than i can say:-- his mother, as she dried her eyes, said, "well--it gives me no surprise, he would not do as he was told!" his father, who was self-controlled, bade all the children round attend to james' miserable end, and always keep a-hold of nurse for fear of finding something worse. henry king, _who chewed bits of string, and was early cut off in dreadful agonies._ the chief defect of henry king was [illustration] chewing little bits of string. at last he swallowed some which tied itself in ugly knots inside. [illustration] physicians of the utmost fame were called at once; but when they came they answered, [illustration] as they took their fees, "there is no cure for this disease. henry will very soon be dead." his parents stood about his bed lamenting his untimely death, when henry, with his latest breath, cried-- "oh, my friends, be warned by me, [illustration] that breakfast, dinner, lunch and tea are all the human frame requires ..." with that the wretched child expires. matilda, _who told lies, and was burned to death._ matilda told such dreadful lies, [illustration] it made one gasp and stretch one's eyes; her aunt, who, from her earliest youth, had kept a strict regard for truth, [illustration] attempted to believe matilda: the effort very nearly killed her, and would have done so, had not she discovered this infirmity. for once, towards the close of day, matilda, growing tired of play, and finding she was left alone, went tiptoe [illustration] to the telephone and summoned the immediate aid of london's noble fire-brigade. within an hour the gallant band were pouring in on every hand, from putney, hackney downs and bow, with courage high and hearts a-glow they galloped, roaring through the town, [illustration] "matilda's house is burning down!" inspired by british cheers and loud proceeding from the frenzied crowd, they ran their ladders through a score of windows on the ball room floor; and took peculiar pains to souse the pictures up and down the house, [illustration] until matilda's aunt succeeded in showing them they were not needed and even then she had to pay to get the men to go away! * * * it happened that a few weeks later her aunt was off to the theatre to see that interesting play _the second mrs. tanqueray._ [illustration] she had refused to take her niece to hear this entertaining piece: a deprivation just and wise to punish her for telling lies. that night a fire _did_ break out-- you should have heard matilda shout! you should have heard her scream and bawl, and throw the window up and call to people passing in the street-- (the rapidly increasing heat encouraging her to obtain their confidence)--but all in vain! for every time she shouted "fire!" [illustration] they only answered "little liar!" and therefore when her aunt returned, matilda, and the house, were burned. [illustration] franklin hyde, _who caroused in the dirt and was corrected by his uncle._ [illustration] his uncle came on franklin hyde carousing in the dirt. he shook him hard from side to side and [illustration] hit him till it hurt, exclaiming, with a final thud, "take [illustration] that! abandoned boy! for playing with disgusting mud as though it were a toy!" moral from franklin hyde's adventure, learn to pass your leisure time in cleanly merriment, and turn from mud and ooze and slime and every form of nastiness-- but, on the other hand, children in ordinary dress may always play with sand. [illustration] godolphin horne, _who was cursed with the sin of pride, and became a boot-black._ [illustration] godolphin horne was nobly born; he held the human race in scorn, and lived with all his sisters where his father lived, in berkeley square. and oh! the lad was deathly proud! he never shook your hand or bowed, but merely smirked and nodded [illustration] thus: how perfectly ridiculous! alas! that such affected tricks should flourish in a child of six! (for such was young godolphin's age). just then, the court required a page, whereat [illustration] the lord high chamberlain (the kindest and the best of men), he went good-naturedly and [illustration] took a perfectly enormous book called _people qualified to be attendant on his majesty_, and murmured, as he scanned the list (to see that no one should be missed), "there's [illustration] william coutts has got the flue, [illustration] and billy higgs would never do, [illustration] and guy de vere is far too young, [illustration] and ... wasn't d'alton's father hung? and as for alexander byng!-- ... i think i know the kind of thing, a churchman, cleanly, nobly born, come let us say godolphin horne?" but hardly had he said the word when murmurs of dissent were heard. the king of iceland's eldest son said, "thank you! i am taking none!" the aged duchess of athlone remarked, in her sub-acid tone, "i doubt if he is what we need!" with which the bishops all agreed; and even lady mary flood (_so_ kind, and oh! so _really_ good) said, "no! he wouldn't do at all, he'd make us feel a lot too small," the chamberlain said, " ... well, well, well! no doubt you're right.... one cannot tell!" he took his gold and diamond pen and [illustration] scratched godolphin out again. so now godolphin is the boy who blacks the boots at the savoy. [illustration] algernon, _who played with a loaded gun, and, on missing his sister was reprimanded by his father._ young algernon, the doctor's son, was [illustration] playing with a loaded gun. he pointed it towards his sister, aimed very carefully, but [illustration] missed her! his father, who was standing near, [illustration] the loud explosion chanced to hear, [illustration] and reprimanded algernon for playing with a loaded gun. hildebrand, _who was frightened by a passing motor, and was brought to reason._ [illustration] "oh, murder! what was that, papa!" "my child, it was a motor-car, a most ingenious toy! [illustration] designed to captivate and charm much rather than to rouse alarm in any english boy. "what would your great grandfather who [illustration] was aide-de-camp to general brue, and lost a leg at [illustration] waterloo, and [illustration] quatre-bras and [illustration] ligny too! and died at trafalgar!-- [illustration] what would he have remarked to hear his young descendant shriek with fear, because he happened to be near a harmless motor-car! but do not fret about it! come! we'll off to town [illustration] and purchase some!" lord lundy, _who was too freely moved to tears, and thereby ruined his political career._ [illustration] lord lundy from his earliest years was far too freely moved to tears. for instance if his mother said, "lundy! it's time to go to bed!" he bellowed like a little turk. or if [illustration] his father lord dunquerque said "hi!" in a commanding tone, "hi, lundy! leave the cat alone!" lord lundy, letting go its tail, would raise so terrible a wail as moved his grandpapa the [illustration] duke to utter the severe rebuke: "when i, sir! was a little boy, an animal was not a toy!" his father's elder sister, who was married to a parvenoo, [illustration] confided to her husband, "drat! the miserable, peevish brat! why don't they drown the little beast?" suggestions which, to say the least, are not what we expect to hear from daughters of an english peer. his grandmamma, his mother's mother, who had some dignity or other, the garter, or no matter what, i can't remember all the lot! said "oh! that i were brisk and spry to give him that for which to cry!" (an empty wish, alas! for she [illustration] was blind and nearly ninety-three). the [illustration] dear old butler thought--but there! i really neither know nor care for what the dear old butler thought! in my opinion, butlers ought to know their place, and not to play the old retainer night and day i'm getting tired and so are you, let's cut the poem into two! * * * lord lundy (_second canto_) it happened to lord lundy then, as happens to so many men: towards the age of twenty-six, they shoved him into politics; in which profession he commanded the income that his rank demanded in turn as secretary for india, the colonies, and war. but very soon his friends began to doubt if he were quite the man: thus, if a member rose to say (as members do from day to day), [illustration] "arising out of that reply ...!" [illustration] lord lundy would begin to cry. a hint at harmless little jobs would shake him with convulsive sobs. while as for revelations, these would simply bring him to his knees, and leave him whimpering like a child. it drove his colleagues raving wild! they let him sink from post to post, from fifteen hundred at the most to eight, and barely six--and then to be curator of big ben!... and finally there came a threat to oust him from the cabinet! the duke--his aged grand-sire--bore the shame till he could bear no more. he rallied his declining powers, summoned the youth to brackley towers, and bitterly addressed him thus-- "sir! you have disappointed us! we had intended you to be the next prime minister but three: the stocks were sold; the press was squared: the middle class was quite prepared. but as it is!... my language fails! [illustration] go out and govern new south wales!" * * * the aged patriot groaned and died: and gracious! how lord lundy cried! [illustration] rebecca, _who slammed doors for fun and perished miserably._ a trick that everyone abhors in little girls is slamming doors. a [illustration] wealthy banker's little daughter [illustration] who lived in palace green, bayswater (by name rebecca offendort), was given to this furious sport. she would deliberately go [illustration] and slam the door like billy-ho! to make her [illustration] uncle jacob start. she was not really bad at heart, but only rather rude and wild: she was an aggravating child.... it happened that a marble bust of abraham was standing just above the door this little lamb had carefully prepared to slam, and down it came! it knocked her flat! it laid her out! she looked like that. [illustration] * * * her funeral sermon (which was long and followed by a sacred song) mentioned her virtues, it is true, but dwelt upon her vices too, and showed the dreadful end of one who goes and slams the door for fun. * * * the children who were brought to hear the awful tale from far and near were much impressed, and inly swore they never more would slam the door. --as often they had done before. [illustration] george, _who played with a dangerous toy, and suffered a catastrophe of considerable dimensions._ when george's grandmamma was told [illustration] that george had been as good as gold, she promised in the afternoon to buy him an _immense balloon_. and [illustration] so she did; but when it came, it got into the candle flame, and being of a dangerous sort exploded [illustration] with a loud report! the lights went out! the windows broke! the room was filled with reeking smoke. and in the darkness shrieks and yells were mingled with electric bells, and falling masonry and groans, and crunching, as of broken bones, and dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all, the house itself began to fall! it tottered, shuddering to and fro, then crashed into the street below-- which happened to be savile row. * * * when help arrived, among the dead [illustration] were cousin mary, [illustration] little fred, [illustration] the footmen [illustration] (both of them), [illustration] the groom, [illustration] the man that cleaned the billiard-room, [illustration] the chaplain, and [illustration] the still-room maid. and i am dreadfully afraid that monsieur champignon, the chef, will now be [illustration] permanently deaf-- and both his aides [illustration] are much the same; while george, who was in part to blame, received, you will regret to hear, a nasty lump [illustration] behind the ear. moral the moral is that little boys should not be given dangerous toys. charles augustus fortescue, _who always did what was right, and so accumulated an immense fortune._ the nicest child i ever knew was charles augustus fortescue. he never lost his cap, or tore his stockings or his pinafore: in eating bread he made no crumbs, he was extremely fond of sums, [illustration] to which, however, he preferred the parsing of a latin word-- he sought, when it was in his power, for information twice an hour, and as for finding mutton-fat unappetising, far from that! he often, at his father's board, would beg them, of his own accord, [illustration] to give him, if they did not mind, the greasiest morsels they could find-- his later years did not belie the promise of his infancy. in public life he always tried to take a judgment broad and wide; [illustration] in private, none was more than he renowned for quiet courtesy. he rose at once in his career, and long before his fortieth year had wedded fifi, [illustration] only child of bunyan, first lord aberfylde. he thus became immensely rich, and built the splendid mansion which is called [illustration] _"the cedars, muswell hill,"_ where he resides in affluence still to show what everybody might become by simply doing right. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) transcriber's note: archaic and variable spelling was preserved as printed. missing quotation marks were added to standardize usage. otherwise, the editor's punctuation style was preserved. authors' and first lines' indices were updated to match the poems. as noted in the preface, some poems have been altered from the original by patmore for content and length. special notation: text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). emphasized text within italics is enclosed by plus signs (+emphasized text+). text in bold face is enclosed by equal signs (=bold=). golden treasury series the children's garland from the best poets selected and arranged by coventry patmore [illustration] london macmillan and co. and new york _first edition printed (dated ). reprinted with corrections, and index added, +february+ . reprinted with corrections, . reprinted , , , , , +march+ and +august+ , , , , ._ preface this volume will, i hope, be found to contain nearly all the genuine poetry in our language fitted to please children,--of and from the age at which they have usually learned to read,--in common with grown people. a collection on this plan has, i believe, never before been made, although the value of the principle seems clear. the test applied, in every instance, in the work of selection, has been that of having actually pleased intelligent children; and my object has been to make a book which shall be to them no more nor less than a book of equally good poetry is to intelligent grown persons. the charm of such a book to the latter class of readers is rather increased than lessened by the surmised existence in it of an unknown amount of power, meaning and beauty, beyond that which is at once to be seen; and children will not like this volume the less because, though containing little or nothing which will not at once please and amuse them, it also contains much, the full excellence of which they may not as yet be able to understand. the application of the practical test above mentioned has excluded nearly all verse written expressly for children, and most of the poetry written about children for grown people. hence, the absence of several well-known pieces, which some persons who examine this volume may be surprised at not finding in it. i have taken the liberty of omitting portions of a few poems, which would else have been too long or otherwise unsuitable for the collection; and, in a very few instances, i have ventured to substitute a word or a phrase, when that of the author has made the piece in which it occurs unfit for children's reading. the abbreviations i have been compelled to make in the "ancient mariner," in order to bring that poem within the limits of this collection, are so considerable as to require particular mention and apology. no translations have been inserted but such as, by their originality of style and modification of detail, are entitled to stand as original poems. coventry patmore. index of first lines page a barking sound the shepherd hears a chieftain to the highlands bound a country life is sweet a fox, in life's extreme decay a fragment of a rainbow bright a lion cub, of sordid mind a nightingale that all day long a parrot, from the spanish main a perilous life, and sad as life may be a widow bird sate mourning for her love a wonder stranger ne'er was known abou ben adhem (may his tribe increase) ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight among the dwellings framed by birds an ancient story i'll tell you anon an old song made by an aged old pate an outlandish knight came from the north lands art thou the bird whom man loves best as i a fare had lately past as it fell upon a day as in the sunshine of the morn at dead of night, when mortals lose attend all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise before the stout harvesters falleth the grain beside the moldau's rushing stream clear had the day been from the dawn close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast come dear children, let us away come listen to me, you gallants so free come live with me and be my love come unto these yellow sands did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare do you ask what the birds say? the sparrow, the dove faintly as tolls the evening chime fair daffodils, we weep to see full fathom five thy father lies gentlefolks, in my time, i've made many a rhyme good-bye, good-bye to summer good people all, of every sort hail, beauteous stranger of the grove half a league, half a league hamelin town's in brunswick happy insect! what can be her arms across her breast she laid here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue ho, sailor of the sea how beautiful is the rain i am monarch of all i survey i come from haunts of coot and hern i had a dove, and the sweet dove died i sail'd from the downs in the _nancy_ i sprang to the stirrup, and joris and he i wander'd by the brook-side if all the world was apple-pie in ancient times, as story tells in distant countries have i been in her ear he whispers gaily in the hollow tree in the grey old tower into the sunshine it chanced upon a winter's day it is an ancient mariner it is not growing like a tree it was a summer evening it was the schooner _hesperus_ i've watch'd you now a full half-hour jaffar, the barmecide, the good vizier jenny wren fell sick john bull for pastime took a prance john gilpin was a citizen king lear once ruled in this land lady alice was sitting in her bower window laid in my quiet bed in study as i were little ellie sits alone little white lily lord thomas he was a bold forester mary-ann was alone with her baby in arms my banks they are furnished with bees my heart leaps up when i behold napoleon's banners at boulogne no stir in the air, no stir in the sea now ponder well, you parents dear now the bright morning star, day's harbinger now the hungry lion roars 'now, woman, why without your veil?' o mary, go and call the cattle home o listen, listen, ladies gay o say what is that thing called light o sing unto my roundelay o then, i see, queen mab hath been with you o where have ye been, lord randal, my son? o where have you been, my long, long, love o, young lochinvar is come out of the west oft i had heard of lucy gray oh, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer oh, to be in england oh! what's the matter? what's the matter old stories tell how hercules on his morning rounds the master on the green banks of shannon when sheelah was nigh once on a time a rustic dame once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary one day, it matters not to know one morning (raw it was and wet) open the door, some pity to show our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd piping down the valleys wild proud maisie is in the wood remember us poor mayers all see the kitten on the wall seven daughters had lord archibald shepherds all, and maidens fair sir john got him an ambling nag some will talk of bold robin hood spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold the boy stood on the burning deck the cock is crowing the crafty nix, more false than fair the fox and the cat, as they travell'd one day the gorse is yellow on the heath the greenhouse is my summer seat the hollow winds begin to blow the knight had ridden down from wensley moor the mountain and the squirrel the noon was shady, and soft airs the ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded the post-boy drove with fierce career the stately homes of england the stream was as smooth as glass, we said, 'arise and let's away' the summer and autumn had been so wet the warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing the wildgrave winds his bugle horn there came a ghost to margaret's door there came a man, making his hasty moan there was a jovial beggar there was a little boy and a little girl there was an old woman, as i've heard tell there was three kings into the east there were three jovial welshmen there's that old hag moll brown, look, see, just past they glide upon their endless way they grew in beauty side by side three fishers went sailing away to the west three times, all in the dead of night thou that hast a daughter tiger, tiger, burning bright to grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall to sea! to sea! the calm is o'er toll for the brave tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said 'twas in the prime of summer time 'twas on a lofty vase's side under the green hedges after the snow under the greenwood tree underneath an old oak tree up the airy mountain up, timothy, up with your staff and away up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay upon a time a neighing steed when arthur first in court began when as king henry ruled this land when i remember'd again when i was still a boy and mother's pride when icicles hang by the wall when shall we three meet again when the british warrior queen whither, 'midst falling dew who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes will you hear a spanish lady with farmer allan at the farm abode within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush ye mariners of england year after year unto her feet 'you are old, father william,' the young man cried you beauteous ladies great and small you spotted snakes with double tongue young henry was as brave a youth contents i the child and the piper ii on may morning iii the approach of the fairies iv answer to a child's question v the brook vi stars vii the shepherd to his love viii the kitten and falling leaves ix the ferryman, venus, and cupid x song xi lucy gray, or solitude xii rain in summer xiii epitaph on a hare xiv abou ben adhem and the angel xv la belle dame sans mercy xvi winter xvii the inchcape rock xviii written in march xix lord randal xx john barleycorn xxi mary-ann's child xxii the useful plough xxiii a wren's nest xxiv a fine day xxv casabianca, a true story xxvi signs of rain xxvii how they brought the good news from ghent to aix xxviii the rainbow xxix the raven and the oak xxx ode to the cuckoo xxxi robin hood and allin a dale xxxii violets xxxiii the palmer xxxiv the forsaken merman xxxv the sands o' dee xxxvi the loss of the royal george xxxvii a sea dirge xxxviii the ancient mariner xxxix song of ariel xl how's my boy? xli the spanish armada xlii the tar for all weathers xliii the fisherman xliv the sailor xlv the wreck of the hesperus xlvi a canadian boat song xlvii rosabelle xlviii the ballad of the boat xlix verses, supposed to be written by alexander selkirk l home thoughts from abroad li the dream of eugene aram lii the beleaguered city liii jaffar liv colin and lucy lv the redbreast chasing the butterfly lvi the children in the wood lvii robin redbreast lviii the owl lix hart leap well lx the summer shower lxi the mouse's petition lxii the grasshopper lxiii the shepherd's home lxiv the lord of burleigh lxv the mountain and the squirrel lxvi evening lxvii the parrot lxviii song lxix the blind boy lxx false friends-like lxxi goody blake and harry gill lxxii the jovial beggar lxxiii bishop hatto lxxiv the old courtier lxxv john gilpin lxxvi the milkmaid lxxvii sir sidney smith lxxviii the pied piper of hamelin lxxix the tiger lxxx king john and the abbot of canterbury lxxxi the fairies lxxxii the suffolk miracle lxxxiii the nightingale lxxxiv on a favourite cat drowned in a tub of goldfishes lxxxv the fox at the point of death lxxxvi the old man's comforts and how he gained them lxxxvii the charge of the light brigade lxxxviii ye mariners of england lxxxix napoleon and the sailor xc boadicea, an ode xci the soldier's dream xcii love and glory xciii after blenheim xciv the sailor's mother xcv mahmoud xcvi autumn, a dirge xcvii the raven xcviii the nix xcix the seven sisters, or the solitude of binnorie c the beggar maid ci the wild huntsman cii to daffodils ciii the homes of england civ mary the maid of the inn cv the witches' meeting cvi adelgitha cvii the council of horses cviii st. romuald cix lady alice cx the outlandish knight cxi spring cxii sweet william's ghost cxiii the fountain cxiv fair rosamund cxv the hitchen may-day song cxvi the spanish lady's love cxvii little white lily cxviii minstrel's song in ella cxix an elegy on the death of a mad dog cxx nongtongpaw cxxi poor dog tray cxxii the faithful bird cxxiii lord ullin's daughter cxxiv the sea cxxv fidelity cxxvi the fox and the cat cxxvii the dog and the water-lily cxxviii an epitaph on a robin redbreast cxxix baucis and philemon cxxx lullaby for titania cxxxi lord thomas and fair ellinor cxxxii queen mab cxxxiii young lochinvar cxxxiv incident characteristic of a favourite dog cxxxv king lear and his three daughters cxxxvi the butterfly and the snail cxxxvii the dæmon lover cxxxviii the nightingale and the glow-worm cxxxix the lady turned serving-man cxl pairing time anticipated cxli to a water fowl cxlii robin hood and the bishop of hereford cxliii sir john suckling's campaign cxliv the nun's lament for philip sparrow cxlv to a butterfly cxlvi the dragon of wantley cxlvii the ungrateful cupid cxlviii the king of the crocodiles cxlix the lion and the cub cl the snail cli the colubriad clii the priest and the mulberry-tree cliii the pride of youth cliv sir lancelot du lake clv the three fishers clvi alice fell, or poverty clvii the first swallow clviii the graves of a household clix the thrush's nest clx the last of the flock clxi the romance of the swan's nest clxii song clxiii timothy clxiv the sleeping beauty clxv choral song of illyrian peasants clxvi the destruction of sennacherib clxvii the widow bird clxviii dora clxix a witch, spoken by a countryman clxx nursery rhymes clxxi the age of children happiest clxxii the noble nature clxxiii the rainbow the children's garland from the best poets _the child and the piper_ piping down the valleys wild, piping songs of pleasant glee, on a cloud i saw a child, and he, laughing, said to me, 'pipe a song about a lamb,' so i piped with merry cheer; 'piper, pipe that song again,' so i piped, he wept to hear. 'drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, sing thy songs of happy cheer.' so i sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear. 'piper, sit thee down and write in a book that all may read.' so he vanish'd from my sight; and i pluck'd a hollow reed, and i made a rural pen, and i stain'd the water clear, and i wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear. _w. blake_ ii _on may morning_ now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, comes dancing from the east, and leads with her the flow'ry may, who from her green lap throws the yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. hail, bounteous may, that doth inspire mirth and youth and warm desire! woods and groves are of thy dressing, hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. thus we salute thee with our early song, and welcome thee, and wish thee long. _j. milton_ iii _the approach of the fairies_ now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with weary task foredone. now the wasted brands do glow, whilst the scritch owl, scritching loud, puts the wretch that lies in woe, in remembrance of a shroud. now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the churchway paths to glide: and we fairies, that do run, by the triple hecate's team, from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream, now are frolic; not a mouse shall disturb this hallowed house: i am sent with broom before, to sweep the dust behind the door. through the house give glimmering light; by the dead and drowsy fire, every elf and fairy sprite, hop as light as bird from brier; and this ditty after me, sing and dance it trippingly. first rehearse this song by rote, to each word a warbling note, hand in hand, with fairy grace, we will sing, and bless this place. _w. shakespeare_ iv _answer to a child's question_ do you ask what the birds say? the sparrow, the dove, the linnet, and thrush say 'i love, and i love!' in the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; what it says i don't know, but it sings a loud song. but green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, and singing and loving--all come back together. but the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, the green fields below him, the blue sky above, that he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, 'i love my love, and my love loves me.' _s. t. coleridge_ v _the brook_ i come from haunts of coot and hern, i make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. by thirty hills i hurry down, or slip between the ridges, by twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. till last by philip's farm i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on forever. i chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, i bubble into eddying bays, i babble on the pebbles. with many a curve my bank i fret by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow. i chatter, chatter, as i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on forever. i wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, and here and there a foamy flake upon me as i travel, with many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel, and draw them all along and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on forever. i steal by lawns and grassy plots, i slide by hazel covers, i move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, among my skimming swallows; i make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. i murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses; i linger by my shingly bars; i loiter round my cresses; and out again i curve and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on forever. _a. tennyson_ vi _stars_ they glide upon their endless way, for ever calm, for ever bright; no blind hurry, no delay, mark the daughters of the night: they follow in the track of day, in divine delight. shine on, sweet orbed souls for aye, for ever calm, for ever bright: we ask not whither lies your way, nor whence ye came, nor what your light. be--still a dream throughout the day, a blessing through the night. _b. cornwall_ vii _the shepherd to his love_ come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. a gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull, fair lined slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold. a belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. the shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each may-morning: if these delights thy mind may move, come live with me and be my love. _c. marlowe_ viii _the kitten and falling leaves_ see the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall, withered leaves--one--two--and three-- from the lofty elder tree! through the calm and frosty air of this morning bright and fair, eddying round and round they sink softly, slowly: one might think from the motions that are made, every little leaf conveyed sylph or fairy hither tending, to this lower world descending, each invisible and mute, in his wavering parachute. --but the kitten, how she starts, crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! first at one, and then its fellow, just as light and just as yellow; there are many now--now one-- now they stop and there are none: what intenseness of desire in her upward eye of fire! with a tiger-leap half-way now she meets the coming prey, lets it go as fast, and then has it in her power again: now she works with three or four, like an indian conjuror; quick as he in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart. were her antics played in the eye of a thousand standers-by, clapping hands with shouts and stare, what would little tabby care for the plaudits of the crowd? over happy to be proud, over wealthy in the treasure of her own exceeding pleasure! _w. wordsworth_ ix _the ferryman, venus, and cupid_ as i a fare had lately past, and thought that side to ply, i heard one, as it were, in haste, a boat! a boat! to cry; which as i was about to bring, and came to view my fraught, thought i, what more than heavenly thing hath fortune hither brought? she, seeing mine eyes still on her were, soon, smilingly, quoth she, sirrah, look to your rudder there, why look'st thou thus at me? and nimbly stepp'd into my boat with her a little lad, naked and blind, yet did i note that bow and shafts he had, and two wings to his shoulders fixt, which stood like little sails, with far more various colours mixt than be your peacocks' tails! i seeing this little dapper elf such arms as these to bear, quoth i, thus softly to myself, what strange things have we here? i never saw the like, thought i, 'tis more than strange to me, to have a child have wings to fly, and yet want eyes to see. sure this is some devised toy, or it transform'd hath been, for such a thing, half bird, half boy, i think was never seen. and in my boat i turn'd about, and wistly view'd the lad, and clearly i saw his eyes were out, though bow and shafts he had. as wistly she did me behold, how lik'st thou him? quoth she. why, well, quoth i, the better should, had he but eyes to see. how sayst thou, honest friend, quoth she, wilt thou a 'prentice take? i think, in time, though blind he be, a ferryman he'll make. to guide my passage-boat, quoth i, his fine hands were not made; he hath been bred too wantonly to undertake my trade. why, help him to a master, then, quoth she, such youths be scant; it cannot be but there be men that such a boy do want. quoth i, when you your best have done, no better way you'll find, than to a harper bind your son, since most of them are blind. the lovely mother and the boy laugh'd heartily thereat, as at some nimble jest or toy, to hear my homely chat. quoth i, i pray you let me know, came he thus first to light, or by some sickness, hurt, or blow, deprived of his sight? nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born. 'tis strange, born blind! quoth i; i fear you put this as a scorn on my simplicity. quoth she, thus blind i did him bear. quoth i, if't be no lie, then he's the first blind man, i'll swear, e'er practis'd archery. a man! quoth she, nay, there you miss, he's still a boy as now, nor to be elder than he is the gods will him allow. to be no elder than he is! then sure he is some sprite, i straight reply'd. again at this the goddess laugh'd outright. it is a mystery to me, an archer, and yet blind! quoth i again, how can it be, that he his mark should find? the gods, quoth she, whose will it was that he should want his sight, that he in something should surpass, to recompense their spite, gave him this gift, though at his game he still shot in the dark, that he should have so certain aim, as not to miss his mark. by this time we were come ashore, when me my fare she paid, but not a word she utter'd more, nor had i her bewray'd. of venus nor of cupid i before did never hear, but that a fisher coming by then told me who they were. _m. drayton_ x _song_ under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie with me, and tune his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat, come hither, come hither, come hither; here shall we see no enemy but winter and rough weather. who doth ambition shun, and loves to live in the sun, seeking the food he eats, and pleased with what he gets, come hither, come hither, come hither; here shall he see no enemy but winter and rough weather. _w. shakespeare_ xi _lucy gray_ _or solitude_ oft i had heard of lucy gray: and, when i crossed the wild, i chanced to see at break of day the solitary child. no mate, no comrade lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor, --the sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door! you yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green; but the sweet face of lucy gray will never more be seen. 'to-night will be a stormy night-- you to the town must go; and take a lantern, child, to light your mother through the snow.' 'that, father, will i gladly do! 'tis scarcely afternoon-- the minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon!' at this the father raised his hook, and snapped a faggot-band; he plied his work;--and lucy took the lantern in her hand. not blither is the mountain roe: with many a wanton stroke her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke. the storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down; and many a hill did lucy climb; but never reached the town. the wretched parents all that night went shouting far and wide; but there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. at day-break on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor; and thence they saw the bridge of wood, a furlong from their door. they wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 'in heaven we all shall meet!' --when in the snow the mother spied the print of lucy's feet. then downward from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small; and through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall; and then an open field they crossed; the marks were still the same; they tracked them on, nor ever lost; and to the bridge they came. they followed from the snowy bank those footmarks, one by one, into the middle of the plank; and further there were none! --yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child; that you may see sweet lucy gray upon the lonesome wild. o'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; and sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind. _w. wordsworth_ xii _rain in summer_ how beautiful is the rain! after the dust and the heat, in the broad and fiery street, in the narrow lane, how beautiful is the rain! how it clatters along the roofs, like the tramp of hoofs! how it gushes and struggles out from the throat of the overflowing spout! across the window-pane it pours and pours; and swift and wide, with a muddy tide, like a river down the gutter roars the rain, the welcome rain! the sick man from his chamber looks at the twisted brooks; he can feel the cool breath of each little pool; his fevered brain grows calm again, and he breathes a blessing on the rain. from the neighbouring school come the boys, with more than their wonted noise and commotion; and down the wet streets sail their mimic fleets, till the treacherous pool engulfs them in its whirling and turbulent ocean. in the country on every side, where far and wide, like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide stretches the plain, to the dry grass and the drier grain how welcome is the rain! in the furrowed land the toilsome and patient oxen stand; lifting the yoke-encumbered head, with their dilated nostrils spread, they silently inhale the clover-scented gale, and the vapours that arise from the well-watered and smoking soil. for this rest in the furrow after toil their large and lustrous eyes seem to thank the lord, more than man's spoken word. near at hand, from under the sheltering trees, the farmer sees his pastures and his fields of grain, as they bend their tops to the numberless beating drops of the incessant rain. he counts it as no sin that he sees therein only his own thrift and gain. _h. w. longfellow_ xiii _epitaph on a hare_ here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue nor swifter greyhound follow, whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, nor ear heard huntsman's hallo! old tiney, surliest of his kind, who, nurs'd with tender care, and to domestic bounds confined, was still a wild jack-hare. though duly from my hand he took his pittance every night, he did it with a jealous look, and, when he could, would bite. his diet was of wheaten bread, and milk, and oats, and straw; thistles, or lettuces instead, with sand to scour his maw. on twigs of hawthorn he regaled, on pippin's russet peel, and when his juicy salads failed, sliced carrot pleased him well. a turkey carpet was his lawn, whereon he loved to bound, to skip and gambol like a fawn, and swing himself around. his frisking was at evening hours, for then he lost his fear, but most before approaching showers, or when a storm drew near. eight years and five round-rolling moons he thus saw steal away, dozing out all his idle noons, and every night at play. i kept him for his humours' sake, for he would oft beguile my heart of thoughts that made it ache, and force me to a smile. but now, beneath this walnut shade, he finds his long last home, and waits, in snug concealment laid, till gentler puss shall come. he, still more aged, feels the shocks from which no care can save, and, partner once of tiney's box, must soon partake his grave. _w. cowper_ xiv _abou ben adhem and the angel_ abou ben adhem (may his tribe increase) awoke one night from a deep dream of peace and saw within the moonlight in his room, making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, an angel writing in a book of gold:-- exceeding peace had made ben adhem bold, and to the presence in the room he said, 'what writest thou?'--the vision raised its head, and with a look made of all sweet accord, answer'd, 'the names of those who love the lord.' 'and is mine one?' said abou. 'nay, not so,' replied the angel. abou spoke more low, but cheerly still; and said, 'i pray thee then, write me as one that loves his fellow men.' the angel wrote and vanished. the next night it came again with a great wakening light, and show'd the names whom love of god had bless'd and lo! ben adhem's name led all the rest. _leigh hunt_ xv _la belle dame sans mercy_ ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, alone and palely loitering? the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, so haggard and so woe-begone? the squirrel's granary is full, and the harvest's done. i see a lily on thy brow, with anguish moist and fever dew; and on thy cheek a fading rose fast withereth too. i met a lady in the meads, full beautiful, a fairy's child; her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. i set her on my pacing steed, and nothing else saw all day long; for sideways would she lean and sing a fairy's song. i made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. she found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild, and manna dew; and sure in language strange she said, i love thee true. she took me to her elfin grot, and there she gazed and sighed deep, and there i shut her wild sad eyes, so kissed to sleep. and there we slumber'd on the moss, and there i dream'd, ah, woe betide, the latest dream i ever dream'd on the cold hill-side. i saw pale kings, and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all; who cried 'la belle dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!' i saw their starved lips in the gloom with horrid warning gaped wide, and i awoke and found me here, on the cold hill-side. and this is why i sojourn here alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. _j. keats_ xvi _winter_ when icicles hang by the wall, and dick the shepherd blows his nail, and tom bears logs into the hall, and milk comes frozen home in pail; when blood is nipt, and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl tuwhoo! tuwhit! tuwhoo! a merry note while greasy joan doth keel the pot. when all around the wind doth blow, and coughing drowns the parson's saw, and birds sit brooding in the snow and marian's nose looks red and raw when roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, then nightly sings the staring owl tuwhoo! tuwhit! tuwhoo! a merry note while greasy joan doth keel the pot. _w. shakespeare_ xvii _the inchcape rock_ no stir in the air, no stir in the sea, the ship was as still as she could be, her sails from heaven received no motion, her keel was steady in the ocean. without either sign or sound of their shock the waves flow'd over the inchcape rock; so little they rose, so little they fell, they did not move the inchcape bell. the good old abbot of aberbrothok had placed that bell on the inchcape rock; on a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, and over the waves its warning rung. when the rock was hid by the surges' swell, the mariners heard the warning bell; and then they knew the perilous rock, and blest the abbot of aberbrothok. the sun in heaven was shining gay, all things were joyful on that day; the sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, and there was joyance in their sound. the buoy of the inchcape bell was seen a darker speck on the ocean green; sir ralph the rover walk'd his deck, and he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. he felt the cheering power of spring, it made him whistle, it made him sing; his heart was mirthful to excess, but the rover's mirth was wickedness. his eye was on the inchcape float; quoth he, 'my men, put out the boat, and row me to the inchcape rock, and i'll plague the priest of aberbrothok.' the boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, and to the inchcape rock they go; sir ralph bent over from the boat, and he cut the bell from the inchcape float. down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound, the bubbles rose and burst around; quoth sir ralph, 'the next who comes to the rock won't bless the abbot of aberbrothok.' sir ralph the rover sail'd away, he scour'd the seas for many a day; and now grown rich with plunder'd store, he steers his course for scotland's shore. so thick a haze o'erspreads the sky they cannot see the sun on high; the wind hath blown a gale all day, at evening it hath died away. on the deck the rover takes his stand, so dark it is they see no land. quoth sir ralph, 'it will be lighter soon, for there is the dawn of the rising moon.' 'can'st hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? for methinks we should be near the shore; now where we are i cannot tell, but i wish i could hear the inchcape bell.' they hear no sound, the swell is strong; though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: cried they, 'it is the inchcape rock!' sir ralph the rover tore his hair, he curst himself in his despair; the waves rush in on every side, the ship is sinking beneath the tide. but even in his dying fear one dreadful sound could the rover hear, a sound as if with the inchcape bell, the fiends below were ringing his knell. _r. southey_ xviii _written in march_ the cock is crowing, the stream is flowing, the small birds twitter, the lake doth glitter, the green field sleeps in the sun; the oldest and youngest are at work with the strongest; the cattle are grazing, their heads never raising; there are forty feeding like one! like an army defeated the snow hath retreated, and now doth fare ill on the top of the bare hill; the plough-boy is whooping anon, anon. there's joy in the mountains; there's life in the fountains; small clouds are sailing, blue sky prevailing; the rain is over and gone! _w. wordsworth_ xix _lord randal_ 'o, where have ye been, lord randal, my son? o, where have ye been, my handsome young man?' 'i have been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.' 'where got ye your dinner, lord randal, my son? where got ye your dinner, my handsome young man?' 'i dined with my love; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.' 'what got ye to dinner, lord randal, my son? what got ye to dinner, my handsome young man?' 'i got eels boil'd in broth; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.' 'and where are your bloodhounds, lord randal, my son? and where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?' 'o, they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.' 'o, i fear ye are poison'd, lord randal, my son! o, i fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!' 'o, yes, i am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain would lie down.' _old ballad_ xx _john barleycorn_ there was three kings into the east, three kings both great and high, and they hae sworn a solemn oath john barleycorn should die. they took a plough and ploughed him down, put clods upon his head, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn was dead. but the cheerful spring came kindly on, and showers began to fall; john barleycorn got up again, and sore surprised them all. the sultry suns of summer came, and he grew thick and strong, his head well armed wi' pointed spears, that no one should him wrong. the sober autumn entered mild, when he grew wan and pale; his bending joints and drooping head show'd he began to fall. his colour sickened more and more, he faded into age; and then his enemies began to show their deadly rage. they've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, and cut him by the knee; and tied him fast upon the cart, like a rogue for forgerie. they laid him down upon his back, and cudgell'd him full sore; they hung him up before the storm, and turn'd him o'er and o'er. they filled up a darksome pit with water to the brim, they heaved in john barleycorn, there let him sink or swim. they laid him out upon the floor, to work him further woe, and still, as signs of life appear'd, they toss'd him to and fro. they wasted, o'er a scorching flame, the marrow of his bones; but a miller used him worst of all, for he crush'd him between two stones. and they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, and drank it round and round; and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound. john barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise; for if you do but taste his blood, 'twill make your courage rise. then let us toast john barleycorn, each man a glass in hand; and may his great posterity ne'er fail in old scotland! _old ballad_ xxi _mary-ann's child_ mary-ann was alone with her baby in arms, in her house with the trees overhead, for her husband was out in the night and the storms, in his business a-toiling for bread; and she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar, did grieve to think he was all night out of door. and her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child (under the lofty elm-tree), that a prettier never did babble and smile up a-top of a proud mother's knee; and his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call him her darling, and life, and her hope and her all. but she found in the evening the child was not well (under the gloomy elm-tree), and she felt she could give all the world for to tell of a truth what his ailing could be; and she thought on him last in her prayers at night, and she look'd at him last as she put out the light. and she found him grow worse in the dead of the night (under the gloomy elm-tree), and she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight, and she rock'd him so sorrowfully; and there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay, till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died away. and the moon was a-shining down into the place (under the gloomy elm-tree), and his mother could see that his lips and his face were as white as clean ashes could be; and her tongue was a-tied, and her still heart did swell till her senses came back with the first tear that fell. never more can she feel his warm face in her breast (under the leafy elm-tree), for his eyes are a-shut, and his hands are at rest, and he's now from his pain a-set free; for his soul we do know is to heaven a-fled, where no pain is a-known, and no tears are a-shed. _w. barnes_ xxii _the useful plough_ a country life is sweet! in moderate cold and heat, to walk in the air, how pleasant and fair, in every field of wheat, the fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, and every meadow's brow; so that i say, no courtier may compare with them who clothe in grey, and follow the useful plough. they rise with the morning lark, and labour till almost dark; then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep; while every pleasant park next morning is ringing with birds that are singing, on each green, tender bough. with what content and merriment, their days are spent, whose minds are bent to follow the useful plough! _old song_ xxiii _a wren's nest_ among the dwellings framed by birds in field or forest with nice care, is none that with the little wren's in snugness may compare. no door the tenement requires, and seldom needs a laboured roof; yet is it to the fiercest sun impervious, and storm-proof. so warm, so beautiful withal, in perfect fitness for its aim, that to the kind, by special grace, their instinct surely came. and when for their abodes they seek an opportune recess, the hermit has no finer eye for shadowy quietness. these find, 'mid ivied abbey walls, a canopy in some still nook; others are pent-housed by a brae that overhangs a brook. there to the brooding bird her mate warbles by fits his low clear song; and by the busy streamlet both are sung to all day long. or in sequestered lanes they build, where, till the flitting bird's return, her eggs within the nest repose, like relics in an urn. but still, where general choice is good, there is a better and a best; and, among fairest objects, some are fairer than the rest. this, one of those small builders proved in a green covert, where from out the forehead of a pollard oak the leafy antlers sprout; for she who planned the mossy lodge, mistrusting her evasive skill, had to a primrose looked for aid, her wishes to fulfil. high on the trunk's projecting brow, and fixed an infant's span above the budding flowers, peeped forth the nest, the prettiest of the grove! the treasure proudly did i show to some whose minds without disdain can turn to little things; but once looked up for it in vain: 'tis gone--a ruthless spoiler's prey, who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved, indignant at the wrong. just three days after, passing by in clearer light, the moss-built cell i saw, espied its shaded mouth; and felt that all was well. the primrose for a veil had spread the largest of her upright leaves; and thus, for purposes benign, a simple flower deceives. concealed from friends who might disturb thy quiet with no ill intent, secure from evil eyes and hands on barbarous plunder bent, rest, mother-bird! and when thy young take flight, and thou art free to roam, when withered is the guardian flower, and empty thy late home, think how ye prospered, thou and thine, amid the unviolated grove, housed near the growing primrose tuft in foresight, or in love. _w. wordsworth_ xxiv _a fine day_ clear had the day been from the dawn, all chequer'd was the sky, thin clouds like scarfs of cobweb lawn veil'd heaven's most glorious eye. the wind had no more strength than this, that leisurely it blew, to make one leaf the next to kiss that closely by it grew. _m. drayton_ xxv _casabianca_ _a true story_ the boy stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead. the flames roll'd on. he would not go without his father's word; that father faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he called aloud: 'say, father, say if yet my task is done!' he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. 'speak, father!' once again he cried, 'if i may yet be gone!' and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames roll'd on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, and look'd from that lone post of death in still, yet brave despair; and shouted but once more aloud, 'my father! must i stay?' while o'er him fast through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and streamed above the gallant child like banners in the sky. then came a burst of thunder-sound-- the boy--oh! where was he? ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea, with mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part; but the noblest thing that perished there was that young faithful heart! _f. hemans_ xxvi _signs of rain_ the hollow winds begin to blow, the clouds look black, the glass is low, the soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, the spiders from their cobwebs peep: last night the sun went pale to bed, the moon in halos hid her head; the boding shepherd heaves a sigh, for, see, a rainbow spans the sky: the walls are damp, the ditches smell, closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. hark how the chairs and tables crack! old betty's joints are on the rack; loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry, the distant hills are seeming nigh. how restless are the snorting swine; the busy flies disturb the kine; low o'er the grass the swallow wings, the cricket too, how sharp he sings; puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws. through the clear stream the fishes rise, and nimbly catch the incautious flies. the glow-worms, numerous and bright, illumed the dewy dell last night. at dusk the squalid toad was seen, hopping and crawling o'er the green; the whirling wind the dust obeys, and in the rapid eddy plays; the frog has changed his yellow vest, and in a russet coat is dressed. though june, the air is cold and still, the mellow blackbird's voice is shrill. my dog, so altered in his taste, quits mutton-bones on grass to feast; and see yon rooks, how odd their flight, they imitate the gliding kite, and seem precipitate to fall, as if they felt the piercing ball. 'twill surely rain, i see with sorrow, our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. _e. jenner_ xxvii _how they brought the good news from ghent to aix_ i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 'good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but, while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, so joris broke silence with, 'yet there is time!' at aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper, roland, at last, with resolute shoulders each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray; and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, 'stay spur! your roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix'--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so we were left galloping, joris and i, past loos and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our foot broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-tower sprang white, and 'gallop,' cried joris, 'for aix is in sight!' 'how they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. then i cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is friends flocking round as i sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. _r. browning_ xxviii _the rainbow_ a fragment of a rainbow bright through the moist air i see, all dark and damp on yonder height, all bright and clear to me. an hour ago the storm was here, the gleam was far behind, so will our joys and grief appear, when earth has ceased to blind. grief will be joy if on its edge fall soft that holiest ray, joy will be grief if no faint pledge be there of heavenly day. _j. keble_ xxix _the raven and the oak_ underneath an old oak tree there was of swine a huge company, that grunted as they crunch'd the mast: for that was ripe and fell full fast. then they trotted away, for the wind it grew high one acorn they left and no more might you spy. next came a raven that liked not such folly: he belonged, they did say, to the witch melancholy! blacker was he than blackest jet, flew low in the rain and his feathers not wet. he picked up the acorn and buried it straight by the side of a river both deep and great. where then did the raven go? he went high and low, over hill, over dale, did the black raven go. many autumns, many springs travelled he with wandering wings; many summers, many winters-- i can't tell half his adventures. at length he came back, and with him a she, and the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. they built them a nest in the topmost bough, and young ones they had and were happy enow. but soon came a woodman in leathern guise, his brow, like a pent house, hung over his eyes. he'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, but with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke, at length he brought down the poor raven's old oak. his young ones were killed, for they could not depart, and their mother did die of a broken heart. the boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever; and they floated it down on the course of the river. they sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, and with this tree and others they made a good ship. the ship it was launched; but in sight of the land such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. it bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast: round and round flew the raven and cawed to the blast. he heard the last shriek of the perishing souls-- see! see! o'er the top-mast the mad water rolls! right glad was the raven, and off he went fleet, and death riding home on a cloud he did meet, and he thanked him again and again for this treat: they had taken his all, and revenge it was sweet. _s. t. coleridge_ xxx _ode to the cuckoo_ hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! thou messenger of spring! now heaven repairs thy rural seat, and woods thy welcome sing. what time the daisy decks the green, thy certain voice we hear; hast thou a star to guide thy path, or mark the rolling year? delightful visitant, with thee i hail the time of flowers, and hear the sound of music sweet from birds among the bowers. the school-boy wandering through the wood to pull the primrose gay, starts the new voice of spring to hear, and imitates the lay. what time the pea puts on the bloom thou fliest thy vocal vale, an annual guest in other lands, another spring to hail. sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, thy sky is ever clear; thou hast no sorrow in thy song, no winter in thy year! o could i fly, i'd fly with thee! we'd make, with joyful wing, our annual visit o'er the globe, companions of the spring. _michael bruce_ xxxi _robin hood and allin a dale_ come listen to me, you gallants so free, all you that love mirth for to hear, and i will tell you of a bold outlaw that lived in nottinghamshire. as robin hood in the forest stood, all under the greenwood tree, there he was aware of a brave young man as fine as fine might be. the youngster was cloth'd in scarlet red, in scarlet fine and gay; and he did frisk it over the plain, and chanted a roundelay. as robin hood next morning stood amongst the leaves so gay, there did he espy the same young man, come drooping along the way. the scarlet he wore the day before it was clean cast away; and at every step he fetch'd a sigh, 'alack and a well-a-day!' then stepp'd forth brave little john, and midge, the miller's son, which made the young man bend his bow, when as he saw them come. 'stand off, stand off!' the young man said, 'what is your will with me?' 'you must come before our master straight, under yon greenwood tree.' and when he came bold robin before, robin asked him courteously, 'o, hast thou any money to spare for my merry men and me?' 'i have no money,' the young man said, 'but five shillings and a ring; and that i have kept this seven long years, to have it at my wedding. 'yesterday i should have married a maid, but she soon from me was tane, and chosen to be an old knight's delight, whereby my poor heart is slain.' 'what is thy name?' then said robin hood, 'come tell me without any fail:' 'by the faith of my body,' then said the young man, 'my name it is allin a dale.' 'what wilt thou give me?' said robin hood, 'in ready gold or fee, to help thee to thy true love again, and deliver her unto thee?' 'i have no money,' then quoth the young man, 'no ready gold nor fee, but i will swear upon a book thy true servant for to be.' 'how many miles is it to thy true love? come tell me without guile:' 'by the faith of my body,' then said the young man, 'it is but five little mile.' then robin he hasted over the plain, he did neither stint nor lin, until he came unto the church, where allin should keep his wedding. 'what hast thou here?' the bishop then said, 'i prithee now tell unto me:' 'i am a bold harper,' quoth robin hood, 'and the best in the north country.' 'o welcome, o welcome,' the bishop he said. 'that music best pleaseth me;' 'you shall have no music,' quoth robin hood, 'till the bride and the bridegroom i see.' with that came in a wealthy knight, which was both grave and old, and after him a finikin lass, did shine like the glistering gold. 'this is not a fit match,' quoth bold robin hood, 'that you do seem to make here, for since we are come into the church, the bride shall choose her own dear.' then robin hood put his horn to his mouth, and blew blasts two or three; when four-and-twenty bowmen bold came leaping over the lea. and when they came into the churchyard, marching all on a row, the very first man was allin a dale, to give bold robin his bow. 'this is thy true love,' robin he said, 'young allin as i hear say; and you shall be married at this same time, before we depart away.' 'that shall not be,' the bishop he said, 'for thy word shall not stand; they shall be three times asked in the church, as the law is of our land.' robin hood pulled off the bishop's coat, and put it upon little john; 'by the faith of my body,' then robin said, 'this cloth doth make thee a man.' when little john went into the quire, the people began to laugh; he asked them seven times in the church, lest three times should not be enough. 'who gives me this maid?' said little john; quoth robin hood, 'that do i, and he that takes her from allin a dale, full dearly he shall her buy.' and thus having end of this merry wedding, the bride looked like a queen; and so they returned to the merry greenwood, amongst the leaves so green. _old ballad_ xxxii _violets_ under the green hedges after the snow, there do the dear little violets grow, hiding their modest and beautiful heads under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds. sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky, down there do the dear little violets lie; hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen, by the leaves you may know where the violet hath been. _j. moultrie_ xxxiii _the palmer_ 'open the door, some pity to show! keen blows the northern wind! the glen is white with the drifted snow, and the path is hard to find. 'no outlaw seeks your castle gate, from chasing the king's deer, though even an outlaw's wretched state might claim compassion here. 'a weary palmer worn and weak, i wander for my sin; o, open, for our lady's sake! a pilgrim's blessing win! 'the hare is crouching in her form, the hart beside the hind; an aged man, amid the storm, no shelter can i find. 'you hear the ettrick's sullen roar, dark, deep, and strong is he, and i must ford the ettrick o'er, unless you pity me. 'the iron gate is bolted hard, at which i knock in vain; the owner's heart is closer barr'd, who hears me thus complain. 'farewell, farewell! and heaven grant, when old and frail you be, you never may the shelter want, that's now denied to me!' the ranger on his couch lay warm, and heard him plead in vain; but oft, amid december's storm, he'll hear that voice again: for lo, when through the vapours dank morn shone on ettrick fair, a corpse, amid the alders rank, the palmer welter'd there. _sir w. scott_ xxxiv _the forsaken merman_ come dear children, let us away; down and away below. now my brothers call from the bay; now the great winds shorewards blow; now the salt tides seawards flow; now the wild white horses play, champ and chafe and toss in the spray. children dear, let us away. this way, this way. call her once before you go. call once yet, in a voice that she will know: 'margaret! margaret!' children's voices should be dear (call once more) to a mother's ear: children's voices wild with pain. surely she will come again. call her once, and come away. this way, this way. 'mother dear, we cannot stay.' the wild white horses foam and fret, margaret! margaret! come dear children, come away down. call no more. one last look at the white-walled town, and the little grey church on the windy shore, then come down. she will not come though you call all day. come away, come away. children dear, was it yesterday we heard the sweet bells over the bay? in the caverns where we lay, through the surf and through the swell, the far-off sound of a silver bell? sand-strewn caverns cool and deep, where the winds are all asleep; where the spent lights quiver and gleam; where the salt weed sways in the stream; where the sea-beasts rang'd all round feed in the ooze of their pasture ground; where the sea-snakes coil and twine, dry their mail and bask in the brine; where great whales come sailing by, sail and sail, with unshut eye, round the world forever and aye? when did music come this way? children dear, was it yesterday? children dear, was it yesterday (call yet once) that she went away? once she sat with you and me, on a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. and the youngest sat on her knee. she comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, when down swung the sound of the far-off bell, she sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea, she said, 'i must go, for my kinsfolk pray in the little grey church on the shore to-day. 'twill be easter-time in the world--ah me! and i lose my poor soul, merman, here with thee.' i said: 'go up, dear heart, through the waves: say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.' she smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. children dear, was it yesterday? children dear, were we long alone? 'the sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; long prayers,' i said, 'in the world they say.' 'come,' i said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. we went up the beach in the sandy down where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town, through the narrow paved streets, where all was still to the little grey church on the windy hill. from the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, but we stood without in the cold blowing airs. we climb'd on the graves on the stones worn with rains, and we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. she sat by the pillar; we saw her clear; 'margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. dear heart,' i said, 'we are here alone. the sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' but, ah, she gave me never a look, for her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. 'loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.' come away, children, call no more, come away, come down, call no more. down, down, down, down to the depths of the sea, she sits at her wheel in the humming town, singing most joyfully. hark what she sings: 'o joy, o joy, from the humming street, and the child with its toy, from the priest and the bell, and the holy well, from the wheel where i spun, and the blessed light of the sun.' and so she sings her fill, singing most joyfully, till the shuttle falls from her hand, and the whizzing wheel stands still. she steals to the window and looks at the sand; and over the sand at the sea; and her eyes are set in a stare; and anon there breaks a sigh, and anon there drops a tear, from a sorrow clouded eye, and a heart sorrow laden, a long, long sigh, for the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden, and the gleam of her golden hair. come away, away children, come children, come down. the hoarse wind blows colder; lights shine in the town. she will start from her slumber when gusts shake the door; she will hear the winds howling, will hear the waves roar. we shall see, while above us the waves roar and whirl, a ceiling of amber, a pavement of pearl. singing, 'here came a mortal, but faithless was she, and alone dwell forever the kings of the sea.' but children, at midnight, when soft the winds blow, when clear falls the moonlight, when spring-tides are low; when sweet airs come seaward from heaths starr'd with broom; and high rocks throw mildly on the blanch'd sands a gloom: up the still, glistening beaches, up the creeks we will hie; over banks of bright seaweed the ebb-tide leaves dry. we will gaze from the sand-hills, at the white sleeping town; at the church on the hill-side-- and then come back, down. singing, 'there dwells a loved one, but cruel is she: she left lonely forever the kings of the sea.' _m. arnold_ xxxv _the sands o' dee_ 'o mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands o' dee!' the western wind was wild and dank with foam, and all alone went she. the creeping tide came up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see; the blinding mist came down and hid the land-- and never home came she. oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?-- a tress o' golden hair, o' drowned maiden's hair, above the nets at sea. was never salmon yet that shone so fair among the stakes on dee. they row'd her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea: but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, across the sands o' dee. _c. kingsley_ xxxvi _the loss of the royal george_ toll for the brave! the brave that are no more! all sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore! eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side. a land breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset; down went the royal george, with all her crew complete. toll for the brave! brave kempenfelt is gone; his last sea-fight is fought, his work of glory done. it was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock: she sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock. his sword was in its sheath; his fingers held the pen, when kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men. weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes! and mingle with our cup the tear that england owes. her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again, full charged with england's thunder, and plough the distant main. but kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; and he and his eight hundred shall plough the wave no more. _w. cowper_ xxxvii _a sea dirge_ full fathom five thy father lies: of his bones are coral made: those are pearls that were his eyes; nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea change into something rich and strange; sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: hark! now i hear them,-- ding, dong, bell. _w. shakespeare_ xxxviii _the ancient mariner_ it is an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. "by thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me? "the bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, and i am next of kin: the guests are met, the feast is set: may'st hear the merry din." he holds him with his glittering eye-- the wedding-guest stood still, and listens like a three years' child: the mariner hath his will. the wedding-guest sat on a stone: he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. "the ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, merrily did we drop below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top. "the sun came up upon the left, out of the sea came he, and he shone bright, and on the right went down into the sea. "higher and higher every day, till over the mast at noon"-- the wedding-guest here beat his breast, for he heard the loud bassoon. the bride hath paced into the hall: red as a rose is she; nodding their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy. the wedding-guest he beat his breast, yet he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. "and now the storm-blast came, and he was tyrannous and strong: he struck with his o'er-taking wings, and chased us south along. "with sloping masts and dipping prow, as who pursued with yell and blow still treads the shadow of his foe, and forward bends his head, the ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, and southward aye we fled. "and now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold: and ice, mast-high, came floating by, as green as emerald. "and through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- the ice was all between. "the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around: it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound! "at length did cross an albatross, thorough the fog it came; as if it had been a christian soul, we hailed it in god's name. "it ate the food it ne'er had eat, and round and round it flew, the ice did split with a thunder-fit; the helmsman steered us through! "and a good south wind sprung up behind; the albatross did follow, and every day, for food or play, came to the mariner's hollo! "in mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, it perched for vespers nine; whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white glimmered the white moonshine." "god save thee, ancient mariner! from the fiends that plague thee thus!-- why look'st thou so?" "with my cross-bow i shot the albatross. "and i had done a hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe: for all averr'd i had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow! 'ah wretch!' said they, 'the bird to slay, that made the wind to blow!' "nor dim nor red, like god's own head, the glorious sun uprist: then all averred, i had killed the bird that brought the fog and mist. 'twas right, said they, such birds to slay, that bring the fog and mist. "down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'twas sad as sad could be; and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea. "day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. "water, water everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink. "about, about, in reel and rout the death-fires danced at night; the water, like a witch's oils, burnt green, and blue, and white. "and every tongue, through utter drought, was withered at the root; we could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot. "ah! well-a-day! what evil looks had i from old and young! instead of the cross, the albatross about my neck was hung. "there passed a weary time. each throat was parched, and glazed each eye. a weary time! a weary time! how glazed each weary eye, when looking westward, i beheld a something in the sky. "at first it seemed a little speck, and then it seemed a mist; it moved and moved, and took at last a certain shape, i wist. "a speck, a mist, a shape, i wist! and still it neared and neared: as if it dodged a water-sprite, it plunged, and tacked, and veered. "see! see! (i cried) she tacks no more! hither to work us weal; without a breeze, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel! "the western wave was all a-flame, the day was well nigh done! almost upon the western wave rested the broad, bright sun: when that strange shape drove suddenly betwixt us and the sun. "and straight the sun was flecked with bars, (heaven's mother send us grace!) as if through a dungeon grate he peered with broad and burning face. "alas! (thought i, and my heart beat loud) how fast she nears and nears! are those her sails that glance in the sun, like restless gossameres? "are those her ribs through which the sun did peer, as through a grate? and is that woman all her crew? is that a death? and are there two? is death that woman's mate? "the naked hull alongside came, and the twain were casting dice; 'the game is done! i've won, i've won!' quoth she, and whistles thrice. "the sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: at one stride comes the dark; with far-heard whisper o'er the sea, off shot the spectre-bark. "the stars were dim and thick the night, the steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white, from the sails the dew did drip-- till clomb above the eastern bar the horned moon, with one bright star within the nether tip. "four times fifty living men, (and i heard nor sigh nor groan,) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropped down one by one. "the souls did from their bodies fly,-- they fled to bliss or woe! and every soul, it passed me by, like the whizz of my cross-bow! "the many men, so beautiful! and they all dead did lie: and a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did i. "i looked upon the rotting sea, and drew my eyes away; i looked upon the rotting deck, and there the dead men lay. "i looked to heaven, and tried to pray but or ever a prayer had gusht, a wicked whisper came, and made my heart as dry as dust. "the moving moon went up the sky, and nowhere did abide: softly she was going up, and a star or two beside. "beyond the shadow of the ship, i watched the water-snakes: they moved in tracks of shining white, and when they reared, the elfish light fell off in hoary flakes. "within the shadow of the ship i watched their rich attire: blue, glossy green, and velvet black, they coiled and swam; and every track was a flash of golden fire. "o happy living things! no tongue their beauty might declare: a spring of love gushed from my heart, and i blessed them unaware: sure my kind saint took pity on me, and i blessed them unaware. "the selfsame moment i could pray; and from my neck so free the albatross fell off, and sank like lead into the sea. "and soon i heard a roaring wind: it did not come anear; but with its sound it shook the sails, that were so thin and sere. "the loud wind never reached the ship, yet now the ship moved on! beneath the lightning and the moon the dead men gave a groan. "they groaned, they stirred, they all uprose nor spake, nor moved their eyes; it had been strange, even in a dream, to have seen those dead men rise. "the helmsman steered, the ship moved on, yet never a breeze up blew; the mariners all 'gan work the ropes, where they were wont to do; they raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- we were a ghastly crew." "i fear thee, ancient mariner!" "be calm, thou wedding-guest! 'twas not those souls that fled in pain, which to their corses came again, but a troop of spirits blest. "swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, yet she sailed softly too: sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- on me alone it blew. "oh! dream of joy! is this indeed the light-house top i see? is this the hill? is this the kirk? is this mine own countree? "since then, at an uncertain hour, my agony returns: and till my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns. "i pass, like night, from land to land; i have strange power of speech; that moment that his face i see, i know the man that must hear me: to him my tale i teach. "what loud uproar bursts from that door! the wedding-guests are there: but in the garden-bower the bride and bride-maids singing are: and hark the little vesper bell, which biddeth me to prayer! "o sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'tis sweeter far to me, to walk together to the kirk with a goodly company! "to walk together to the kirk, and altogether pray, while each to his great father bends, old men, and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay! "farewell, farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. "he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all." _s. t. coleridge_ xxxix _song of ariel_ come unto these yellow sands, and then take hands,-- curtsied when you have and kiss'd; (the wild waves whist)-- foot it featly here and there; and, sweet sprites, the burden bear. hark, hark! bough wough, the watch dogs bark, bough wough, hark, hark! i hear the strain of strutting chanticleer, cry, cock-a-doodle-doo. _w. shakespeare_ xl _how's my boy?_ ho, sailor of the sea! how's my boy--my boy? 'what's your boy's name, good wife, and in what good ship sail'd he?' my boy john-- he that went to sea-- what care i for the ship, sailor? my boy's my boy to me. you come back from sea and not know my john? i might as well have asked some landsman yonder down in the town. there's not an ass in all the parish but he knows my john. how's my boy--my boy? and unless you let me know i'll swear you are no sailor, blue jacket or no, brass button or no, sailor, anchor and crown or no! sure his ship was the _jolly briton_-- 'speak low, woman, speak low!' and why should i speak low, sailor, about my own boy john? if i was loud as i am proud i'd sing him over the town! why should i speak low, sailor? 'that good ship went down.' how's my boy--my boy? what care i for the ship, sailor, i never was aboard her. be she afloat, or be she aground, sinking or swimming, i'll be bound. her owners can afford her! i say, how's my john? 'every man on board went down, every man aboard her.' how's my boy--my boy? what care i for the men, sailor? i'm not their mother-- how's my boy--my boy? tell me of him and no other! how's my boy--my boy? _s. dobell_ xli _the spanish armada_ attend all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise, i tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain the richest spoils of mexico, the stoutest hearts of spain. it was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, there came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to plymouth bay; her crew hath seen castile's black fleet beyond aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile; at sunrise she escaped their van, by god's especial grace; and the tall pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; the beacon blazed upon the roof of edgcumbe's lofty hall; many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; and with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. with his white hair unbonneted the stout old sheriff comes; behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums; his yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear an ample space, for there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace. and haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. so stalked he when he turned to flight on that famed picard field, bohemia's plume, and genoa's bow, and cæsar's eagle shield: so glared he when at agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, and crushed and torn beneath his paws the princely hunters lay. ho! strike the flag-staff deep, sir knight; ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: ho! gunners fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades; thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes waft her wide; our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our pride. the freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold, the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea,-- such night in england ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. from eddystone to berwick bounds, from lynn to milford bay, that time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; for swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread; high on st. michael's mount it shone: it shone on beachy head. far on the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire; the fisher left his skiff to rock on tamar's glittering waves, the rugged miners poured to war from mendip's sunless caves. o'er longleat's towers, o'er cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew; he roused the shepherds of stonehenge, the rangers of beaulieu. right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from bristol town, and ere the day three hundred horse had met on clifton down; the sentinel on whitehall gate looked forth into the night, and saw, o'erhanging richmond hill, the streak of blood-red light. then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, and with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. at once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; at once the loud alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; from all the batteries of the tower pealed loud the voice of fear; and all the thousand masts of thames sent back a louder cheer: and from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, and the broad streams of flags and pikes rushed down each roaring street: and broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, as fast from every village round the horse came spurring in: and eastward straight, from wild blackheath, the warlike errant went, and raised in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of kent. southward, from surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; high on bleak hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; and on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still, all night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill, till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er darwin's rocky dales, till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of wales, till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on malvern's lonely height, till streamed in crimson on the wind the wrekin's crest of light, till broad and fierce the star came forth on ely's stately fane, and tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; till belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to lincoln sent, and lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of trent; till skiddaw saw the fire that burned on gaunt's embattled pile, and the red glare of skiddaw roused the burghers of carlisle. _lord macaulay_ xlii _the tar for all weathers_ i sail'd from the downs in the _nancy_, my jib how she smack'd through the breeze! she's a vessel as tight to my fancy as ever sail'd on the salt seas. so adieu to the white cliffs of britain, our girls and our dear native shore! for if some hard rock we should split on, we shall never see them any more. but sailors were born for all weathers, great guns let it blow, high or low, our duty keeps us to our tethers, and where the gale drives we must go. when we entered the straits of gibraltar i verily thought she'd have sunk, for the wind began so for to alter, she yaw'd just as tho' she was drunk. the squall tore the mainsail to shivers, helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries; brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers, as through the rough tempest she flies. but sailors were born for all weathers, great guns let it blow, high or low, our duty keeps us to our tethers, and where the gale drives we must go. the storm came on thicker and faster, as black just as pitch was the sky, when truly a doleful disaster befel three poor sailors and i. ben buntline, sam shroud, and dick handsail, by a blast that came furious and hard, just while we were furling the mainsail, were every soul swept from the yard. but sailors were born for all weathers, great guns let it blow, high or low, our duty keeps us to our tethers, and where the gale drives we must go. poor ben, sam, and dick cried peccavi, as for i, at the risk of my neck, while they sank down in peace to old davy, caught a rope, and so landed on deck. well, what would you have? we were stranded, and out of a fine jolly crew of three hundred that sail'd, never landed but i, and i think, twenty-two. but sailors were born for all weathers, great guns let it blow, high or low, our duty keeps us to our tethers, and where the gale drives we must go. _c. dibdin_ xliii _the fisherman_ a perilous life, and sad as life may be, hath the lone fisher, on the lonely sea, o'er the wild waters labouring far from home, for some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam: few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life, and none to aid him in the stormy strife: companion of the sea and silent air, the lonely fisher thus must ever fare: without the comfort, hope,--with scarce a friend, he looks through life and only sees its end! _b. cornwall_ xliv _the sailor_ thou that hast a daughter for one to woo and wed, give her to a husband with snow upon his head: oh, give her to an old man, though little joy it be, before the best young sailor that sails upon the sea! how luckless is the sailor when sick and like to die, he sees no tender mother, no sweetheart standing by. only the captain speaks to him,-- stand up, stand up, young man, and steer the ship to haven, as none beside thee can. thou sayst to me, 'stand, stand up;' i say to thee, take hold, lift me a little from the deck, my hands and feet are cold. and let my head, i pray thee, with handkerchiefs be bound: there, take my love's gold handkerchief, and tie it tightly round. now bring the chart, the doleful chart; see where these mountains meet-- the clouds are thick around their head, the mists around their feet: cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe within the rocky cleft; the little anchor on the right, the great one on the left. and now to thee, o captain, most earnestly i pray, that they may never bury me in church or cloister grey; but on the windy sea-beach, at the ending of the land, all on the surfy sea-beach, deep down into the sand. for there will come the sailors, their voices i shall hear, and at casting of the anchor the yo-ho loud and clear; and at hauling of the anchor the yo-ho and the cheer,-- farewell, my love, for to thy bay i never more may steer. _w. allingham_ xlv _the wreck of the hesperus_ it was the schooner _hesperus_, that sail'd the wintry sea; and the skipper had taken his little daughter, to bear him company. blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, her cheeks like the dawn of day, and her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, that ope in the month of may. the skipper he stood beside the helm, his pipe was in his mouth, and he watch'd how the veering flaw did blow the smoke now west, now south. then up and spake an old sailor, had sail'd the spanish main, 'i pray thee put into yonder port, for i fear the hurricane. 'last night the moon had a golden ring, and to-night no moon we see!' the skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, and a scornful laugh laughed he. colder and louder blew the wind, a gale from the north-east; the snow fell hissing in the brine, and the billows frothed like yeast. down came the storm and smote amain the vessel in its strength; she shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, then leaped her cable's length. 'come hither! come hither! my little daughter, and do not tremble so; for i can weather the roughest gale, that ever wind did blow.' he wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, against the stinging blast; he cut a rope from a broken spar, and bound her to the mast. 'o father! i hear the church bells ring, o say, what may it be?' ''tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!' and he steered for the open sea. 'o father! i hear the sound of guns, o say, what may it be?' 'some ship in distress that cannot live in such an angry sea!' 'o father! i see a gleaming light, o say, what may it be?' but the father answered never a word,-- a frozen corpse was he. lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, with his face turn'd to the skies, the lantern gleam'd through the gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes. then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed that saved she might be; and she thought of christ who stilled the waves on the lake of galilee. and fast through the midnight dark and drear, through the whistling sleet and snow, like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept t'wards the reef of norman's woe. and ever the fitful gusts between a sound came from the land; it was the sound of the trampling surf on the rocks and the hard sea-sand. the breakers were right beneath her bows, she drifted a dreary wreck, and a whooping billow swept the crew like icicles from her deck. she struck where the white and fleecy waves look'd soft as carded wool, but the cruel rocks they gored her sides like the horns of an angry bull. her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice, with the masts went by the board; like a vessel of glass she stove and sank, ho! ho! the breakers roared. at day-break on the bleak sea-beach, a fisherman stood aghast, to see the form of a maiden fair lashed close to a drifting mast. the salt sea was frozen on her breast, the salt tears in her eyes; and he saw her hair like the brown sea-weed, on the billows fall and rise. such was the wreck of the _hesperus_, in the midnight and the snow; heav'n save us all from a death like this, on the reef of norman's woe! _h. w. longfellow_ xlvi _a canadian boat song_ faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. soon as the woods on the shore look dim, we'll sing at st. anne's our parting hymn. row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near and the daylight's past. why should we yet our sail unfurl? there is not a breath the blue wave to curl; but when the wind blows off the shore, oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near and the daylight's past. utawas' tide! this trembling moon shall see us float over thy surges soon. saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, oh, grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs. blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near and the daylight's past. _t. moore_ xlvii _rosabelle_ o listen, listen, ladies gay! no haughty feat of arms i tell; soft is the note, and sad the lay, that mourns the lovely rosabelle. 'moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, and gentle lady, deign to stay! rest thee in castle ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 'the blackening wave is edged with white; to inch and rock the sea-mews fly; the fishers have heard the water-sprite, whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. 'last night the gifted seer did view a wet shroud swathed round lady gay; then stay thee, fair, in ravensheuch; why cross the gloomy firth to-day?' ''tis not because lord lindesay's heir to-night at roslin leads the ball, but that my lady-mother there sits lonely in her castle hall. ''tis not because the ring they ride, and lindesay at the ring rides well, but that my sire the wine will chide if 'tis not fill'd by rosabelle.' --o'er roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'twas broader than the watch-fires' light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'twas seen from dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, each baron, for a sable shroud, sheath'd in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- so still they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high st. clair. there are twenty of roslin's barons bold lie buried within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold, but the sea holds lovely rosabelle! and each st. clair was buried there with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, the dirge of lovely rosabelle. _sir w. scott_ xlviii _the ballad of the boat_ the stream was smooth as glass, we said, 'arise and let's away:' the siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; and spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gaily took our way. when shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay? the broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains, the stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains; the labourer looks up to see our shallop speed away. when shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay? now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large, slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge. the waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths on our way. when shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay? the moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see the spreading rivers either bank, and surging distantly there booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far away. now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find the bay! the sea-gull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight the moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night. we'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay, when once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay. what rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost? what roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast? pull back! pull back! the raging flood sweeps every oar away. o stream, is this thy bar of sand? o boat, is this the bay? _r. garnett_ xlix _verses_ _supposed to be written by alexander selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of juan fernandez_ i am monarch of all i survey, my right there is none to dispute; from the centre all round to the sea, i am lord of the fowl and the brute. o solitude! where are the charms that sages have seen in thy face? better dwell in the midst of alarms than reign in this horrible place. i am out of humanity's reach, i must finish my journey alone, never hear the sweet music of speech, i start at the sound of my own. the beasts that roam over the plain my form with indifference see; they are so unacquainted with man, their tameness is shocking to me. society, friendship and love, divinely bestowed upon man, o, had i the wings of a dove, how soon would i taste you again! my sorrows i then might assuage, in the ways of religion and truth, might learn from the wisdom of age, and be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. religion! what treasure untold lies hid in that heavenly word! more precious than silver or gold, or all that this earth can afford. but the sound of the church-going bell, these valleys and rocks never heard, never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, or smiled when a sabbath appear'd. ye winds that have made me your sport, convey to this desolate shore some cordial, endearing report of a land i shall visit no more. my friends, do they now and then send a wish or a thought after me? o, tell me i yet have a friend, though a friend i am never to see. how fleet is a glance of the mind! compar'd with the speed of its flight, the tempest himself lags behind and the swift-winged arrows of light. when i think of my own native land, in a moment i seem to be there; but, alas! recollection at hand soon hurries me back to despair. but the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, the beast is laid down in his lair; even here is a season of rest, and i to my cabin repair. there's mercy in every place, and mercy, encouraging thought, gives even affliction a grace, and reconciles man to his lot. _w. cowper_ l _home-thoughts from abroad_ oh, to be in england now that april's there, and whoever wakes in england sees, some morning, unaware, that the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, while the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough in england--now! and after april, when may follows, and the white-throat builds, and all the swallows-- hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge leans to the field and scatters on the clover blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- that's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could re-capture the first fine careless rapture! and though the fields look rough with hoary dew, all will be gay when noontide wakes anew the buttercups, the little children's dower, --far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! _r. browning_ li _the dream of eugene aram_ 'twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school: there were some that ran, and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouch'd by sin; to a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in; pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of lynn. like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran-- turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can: but the usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man! his hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease: so he lean'd his head on his hands, and read the book between his knees! leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, nor ever glanced aside; for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide: much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. at last he shut the ponderous tome; with a fast and fervent grasp he strain'd the dusky covers close, and fix'd the brazen hasp: 'o heav'n, could i so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!' then leaping on his feet upright; some moody turns he took; now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook: and lo! he saw a little boy that pored upon a book! 'my gentle lad, what is't you read-- romance or fairy fable? or is it some historic page of kings and crowns unstable?' the young boy gave an upward glance-- 'it is the death of abel.' the usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain; six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again: and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of cain; and long since then, of bloody men, whose deeds tradition saves; of lonely folk cut off unseen, and hid in sudden graves; of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, and murders done in caves; and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod-- aye, how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod; and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from god! he told how murderers walk'd the earth beneath the curse of cain-- with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain: for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain! 'and well,' quoth he, 'i know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme-- wo, wo, unutterable wo-- who spill life's sacred stream! for why? methought last night i wrought a murder in a dream! 'one that had never done me wrong-- a feeble man, and old; i led him to a lonely field, the moon shone clear and cold: now here, said i, this man shall die, and i will have his gold! 'two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife, and then the deed was done: there was nothing lying at my feet, but lifeless flesh and bone! 'nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill; and yet i fear'd him all the more, for lying there so still: there was a manhood in his look that murder could not kill! 'and lo! the universal air seem'd lit with ghastly flame-- ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame: i took the dead man by the hand, and call'd upon his name! 'oh me, it made me quake to see such sense within the slain! but when i touch'd the lifeless clay, the blood gush'd out amain! for every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain! 'my head was like an ardent coal, my heart as solid ice; my wretched, wretched soul, i knew, was at the devil's price: a dozen times i groan'd; the dead had never groan'd but twice! 'and now from forth the frowning sky, from the heaven's topmost height, i heard a voice--the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite: "thou guilty man, take up thy dead, and hide it from my sight!" 'i took the dreary body up and cast it in a stream-- a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme. my gentle boy, remember this is nothing but a dream! 'down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanish'd in the pool; anon i cleansed my bloody hands, and wash'd my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young that evening in the school! 'o heaven, to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim! i could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn: like a devil of the pit i seem'd, 'mid holy cherubim! 'and peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spread; but guilt was my grim chamberlain that lighted me to bed, and drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red! 'all night i lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep; my fever'd eyes i dared not close, but star'd aghast at sleep; for sin had rendered unto her the keys of hell to keep! 'all night i lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint, that rack'd me all the time-- a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime! 'one stern tyrannic thought that made all other thoughts its slave; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave-- still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave! 'heavily i rose up--as soon as light was in the sky-- and sought the black accursed pool with a wild misgiving eye; and i saw the dead, in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry! 'merrily rose the lark, and shook the dew-drop from its wing; but i never mark'd its morning flight, i never heard it sing: for i was stooping once again under the horrid thing. 'with breathless speed, like a soul in chase, i took him up and ran-- there was no time to dig a grave before the day began: in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, i hid the murder'd man! 'and all that day i read in school, but my thought was otherwhere! as soon as the mid-day task was done, in secret i was there: and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare! 'then down i cast me on my face, and first began to weep; for i knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep; or land, or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep! 'so wills the fierce avenging sprite, till blood for blood atones! aye, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones, and years have rotted off his flesh-- the world shall see his bones! 'oh me! that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake! again, again, with a dizzy brain, the human life i take; and my red right hand grows raging hot, like cranmer's at the stake. 'and still no peace for the restless clay will wave or mould allow; the horrid thing pursues my soul-- it stands before me now!' the fearful boy looked up and saw huge drops upon his brow! that very night, while gentle sleep the urchin eyelids kiss'd, two stern-faced men set out from lynn, through the cold and heavy mist; and eugene aram walk'd between, with gyves upon his wrist. _t. hood_ lii _the beleaguered city_ beside the moldau's rushing stream, with the wan moon overhead, there stood, as in an awful dream, the army of the dead. white as a sea-fog, landward bound, the spectral camp was seen, and with a sorrowful deep sound, the river flow'd between. no other voice nor sound was there, no drum, nor sentry's pace; the mist-like banners clasp'd the air, as clouds with clouds embrace. but when the old cathedral bell proclaim'd the morning prayer, the wild pavilions rose and fell on the alarmed air. down the broad valley fast and far, the troubled army fled; up rose the glorious morning star, the ghastly host was dead. _h. w. longfellow_ liii _jaffar_ jaffar, the barmecide, the good vizier, the poor man's hope, the friend without a peer. jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; and guilty haroun, sullen with mistrust of what the good, and e'en the bad might say, ordain'd that no man living from that day should dare to speak his name on pain of death. all araby and persia held their breath. all but the brave mondeer.--he, proud to show how far for love a grateful soul could go, and facing death for very scorn and grief, (for his great heart wanted a great relief,) stood forth in bagdad, daily in the square where once had stood a happy house, and there harangued the tremblers at the scymitar on all they owed to the divine jaffar. 'bring me this man,' the caliph cried: the man was brought, was gazed upon. the mutes began to bind his arms. 'welcome, brave cords,' cried he; 'from bonds far worse jaffar deliver'd me; from wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; restor'd me, loved me, put me on a par with his great self. how can i pay jaffar?' haroun, who felt that on a soul like this the mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate might smile upon another half as great. he said, 'let worth grow frenzied if it will; the caliph's judgment shall be master still. go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, the richest in the tartar's diadem, and hold the giver as thou deemest fit.' 'gifts!' cried the friend. he took; and holding it high toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, exclaim'd, 'this, too, i owe to thee, jaffar.' _leigh hunt_ liv _colin and lucy_ three times, all in the dead of night, a bell was heard to ring; and shrieking at the window thrice, the raven flapp'd his wing. too well the love-lorn maiden knew the solemn boding sound; and thus, in dying words bespoke, the virgins weeping round: 'i hear a voice you cannot hear, which says i must not stay; i see a hand you cannot see, which beckons me away. by a false heart and broken vows, in early youth i die: was i to blame, because his bride was thrice as rich as i? 'ah, colin, give not her thy vows, vows due to me alone: nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, nor think him all thy own. to-morrow in the church to wed, impatient, both prepare! but know, fond maid, and know, false man, that lucy will be there! 'then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, this bridegroom blithe to meet, he in his wedding trim so gay, i, in my winding-sheet.' she spoke, she died, her corse was borne the bridegroom blithe to meet, he in his wedding trim so gay, she in her winding-sheet. then what were perjur'd colin's thoughts? how were these nuptials kept? the bridesmen flock'd round lucy dead, and all the village wept. confusion, shame, remorse, despair, at once his bosom swell: the damps of death bedew'd his brow, he shook, he groan'd, he fell. _t. tickell_ lv _the redbreast chasing the butterfly_ art thou the bird whom man loves best, the pious bird with the scarlet breast, our little english robin? the bird that comes about our doors when autumn winds are sobbing? art thou the peter of norway boors? their thomas in finland, and russia far inland? the bird, that by some name or other all men who know thee call their brother: the darling of children and men? could father adam open his eyes, and see this sight beneath the skies, he'd wish to close them again. --if the butterfly knew but his friend, hither his flight he would bend; and find his way to me, under the branches of the tree: in and out, he darts about; can this be the bird to man so good, that after their bewildering, cover'd with leaves the little children, so painfully in the wood? what ail'd thee, robin, that thou could'st pursue a beautiful creature, that is gentle by nature? beneath the summer sky, from flower to flower let him fly; 'tis all that he wishes to do. the cheerer, thou, of our in-door sadness, he is the friend of our summer gladness: what hinders, then, that ye should be playmates in the sunny weather, and fly about in the air together? his beautiful wings in crimson are drest, a crimson as bright as thine own: would'st thou be happy in thy nest, oh, pious bird! whom man loves best, love him, or leave him alone! _w. wordsworth_ lvi _the children in the wood_ now ponder well, you parents dear, these words which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possess'd one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind; in love they lived, in love they died, and left two babes behind. the one, a fine and pretty boy, not passing three years old; the other, a girl more young than he. and framed in beauty's mould, the father left his little son, as plainly doth appear, when he to perfect age should come three hundred pounds a year. and to his little daughter jane, five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on her marriage day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children chanced to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possess their wealth; for so the will did run. 'now, brother,' said the dying man, 'look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this day; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. 'you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone.' with that bespake their mother dear, 'o, brother kind,' quoth she, 'you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or misery. 'and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard.' with lips as cold as any stone, they kiss'd their children small: 'god bless you both, my children dear;' with that their tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there: 'the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not fear. god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear when you are laid in grave.' the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straight unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale: he would the children send to be brought up in fair london, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoicing at that tide, rejoicing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay. so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent: and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them, more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood: the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bade them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry; and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: 'stay here,' quoth he, 'i'll bring you bread, when i come back again.' these pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town: their pretty lips with blackberries were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cried. thus wandered these poor innocents till death did end their grief, in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin redbreast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barns were fired, his goods consumed, his lands were barren made, his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him stayed. and in the voyage to portugal two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and misery. he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about, and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: the fellow that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judged to die, such was god's blessed will. who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overseers eke of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. _old ballad_ lvii _robin redbreast_ good-bye, good-bye to summer! for summer's nearly done; the garden smiling faintly, cool breezes in the sun; our thrushes now are silent, our swallows flown away,-- but robin's here in coat of brown, and scarlet breast-knot gay. robin, robin redbreast, o robin dear! robin sings so sweetly in the falling of the year. bright yellow, red, and orange, the leaves come down in hosts; the trees are indian princes, but soon they'll turn to ghosts; the leathery pears and apples hang russet on the bough; its autumn, autumn, autumn late, 'twill soon be winter now. robin, robin redbreast, o robin dear! and what will this poor robin do? for pinching days are near. the fire-side for the cricket, the wheatstack for the mouse, when trembling night-winds whistle and moan all round the house. the frosty ways like iron, the branches plumed with snow,-- alas! in winter dead and dark, where can poor robin go? robin, robin redbreast, o robin dear! and a crumb of bread for robin, his little heart to cheer. _w. allingham_ lviii _the owl_ in the hollow tree in the grey old tower, the spectral owl doth dwell; dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, but at dusk,--he's abroad and well: not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; all mock him outright by day; but at night, when the woods grow still and dim, the boldest will shrink away; o, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, then, then is the reign of the horned owl! and the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold, and loveth the wood's deep gloom; and with eyes like the shine of the moonshine cold she awaiteth her ghastly groom! not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, as she waits in her tree so still; but when her heart heareth his flapping wings, she hoots out her welcome shrill! o, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl, then, then is the cry of the horned owl! mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight! the owl hath his share of good: if a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, he is lord in the dark green wood! nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate; they are each unto each a pride-- thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate hath rent them from all beside! so when the night falls, and dogs do howl, sing ho! for the reign of the horned owl! we know not alway who are kings by day, but the king of the night is the bold brown owl. _b. cornwall_ lix _hart leap well_ part i the knight had ridden down from wensley moor, with the slow motion of a summer's cloud, and now, as he approach'd a vassal's door, 'bring forth another horse!' he cried aloud. 'another horse!' that shout the vassal heard, and saddled his best steed, a comely grey; sir walter mounted him; he was the third which he had mounted on that glorious day. joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; the horse and horseman are a happy pair; but though sir walter like a falcon flies, there is a doleful silence in the air. a rout this morning left sir walter's hall, and as they galloped made the echoes roar; but horse and man are vanished, one and all; such race, i think, was never seen before. sir walter, restless as a veering wind, calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain; blanche, swift, and music, noblest of their kind, follow, and up the weary mountain strain. the knight halloed, he cheered and chid them on with suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; but breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, the dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. where is the throng, the tumult of the race? the bugles that so joyfully were blown? this chase, it looks not like an earthly chase: sir walter and the hart are left alone. the poor hart toils along the mountain-side; i will not stop to tell how far he fled, nor will i mention by what death he died; but now the knight beholds him lying dead. dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn; he had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: he neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn, but gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. close to the thorn on which sir walter leaned, stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned, and white with foam as if with cleaving sleet: upon his side the hart was lying stretched; his nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, and with the last deep groan his breath had fetched; the waters of the spring were trembling still. and now, too happy for repose or rest, (never had living man such joyful lot!) sir walter walked all round, north, south, and west, and gazed, and gazed upon that darling spot. and climbing up the hill, (it was at least four roods of sheer ascent), sir walter found three several hoof-marks, which the hunted beast had left imprinted in the grassy ground. sir walter wiped his face and cried, 'till now such sight was never seen by human eyes; three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, down to the very fountain where he lies. 'i'll build a pleasure house upon this spot, and a small arbour made for rural joy; 'twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, a place of love for damsels that are coy. 'a cunning artist will i have to frame a basin for that fountain in the dell! and they who do make mention of the same, from this day forth shall call it hart leap well. 'and, gallant stag, to make thy praises known, another monument shall here be raised; three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone, and planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 'and in the summer time, when days are long, i will come hither with my paramour, and with the dancers and the minstrels' song, we will make merry in that pleasant bower. 'till the foundations of the mountains fail, my mansion with its arbour shall endure; the joy of them who till the fields of swale, and them who dwell among the woods of ure!' then home he went and left the hart, stone-dead, with breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. soon did the knight perform what he had said; and far and wide the fame thereof did ring. ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, a cup of stone received the living well; three pillars of rude stone sir walter reared, and built a house for pleasure in the dell. and near the fountain flowers of stature tall, with trailing plants and trees were intertwined,-- which soon composed a little sylvan hall, a leafy shelter from the sun and wind. and thither, when the summer days were long, sir walter led his wandering paramour, and with the dancers and the minstrels' song, made merriment within that pleasant bower. the knight, sir walter, died in course of time, and his bones lie in his paternal vale. but there is matter for a second rhyme, and i to this would add another tale. part ii the moving accident is not my trade; to freeze the blood i have no ready arts; 'tis my delight, alone in summer shade, to pipe a simple song to thinking hearts. as i from hawes to richmond did repair, it chanced that i saw standing in a dell three aspens at three corners of a square; and one, not four yards distant, near a well. what this imported i could ill divine; and pulling now the rein my horse to stop, i saw three pillars standing in a line,-- the last stone-pillar on a dark hill top. the trees were grey, with neither arms nor head; half wasted the square mound of tawny green, so that you might just say, as then i said, 'here in old time the hand of man hath been.' i looked upon the hill both far and near, more doleful place did never eye survey; it seemed as if the spring-time came not here, and nature here were willing to decay. i stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, when one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, came up the hollow:--him i did accost, and what this place might be i then inquired. the shepherd stopped, and that same story told which in my former rhyme i have rehearsed; 'a jolly place,' said he, 'in times of old! but something ails it now; the spot is curst. 'you see those lifeless stumps of aspen wood-- some say that they are beeches, others elms-- these were the bower; and here a mansion stood, the finest palace of a hundred realms! 'the arbour does its own condition tell; you see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; but as to the great lodge! you might as well hunt half the day for a forgotten dream. 'there's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, will wet his lips within that cup of stone; and oftentimes when all are fast asleep, this water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 'some say that here a murder has been done, and blood cries out for blood; but for my part i've guessed, when i've been sitting in the sun, that it was all for that unhappy hart. 'what thoughts must through the creature's brain have past! even from the topmost stone upon the steep, are but three bounds--and look, sir, at this last-- o master! it has been a cruel leap. 'for thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; and in my simple mind we cannot tell what cause the hart might have to love this place, and come and make his death-bed near the well. 'here on the grass, perhaps, asleep he sank, lulled by the fountain in the summer tide; this water was perhaps the first he drank, when he had wandered from his mother's side. 'in april here beneath the flowering thorn, he heard the birds their morning carols sing; and he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 'now here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; the sun on drearier hollow never shone; so will it be, as i have often said, till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone.' 'grey-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well; small difference lies between thy creed and mine. this beast not unobserved by nature fell; his death was mourned by sympathy divine. 'the being that is in the clouds and air, that is in the green leaves among the groves, maintains a deep and reverential care for the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 'the pleasure house is dust, behind, before, this is no common waste, no common gloom. but nature, in due course of time, once more shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 'she leaves these objects to a slow decay, that what we are, and have been, may be known; but at the coming of a milder day, these monuments shall all be overgrown. 'one lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, taught both by what she shows and what conceals, never to blend our pleasure or our pride, with sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.' _w. wordsworth_ lx _the summer shower_ before the stout harvesters falleth the grain, as when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain, and loiters the boy in the briery lane; but yonder aslant comes the silvery rain, like a long line of spears brightly burnish'd and tall. adown the white highway like cavalry fleet, it dashes the dust with its numberless feet. like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat, the wild birds sit listening the drops round them beat; and the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall. the swallows alone take the storm on their wing, and, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing, like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring, while a bubble darts up from each widening ring; and the boy in dismay hears the loud shower fall. but soon are the harvesters tossing their sheaves; the robin darts out from his bower of leaves; the wren peereth forth from the moss-covered eaves; and the rain-spatter'd urchin now gladly perceives that the beautiful bow bendeth over them all. _t. b. read_ lxi _the mouse's petition_ oh, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer, for liberty that sighs; and never let thine heart be shut against the wretch's cries! for here forlorn and sad i sit, within the wiry grate; and tremble at the approaching morn, which brings impending fate. if e'er thy breast with freedom glowed, and spurned a tyrant's chain, let not thy strong oppressive force a free-born mouse detain! oh, do not stain with guiltless blood thy hospitable hearth! nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed a prize so little worth. the scattered gleanings of a feast my frugal meals supply; but if thy unrelenting heart that slender boon deny,-- the cheerful light, the vital air, are blessings widely given; let nature's commoners enjoy the common gifts of heaven. beware, lest in the worm you crush, a brother's soul you find; and tremble lest thy luckless hand dislodge a kindred mind. or if this transient gleam of day be _all_ the life we share, let pity plead within thy breast, that little _all_ to spare. so may thy hospitable board with health and peace be crowned; and every charm of heartfelt ease beneath thy roof be found. so when destruction works unseen, which man, like mice, may share, may some kind angel clear thy path, and break the hidden snare. _a. l. barbauld_ lxii _the grasshopper_ happy insect! what can be in happiness compared to thee? fed with nourishment divine, the dewy morning's gentle wine! nature waits upon thee still, and thy verdant cup does fill; 'tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, nature's self's thy ganymede. thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, happier than the happiest king! all the fields which thou dost see, all the plants belong to thee, all that summer hours produce, fertile made with early juice: man for thee does sow and plough; farmer he and landlord thou! thou dost innocently joy, nor does thy luxury destroy. the shepherd gladly heareth thee, more harmonious than he. thee, country minds with gladness hear, prophet of the ripened year: thee phoebus loves and does inspire; phoebus is himself thy sire. to thee of all things upon earth, life is no longer than thy mirth. happy insect! happy thou, dost neither age nor winter know: but when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung thy fill, the flowery leaves among (voluptuous and wise withal, epicurean animal) sated with the summer feast thou retir'st to endless rest. _a. cowley_ lxiii _the shepherd's home_ my banks they are furnished with bees, whose murmur invites one to sleep; my grottoes are shaded with trees, and my hills are white over with sheep. i seldom have met with a loss, such health do my fountains bestow; my fountains all bordered with moss, where the harebells and violets blow. not a pine in the grove is there seen, but with tendrils of woodbine is bound; not a beech's more beautiful green, but a sweet-briar entwines it around. not my fields in the prime of the year, more charms than my cattle unfold; not a brook that is limpid and clear, but it glitters with fishes of gold. i have found out a gift for my fair, i have found where the wood-pigeons breed; but let me such plunder forbear, she will say 'twas a barbarous deed; for he ne'er could be true, she averred, who would rob a poor bird of its young; and i loved her the more when i heard such tenderness fall from her tongue. _w. shenstone_ lxiv _the lord of burleigh_ in her ear he whispers gaily, 'if my heart by signs can tell, maiden, i have watched thee daily, and i think thou lov'st me well.' she replies, in accents fainter, 'there is none i love like thee.' he is but a landscape painter, and a village maiden she. he to lips that fondly falter, presses his without reproof; leads her to the village altar, and they leave her father's roof. 'i can make no marriage present; little can i give my wife: love will make our cottage pleasant, and i love thee more than life.' they by parks and lodges going, see the lordly castles stand: summer woods about them blowing, made a murmur in the land. from deep thought himself he rouses, says to her that loves him well, 'let us see these handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.' so she goes, by him attended, hears him lovingly converse, sees whatever fair and splendid lay betwixt his home and hers; parks with oak and chestnut shady, parks and ordered gardens great, ancient homes of lord and lady, built for pleasure and for state. all he shows her makes him dearer: evermore she seems to gaze on that cottage growing nearer, where they twain will spend their days. o, but she will love him truly! he shall have a cheerful home; she will order all things duly, when beneath his roof they come. thus her heart rejoices greatly, till a gateway she discerns. with armorial bearings stately, and beneath the gate she turns; sees a mansion more majestic than all those she saw before; many a gallant gay domestic bows before him at the door. and they speak in gentle murmur, when they answer to his call, while he treads with footsteps firmer, leading on from hall to hall. and while now she wonders blindly, nor the meaning can divine, proudly turns he round and kindly, 'all of this is mine and thine.' here he lives in state and bounty, lord of burleigh, fair and free, not a lord in all the county is so great a lord as he. all at once the colour flushes her sweet face from brow to chin: as it were with shame she blushes, and her spirit changed within. then her countenance all over, pale again as death did prove: but he clasped her like a lover, and he cheered her soul with love. so she strove against her weakness, though at times her spirits sank; shaped her heart with woman's meekness, to all duties of her rank: and a gentle consort made he, and her gentle mind was such, that she grew a noble lady, and the people loved her much. but a trouble weighed upon her, and perplexed her night and morn, with the burden of an honour unto which she was not born. faint she grew, and ever fainter, as she murmured, 'o that he were once more that landscape painter which did win my heart from me!' so she drooped and drooped before him, fading slowly from his side: three fair children first she bore him, then before her time she died. weeping, weeping late and early, walking up and pacing down, deeply mourned the lord of burleigh, burleigh house by stamford town. and he came to look upon her, and he looked at her, and said, 'bring the dress, and put it on her, that she wore when she was wed.' then her people, softly treading, bore to earth her body drest in the dress that she was wed in, that her spirit might have rest. _a. tennyson_ lxv _the mountain and the squirrel_ the mountain and the squirrel had a quarrel, and the former called the latter 'little prig;' bun replied, 'you are doubtless very big, but all sorts of things and weather must be taken in together to make up a year, and a sphere. and i think it no disgrace to occupy my place. if i'm not so large as you, you are not so small as i, and not half so spry: i'll not deny you make a very pretty squirrel track. talents differ; all is well and wisely put; if i cannot carry forests on my back, neither can you crack a nut.' _r. w. emerson_ lxvi _evening_ shepherds all, and maidens fair, fold your flocks up, for the air 'gins to thicken, and the sun already his great course has run. see the dew-drops how they kiss every little flower that is, hanging on their velvet heads, like a rope of crystal beads. see the heavy clouds low falling, and bright hesperus down calling the dead night from underground, at whose rising, mists unsound, damps and vapours fly apace, hovering o'er the wanton face of these pastures, where they come striking dead both bud and bloom. therefore from such danger lock every one of his loved flock; and let your dogs lie loose without, lest the wolf come, as a scout from the mountain, and ere day bear a kid or lamb away; or the crafty, thievish fox break upon your simple flocks. to secure yourselves from these, be not too secure in ease. so shall you good shepherds prove, and deserve your master's love. now, good night! may sweetest slumbers and soft silence fall in numbers on your eyelids: so, farewell; thus i end my evening knell. _j. fletcher_ lxvii _the parrot_ _a true story_ a parrot, from the spanish main, full young and early caged came o'er, with bright wings, to the bleak domain of mulla's shore. to spicy groves where he had won his plumage of resplendent hue, his native fruits, and skies, and sun, he bade adieu. for these he changed the smoke of turf, a heathery land and misty sky, and turned on rocks and raging surf his golden eye. but petted in our climate cold, he lived and chattered many a day: until with age, from green and gold his wings grew grey. at last when blind, and seeming dumb, he scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, a spanish stranger chanced to come to mulla's shore; he hail'd the bird in spanish speech, the bird in spanish speech replied; flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, dropt down, and died. _t. campbell_ lxviii _song_ i had a dove, and the sweet dove died; and i have thought it died of grieving: o, what could it grieve for? its feet were tied with a silken thread of my own hands' weaving; sweet little red feet! why should you die-- why would you leave me, sweet bird! why? you lived alone in the forest tree, why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? i kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; why not live sweetly, as in the green trees? _j. keats_ lxix _the blind boy_ o say what is that thing called light, which i must ne'er enjoy; what are the blessings of the sight, o tell your poor blind boy! you talk of wondrous things you see, you say the sun shines bright; i feel him warm, but how can he or make it day or night? my day or night myself i make whene'er i sleep or play; and could i ever keep awake with me 'twere always day. with heavy sighs i often hear you mourn my hapless woe; but sure with patience i can bear a loss i ne'er can know. then let not what i cannot have my cheer of mind destroy, whilst thus i sing, i am a king, although a poor blind boy. _c. cibber_ lxx _false friends-like_ when i was still a boy and mother's pride, a bigger boy spoke up to me so kind-like, 'if you do like, i'll treat you with a ride in this wheel-barrow.' so then i was blind-like to what he had a-working in his mind-like, and mounted for a passenger inside; and coming to a puddle, pretty wide, he tipp'd me in a-grinning back behind-like. so when a man may come to me so thick-like, and shake my hand where once he pass'd me by, and tell me he would do me this or that, i can't help thinking of the big boy's trick-like, and then, for all i can but wag my hat, and thank him, i do feel a little shy. _w. barnes_ lxxi _goody blake and harry gill_ _a true story_ oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? what is't that ails young harry gill, that evermore his teeth they chatter, chatter, chatter, chatter still? of waistcoats harry has no lack, good duffil grey, and flannel fine; he has a blanket on his back, and coats enough to smother nine. in march, december, and in july, 'tis all the same with harry gill; the neighbours tell, and tell you truly, his teeth they chatter, chatter still. at night, at morning, and at noon, 'tis all the same with harry gill; beneath the sun, beneath the moon, his teeth they chatter, chatter still. young harry was a lusty drover, and who so stout of limb as he? his cheeks were red as ruddy clover; his voice was like the voice of three. old goody blake was old and poor; ill fed she was and thinly clad; and any man who passed her door might see how poor a hut she had. all day she spun in her poor dwelling: and then her three hours' work at night, alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, it would not pay for candle-light. remote from sheltered village green, on a hill's northern side she dwelt, where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, and hoary dews are slow to melt. by the same fire to boil their pottage, two poor old dames, as i have known, will often live in one small cottage; but she, poor woman! housed alone. 'twas well enough when summer came, the long, warm, lightsome summer day, then at her door the canty dame would sit, as any linnet gay. but when the ice our streams did fetter, oh, then how her old bones would shake! you would have said, if you had met her, 'twas a hard time for goody blake. her evenings then were dull and dead: sad case it was, as you may think, for very cold to go to bed, and then for cold not sleep a wink. o joy for her! whene'er in winter the winds at night had made a rout; and scattered many a lusty splinter, and many a rotten bough about. yet never had she, well or sick, as every man who knew her says, a pile beforehand, turf or stick, enough to warm her for three days. now, when the frost was past enduring, and made her poor old bones to ache, could any thing be more alluring than an old hedge to goody blake? and now and then, it must be said, when her old bones were cold and chill, she left her fire, or left her bed, to seek the hedge of harry gill. now harry he had long suspected this trespass of old goody blake; and vowed that she should be detected-- that he on her would vengeance take; and oft from his warm fire he'd go, and to the fields his road would take; and there, at night, in frost and snow, he watched to seize old goody blake. and once behind a rick of barley, thus looking out did harry stand: the moon was full and shining clearly, and crisp with frost the stubble land. --he hears a noise--he's all awake-- again?--on tip-toe down the hill he softly creeps--'tis goody blake; she's at the hedge of harry gill! right glad was he when he beheld her; stick after stick did goody pull: he stood behind a bush of elder, till she had fill'd her apron full. when with her load she turned about, the by-way back again to take; he started forward with a shout, and sprang upon poor goody blake. and fiercely by the arm he took her, and by the arm he held her fast, and fiercely by the arm he shook her, and cried, 'i've caught you then at last!' then goody who had nothing said, her bundle from her lap let fall, and kneeling on the sticks she prayed to god that is the judge of all. she prayed, her withered hand uprearing, while harry held her by the arm-- 'god, who art never out of hearing, o may he never more be warm!' the cold, cold moon above her head, thus on her knees did goody pray; young harry heard what she had said, and icy cold he turned away. he went complaining all the morrow that he was cold and very chill: his face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, alas! that day for harry gill! that day he wore a riding coat, but not a whit the warmer he: another was on thursday bought; and ere the sabbath he had three. 'twas all in vain, a useless matter, and blankets were about him pinned, yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter, like a loose casement in the wind. and harry's flesh it fell away; and all who see him say 'tis plain, that live as long as live he may, he never will be warm again. no word to any man he utters, a-bed or up, to young or old; but ever to himself he mutters, 'poor harry gill is very cold!' a-bed or up, by night or day, his teeth they chatter, chatter still. now think, ye farmers all, i pray, of goody blake and harry gill! _w. wordsworth_ lxxii _the jovial beggar_ there was a jovial beggar, he had a wooden leg, lame from his cradle, and forced for to beg. and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. a bag for his oatmeal, another for his salt, and a long pair of crutches, to show that he can halt. and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. a bag for his wheat, another for his rye, and a little bottle by his side, to drink when he's a-dry. and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. seven years i begg'd for my old master wilde, he taught me how to beg when i was but a child. and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. i begg'd for my master, and got him store of pelf, but goodness now be praised, i'm begging for myself. and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. in a hollow tree i live, and pay no rent, providence provides for me, and i am well content. and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. of all the occupations a beggar's is the best, for whenever he's a-weary, he can lay him down to rest. and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. i fear no plots against me, i live in open cell: then who would be a king, lads, when the beggar lives so well? and a-begging we will go, will go, will go, and a-begging we will go. _old song_ lxxiii _bishop hatto_ the summer and autumn had been so wet that in winter the corn was growing yet; 'twas a piteous sight to see all around the grain lie rotting on the ground. every day the starving poor crowded around bishop hatto's door, for he had a plentiful last year's store, and all the neighbourhood could tell his granaries were furnish'd well. at last bishop hatto appointed a day to quiet the poor without delay; he bade them to his great barn repair, and they should have food for the winter there. rejoiced such tidings good to hear, the poor folk flock'd from far and near; the great barn was full as it could hold of women and children, and young and old. then when he saw it could hold no more, bishop hatto he made fast the door; and while for mercy on christ they call, he set fire to the barn and burnt them all. 'i' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!' quoth he, 'and the country is greatly obliged to me, for ridding it in these times forlorn of rats, that only consume the corn.' so then to his palace returned he, and he sat down to supper merrily, and he slept that night like an innocent man, but bishop hatto never slept again. in the morning as he enter'd the hall, where his picture hung against the wall, a sweat like death all over him came, for the rats had eaten it out of the frame. as he look'd there came a man from the farm, he had a countenance white with alarm; 'my lord, i open'd your granaries this morn, and the rats had eaten all your corn.' another came running presently, and he was pale as pale could be, 'fly! my lord bishop, fly,' quoth he, 'ten thousand rats are coming this way-- the lord forgive you for yesterday!' 'i'll go to my tower on the rhine,' replied he, ''tis the safest place in germany; the walls are high, and the shores are steep, and the stream is strong, and the water deep.' bishop hatto fearfully hasten'd away, and he cross'd the rhine without delay, and reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care all the windows, doors, and loopholes there. he laid him down and closed his eyes, but soon a scream made him arise; he started, and saw two eyes of flame on his pillow from whence the screaming came. he listen'd and look'd; it was only the cat; but the bishop he grew more fearful for that, for she sat screaming, mad with fear, at the army of rats that was drawing near. for they have swum over the river so deep, and they have climb'd the shores so steep, and up the tower their way is bent to do the work for which they were sent. they are not to be told by the dozen or score, by thousands they come, and by myriads and more such numbers had never been heard of before, such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. down on his knees the bishop fell, and faster and faster his beads did he tell, as louder and louder drawing near the gnawing of their teeth he could hear. and in at the windows, and in at the door, and through the walls helter-skelter they pour, and down from the ceiling, and up through the floor, from the right and the left, from behind and before, from within and without, from above and below, and all at once to the bishop they go. they have whetted their teeth against the stones, and now they pick the bishop's bones; they gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, for they were sent to do judgment on him. _r. southey_ lxxiv _the old courtier_ an old song made by an aged old pate, of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, that kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, and an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; like an old courtier of the queen's, and the queen's old courtier. with an old lady whose anger one word assuages; they every quarter paid their old servants their wages, and never knew what belong'd to coachman, footman, nor pages, but kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; like an old courtier of the queen's, and the queen's old courtier. with an old study fill'd full of learned old books, with an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, with an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, and an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks; like an old courtier of the queen's, and the queen's old courtier. with an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, with old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, and an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose, and a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose; like an old courtier of the queen's, and the queen's old courtier. with a good old fashion when christmas was come to call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, with a good cheer enough to furnish every old room, and old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; like an old courtier of the queen's, and the queen's old courtier. with an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, that never hawk'd nor hunted but in his own grounds, who like a wise man kept himself within his own bounds, and when he died gave every child a thousand good pounds; like an old courtier of the queen's, and the queen's old courtier. _old song_ lxxv _john gilpin_ john gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown, a train-band captain eke was he of famous london town. john gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 'though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. 'to-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair unto the bell at edmonton, all in a chaise and pair. 'my sister and my sister's child, myself, and children three, will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we.' he soon replied, 'i do admire of womankind but one, and you are she, my dearest dear, therefore it shall be done. 'i am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know, and my good friend, the calender, will lend his horse to go.' quoth mrs. gilpin, 'that's well said; and for that wine is dear, we will be furnish'd with our own, which is both bright and clear.' john gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; o'erjoy'd was he to find that, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. the morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed to drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud. so three doors off the chaise was stay'd, where they did all get in, six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folk so glad; the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad. john gilpin, at his horse's side, seiz'd fast the flowing mane, and up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; for saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, his journey to begin, when, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. so down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. 'twas long before the customers were suited to their mind, when betty, screaming, came downstairs, 'the wine is left behind!' 'good lack!' quoth he, 'yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, in which i bear my trusty sword when i do exercise.' now mistress gilpin, (careful soul!) had two stone-bottles found, to hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound. each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, and hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. then over all, that he might be equipp'd from top to toe, his long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, he manfully did throw. now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed. but finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, the snorting beast began to trot, which gall'd him in his seat. so, 'fair and softly,' john he cried, but john he cried in vain; that trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. so stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, he grasp'd the mane with both his hands, and eke, with all his might. his horse, who never in that sort had handled been before, what thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more. away went gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; he little dreamt, when he set out, of running such a rig. the wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay, till loop and button failing both, at last it flew away. then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; a bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung. the dogs did bark, the children scream'd, up flew the windows all; and every soul cried out, well done! as loud as he could bawl. away went gilpin--who but he? his fame soon spread around, 'he carries weight! he rides a race! 'tis for a thousand pound!' and still as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view how in a trice the turnpike men their gates wide open threw. and now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, the bottles twain behind his back were shatter'd at a blow. down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been. but still he seem'd to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; for all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist. thus all through merry islington these gambols he did play, until he came unto the wash of edmonton so gay; and there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. at edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride. 'stop, stop, john gilpin!--here's the house'-- they all aloud did cry; 'the dinner waits, and we are tired;' said gilpin, 'so am i!' but yet his horse was not a whit inclin'd to tarry there; for why? his owner had a house full ten miles off, at ware. so like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong; so did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song. away went gilpin, out of breath, and sore against his will, till, at his friend the calender's, his horse at last stood still. the calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim, laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him. 'what news? what news? your tidings tell; tell me you must and shall-- say, why bare-headed you are come, or why you come at all?' now gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; and thus, unto the calender, in merry guise he spoke: 'i came because your horse would come; and, if i well forebode, my hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon the road.' the calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, return'd him not a single word, but to the house went in; whence straight he came, with hat and wig, a wig that flowed behind; a hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in its kind. he held them up, and in his turn thus show'd his ready wit; 'my head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit. but let me scrape the dust away, that hangs upon your face; and stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case.' said john, 'it is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare, if wife should dine at edmonton, and i should dine at ware.' so, turning to his horse, he said, 'i am in haste to dine; 'twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine.' ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear; for, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, and gallop'd off with all his might, as he had done before. away went gilpin, and away went gilpin's hat and wig; he lost them sooner than at first, for why?--they were too big. now mrs. gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down into the country far away, she pull'd out half-a-crown; and thus unto the youth she said, that drove them to the bell, 'this shall be yours, when you bring back my husband safe and well.' the youth did ride, and soon did meet john coming back amain; whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein; but not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, the frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. away went gilpin, and away went postboy at his heels, the postboy's horse right glad to miss the rumbling of the wheels. six gentlemen upon the road thus seeing gilpin fly, with postboy scampering in the rear, they rais'd a hue and cry:-- 'stop thief!--stop thief!--a highwayman!' not one of them was mute; and all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit. and now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space: the toll-men, thinking as before that gilpin rode a race. and so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town; nor stopp'd till where he had got up he did again get down. now let us sing, long live the king, and gilpin, long live he; and, when he next doth ride abroad, may i be there to see. _w. cowper_ lxxvi _the milkmaid_ once on a time a rustic dame, (no matter for the lady's name) wrapt up in deep imagination, indulg'd her pleasing contemplation; while on a bench she took her seat, and plac'd the milk-pail at her feet. oft in her hand she chink'd the pence, the profits which arose from thence; while fond ideas fill'd her brain of layings up, and monstrous gain, till every penny which she told creative fancy turn'd to gold; and reasoning thus from computation, she spoke aloud her meditation. 'please heaven but to preserve my health, no doubt i shall have store of wealth; it must of consequence ensue i shall have store of lovers too. o, how i'll break their stubborn hearts with all the pride of female arts. what suitors then will kneel before me! lords, earls, and viscounts shall adore me. when in my gilded coach i ride, my lady, at his lordship's side, how will i laugh at all i meet clattering in pattens down the street! and lobbin then i'll mind no more, howe'er i lov'd him heretofore; or, if he talks of plighted truth, i will not hear the simple youth, but rise indignant from my seat, and spurn the lubber from my feet.' action, alas! the speaker's grace, ne'er came in more improper place, for in the tossing forth her shoe what fancied bliss the maid o'erthrew! while down at once, with hideous fall, came lovers, wealth, and milk, and all. _r. lloyd_ lxxvii _sir sidney smith_ gentlefolks, in my time, i've made many a rhyme, but the song i now trouble you with lays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, because the subject's sir sidney smith, it is; the subject's sir sidney smith. we all know sir sidney, a man of such kidney, he'd fight every foe he could meet; give him one ship or two, and without more ado, he'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would; he'd engage if he met a whole fleet. thus he took, every day, all that came in his way, till fortune, that changeable elf, order'd accidents so, that, while taking the foe, sir sidney got taken himself, he did; sir sidney got taken himself. his captors, right glad of the prize they now had, rejected each offer we bid, and swore he should stay, lock'd up till doomsday, but he swore he'd be hang'd if he did, he did; but he swore he'd be hang'd if he did. so sir sid got away, and his gaoler next day cried, 'sacre, diable, morbleu! mon prisonnier 'scape, i 'ave got in von scrape, and i fear i must run away, too, i must; i fear i must run away too.' _t. dibdin_ lxxviii _the pied piper of hamelin_ hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser deep and wide washes its walls on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, was a pity. rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in their cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats, by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. at last the people in a body to the town-hall came flocking: ''tis clear,' cried they, 'our mayor's a noddy: and as for our corporation--shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease! rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!' at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. an hour they sat in council, at length the mayor broke silence: 'for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell; i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain. oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!' just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber door, but a gentle tap? 'bless us,' cried the mayor, 'what's that? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat! 'come in!' the mayor cried, looking bigger: and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow, and half of red; and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes each like a pin, and light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, no tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, but lips where smiles went out and in-- there was no guessing his kith and kin! and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire: quoth one, 'it's as if my great-grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tombstone!' he advanced to the council table: and, 'please your honours,' said he, 'i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep, or swim, or fly, or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole, the toad, the newt, the viper; and people call me the pied piper. yet,' said he, 'poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham, last june, from his huge swarm of gnats; i eased in asia the nizam of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?' 'one? fifty thousand!' was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; then like a musical adept, to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered, you heard as if an army muttered; and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling-- great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails, and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped, advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser wherein all plunged and perished, save one, who stout as julius cæsar, swam across, and lived to carry (as _he_ the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary, which was, 'at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples wondrous ripe into a cider press's gripe; and a moving away of pickle-tub boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter casks; and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, oh rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon! and just as a bulky sugar puncheon, all ready staved, like a great sun shone glorious, scarce an inch before me, just as methought it said, "come, bore me!" --i found the weser rolling o'er me.' you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; 'go,' cried the mayor, 'and get long poles! poke out the nests, and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats!' when suddenly up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a 'first, if you please, my thousand guilders!' a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue, so did the corporation too. for council dinners made rare havock with claret, moselle, vin-de-grave, hock; and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish. to pay this sum to a wandering fellow with a gipsy coat of red and yellow! 'besides,' quoth the mayor, with a knowing wink, 'our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something for drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but, as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke-- beside, our losses have made us thrifty: a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!' the piper's face fell, and he cried, 'no trifling! i can't wait beside! i've promised to visit by dinner-time bagdat, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left in the caliph's kitchen, of a nest of scorpions no surviver. with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe to another fashion.' 'how?' cried the mayor, 'd'ye think i'll brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst, blow your pipe there till you burst.' once more he stept into the street, and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air), there was a rustling that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, and like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering out came the children running: all the little boys and girls, with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, tripping and skipping ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood, unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by-- and could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. and now the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosoms beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters right in the way of their sons and daughters! however he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed; great was the joy in every breast. 'he never can cross that mighty top; he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop!' when, lo! as they reached the mountain's side, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced, and the children followed, and when all were in to the very last, the door in the mountain side shut fast. did i say, all? no! one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say,-- 'it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me: for he led us, he said, to a joyous land, joining the town and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new; the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow-deer, and honey-bees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings; and just as i became assured my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before, and never hear of that country more!' the mayor sent east, west, north, and south to offer the piper by word of mouth, wherever it was man's lot to find him, silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, and piper and dancers were gone for ever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly, if after the day of the month and year these words did not as well appear, 'and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july, thirteen hundred and seventy-six:' and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it, the pied piper's street-- where any one playing on pipe or tabor, was sure for the future to lose his labour. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away; and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people, that ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long ago in a mighty band, out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. so willy, let you and me be wipers of scores out with all men,--especially pipers, and whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise. _r. browning_ lxxix _the tiger_ tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forest of the night! what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the ardour of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire-- what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder, and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? and when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand form'd thy dread feet? what the hammer, what the chain, in what furnace was thy brain? did god smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? _w. blake_ lxxx _king john and the abbot of canterbury_ an ancient story i'll tell you anon of a notable prince, that was called king john; and he ruled england with main and with might, for he did great wrong and maintain'd little right. and i'll tell you a story, a story so merry, concerning the abbot of canterbury; how for his housekeeping and high renown, they rode post for him to fair london town. an hundred men, the king did hear say, the abbot kept in his house every day; and fifty gold chains, without any doubt, in velvet coats waited the abbot about. 'how now, father abbot; i hear it of thee, thou keepest a far better house than me; and for thy housekeeping and high renown, i fear thou work'st treason against my crown.' 'my liege,' quoth the abbot, 'i would it were known, i never spend nothing but what is my own; and i trust your grace will do me no deere for spending of my own true gotten geere.' 'yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high, and now for the same thou needest must die; for except thou canst answer me questions three, thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. 'and first,' quoth the king, 'when i'm in this stead, with my crown of gold so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birth, thou must tell me to one penny what i am worth. 'secondly tell me, without any doubt, how soon i may ride the whole world about; and at the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think.' 'o these are hard questions for my shallow wit, nor i cannot answer your grace as yet; but if you will give me but three weeks space, i'll do my endeavour to answer your grace.' 'now three weeks space to thee will i give, and that is the longest time thou hast to live; for if thou dost not answer my questions three, thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.' away rode the abbot all sad at that word, and he rode to cambridge and oxenford; but never a doctor there was so wise, that could with his learning an answer devise. then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, and he met his shepherd a going to fold: 'how now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; what news do you bring us from good king john?' 'sad news, sad news, shepherd, i must give, that i have but three days more to live; for if i do not answer him questions three, my head will be smitten from my bodie. 'the first is to tell him there in that stead, with his crown of gold so fair on his head, among all his liege-men so noble of birth, to within one penny of what he is worth. 'the second, to tell him without any doubt, how soon he may ride this whole world about; and at the third question i must not shrink, but tell him there truly what he does think.' 'now cheer up, sir abbot, did you never hear yet that a fool he may learn a wise man wit? lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, and i'll ride to london to answer your quarrel. 'nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me, i am like your lordship as ever may be; and if you will but lend me your gown there is none shall know us in fair london town.' 'now horses and serving men thou shalt have, with sumptuous array most gallant and brave, with crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, fit to appear 'fore our father the pope.' 'now welcome, sir abbot,' the king he did say, ''tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day: for and if thou canst answer my questions three, thy life and thy living both saved shall be. 'and first, when thou seest me here in this stead, with my crown of gold so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birth, tell me to one penny what i am worth.' 'for thirty pence our saviour was sold among the false jews, as i have been told: and twenty-nine is the worth of thee, for i think thou art one penny worser than he.' the king he laugh'd, and swore by st. bittel, 'i did not think i had been worth so little! now secondly tell me, without any doubt, how soon i may ride this whole world about.' 'you must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, until the next morning he riseth again; and then your grace need not make any doubt but in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.' the king he laugh'd, and swore by st. jone, 'i did not think it could be gone so soon. now from the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think.' 'yea, that i shall do and make your grace merry; you think i'm the abbot of canterbury; but i'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, that am come to beg pardon for him and for me.' the king he laugh'd, and swore by the mass, 'i'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!' 'nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed, for alack, i can neither write nor read.' 'four nobles a week, then, i will give thee, for this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me; and tell the old abbot, when thou com'st home, thou hast brought him a pardon from good king john.' _old ballad_ lxxxi _the fairies_ up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting for fear of little men; wee folk, good folk, trooping all together; green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather! down along the rocky shore some make their home, they live on crispy pancakes of yellow tide-foam; some in the reeds of the black mountain lake, with frogs for their watch-dogs, all night awake. high on the hill-top the old king sits; he is now so old and grey he's nigh lost his wits. with a bridge of white mist columbkill he crosses, on his stately journeys from slieveleague to rosses; or going up with music on cold starry nights, to sup with the queen of the gay northern lights. they stole little bridget for seven years long; when she came down again, her friends were all gone. they took her lightly back, between the night and morrow, they thought that she was fast asleep, but she was dead with sorrow. they have kept her ever since deep within the lakes, on a bed of flag leaves, watching till she wakes. by the craggy hill-side, through the mosses bare they have planted thorn-trees for pleasure here and there. is any man so daring as dig one up in spite, he shall find the thornies set in his bed at night. up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting for fear of little men; wee folk, good folk, trooping all together; green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather! _w. allingham_ lxxxii _the suffolk miracle_ a wonder stranger ne'er was known than what i now shall treat upon. in suffolk there did lately dwell a farmer rich and known full well. he had a daughter fair and bright, on whom he placed his chief delight; her beauty was beyond compare, she was both virtuous and fair. there was a young man living by, who was so charmed with her eye, that he could never be at rest; he was by love so much possest. he made address to her, and she did grant him love immediately; but when her father came to hear, he parted her and her poor dear. forty miles distant was she sent, unto his brothers, with intent that she should there so long remain, till she had changed her mind again. hereat this young man sadly grieved, but knew not how to be relieved; he sigh'd and sobb'd continually that his true love he could not see. she by no means could to him send, who was her heart's espoused friend; he sigh'd, he griev'd, but all in vain, for she confined must still remain. he mourn'd so much that doctor's art could give no ease unto his heart, who was so strangely terrified, that in short time for love he died. she that from him was sent away knew nothing of his dying day, but constant still she did remain, and loved the dead, although in vain. after he had in grave been laid a month or more, unto this maid he came in middle of the night, who joy'd to see her heart's delight. her father's horse which well she knew, her mother's hood and safeguard too, he brought with him to testify her parents' order he came by. which when her uncle understood, he hoped it would be for her good, and gave consent to her straightway, that with him she should come away. when she was got her love behind, they passed as swift as any wind, that in two hours, or little more, he brought her to her father's door. but as they did this great haste make, he did complain his head did ache; her handkerchief she then took out, and tied the same his head about. and unto him she thus did say: 'thou art as cold as any clay, when we come home a fire we'll have;' but little dreamed he went to grave. soon were they at her father's door, and after she ne'er saw him more; 'i'll set the horse up,' then he said, and there he left this harmless maid. she knocked, and straight a man he cried, 'who's there?' ''tis i,' she then replied; who wondered much her voice to hear, and was possest with dread and fear. her father he did tell, and then he stared like an affrighted man: down stairs he ran, and when he see her, cried out, 'my child, how cam'st thou here?' 'pray, sir, did you not send for me by such a messenger?' said she: which made his hair stand on his head, as knowing well that he was dead. 'where is he?' then to her he said; 'he's in the stable,' quoth the maid. 'go in,' said he, 'and go to bed; i'll see the horse well littered.' he stared about, and there could he no shape of any mankind see, but found his horse all on a sweat; which made him in a deadly fret. his daughter he said nothing to, nor none else, (though full well they knew that he was dead a month before,) for fear of grieving her full sore. her father to the father went of the deceased, with full intent to tell him what his daughter said; so both came back unto this maid. they asked her, and she still did say 'twas he that then brought her away; which when they heard, they were amazed, and on each other strangely gazed. a handkerchief she said she tied about his head, and that they tried; the sexton they did speak unto that he the grave would then undo. affrighted then they did behold his body turning into mould, and though he had a month been dead this handkerchief was about his head. this thing unto her then they told, and the whole truth they did unfold; she was thereat so terrified and grieved, that she quickly died. _old ballad_ lxxxiii _the nightingale_ as it fell upon a day in the merry month of may, sitting in a pleasant shade which a grove of myrtles made, beasts did leap and birds did sing, trees did grow and plants did spring, everything did banish moan, save the nightingale alone. she, poor bird, as all forlorn, lean'd her breast against a thorn, and there sung the dolefullest ditty that to hear it was great pity. fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; tereu, tereu, by and by: that to hear her so complain scarce i could from tears refrain; for her griefs so lively shewn made me think upon mine own. --ah, thought i, thou mourn'st in vain, none takes pity on thy pain: senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee; king pandion, he is dead, all thy friends are lapp'd in lead. all thy fellow birds do sing careless of thy sorrowing. even so, poor bird, like thee none alive will pity me. _r. barnefield_ lxxxiv _on a favourite cat drowned in a tub of goldfishes_ 'twas on a lofty vase's side where china's gayest art had dyed the azure flowers that blow, demurest of the tabby kind, the pensive selima, reclined, gazed on the lake below. her conscious tail her joy declared: the fair round face, the snowy beard, the velvet of her paws, her coat that with the tortoise vies, her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, she saw, and purr'd applause. still had she gazed, but midst the tide two angel forms were seen to glide, the genii of the stream: their scaly armour's tyrian hue, through richest purple, to the view betray'd a golden gleam. the hapless nymph with wonder saw: a whisker first, and then a claw, with many an ardent wish, she stretch'd in vain to reach the prize; what female heart can gold despise? what cat's averse to fish? presumptuous maid! with looks intent again she stretch'd, again she bent, nor knew the gulf between-- malignant fate sat by and smiled-- the slippery verge her feet beguiled; she tumbled headlong in! eight times emerging from the flood she mew'd to every watery god some speedy aid to send: no dolphin came, no nereid stirr'd, nor cruel tom nor susan heard-- a favourite has no friend! _t. gray_ lxxxv _the fox at the point of death_ a fox, in life's extreme decay, weak, sick and faint, expiring lay; all appetite had left his maw, and age disarm'd his mumbling jaw. his numerous race around him stand to learn their dying sire's command: he rais'd his head with whining moan, and thus was heard the feeble tone: 'ah, sons, from evil ways depart; my crimes lie heavy on my heart. see, see, the murdered geese appear! why are those bleeding turkeys there? why all around this cackling train who haunt my ears for chickens slain?' the hungry foxes round them star'd, and for the promised feast prepar'd. 'where, sir, is all this dainty cheer? nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here. these are the phantoms of your brain; and your sons lick their lips in vain.' 'o, gluttons,' says the drooping sire, 'restrain inordinate desire, your liquorish taste you shall deplore, when peace of conscience is no more. does not the hound betray our pace, and gins and guns destroy our race? thieves dread the searching eye of power and never feel the quiet hour. old age (which few of us shall know) now puts a period to my woe. would you true happiness attain, let honesty your passions rein; so live in credit and esteem, and the good name you lost, redeem.' 'the counsel's good,' a son replies, 'could we perform what you advise. think what our ancestors have done; a line of thieves from son to son. to us descends the long disgrace, and infamy hath marked our race. though we like harmless sheep should feed, honest in thought, in word, in deed, whatever hen-roost is decreas'd, we shall be thought to share the feast. the change shall never be believ'd, a lost good name is ne'er retriev'd.' 'nay then,' replies the feeble fox, '(but hark, i hear a hen that clucks,) go; but be moderate in your food; a chicken, too, might do me good.' _j. gay_ lxxxvi _the old man's comforts, and how he gained them_ 'you are old, father william,' the young man cried, 'the few locks which are left you are grey; you are hale, father william, a hearty old man now tell me the reason, i pray.' 'in the days of my youth,' father william replied, 'i remember'd that youth would fly fast, and abused not my health and my vigour at first, that i never might need them at last.' 'you are old, father william,' the young man cried, 'and pleasures with youth pass away; and yet you lament not the days that are gone, now tell me the reason, i pray.' 'in the days of my youth,' father william replied, i remember'd that youth could not last; i thought of the future whatever i did, that i never might grieve for the past.' 'you are old, father william,' the young man cried, 'and life must be hastening away; you are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, now tell me the reason, i pray.' 'i am cheerful, young man,' father william replied, 'let the cause thy attention engage; in the days of my youth i remember'd my god, and he hath not forgotten my age.' _r. southey_ lxxxvii _the charge of the light brigade_ half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred. 'forward, the light brigade! charge for the guns!' he said: into the valley of death rode the six hundred. 'forward, the light brigade!' was there a man dismay'd? not though the soldier knew some one had blunder'd. theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die. into the valley of death rode the six hundred. cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them volley'd and thunder'd; storm'd at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell rode the six hundred. flash'd all their sabres bare, flash'd as they turn'd in air, sabring the gunners there, charging an army, while all the world wonder'd: plunged in the battery smoke, right through the line they broke; cossack and russian reel'd from the sabre stroke shatter'd and sunder'd; then they rode back, but not-- not the six hundred. cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon behind them volley'd and thunder'd; storm'd at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell, they that had fought so well came through the jaws of death back from the mouth of hell, all that was left of them, left of six hundred. when can their glory fade? o, the wild charge they made! all the world wonder'd. honour the charge they made! honour the light brigade, noble six hundred! _a. tennyson_ lxxxviii _ye mariners of england_ ye mariners of england, that guard our native seas; whose flag has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again, to match another foe! and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow. the spirits of your fathers shall start from every wave!-- for the deck it was their field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell, your manly hearts shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow. britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain-waves, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak, she quells the floods below, as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow. the meteor flag of england shall yet terrific burn; till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return. then, then, ye ocean warriors! our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow: when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. _t. campbell_ lxxxix _napoleon and the sailor_ _a true story_ napoleon's banners at boulogne arm'd in our island every freeman, his navy chanced to capture one poor british seaman. they suffer'd him--i know not how-- unprison'd on the shore to roam; and aye was bent his longing brow on england's home. his eye, methinks, pursued the flight of birds to britain half-way over; with envy _they_ could reach the white dear cliffs of dover. a stormy midnight watch, he thought, than this sojourn would have been dearer, if but the storm his vessel brought to england nearer. at last, when care had banish'd sleep, he saw one morning--dreaming--doating, an empty hogshead from the deep come shoreward floating; he hid it in a cave, and wrought the livelong day laborious; lurking until he launch'd a tiny boat by mighty working. heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond description wretched: such a wherry perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, or cross'd a ferry. for ploughing in the salt sea-field, it would have made the boldest shudder; untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, no sail--no rudder. from neighbouring woods he interlaced his sorry skiff with wattled willows; and thus equipp'd he would have pass'd the foaming billows-- but frenchmen caught him on the beach, his little argo sorely jeering; till tidings of him chanced to reach napoleon's hearing. with folded arms napoleon stood, serene alike in peace and danger; and in his wonted attitude, address'd the stranger:-- 'rash man that wouldst yon channel pass on twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; thy heart with some sweet british lass must be impassion'd.' 'i have no sweetheart,' said the lad; 'but--absent long from one another-- great was the longing that i had to see my mother.' 'and so thou shalt,' napoleon said, 'ye've both my favour fairly won; a noble mother must have bred so brave a son.' he gave the tar a piece of gold, and with a flag of truce commanded he should be shipp'd to england old, and safely landed. our sailor oft could scantly shift to find a dinner plain and hearty; but never changed the coin and gift of bonaparte. _t. campbell_ xc _boadicea_ _an ode_ when the british warrior queen, bleeding from the roman rods, sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods; sage beneath a spreading oak sat the druid, hoary chief; every burning word he spoke full of rage, and full of grief. princess! if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. rome shall perish--write that word in the blood that she has spilt; perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, deep in ruin as in guilt. rome, for empire far renown'd, tramples on a thousand states; soon her pride shall kiss the ground-- hark! the gaul is at her gates! other romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name; sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame. then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command. regions cæsar never knew thy posterity shall sway; where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they. such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire, bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. she, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; rush'd to battle, fought, and died; dying hurl'd them at the foe; ruffians, pitiless as proud, heaven awards the vengeance due; empire is on us bestow'd, shame and ruin wait for you. _w. cowper_ xci _the soldier's dream_ our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; and thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd, the weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. when reposing that night on my pallet of straw, by the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, at the dead of the night a sweet vision i saw, and thrice ere the morning i dreamt it again. methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array, far, far i had roam'd on a desolate track; 'twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way to the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. i flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft in life's morning march, when my bosom was young; i heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, and knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly i swore, from my home and my weeping friends never to part, my little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, and my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. stay, stay with us,--rest, thou art weary and worn! and fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; but sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. _t. campbell_ xcii _love and glory_ young henry was as brave a youth as ever graced a gallant story; and jane was fair as lovely truth, she sigh'd for love, and he for glory! with her his faith he meant to plight, and told her many a gallant story; till war, their coming joys to blight, call'd him away from love to glory! young henry met the foe with pride; jane followed, fought! ah, hapless story! in man's attire, by henry's side, she died for love, and he for glory. _t. dibdin_ xciii _after blenheim_ it was a summer evening, old kaspar's work was done, and he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun, and by him sported on the green his little grandchild wilhelmine. she saw her brother peterkin roll something large and round, which he beside the rivulet in playing there had found; he came to ask what he had found that was so large and smooth and round. old kaspar took it from the boy who stood expectant by; and then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh-- ''tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'who fell in the great victory.' 'i find them in the garden, for there's many here about; and often when i go to plough the ploughshare turns them out. for many a thousand men,' said he, 'were slain in that great victory.' 'now tell us what 'twas all about,' young peterkin he cries: and little wilhelmine looks up with wonder-waiting eyes; 'now tell us all about the war, and what they fought each other for.' 'it was the english,' kaspar cried, 'who put the french to rout; but what they fought each other for i could not well make out. but every body said,' quoth he, 'that 'twas a famous victory. 'my father lived at blenheim then, yon little stream hard by; they burnt his dwelling to the ground, and he was forced to fly: so with his wife and child he fled, nor had he where to rest his head. 'with fire and sword the country round was wasted far and wide, and many a childing mother then and new-born baby died: but things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory. 'they say it was a shocking sight after the field was won; for many thousand bodies here lay rotting in the sun; but things like that, you know, must be after a famous victory. 'great praise the duke of marlbro' won, and our good prince eugene;' 'why 'twas a very wicked thing!' said little wilhelmine; 'nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he, 'it was a famous victory. 'and every body praised the duke who this great fight did win.' 'but what good came of it at last?' quoth little peterkin. 'why that i cannot tell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous victory.' _r. southey_ xciv _the sailor's mother_ one morning (raw it was and wet-- a foggy day in winter time) a woman on the road i met, not old, though something past her prime: majestic in her person, tall and straight; and like a roman matron's was her mien and gait. the ancient spirit is not dead; old times, thought i, are breathing there; proud was i that my country bred such strength, a dignity so fair: she begged an alms like one in poor estate; i looked at her again nor did my pride abate. when from these lofty thoughts i woke, 'what is it?' said i, 'that you bear beneath the covert of your cloak, protected from this cold damp air?' she answered, soon as she the question heard, 'a simple burthen, sir, a little singing bird.' and, thus continuing, she said, 'i had a son, who many a day sail'd on the seas, but he is dead; in denmark he was cast away: and i have travelled weary miles to see if aught that he had owned might still remain for me. the bird and cage they both were his: 'twas my son's bird; and neat and trim he kept it: many voyages the singing bird had gone with him; when last he sailed, he left the bird behind; from bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.' _w. wordsworth_ xcv _mahmoud_ there came a man, making his hasty moan before the sultan mahmoud on his throne, and crying out--'my sorrow is my right, and i _will_ see the sultan, and to-night.' 'sorrow,' said mahmoud, 'is a reverend thing: i recognise its right as king with king; speak on.' 'a fiend has got into my house,' exclaim'd the staring man, 'and tortures us: one of thine officers;--he comes, the abhorr'd, and takes possession of my house, my board, my bed:--i have two daughters and a wife, and the wild villain comes and makes me mad with life.' 'is he there now?' said mahmoud. 'no, he left the house when i did, of my wits bereft; and laugh'd me down the street because i vow'd i'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud. i'm mad with want, i'm mad with misery, and oh, thou sultan mahmoud, god cries out for thee!' the sultan comforted the man and said, 'go home, and i will send thee wine and bread. (for he was poor,) and other comforts. go; and should the wretch return let sultan mahmoud know.' in two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard, and shaken voice, the suitor re-appeared, and said, 'he's come.'--mahmoud said not a word, but rose and took four slaves each with a sword, and went with the vext man. they reach the place, and hear a voice and see a female face, that to the window flutter'd in affright. 'go in,' said mahmoud, 'and put out the light; but tell the females first to leave the room; and when the drunkard follows them, we come. the man went in. there was a cry, and hark! a table falls, the window is struck dark; forth rush the breathless women, and behind with curses comes the fiend in desperate mind. in vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife, and chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life. 'now _light_ the light,' the sultan cried aloud. 'twas done; he took it in his hand and bow'd over the corpse, and look'd upon the face; then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place, and said a prayer, and from his lips there crept some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept. in reverent silence the spectators wait, then bring him at his call both wine and meat; and when he had refresh'd his noble heart, he bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart. the man amaz'd, all mildness now and tears, fell at the sultan's feet with many prayers, and begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave, the reason first of that command he gave about the light: then when he saw the face, why he knelt down; and lastly how it was that fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place. the sultan said, with much humanity, 'since first i heard thee come, and heard thy cry, i could not rid me of a dread that one by whom such daring villanies were done, must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son. whoe'er he was, i knew my task, but fear'd a father's heart, in case the worst appear'd. for this i had the light put out. but when i saw the face and found a stranger slain, i knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter, whose work i had perform'd through pain and fear. and then i rose and was refresh'd with food, the first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st my solitude.' _l. hunt_ xcvi _autumn_ _a dirge_ the warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, the bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; and the year on the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead is lying. come, months, come away, from november to may, in your saddest array,-- follow the bier of the dead cold year, and like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. the chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, the rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling for the year; the blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone to his dwelling. come, months, come away; put on white, black, and grey; let your light sisters play; ye, follow the bier of the dead cold year, and make her grave green with tear on tear. _p. b. shelley_ xcvii _the raven_ once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while i nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ''tis some visitor,' i mutter'd, 'tapping at my chamber door-- only this and nothing more.' ah, distinctly i remember it was in the bleak december, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. eagerly i wish'd the morrow;--vainly had i sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost lenore-- for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore-- nameless here for evermore. and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrill'd me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; so that now to still the beating of my heart, i stood repeating, ''tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- this it is, and nothing more.' presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 'sir,' said i, 'or madam, truly your forgiveness i implore; but the fact is i was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that i scarce was sure i heard you;' here i open'd wide the door;-- darkness there, and nothing more. deep into that darkness peering, long i stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; but the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word 'lenore!' this i whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 'lenore'-- merely this, and nothing more. back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon i heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before, 'surely,' said i, 'surely that is something at my window lattice; let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 'tis the wind, and nothing more!' open here i flung a shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter in there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he; but with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door-- perch'd upon a bust of pallas, just above my chamber door-- perch'd and sat and nothing more. then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 'though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' i said, 'art sure no craven, ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore, tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore: quoth the raven, 'nevermore!' much i marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculptur'd bust above his chamber door, with such a name as 'nevermore.' but the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour; nothing farther then he utter'd--not a feather then he flutter'd-- till i scarcely more than mutter'd, 'other friends have flown before-- on the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' then the bird said 'nevermore.' startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 'doubtless,' said i, 'what it utters is its only stock and store, caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore-- till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of 'never--nevermore.' but the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, straight i wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; then, upon the velvet sinking, i betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking 'nevermore.' this i sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; this and more i sat divining, with my head at ease reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, but whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, she shall press, ah, nevermore! 'prophet!' said i, 'thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! by that heaven that bends above us, by that god we both adore-- tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant aidenn it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name lenore-- clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore.' quoth the raven 'nevermore.' 'be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' i shriek'd, upstarting-- 'get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore! leave no black plume as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken! leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door! take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door! quoth the raven 'nevermore.' and the raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, on the pallid bust of pallas just above my chamber door; and his eyes have all the seeming of a dæmon's that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; and my soul from out that shadow that is floating on the floor shall be lifted 'nevermore.' _e. a. poe_ xcviii _the nix_ the crafty nix, more false than fair whose haunt in arrowy iser lies, she envied me my golden hair, she envied me my azure eyes. the moon with silvery ciphers traced the leaves, and on the waters play'd; she rose, she caught me round the waist, she said, 'come down with me, fair maid.' she led me to her crystal grot, she set me in her coral chair, she waved her hand, and i had not or azure eyes or golden hair. her locks of jet, her eyes of flame were mine, and hers my semblance fair; 'o make me, nix, again the same, o give me back my golden hair!' she smiles in scorn, she disappears, and here i sit and see no sun, my eyes of fire are quenched in tears, and all my darksome locks undone. _r. garnett_ xcix _the seven sisters; or, the solitude of binnorie_ seven daughters had lord archibald, all children of one mother: you could not say in one short day what love they bore each other. a garland, of seven lilies wrought! seven sisters that together dwell; but he, bold knight as ever fought, their father, took of them no thought, he loved the wars so well. sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! fresh blows the wind, a western wind, and from the shores of erin, across the wave, a rover brave to binnorie is steering: right onward to the scottish strand the gallant ship is borne; the warriors leap upon the land, and hark! the leader of the band hath blown his bugle horn. sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! beside a grotto of their own, with boughs above them closing, the seven are laid, and in the shade they lie like fawns reposing. but now upstarting with affright at noise of man and steed, away they fly, to left, to right-- of your fair household, father-knight, methinks you take small heed! sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! away the seven fair campbells fly; and, over hill and hollow, with menace proud, and insult loud, the youthful rovers follow. cried they, 'your father loves to roam: enough for him to find the empty house when he comes home; for us your yellow ringlets comb, for us be fair and kind!' sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! some close behind, some side by side, like clouds in stormy weather, they run and cry, 'nay let us die, and let us die together.' a lake was near; the shore was steep; there foot had never been; they ran, and with a desperate leap together plunged into the deep, nor ever more were seen. sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! the stream that flows out of the lake, as through the glen it rambles, repeats a moan o'er moss and stone for those seven lovely campbells. seven little islands, green and bare, have risen from out the deep: the fishers say those sisters fair by fairies are all buried there, and there together sleep. sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! _w. wordsworth_ c _the beggar maid_ her arms across her breast she laid; she was more fair than words can say; barefooted came the beggar maid before the king cophetua. in robe and crown the king stept down, to meet and greet her on her way; 'it is no wonder,' said the lords, 'she is more beautiful than day.' as shines the moon in clouded skies, she in her poor attire was seen: one praised her ankles, one her eyes, one her dark hair and lovesome mien. so sweet a face, such angel grace, in all that land had never been: cophetua swore a royal oath: 'this beggar maid shall be my queen.' _a. tennyson_ ci _the wild huntsman_ the wildgrave winds his bugle horn, to horse, to horse! halloo, halloo! his fiery courser snuffs the morn, and thronging serfs their lords pursue. the eager pack, from couples freed, dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; while answering hound, and horn, and steed, the mountain echoes startling wake. the beams of god's own hallow'd day had painted yonder spire with gold, and calling sinful man to pray, loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled. but still the wildgrave onward rides; halloo, halloo! and, hark again! when spurring from opposing sides, two stranger horsemen join the train. who was each stranger, left and right, well may i guess but dare not tell; the right-hand steed was silver white, the left, the swarthy hue of hell. the right-hand horseman, young and fair, his smile was like the morn of may; the left, from eye of tawny glare, shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. he waved his huntsman's cap on high, cried, 'welcome, welcome, noble lord! what sport can earth, or sea, or sky, to match the princely chase afford?' 'cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,' cried the fair youth with silver voice; 'and for devotion's choral swell, exchange this rude unhallow'd noise; 'to-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, yon bell yet summons to the fane; to-day the warning spirit hear, to-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.' 'away, and sweep the glades along!' the sable hunter hoarse replies; 'to muttering monks leave matin song, and bells, and books, and mysteries.' the wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, and, launching forward with a bound, 'who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, would leave the jovial horn and hound? 'hence, if our manly sport offend! with pious fools go chant and pray; well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend halloo, halloo! and, hark away!' the wildgrave spurr'd his courser light, o'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill; and on the left and on the right, each stranger horseman follow'd still. up springs from yonder tangled thorn a stag more white than mountain snow; and louder rung the wildgrave's horn, 'hark forward, forward! holla, ho!' a heedless wretch has cross'd the way; he gasps, the thundering hoofs below; but live who can, or die who may, still 'forward, forward!' on they go. see where yon simple fences meet, a field with autumn's blessing crown'd; see, prostrate at the wildgrave's feet, a husbandman, with toil embrown'd. 'o mercy, mercy, noble lord! spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry, 'earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd, in scorching hour of fierce july.' earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, the left still cheering to the prey; the impetuous earl no warning heeds, but furious holds the onward way. 'away, thou hound! so basely born! or dread the scourge's echoing blow!' then loudly rang his bugle horn, 'hark forward, forward, holla, ho!' so said, so done; a single bound clears the poor labourer's humble pale; while follows man, and horse, and hound, like dark december's stormy gale. and man, and horse, and hound, and horn, destructive sweep the field along; while, joying o'er the wasted corn, fell famine marks the maddening throng. again uproused, the timorous prey scours moss and moor, and holt and hill; hard run, he feels his strength decay, and trusts for life his simple skill. too dangerous solitude appear'd; he seeks the shelter of the crowd; amid the flock's domestic herd his harmless head he hopes to shroud. o'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, his track the steady bloodhounds trace; o'er moss and moor, unwearied still, the furious earl pursues the chase. full lowly did the herdsman fall; 'o spare, thou noble baron, spare these herds, a widow's little all; these flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!' earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, the left still cheering to the prey; the earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, but furious keeps the onward way. 'unmanner'd dog! to stop my sport vain were thy cant and beggar whine, though human spirits of thy sort were tenants of these carrion kine!' again he winds his bugle horn, 'hark forward, forward, holla, ho!' and through the herd in ruthless scorn he cheers his furious hounds to go. in heaps the throttled victims fall; down sinks their mangled herdsman near; the murderous cries the stag appal,-- again he starts new-nerved by fear. with blood besmear'd, and white with foam, while big the tears of anguish pour, he seeks amid the forest's gloom the humble hermit's hallow'd bower. but man, and horse, and horn, and hound, fast rattling on his traces go; the sacred chapel rung around with 'hark away! and holla, ho!' all mild amid the rout profane, the holy hermit pour'd his prayer; 'forbear with blood god's house to stain; revere his altar, and forbear! 'the meanest brute has rights to plead, which, wrong'd by cruelty or pride, draw vengeance on the ruthless head;-- be warn'd at length, and turn aside.' still the fair horseman anxious pleads; the black, wild whooping, points the prey: alas! the earl no warning heeds, but frantic keeps the forward way. 'holy or not, or right or wrong, thy altar and its rights i spurn; not sainted martyrs' sainted song, not god himself shall make me turn!' he spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 'hark forward, forward, holla, ho!' but off on whirlwind's pinions borne, the stag, the hut, the hermit go. and horse, and man, and horn, and hound, and clamour of the chase was gone; for hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, a deadly silence reign'd alone. wild gazed the affrighted earl around; he strove in vain to wake his horn; in vain to call; for not a sound could from his anxious lips be borne. he listens for his trusty hounds; no distant baying reach'd his ears; his courser, rooted to the ground, the quickening spur unmindful bears. still dark and darker frown the shades, dark, as the darkness of the grave; and not a sound the still invades, save what a distant torrent gave. high o'er the sinner's humbled head at length the solemn silence broke; and from a cloud of swarthy red, the awful voice of thunder spoke, 'oppressor of creation fair! apostate spirits' harden'd tool! scorner of god, scourge of the poor! the measure of thy cup is full. 'be chas'd forever through the wood: forever roam the affrighted wild; and let thy fate instruct the proud, god's meanest creature is his child.' twas hush'd: one flash of sombre glare with yellow tinged the forest's brown; up rose the wildgrave's bristling hair, and horror chill'd each nerve and bone. cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; a rising wind began to sing; a louder, louder, louder still, brought storm and tempest on its wing. earth heard the call; her entrails rend; from yawning rifts, with many a yell, mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend the misbegotten dogs of hell. what ghastly huntsman next arose, well may i guess, but dare not tell; his eye like midnight lightning glows, his steed the swarthy hue of hell. the wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, with many a shriek of helpless woe; behind him hound, and horse, and horn; and 'hark away, and holla, ho!' _sir w. scott_ cii _to daffodils_ fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon; as yet the early rising sun has not attain'd his noon: stay, stay, until the hastening day has run but to the even-song; and having prayed together, we will go with you along. we have short time to stay, as you; we have as short a spring: as quick a growth to meet decay as you, or any thing: we die, as your hours do; and dry away like to the summer's rain, or as the pearls of morning dew, ne'er to be found again. _r. herrick_ ciii _the homes of england_ the stately homes of england! how beautiful they stand, amidst their tall ancestral trees, o'er all the pleasant land! the deer across their greensward bound through shade and sunny gleam; and the swan glides by them with the sound of some rejoicing stream. the merry homes of england! around their hearths by night, what gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light! the blessed homes of england! how softly on their bowers is laid the holy quietness that breathes from sabbath hours! the cottage homes of england! by thousands on her plains they are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, and round the hamlet fanes. through glowing orchards forth they peep, each from its nook of leaves; and fearless there the lowly sleep, as the bird beneath their eaves. the free, fair homes of england! long, long, in hut and hall, may hearts of native proof be rear'd to guard each hallow'd wall! and green for ever be the groves, and bright the flowery sod, where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its god! _f. hemans_ civ _mary the maid of the inn_ who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes seem a heart overcharged to express? she weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; she never complains, but her silence implies the composure of settled distress. no pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek; nor for raiment nor food doth she care: through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak on that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek hath the hue of a mortal despair. yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, poor mary the maniac hath been; the traveller remembers who journey'd this way no damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, as mary, the maid of the inn. her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight as she welcom'd them in with a smile; her heart was a stranger to childish affright, and mary would walk by the abbey at night when the wind whistled down the dark aisle. she loved, and young richard had settled the day, and she hoped to be happy for life; but richard was idle and worthless, and they who knew him would pity poor mary and say that she was too good for his wife. twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, and fast were the windows and door; two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, and, smoking in silence with tranquil delight, they listen'd to hear the wind roar. ''tis pleasant,' cried one, 'seated by the fireside to hear the wind whistle without.' 'what a night for the abbey!' his comrade replied, 'methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, who should wander the ruins about. 'i myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear the hoarse ivy shake over my head; and could fancy i saw, half persuaded by fear, some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear, for this wind might awaken the dead!' 'i'll wager a dinner,' the other one cried, 'that mary would venture there now.' 'then wager and lose!' with a sneer he replied, 'i'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, and faint if she saw a white cow.' 'will mary this charge on her courage allow?' his companion exclaimed with a smile; 'i shall win--for i know she will venture there now and earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough from the elder that grows in the aisle.' with fearless good-humour did mary comply, and her way to the abbey she bent; the night was dark, and the wind was high, and as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, she shiver'd with cold as she went. o'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, where the abbey rose dim on the sight; through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid, yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. all around her was silent save when the rude blast howl'd dismally round the old pile; over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly passed, and arrived at the innermost ruin at last, where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near, and hastily gather'd the bough; when the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear, she paus'd, and she listen'd intently, in fear, and her heart panted painfully now. the wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, she listen'd, nought else could she hear; the wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, for she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread of footsteps approaching her near. behind a wide column half breathless with fear she crept to conceal herself there: that instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, and she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, and between them a corpse they did bear. then mary could feel the heart-blood curdle cold; again the rough wind hurried by-- it blew off the hat of the one, and behold, even close to the feet of poor mary it roll'd,-- she felt, and expected to die. 'curse the hat!' he exclaims. 'nay, come on till we hide the dead body,' his comrade replies. she beholds them in safety pass on by her side, she seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, and fast through the abbey she flies. she ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, she gazed in her terror around, then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, and exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor, unable to utter a sound. ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, for a moment the hat met her view; her eyes from that object convulsively start, for--what a cold horror then thrill'd through her heart when the name of her richard she knew! where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, his gibbet is now to be seen; his irons you still from the road may espy; the traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh of poor mary, the maid of the inn. _r. southey_ cv _the witches' meeting_ _ st witch._ when shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? _ d witch._ when the hurly-burley's done, when the battle's lost or won: _ d witch._ that will be ere set of sun. _ st witch._ where the place? _ d witch._ upon the heath; _ d witch._ there to meet with macbeth. _ st witch._ i come grimalkin! _all._ paddock calls:--anon-- fair is foul, and foul is fair; hover through the fog and filthy air. the charm _ st witch._ thrice the brinded cat hath mewed. _ d witch._ thrice: and once the hedgehog whined. _ d witch._ harpier cries:--'tis time, 'tis time: _ st witch._ round about the caldron go: in the poison'd entrails throw. toad, that under the cold stone, days and nights hast thirty-one swelter'd venom sleeping got, boil thou first i' the charmed pot! _all._ double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and, caldron, bubble. _ d witch._ fillet of a fenny snake, in the caldron boil and bake; eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog, adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, for a charm of powerful trouble; like a hell-broth boil and bubble. _all._ double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and, caldron, bubble. _ d witch._ scale of dragon, tooth of wolf; witches' mummy; maw and gulf of the ravin'd salt sea shark; root of hemlock, digged i' the dark; liver of blaspheming jew; gall of goat, and slips of yew sliver'd in the moon's eclipse; nose of turk, and tartar's lips; add thereto a tiger's chaudron, for the ingredients of our caldron. _all._ double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and, caldron, bubble. _ d witch._ cool it with a baboon's blood, then the charm is firm and good. _w. shakespeare_ cvi _adelgitha_ the ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, and sad pale adelgitha came, when forth a valiant champion bounded, and slew the slanderer of her fame. she wept, deliver'd from her danger; but when he knelt to claim her glove-- 'seek not,' she cried, 'oh! gallant stranger, for hapless adelgitha's love. 'for he is in a foreign far land whose arms should now have set me free; and i must wear the willow garland for him that's dead or false to me.' 'nay! say not that his faith is tainted!' he raised his vizor--at the sight she fell into his arms and fainted; it was indeed her own true knight! _t. campbell_ cvii _the council of horses_ upon a time a neighing steed, who graz'd among a numerous breed, with mutiny had fired the train, and spread dissension through the plain on matters that concern'd the state, the council met in grand debate. a colt whose eyeballs flamed with ire, elate with strength and youthful fire, in haste stept forth before the rest, and thus the listening throng address'd. 'goodness, how abject is our race, condemn'd to slavery and disgrace! shall we our servitude retain, because our sires have borne the chain? consider, friends! your strength and might; 'tis conquest to assert your right. how cumbrous is the gilded coach! the pride of man is our reproach. were we design'd for daily toil, to drag the ploughshare through the soil, to sweat in harness through the road, to groan beneath the carrier's load? how feeble are the two-legg'd kind! what force is in our nerves combin'd! shall then our nobler jaws submit to foam and champ the galling bit? shall haughty man my back bestride? shall the sharp spur provoke my side? forbid it, heavens! reject the rein; your shame, your infamy, disdain. let him the lion first control, and still the tiger's famish'd growl. let us, like them, our freedom claim, and make him tremble at our name.' a general nod approv'd the cause, and all the circle neigh'd applause. when, lo! with grave and solemn pace, a steed advanc'd before the race, with age and long experience wise; around he cast his thoughtful eyes, and, to the murmurs of the train, thus spoke the nestor of the plain. 'when i had health and strength like you the toils of servitude i knew; now grateful man rewards my pains, and gives me all these wide domains. at will i crop the year's increase; my latter life is rest and peace. i grant, to man we lend our pains, and aid him to correct the plains; but doth not he divide the care, through all the labours of the year? how many thousand structures rise, to fence us from inclement skies! for us he bears the sultry day, and stores up all our winter's hay. he sows, he reaps the harvest's gain; we share the toil and share the grain. since every creature was decreed to aid each other's mutual need, appease your discontented mind, and act the part by heaven assign'd.' the tumult ceas'd, the colt submitted, and, like his ancestors, was bitted. _j. gay_ cviii _st. romuald_ one day, it matters not to know how many hundred years ago, a frenchman stopt at an inn door: the landlord came to welcome him and chat of this and that, for he had seen the traveller there before. 'doth holy romuald dwell still in his cell?' the traveller ask'd, 'or is the old man dead?' 'no; he has left his loving flock, and we so great a christian never more shall see,' the landlord answer'd, and he shook his head. 'ah, sir, we knew his worth! if ever there did live a saint on earth! why, sir, he always used to wear a shirt for thirty days, all seasons, day and night. good man, he knew it was not right for dust and ashes to fall out with dirt! and then he only hung it out in the rain, and put it on again. 'there has been perilous work with him and the devil there in yonder cell; for satan used to maul him like a turk. there they would sometimes fight, all through a winter's night, from sunset until morn. he with a cross, the devil with his horn; the devil spitting fire with might and main, enough to make st. michael half afraid: he splashing holy water till he made his red hide hiss again, and the hot vapour fill'd the smoking cell. this was so common that his face became all black and yellow with the brimstone flame, and then he smelt.... o dear, how he did smell! 'then, sir, to see how he would mortify the flesh! if any one had dainty fare, good man, he would come there, and look at all the delicate things, and cry, 'o belly, belly, you would be gormandizing now, i know; but it shall not be so! home to your bread and water, home, i tell ye!' 'but,' quoth the traveller, 'wherefore did he leave a flock that knew his saintly worth so well?' 'why,' said the landlord, 'sir, it so befell he heard unluckily of our intent to do him a great honour; and you know he was not covetous of fame below, and so by stealth one night away he went.' 'what might this honour be?' the traveller cried. 'why, sir,' the host replied, 'we thought perhaps that he might one day leave us; and then should strangers have the good man's grave. a loss like that would naturally grieve us, for he'll be made a saint of, to be sure. therefore we thought it prudent to secure his relics while we might; and so we meant to strangle him one night.' _r. southey_ cix _lady alice_ lady alice was sitting in her bower window at midnight mending her quoif; and there she saw as fine a corpse as ever she saw in her life. 'what bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall? what bear ye on your shoulders?' 'we bear the corpse of giles collins, an old and true lover of yours.' 'oh, lay him down gently, ye six men tall, all on the grass so green, and to-morrow when the sun goes down, lady alice a corpse shall be seen. 'and bury me in saint mary's church, all for my love so true; and make me a garland of marjoram, and of lemon-thyme, and rue.' giles collins was buried all in the east, lady alice all in the west; and the roses that grew on giles collins's grave, they reached lady alice's breast. the priest of the parish he chanced to pass, and he severed those roses in twain. sure never were seen such true lovers before, nor e'er will there be again. _old ballad_ cx _the outlandish knight_ an outlandish knight came from the north lands, and he came a wooing to me; and he told me he'd take me unto the north lands, and there he would marry me. 'come, fetch me some of your father's gold, and some of your mother's fee; and two of the best nags out of the stable, where they stand thirty and three.' she fetched him some of her father's gold and some of her mother's fee; and two of the best nags out of the stable, where they stood thirty and three. she mounted her on her milk-white steed, he on the dapple grey; they rode till they came unto the sea-side, three hours before it was day. 'light off, light off thy milk-white steed, and deliver it unto me; six pretty maids have i drowned here, and thou the seventh shall be. 'pull off, pull off thy silken gown, and deliver it unto me, methinks it looks too rich and too gay to rot in the salt sea. 'pull off, pull off thy silken stays, and deliver them unto me! methinks they are too fine and gay to rot in the salt sea.' 'pull off, pull off thy holland smock, and deliver it unto me; methinks it looks too rich and gay to rot in the salt sea.' 'if i must pull off my holland smock, pray turn thy back unto me, for it is not fitting that such a ruffian a woman unclad should see.' he turned his back towards her, and viewed the leaves so green; she catch'd him round the middle so small, and tumbled him into the stream. he dropped high, and he dropped low, until he came to the tide,-- 'catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden, and i will make you my bride.' 'lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man, lie there instead of me; six pretty maidens have you drowned here, and the seventh has drowned thee.' she mounted on her milk-white steed, and led the dapple grey. she rode till she came to her father's hall, three hours before it was day. _old ballad_ cxi _spring_ spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring; cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! the palm and the may make country houses gay, lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, and we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. the fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit, in every street these tunes our ears do greet, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. spring, the sweet spring. _t. nash_ cxii _sweet william's ghost_ there came a ghost to margaret's door, with many a grievous groan, and aye he tirled at the pin, but answer made she none. 'is that my father philip, or is't my brother john? or is't my true love willy, from scotland new come home?' ''tis not thy father philip, nor yet thy brother john; but 'tis thy true love willy, from scotland new come home. 'o sweet margaret, o dear margaret, i pray thee speak to me: give me my faith and troth, margaret, as i gave it to thee.' 'thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, nor yet wilt thou me win, till that thou come within my bower and kiss my cheek and chin.' 'if i should come within thy bower, i am no earthly man: and should i kiss thy rosy lips thy days would not be lang. 'o sweet margaret, o dear margaret, i pray thee speak to me: give me my faith and troth, margaret, as i gave it to thee.' 'thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, nor yet wilt thou me win, till you take me to yon kirk-yard, and wed me with a ring.' 'my bones are buried in yon kirk-yard afar beyond the sea, and it is but my spirit, margaret, that's now speaking to thee.' she stretched out her lily-white hand, and for to do her best: 'have there your faith and troth, willy, god send your soul good rest.' now she has kilted her robes of green a piece below her knee; and all the live-long winter night the dead corpse followed she. 'is there any room at your head, willy, or any room at your feet? or any room at your side, willy, wherein that i may creep?' 'there's no room at my head, margaret, there's no room at my feet; there's no room at my side, margaret, my coffin's made so meet.' then up and crew the red red cock, and up then crew the grey; ''tis time, 'tis time, my dear margaret, that you were going away.' _old ballad_ cxiii _the fountain_ into the sunshine, full of the light, leaping and flashing from morn till night! into the moonlight, whiter than snow, waving so flower-like when the winds blow! into the starlight, rushing in spray, happy at midnight, happy by day! ever in motion, blithesome and cheery, still climbing heavenward, never aweary; glad of all weathers, still seeming best, upward or downward motion thy rest; full of a nature nothing can tame, changed every moment, ever the same; ceaseless aspiring, ceaseless content, darkness or sunshine thy element; glorious fountain! let my heart be fresh, changeful, constant, upward like thee! _j. r. lowell_ cxiv _fair rosamund_ when as king henry ruled this land the second of that name, above all else, he dearly loved a fair and comely dame. her crisped locks like threads of gold appear'd to each man's sight; her sparkling eyes, like orient pearls did cast a heavenly light. the blood within her crystal cheeks did such a colour drive, as though the lily and the rose for mastership did strive. yea rosamund, fair rosamund, her name was called so, to whom our queen, queen ellinor was known a deadly foe. the king therefore, for her defence against the furious queen, at woodstock builded such a bower, the like was never seen. most curiously that bower was built, of stone and timber strong, an hundred and fifty doors did to this bower belong. and they so cunningly contrived, with turnings round about, that none, but with a clue of thread, could enter in and out. and for his love and lady's sake. that was so fair and bright, the keeping of this bower he gave unto a valiant knight. but fortune, that doth often frown where she before did smile, the king's delight and lady's joy full soon she did beguile: for why? the king's ungracious son, whom he did high advance, against his father raised wars, within the realm of france. but yet before our comely king the english land forsook, of rosamund, his lady fair, his farewell thus he took: 'my rosamund, my only rose, that pleaseth best mine eye: the fairest flower in all the world to feed my fantasy; 'the flower of mine affected heart, whose sweetness doth excel all roses else a thousand times, i bid thee now farewell.' when rosamund, that lady bright, did hear the king say so, the sorrow of her grieved heart her outward looks did show; and from her clear and crystal eyes the tears gush'd out apace, which like the silver pearled dew ran down her comely face. 'why grieves my rose, my sweetest rose? the king did often say. 'because,' quoth she, 'to bloody wars my lord must part away. 'but since your grace on foreign coasts, among your foes unkind, must go to hazard life and limb, why should i stay behind? 'nay, rather let me, like a page, your sword and target bear, that on my breast the blows may light, which would offend you there. 'so i your presence may enjoy no toil i will refuse; but wanting you, my life is death; nay, death i'd rather choose!' 'content thyself, my dearest love, thy rest at home shall be in england's sweet and pleasant isle; for travel fits not thee. my rose shall safely here abide, with music pass the day; whilst i, among the piercing pikes, my foes seek far away. and you, sir thomas, whom i trust to be my love's defence; be careful of my gallant rose when i am parted hence.' and therewithal he fetch'd a sigh as though his heart would break: and rosamund, for very grief, not one plain word could speak. and at their parting well they might in heart be grieved sore: after that day fair rosamund the king did see no more. for when his grace had past the seas, and into france was gone, with envious heart queen ellinor to woodstock came anone. and forth she calls this trusty knight in an unhappy hour; who with his clue of twined thread came from this famous bower. and when that they had wounded him the queen this thread did get, and went, where lady rosamund was like an angel set. but when the queen with steadfast eye beheld her beauteous face, she was amazed in her mind at her exceeding grace. 'cast off from thee those robes,' she said, 'that rich and costly be; and drink thou up this deadly draught, which i have brought to thee.' then presently upon her knees sweet rosamund did fell; and pardon of the queen she craved for her offences all. 'take pity on my youthful years,' fair rosamund did cry; 'and let me not with poison strong enforced be to die.' and with these words, her lily hands she wrung full often there; and down along her lovely face did trickle many a tear. but nothing could this furious queen therewith appeased be; the cup of deadly poison strong, as she knelt on her knee, she gave this comely dame to drink, who took it in her hand, and from her bended knee arose, and on her feet did stand; and casting up her eyes to heaven she did for mercy call; and drinking up the poison strong, her life she lost withal. and when that death through every limb had showed its greatest spite, her chiefest foes did plain confess she was a glorious wight. her body then they did entomb, when life was fled away, at godstowe, near to oxford town, as may be seen this day. _t. delone_ cxv _the hitchen may-day song_ remember us poor mayers all! and thus we do begin to lead our lives in righteousness, or else we die in sin. we have been rambling all the night, and almost all the day; and now returned back again, we have brought you a branch of may. a branch of may we have brought you, and at your door it stands; it is but a sprout, but it's well budded out by the work of our lord's hands. the hedges and trees they are so green, as green as any leek; our heavenly father he water'd them with his heavenly dew so sweet. the heavenly gates are open wide, our paths are beaten plain; and if a man be not too far gone, he may return again. the life of man is but a span, it flourishes like a flower; we are here to-day and gone to-morrow, and we are dead in an hour. the moon shines bright, and the stars give a light, a little before it is day: so god bless you all, both great and small, and send you a joyful may! _old song_ cxvi _the spanish lady's love_ will you hear a spanish lady how she woo'd an english man? garments gay and rich as may be, decked with jewels, had she on; of a comely countenance and grace was she, and by birth and parentage of high degree. as his prisoner there he kept her, in his hands her life did lie; cupid's bands did tie her faster, by the liking of an eye; in his courteous company was all her joy, to favour him in any thing she was not coy. at the last there came commandment for to set the ladies free, with their jewels still adorned, none to do them injury: 'alas!' then said this lady gay, 'full woe is me; o let me still sustain this kind captivity! 'o gallant captain, show some pity to a lady in-distress; leave me not within the city, for to die in heaviness; thou hast set this present day my body free, but my heart in prison strong remains with thee.' 'how should'st thou, fair lady, love me, whom thou know'st thy country's foe? thy fair words make me suspect thee; serpents are where flowers grow.' 'all the evil i think to thee, most gracious knight, god grant unto myself the same may fully light: 'blessed be the time and season that you came on spanish ground; if you may our foes be termed, gentle foes we have you found. with our city you have won our hearts each one; then to your country bear away that is your own.' 'rest you still, most gallant lady, rest you still, and weep no more; of fair lovers there are plenty; spain doth yield a wondrous store.' 'spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, but english men throughout the world are counted kind. 'leave me not unto a spaniard; you alone enjoy my heart; i am lovely, young, and tender, and so love is my desert. still to serve thee day and night my mind is press'd; the wife of every english man is counted blest.' 'it would be a shame, fair lady, for to bear a woman hence; english soldiers never carry any such without offence.' 'i will quickly change myself if it be so, and like a page i'll follow thee where'er thou go.' 'i have neither gold nor silver to maintain thee in this case, and to travel, 'tis great charges, as you know, in every place.' 'my chains and jewels everyone shall be thine own, and eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.' 'on the seas are many dangers; many storms do there arise, which will be to ladies dreadful, and force tears from watery eyes.' 'well in truth i shall endure extremity, for i could find in heart to lose my life for thee.' 'courteous lady, be contented; here comes all that breeds the strife; i in england have already a sweet woman to my wife: i will not falsify my vow for gold or gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in spain.' 'oh how happy is that woman, that enjoys so true a friend! many days of joy god send you! of my suit i'll make an end: on my knees i pardon crave for this offence, which did from love and true affection first commence. 'commend me to thy loving lady; bear to her this chain of gold, and these bracelets for a token; grieving that i was so bold. all my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee, for they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.' 'i will spend my days in prayer, love and all her laws defy, in a nunnery will i shroud me, far from any company: but ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, to pray for thee and for thy love i will not miss. 'thus farewell, most gentle captain, and farewell my heart's content! count not spanish ladies wayward, though to thee my love was bent: joy and true prosperity go still with thee!' 'the like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady.' _old ballad_ cxvii _little white lily_ little white lily sat by a stone, drooping and waiting till the sun shone. little white lily sunshine has fed; little white lily is lifting her head. little white lily said, 'it is good; little white lily's clothing and food.' little white lily, drest like a bride! shining with whiteness, and crown'd beside! little white lily droopeth with pain, waiting and waiting for the wet rain. little white lily holdeth her cup; rain is fast falling and filling it up. little white lily said, 'good again, when i am thirsty to have nice rain; now i am stronger, now i am cool; heat cannot burn me, my veins are so full.' little white lily smells very sweet: on her head sunshine, rain at her feet. 'thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the rain! little white lily is happy again! _g. macdonald_ cxviii _minstrel's song in ella_ o sing unto my roundelay; o drop the briny tear with me; dance no more at holiday; like a running river be; my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. black his hair as the winter night, white his neck as summer snow, ruddy his face as the morning light, cold he lies in the grave below. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. sweet his tongue as throstle's note, quick in dance as thought can be; deft his tabor, cudgel stout; o, he lies by the willow-tree! my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. hark! the raven flaps his wing in the brier'd dell below; hark! the death-owl loud doth sing to the night-mares as they go. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. see, the white moon shines on high; whiter is my true love's shroud; whiter than the morning sky, whiter than the evening cloud. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. _t. chatterton_ cxix _an elegy on the death of a mad dog_ good people all, of every sort, give ear unto my song; and if you find it wondrous short, it cannot hold you long. in islington there was a man, of whom the world might say, that still a godly race he ran whene'er he went to pray. a kind and gentle heart he had, to comfort friends and foes; the naked every day he clad, when he put on his clothes. and in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree. this dog and man at first were friends; but when a pique began, the dog, to gain his private ends, went mad, and bit the man. around from all the neighbouring streets the wondering neighbours ran, and swore the dog had lost his wits, to bite so good a man. the wound it seem'd both sore and sad to every christian eye: and while they swore the dog was mad, they swore the man would die. but soon a wonder came to light, that show'd the rogues they lied, the man recover'd of the bite, the dog it was that died. _o. goldsmith_ cxx _nongtongpaw_ john bull for pastime took a prance, some time ago, to peep at france; to talk of sciences and arts, and knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, and answer'd john in heathen greek: to all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'twas, 'monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.' john, to the palais-royal come, its splendour almost struck him dumb. 'i say, whose house is that there here?' 'house! je vous n'entends pas, monsieur.' 'what, nongtongpaw again!' cries john; 'this fellow is some mighty don: no doubt he's plenty for the maw, i'll breakfast with this nongtongpaw.' john saw versailles from marli's height, and cried, astonish'd at the sight, 'whose fine estate is that there here?' 'state! je vous n'entends pas, monsieur.' 'his? what, the land and houses too? the fellow's richer than a jew: on everything he lays his claw! i should like to dine with nongtongpaw.' next tripping came a courtly fair, john cried, enchanted with her air, 'what lovely wench is that there here?' 'ventch! je vous n'entends pas, monsieur.' 'what, he again? upon my life! a palace, lands, and then a wife sir joshua might delight to draw: i should like to sup with nongtongpaw. 'but hold! whose funeral's that?' cries john. 'je vous n'entends pas.'--'what, is he gone? wealth, fame, and beauty could not save poor nongtongpaw then from the grave! his race is run, his game is up,-- i'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; but since he chooses to withdraw, good night t' ye, mounseer nongtongpaw!' _c. dibdin_ cxxi _poor dog tray_ on the green banks of shannon when sheelah was nigh, no blithe irish lad was so happy as i; no harp like my own could so cheerily play, and wherever i went was my poor dog tray. when at last i was forced from my sheelah to part, she said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) oh! remember your sheelah when far, far away: and be kind, my dear pat, to our poor dog tray. poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure, and he constantly loved me although i was poor; when the sour-looking folk sent me heartless away, i had always a friend in my poor dog tray. when the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, and pat and his dog were grown weary and old, how snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, and he lick'd me for kindness--my old dog tray. though my wallet was scant i remember'd his case, nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; but he died at my feet on a cold winter day, and i play'd a sad lament for my poor dog tray. where now shall i go, poor, forsaken, and blind? can i find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? to my sweet native village, so far, far away, i can never more return with my poor dog tray. _t. campbell_ cxxii _the faithful bird_ the greenhouse is my summer seat; my shrubs, displaced from that retreat, enjoy'd the open air; two goldfinches whose sprightly song had been their mutual solace long, lived happy prisoners there. they sang as blithe as finches sing that flutter loose on golden wing, and frolic where they list; strangers to liberty, 'tis true, but that delight they never knew, and therefore never miss'd. but nature works in every breast, with force not easily suppress'd; and dick felt some desires, that, after many an effort vain, instructed him at length to gain a pass between the wires. the open windows seem'd to invite the freeman to a farewell flight; but tom was still confin'd; and dick, although his way was clear, was much too generous and sincere to leave his friend behind. so, settling on his cage, by play, and chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say, you must not live alone-- nor would he quit that chosen stand, till i, with slow and cautious hand, return'd him to his own. _w. cowper_ cxxiii _lord ullin's daughter_ a chieftain to the highlands bound cries, 'boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry.' 'now who be ye, would cross lochgyle, this dark and stormy water?' 'o, i'm the chief of ulva's isle, and this lord ullin's daughter. 'and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together, for should he find us in the glen, my blood would stain the heather. 'his horsemen hard behind us ride; should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride when they have slain her lover?' out spoke the hardy highland wight, 'i'll go, my chief, i'm ready; it is not for your silver bright; but for your winsome lady: 'and by my word! the bonny bird in danger shall not tarry: so though the waves are raging white, i'll row you o'er the ferry.' by this the storm grew loud apace, the water-wraith was shrieking; and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. but still as wilder blew the wind, and as the night grew drearer, adown the glen rode armed men, their trampling sounded nearer. 'o haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'though tempests round us gather; i'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.' the boat has left the stormy land, a stormy sea before her,-- when, oh! too strong for human hand the tempest gathered o'er her. and still they row'd amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing: lord ullin reach'd that fatal shore; his wrath was changed to wailing. for, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade his child he did discover: one lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, and one was round her lover. 'come back! come back!' he cried in grief 'across this stormy water: and i'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter! oh, my daughter!' 'twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, return or aid preventing; the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. _t. campbell_ cxxiv _the sea_ to sea! to sea! the calm is o'er, the wanton water leaps in sport, and rattles down the pebbly shore, the dolphin wheels, the sea cows snort, and unseen mermaid's pearly song comes bubbling up, the weeds among. fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: to sea! to sea! the calm is o'er. to sea! to sea! our white winged bark shall billowing cleave its watery way, and with its shadow, fleet and dark, break the caved tritons' azure day, like mountain eagle soaring light o'er antelopes on alpine height. the anchor heaves! the ship swings free! our sails swell full! to sea! to sea! _t. l. beddoes_ cxxv _fidelity_ a barking sound the shepherd hears, a cry as of a dog or fox; he halts, and searches with his eye among the scattered rocks: and now at distance can discern a stirring in a brake of fern; and instantly a dog is seen, glancing through that covert green. the dog is not of mountain breed; its motions, too, are wild and shy; with something, as the shepherd thinks, unusual in its cry: nor is there any one in sight all round, in hollow or on height; nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear: what is the creature doing here? it was a cove, a huge recess, that keeps, till june, december's snow; a lofty precipice in front, a silent tarn below; far in the bosom of helvellyn, remote from public road or dwelling, pathway, or cultivated land; from trace of human foot or hand. there sometimes doth a leaping fish send through the tarn a lonely cheer; the crags repeat the raven's croak, in symphony austere; thither the rainbow comes, the cloud-- and mists that spread the flying shroud, and sunbeams; and the sounding blast, that if it could would hurry past; but that enormous barrier holds it fast. not free from boding thoughts, awhile the shepherd stood; then makes his way o'er rocks and stones, following the dog as quickly as he may; nor far had gone before he found a human skeleton on the ground: the appalled discoverer with a sigh looks round to learn the history. from those abrupt and perilous rocks the man had fallen, that place of fear! at length upon the shepherd's mind it breaks, and all is clear: he instantly recalled the name, and who he was, and whence he came; remembered too the very day on which the traveller passed that way. but hear a wonder for whose sake this lamentable tale i tell! a lasting monument of words this wonder merits well. the dog, which still was hovering nigh, repeating the same timid cry, this dog had been through three months' space a dweller in that savage place. yes, proof was plain that since the day when this ill-fated traveller died, the dog had watch'd about the spot, or by his master's side: how nourished there through that long time, he knows who gave that love sublime; and gave that strength of feeling great, above all human estimate. _w. wordsworth_ cxxvi _the fox and the cat_ the fox and the cat, as they travell'd one day, with moral discourses cut shorter the way: ''tis great,' says the fox, 'to make justice our guide!' 'how god-like is mercy!' grimalkin replied. whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood, impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, rush'd forth--as he saw the dull shepherd asleep-- and seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. 'in vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat, when mutton's at hand,' says the wolf, 'i must eat.' grimalkin's astonish'd!--the fox stood aghast, to see the fell beast at his bloody repast. 'what a wretch,' says the cat, ''tis the vilest of brutes; does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and roots?' cries the fox, 'while our oaks give us acorns so good, what a tyrant is this to spill innocent blood!' well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd still, till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill. sly reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes, and made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize. a mouse, too, that chanc'd from her covert to stray, the greedy grimalkin secured as her prey. a spider that sat in her web on the wall, perceiv'd the poor victims, and pitied their fall; she cried, 'of such murders, how guiltless am i!' so ran to regale on a new-taken fly. _j. cunningham_ cxxvii _the dog and the water-lily_ the noon was shady, and soft airs swept ouse's silent tide, when, 'scaped from literary cares, i wander'd on his side. my spaniel, prettiest of his race, and high in pedigree,-- (two nymphs adorn'd with every grace that spaniel found for me,) now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, now starting into sight, pursued the swallow o'er the meads with scarce a slower flight. it was the time when ouse display'd his lilies newly blown; their beauties i intent survey'd, and one i wish'd my own. with cane extended far i sought to steer it close to land; but still the prize, though nearly caught, escaped my eager hand. _beau_ mark'd my unsuccessful pains with fix'd considerate face, and puzzling set his puppy brains to comprehend the case. but, with a chirrup clear and strong, dispersing all his dream, i thence withdrew, and follow'd long the windings of the stream. my ramble ended, i return'd; _beau_ trotted far before, the floating wreath again discern'd, and plunging, left the shore. i saw him with that lily cropp'd, impatient swim to meet my quick approach, and soon he dropp'd the treasure at my feet. charm'd with the sight, 'the world,' i cried, 'shall hear of this thy deed; my dog shall mortify the pride of man's superior breed; 'but chief myself i will enjoin, awake at duty's call, to show a love as prompt as thine to him who gives me all.' _w. cowper_ cxxviii _an epitaph on a robin-redbreast_ tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, when piping winds are hush'd around, a small note wakes from underground, where now his tiny bones are laid. no more in lone or leafless groves, with ruffled wing and faded breast, his friendless, homeless spirit roves; gone to the world where birds are blest! where never cat glides o'er the green, or school-boy's giant form is seen; but love, and joy, and smiling spring inspire their little souls to sing! _s. rogers_ cxxix _baucis and philemon_ in ancient times, as story tells, the saints would often leave their cells, and stroll about, but hide their quality, to try good people's hospitality. it happen'd on a winter night, as authors of the legend write, two brother hermits, saints by trade, taking their tour in masquerade, disguis'd in tatter'd habits went to a small village down in kent; where, in the stroller's canting strain, they begg'd from door to door in vain, tried every tone might pity win; but not a soul would take them in. our wandering saints, in woful state, treated at this ungodly rate, having through all the village past, to a small cottage came at last where dwelt a good old honest yeoman call'd in the neighbourhood philemon; who kindly did these saints invite in his poor hut to pass the night; and then the hospitable sire bid goody baucis mend the fire; while he from out the chimney took a flitch of bacon off the hook, and freely from the fattest side cut out large slices to be fried; then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink fill'd a large jug up to the brink, and saw it fairly twice go round; yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'twas still replenish'd to the top, as if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. the good old couple were amaz'd, and often on each other gaz'd; for both were frightened to the heart, and just began to cry, 'what ar't!' then softly turn'd aside to view whether the lights were burning blue. 'good folks, you need not be afraid, we are but saints,' the hermits said; 'no hurt shall come to you or yours: but for that pack of churlish boors, not fit to live on christian ground, they and their houses shall be drown'd; whilst you shall see your cottage rise, and grow a church before your eyes.' they scarce had spoke when fair and soft the roof began to mount aloft, aloft rose every beam and rafter, the heavy wall climb'd slowly after; the chimney widen'd and grew higher. became a steeple with a spire. the kettle to the top was hoist, and there stood fasten'd to a joist; doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'tis now no kettle, but a bell. a wooden jack which had almost lost by disuse the art to roast, a sudden alteration feels, increas'd by new intestine wheels; the jack and chimney, near allied, had never left each other's side: the chimney to a steeple grown, the jack would not be left alone; but up against the steeple rear'd, became a clock, and still adhered. the groaning chair began to crawl, like a huge snail, along the wall; there stuck aloft in public view, and with small change a pulpit grew. the cottage, by such feats as these, grown to a church by just degrees, the hermits then desired the host to ask for what he fancied most. philemon, having paus'd awhile, return'd them thanks in homely style: 'i'm old, and fain would live at ease; make me the parson, if you please.' thus happy in their change of life were several years this man and wife. when on a day, which prov'd their last, discoursing on old stories past, they went by chance, amidst their talk, to the churchyard to take a walk; when baucis hastily cried out, 'my dear, i see your forehead sprout!' 'sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell us? i hope you don't believe me jealous! but yet, methinks, i feel it true; and really yours is budding too-- nay,--now i cannot stir my foot; it feels as if 'twere taking root.' description would but tire my muse; in short, they both were turn'd to yews. _j. swift_ cxxx _lullaby for titania_ _first fairy_ you spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong; come not near our fairy queen. _chorus_ philomel with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! never harm, nor spell, nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh! so good-night, with lullaby. _second fairy_ weaving spiders, come not here; hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence; beetles black, approach not near; worm, nor snail, do no offence. _chorus_ philomel with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! never harm, nor spell, nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh! so good-night, with lullaby. _w. shakespeare_ cxxxi _lord thomas and fair ellinor_ lord thomas he was a bold forester, and a chaser of the king's deer; fair ellinor was a fine woman, and lord thomas he loved her dear. 'come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' he said, 'and riddle us both as one; whether i shall marry with fair ellinor, and let the brown girl alone?' 'the brown girl she has got houses and land, and fair ellinor she has got none; therefore i charge you on my blessing, bring me the brown girl home.' as it befell on a high holiday, as many more did beside, lord thomas he went to fair ellinor, that should have been his bride. but when he came to fair ellinor's bower, he knocked there at the ring; but who was so ready as fair ellinor for to let lord thomas in. 'what news, what news, lord thomas?' she said, 'what news hast thou brought unto me?' 'i am come to bid thee to my wedding, and that is bad news for thee.' 'o, god forbid, lord thomas,' she said, 'that such a thing should be done. i thought to have been thy bride my own self, and you to have been the bridegroom.' 'come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' she said, 'and riddle it all in one; whether i shall go to lord thomas's wedding, or whether i shall tarry at home?' 'there are many that are your friends, daughter, and many that are your foe; therefore i charge you on my blessing, to lord thomas's wedding don't go.' 'there's many that are my friends, mother and if a thousand more were my foe, betide my life, betide my death, to lord thomas's wedding i'll go.' she clothed herself in gallant attire, and her merry men all in green; and as they rid through every town, they took her to be some queen. but when she came to lord thomas's gate, she knocked there at the ring; but who was so ready as lord thomas, to let fair ellinor in. 'is this your bride?' fair ellinor said; 'methinks she looks wonderful brown; thou might'st have had as fair a woman, as ever trod on the ground.' 'despise her not, fair ellin,' he said, 'despise her not unto me; for better i love thy little finger, than all her whole body.' this brown bride had a little penknife, that was both long and sharp, and betwixt the short ribs and the long, prick'd fair ellinor to the heart. 'now heaven save thee,' lord thomas he said, 'methinks thou look'st wondrous wan: thou used to look with as fresh a colour, as ever the sun shined on.' 'o, art thou blind, lord thomas?' she said, 'or canst thou not very well see? o, dost thou not see my own heart's blood run trickling down my knee?' lord thomas he had a sword by his side; as he walked about the hall, he cut off his bride's head from her shoulders, and threw it against the wall. he set the hilt against the ground, and the point against his heart; there never were three lovers met, that sooner did depart. _old ballad_ cxxxii _queen mab_ o then, i see, queen mab hath been with you. she is the fairies' midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone on the fore-finger of an alderman; drawn with a team of little atomies athwart men's noses as they lie asleep: her wagon spokes made of long spinner's legs: the cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; the traces, of the smallest spider's web; the collars of the moonshine's watery beams; her whip of cricket's bone, the lash, of film; her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, not half so big as a round little worm, pricked from the lazy finger of a maid: her chariot is an empty hazel nut, made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. and in this state she gallops night by night, through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; on courtiers' knees that dream on court'sies straight; o'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; o'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream. _w. shakespeare_ cxxxiii _young lochinvar_ o, young lochinvar is come out of the west! through all the wide border his steed is the best; and save his good broadsword he weapon had none; he rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar! he stay'd not for brake and he stopt not for stone; he swam the eske river where ford there was none; but ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented; the gallant came late; for a laggard in love and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so bravely he enter'd the netherby hall, among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all, then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword, for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, 'o come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?' 'i long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide; and now i am come with this lost love of mine to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar!' the bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up, he quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the cup; she look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand ere her mother could bar; 'now tread we a measure!' said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace: while her mother did fret and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; and the bride-maidens whispered, ''twere better by far to have match'd our fair cousin with young lochinvar!' one touch to her hand and one word in her ear, when they reach'd the hall door; and the charger stood near; so light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur, they'll have fleet steeds that follow!' cried young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong græmes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran; there was racing and chasing on cannobie lea; but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar! _sir w. scott_ cxxxiv _incident_ _characteristic of a favourite dog_ on his morning rounds the master goes to learn how all things fare; searches pasture after pasture, sheep and cattle eyes with care; and for silence, or for talk, he hath comrades in his walk; four dogs each of a different breed, distinguished, two for scent, and two for speed. see a hare before him started! --off they fly in earnest chase; every dog is eager-hearted, all the four are in the race! and the hare whom they pursue knows from instinct what to do; her hope is near, no turn she makes; but like an arrow to the river takes. deep the river was and crusted thinly by a one night's frost; but the nimble hare hath trusted to the ice, and safely crost; she hath crost, and without heed all are following at full speed, when lo! the ice so thinly spread, breaks, and the greyhound dart is overhead! better fate have prince and swallow-- see them cleaving to the sport! music has no heart to follow, little music, she stops short. she hath neither wish nor heart, hers is now another part: a loving creature she, and brave! and fondly strives her struggling friend to save. from the brink her paws she stretches, very hands as you would say! and afflicting moans she fetches, as he breaks the ice away. for herself she hath no fears,-- him alone she sees and hears,-- makes efforts with complainings; nor gives o'er, until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more. _w. wordsworth_ cxxxv _king lear and his three daughters_ king lear once ruled in this land with princely power and peace; and had all things with heart's content, that might his joys increase. amongst those things that nature gave, three daughters fair had he, so princely seeming, beautiful, as fairer could not be. so on a time it pleased the king a question thus to move, which of his daughters to his grace could show the dearest love: 'for to my age you bring content,' quoth he, 'then let me hear, which of you three in plighted troth the kindest will appear.' to whom the eldest thus began: 'dear father mine,' quoth she, 'before your face to do you good, my blood shall rendered be: and for your sake my bleeding heart shall here be cut in twain, ere that i see your reverend age the smallest grief sustain.' 'and so will i,' the second said, 'dear father, for your sake, the worst of all extremities i'll gently undertake: and serve your highness night and day with diligence and love; that sweet content and quietness discomforts may remove.' 'in doing so, you glad my soul,' the aged king replied; 'but what say'st thou, my youngest girl, how is thy love ally'd?' 'my love' quoth young cordelia then 'which to your grace i owe, shall be the duty of a child, and that is all i'll show.' 'and wilt thou show no more,' quoth he, 'than doth thy duty bind? i well perceive thy love is small, when as no more i find. henceforth i banish thee my court, thou art no child of mine; nor any part of this my realm by favour shall be thine. 'thy elder sisters' loves are more than i can well demand, to whom i equally bestow my kingdom and my land, my pompal state and all my goods, that lovingly i may with those thy sisters be maintain'd until my dying day.' thus flattering speeches won renown by these two sisters here; the third had causeless banishment, yet was her love more dear: for poor cordelia patiently went wand'ring up and down, unhelp'd, unpitied, gentle maid, through many an english town. until at last in famous france she gentler fortunes found; though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd the fairest on the ground: where, when the king her virtues heard, and this fair lady seen, with full consent of all his court, he made his wife and queen. her father, king lear, this while with his two daughters stay'd: forgetful of their promis'd loves, full soon the same decay'd; and living in queen regan's court, the eldest of the twain, she took from him his chiefest means, and most of all his train. for whereas twenty men were wont to wait with bended knee, she gave allowance but to ten, and after scarce to three; nay, one she thought too much for him; so took she all away, in hope that in her court, good king, he would no longer stay. 'am i rewarded thus,' quoth he, 'in giving all i have unto my children, and to beg for what i lately gave? i'll go unto my gonorell: my second child, i know, will be more kind and pitiful, and will relieve my woe.' full fast he hies then to her court; who, when she heard his moan, return'd him answer, that she griev'd that all his means were gone; but no way could relieve his wants; yet, if that he would stay within her kitchen, he should have what scullions gave away. when he had heard with bitter tears, he made his answer then; 'in what i did, let me be made example to all men. i will return again,' quoth he, 'unto my regan's court; she will not use me thus, i hope, but in a kinder sort.' where when he came she gave command to drive him thence away: when he was well within her court (she said) he would not stay. then back again to gonorell the woful king did hie, that in her kitchen he might have what scullion boys set by. but there of that he was denied, which she had promised late; for once refusing, he should not come after to her gate. thus 'twixt his daughters for relief he wander'd up and down; being glad to feed on beggar's food, that lately wore a crown. and calling to remembrance then his youngest daughter's words, that said the duty of a child was all that love affords; but doubting to repair to her whom he had banish'd so, grew frantic mad; for in his mind he bore the wounds of woe: which made him rend his milkwhite locks and tresses from his head, and all with blood bestain his cheeks, with age and honour spread. to hills and woods and watery founts he made his hourly moan, till hills and woods and senseless things did seem to sigh and groan. even thus possest with discontents, he passed o'er to france, in hopes from fair cordelia there to find some gentler chance; most virtuous dame! which when she heard of this her father's grief, as duty bound she quickly sent him comfort and relief: and by a train of noble peers, in brave and gallant sort, she gave in charge he should be brought to aganippus' court; whose royal king with noble mind so freely gave consent to muster up his knights at arms, to fame and courage bent. and so to england came with speed, to repossess king lear and drive his daughters from their thrones by his cordelia dear. where she, true-hearted noble queen, was in the battle slain; yet he, good king, in his old days, possest his crown again. but when he heard cordelia's death, who died indeed for love of her dear father, in whose cause she did this battle move, he swooning fell upon her breast, from whence he never parted: but on her bosom left his life, that was so truly hearted. _old ballad_ cxxxvi _the butterfly and the snail_ as in the sunshine of the morn a butterfly (but newly born) sat proudly perking on a rose, with pert conceit his bosom glows; his wings (all glorious to behold) bedropt with azure, jet, and gold, wide he displays; the spangled dew reflects his eyes and various hue. his now forgotten friend, a snail, beneath his house, with slimy trail, crawls o'er the grass, whom when he spies, in wrath he to the gardener cries: 'what means yon peasant's daily toil, from choking weeds to rid the soil? why wake you to the morning's care? why with new arts correct the year? why grows the peach's crimson hue? and why the plum's inviting blue? were they to feast his taste design'd, that vermin of voracious kind! crush then the slow, the pilfering race, so purge thy garden from disgrace.' 'what arrogance!' the snail replied; 'how insolent is upstart pride! hadst thou not thus, with insult vain provok'd my patience to complain, i had conceal'd thy meaner birth, nor trac'd thee to the scum of earth; for scarce nine suns have wak'd the hours, to swell the fruit, and paint the flowers, since i thy humbler life survey'd, in base, in sordid guise array'd. i own my humble life, good friend; snail was i born and snail shall end. and what's a butterfly? at best he's but a caterpillar drest; and all thy race (a numerous seed) shall prove of caterpillar breed.' _j. gay_ cxxxvii _the dÃ�mon lover_ 'o where have you been, my long, long, love, this long seven years and more?' 'o i'm come to seek my former vows ye granted me before.' 'o hold your tongue of your former vows, for they will breed sad strife; o hold your tongue of your former vows, for i am become a wife.' he turn'd him right and round about, and the tear blinded his ee; 'i would never have trodden on irish ground, if it had not been for thee. 'i might have had a king's daughter, far, far beyond the sea; i might have had a king's daughter, had it not been for love of thee.' 'if ye might have had a king's daughter, yourself you had to blame; ye might have taken the king's daughter, for ye knew that i was nane.' 'o false are the vows of womankind, but fair is their false bodie; i never would have trodden on irish ground had it not been for love of thee.' 'if i was to leave my husband dear, and my two babes also, o what have you to take me to, if with you i should go?' 'i have seven ships upon the sea, the eighth brought me to land; with four and twenty bold mariners, and music on every hand.' she has taken up her two little babes, kiss'd them both cheek and chin; 'o fare ye well, my own two babes, for i'll never see you again.' she set her foot upon the ship, no mariners could she behold; but the sails were of the taffetie, and the masts of the beaten gold. she had not sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, when dismal grew his countenance, and drumlie grew his ee. the masts that were like the beaten gold bent not on the heaving seas; and the sails that were of the taffetie fill'd not in the east land breeze. they had not sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, until she espied his cloven foot, and she wept right bitterly. 'o hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he, 'of your weeping now let me be; i will show you how the lilies grow on the banks of italy.' 'o what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, that the sun shines sweetly on?' 'o yon are the hills of heaven,' he said, 'where you will never won.' 'o what a mountain is yon,' she said, 'all so dreary with frost and snow?' 'o yon is the mountain of hell,' he cried, 'where you and i will go.' and aye when she turn'd her round about aye taller he seem'd for to be; until that the tops of that gallant ship no taller were than he. the clouds grew dark and the wind grew loud, and the levin filled her ee; and waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites upon the gurlie sea. he struck the topmast with his hand, the foremast with his knee; and he brake that gallant ship in twain, and sank her in the sea. _old ballad_ cxxxviii _the nightingale and the glow-worm_ a nightingale that all day long had cheer'd the village with his song, nor yet at eve his note suspended, nor yet when eventide was ended, began to feel, as well he might, the keen demands of appetite; when looking eagerly around, he spied far off, upon the ground, a something shining in the dark, and knew the glowworm by his spark; so, stooping down from hawthorn top, he thought to put him in his crop. the worm, aware of his intent, harangued him thus, right eloquent: 'did you admire my lamp,' quoth he, 'as much as i your minstrelsy, you would abhor to do me wrong, as much as i to spoil your song: for 'twas the self-same power divine taught you to sing, and me to shine; that you with music, i with light, might beautify and cheer the night.' the songster heard this short oration, and warbling out his approbation, released him, as my story tells, and found a supper somewhere else. _w. cowper_ cxxxix _the lady turned serving-man_ you beauteous ladies great and small, i write unto you, one and all, whereby that you may understand what i have suffer'd in this land. i was by birth a lady fair, my father's chief and only heir, but when my good old father died, then i was made a young knight's bride. and then my love built me a bower, bedeck'd with many a fragrant flower; a braver bower you ne'er did see than my true love did build for me. but there came thieves late in the night, they robb'd my bower, and slew my knight, and after that my knight was slain i could no longer there remain. my servants all from me did fly in the midst of my extremity, and left me by myself alone with a heart more cold than any stone. yet, though my heart was full of care, heaven would not suffer me to despair; wherefore in haste i changed my name from fair elise to sweet william. and therewithal i cut my hair, and dress'd myself in man's attire; and in my beaver, hose, and band, i travell'd far through many a land. with a silver rapier by my side, so like a gallant i did ride; the thing that i delighted on, it was to be a serving-man. thus in my sumptuous man's array i bravely rode along the way; and at the last it chanced so that i to the king's court did go. then to the king i bow'd full low, my love and duty for to show; and so much favour i did crave, that i a serving-man's place might have. 'stand up, brave youth,' the king replied, 'thy service shall not be denied; but tell me first what thou canst do; thou shalt be fitted thereunto. 'wilt thou be usher of my hall, to wait upon my nobles all? or wilt thou be taster of my wine, to wait on me when i do dine? 'or wilt thou be my chamberlain, to make my bed both soft and fine? or wilt thou be one of my guard? and i will give thee thy reward.' sweet william, with a smiling face, said to the king, 'if't please your grace to show such favour unto me, your chamberlain i fain would be.' the king then did the nobles call, to ask the counsel of them all; who gave consent sweet william he the king's own chamberlain should be. now mark what strange thing came to pass: as the king one day a-hunting was, with all his lords and noble train, sweet william did at home remain. sweet william had no company then with him at home, but an old man: and when he saw the house was clear he took a lute which he had there: upon the lute sweet william play'd, and to the same he sang and said, with a sweet and noble voice, which made the old man to rejoice: 'my father was as brave a lord as ever europe did afford, my mother was a lady bright, my husband was a valiant knight: 'and i myself a lady gay, bedeck'd with gorgeous rich array; the bravest lady in the land had not more pleasure at command. 'i had my music every day, harmonious lessons for to play; i had my virgins fair and free continually to wait on me. 'but now, alas! my husband's dead, and all my friends are from me fled; my former joys are pass'd and gone, for i am now a serving-man.' at last the king from hunting came, and presently, upon the same, he called for this good old man, and thus to speak the king began: 'what news, what news, old man?' quoth he; 'what news hast thou to tell to me?' 'brave news,' the old man he did say. 'sweet william is a lady gay.' 'if this be true thou tell'st to me, i'll make thee lord of high degree; but if thy words do prove a lie, thou shalt be hang'd up presently.' but when the king the truth had found, his joys did more and more abound: according as the old man did say, sweet william was a lady gay. therefore the king without delay put on her glorious rich array, and upon her head a crown of gold which was most famous to behold. and then, for fear of further strife, he took sweet william for his wife; the like before was never seen, a serving-man to be a queen. _old ballad_ cxl _pairing time anticipated_ it chanced upon a winter's day, but warm, and bright, and calm as may, the birds, conceiving a design to forestall sweet st. valentine, in many an orchard, copse, and grove, assembled on affairs of love, and with much twitter and much chatter, began to agitate the matter. at length a bullfinch, who could boast more years and wisdom than the most, entreated, opening wide his beak, a moment's liberty to speak; and, silence publicly enjoin'd; deliver'd briefly thus his mind: 'my friends! be cautious how ye treat the subject upon which we meet; i fear we shall have winter yet.' a finch, whose tongue knew no control, with golden wing and satin poll, a last year's bird, who ne'er had tried what pairing means, thus pert replied: 'methinks the gentleman,' quoth she, 'opposite, in the apple-tree, by his good will would keep us single till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, or (which is likelier to befall) till death exterminate us all. i couple without more ado; my dear dick redcap, what say you?' dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, turning short round, strutting, and sidling, attested glad his approbation of an immediate conjugation. their sentiments so well express'd influenced mightily the rest; all pair'd, and each pair built a nest. but though the birds were thus in haste, the leaves came on not quite so fast, and destiny, that sometimes bears an aspect stern on man's affairs, not altogether smiled on theirs. the wind, of late breath'd gently forth, now shifted east, and east by north; bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, could shelter them from rain and snow, stepping into their nests, they paddled, themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled. soon every father bird and mother grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other. parted without the least regret, except that they had ever met, and learn'd in future to be wiser than to neglect a good adviser. _w. cowper_ cxli _to a water fowl_ whither, 'midst falling dew, while glow the heavens with the last steps of day, far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue thy solitary way? vainly the fowler's eye might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, as, darkly painted on the crimson sky, thy figure floats along. seek'st thou the plashy brink of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, or where the rocking billows rise and sink on the chafed ocean side? there is a power whose care teaches thy way along that pathless coast, the desert and illimitable air,-- lone wandering but not lost. all day thy wings have fann'd, at that far height the cold thin atmosphere, yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, though the dark night is near. and soon that toil shall end; soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest and scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend soon o'er thy shelter'd nest. thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven hath swallow'd up thy form: yet on my heart deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, and shall not soon depart. he, who from zone to zone guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, in the long way that i must tread alone, will lead my steps aright. _w. c. bryant_ cxlii _robin hood and the bishop of hereford_ some will talk of bold robin hood, and some of barons bold; but i'll tell you how he served the bishop of hereford, when he robbed him of his gold. as it befel in merry barnsdale, all under the greenwood tree, the bishop of hereford was to come by, with all his company. 'come kill me a ven'son,' said bold robin hood, 'come kill me a good fat deer; the bishop of hereford is to dine with me to-day, and he shall pay well for his cheer. 'we'll kill a fat ven'son,' said bold robin hood, 'and dress it by the highway side; and we will watch the bishop narrowly, lest some other way he should ride.' robin hood dressed himself in shepherd's attire, with six of his men also; and, when the bishop of hereford came by, they about the fire did go. 'o what is the matter?' then said the bishop, 'or for whom do you make this ado? or why do you kill the king's ven'son, when your company is so few?' 'we are shepherds,' said bold robin hood, 'and we keep sheep all the year, and we are disposed to be merry this day, and to kill of the king's fat deer.' 'you are brave fellows,' said the bishop, 'and the king your doings shall know: therefore make haste and come along with me, for before the king you shall go.' 'o pardon, o pardon,' said bold robin hood, 'o pardon, i thee pray! for it becomes not your lordship's coat to take so many lives away.' 'no pardon, no pardon,' said the bishop, 'no pardon i thee owe; therefore make haste and come along with me, for before the king you shall go.' then robin set his back against a tree, and his foot against a thorn, and from underneath his shepherd's coat he pull'd out a bugle horn. he put the little end to his mouth, and a loud blast did he blow, till three score and ten of bold robin's men came running all on a row. all making obeisance to bold robin hood, 'twas a comely sight for to see. 'what is the matter, master?' said little john, 'that you blow so hastily?' 'o here is the bishop of hereford, and no pardon we shall have:' 'cut off his head, master,' said little john, and throw him into his grave.' 'o pardon, o pardon,' said the bishop, 'o pardon, i thee pray! for if i had known it had been you, i'd have gone some other way.' 'no pardon, no pardon,' said bold robin hood, 'no pardon i thee owe; therefore make haste and come along with me, for to merry barnsdale you shall go.' then robin he took the bishop by the hand, and led him to merry barnsdale; he made him to stay and sup with him that night, and to drink wine, beer, and ale. 'call in a reckoning,' said the bishop, 'for methinks it grows wondrous high:' 'lend me your purse, master,' said little john, and i'll tell you bye and bye.' then little john took the bishop's cloak, and spread it upon the ground, and out of the bishop's portmantua he told three hundred pound. 'here's money enough, master,' said little john, 'and a comely sight 'tis to see; it makes me in charity with the bishop, though he heartily loveth not me.' robin hood took the bishop by the hand, and he caused the music to play; and he made the bishop to dance in his boots, and glad he could so get away. _old ballad_ cxliii _sir john suckling's campaign_ sir john got him an ambling nag, to scotland for to ride-a, with a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, to guard him on every side-a. no errant knight ever went to fight with half so gay a bravado; had you seen but his look, you'd have sworn on a book he'd have conquered a whole armado. the ladies ran all to the windows to see so gallant and warlike a sight-a, and as he pass'd by, they began to cry, 'sir john, why will you go fight-a?' but he like a cruel knight spurred on, his heart did not relent-a; for, till he came there, he show'd no fear; till then, why should he repent-a? the king (heaven bless him!) had singular hopes of him and all his troop-a; the borderers they, as they met him on the way, for joy did holloa and whoop-a. none liked him so well as his own colonel, who took him for john de wert-a; but when there were shows of gunning and blows, my gallant was nothing so pert-a. for when the scots' army came within sight, and all men prepared to fight-a, he ran to his tent; they ask'd what he meant; he swore that his stomach ached quite-a. the colonel sent for him back again, to quarter him in the van-a, but sir john did swear, he came not there to be kill'd the very first man-a. to cure his fear he was sent to the rear, some ten miles back and more-a; where he did play at trip and away, and ne'er saw the enemy more-a. but now there is peace, he's return'd to increase his money which lately he spent-a; but his lost honour must still lie in the dust; at berwick away it went-a. _old ballad_ cxliv _the nun's lament for philip sparrow_ when i remember'd again how my philip was slain, i wept and i wailed, the tears down hailed; but nothing it avail'd to call philip again whom gib our cat hath slain. _heu, heu, me,_ that i am woe for thee! _levavi oculos meos in montis;_ would that i had xenophontis or socrates the wise, to show me their device moderately to take this sorrow that i make for philip sparrow's sake! it had a velvet cap, and would sit on my lap, and seek after small worms, and sometimes white bread crumbs; and many times and oft within my breast soft it would lie and rest. sometimes he would gasp when he saw a wasp; a fly or a gnat, he would fly at that; and prettily he would pant when he saw an ant; lord, how he would pry after the butterfly! lord, how he would hop after the grasshop! and when i said, phip, phip, then he would leap and skip, and take me by the lip. _de profundis clamavi_ when i saw my sparrow die. vengeance i ask and cry, by way of exclamation, on all the whole nation of cats wild and tame; that cat especially that slew so cruelly my little pretty sparrow that i brought up at carow. o cat of churlish kind, the fiend was in thy mind. i would thou hadst been blind! the leopards savage, the lions in their rage, may they catch thee in their paws, and gnaw thee in their jaws; the dragons with their tongues may they poison thy liver and lungs. of india the greedy gripes may they tear out all thy tripes; of arcady the bears may they pluck away thine ears; the wild wolf lycaon bite asunder thy back-bone; of Ã�tna the burning hill, that night and day burneth still, set thy tail in a blaze, that all the world may gaze and wonder upon thee, from ocean, the great sea, unto the isles of orchadye; from tilbury ferry to the plain of salisbury. _j. skelton_ cxlv _to a butterfly_ i've watch'd you now a full half-hour, self-poised upon that yellow flower; and, little butterfly! indeed i know not if you sleep or feed. how motionless! not frozen seas more motionless! and then what joy awaits you, when the breeze has found you out among the trees, and calls you forth again! this plot of orchard-ground is ours; my trees they are, my sister's flowers; here rest your wings when they are weary; here lodge as in a sanctuary! come often to us, fear no wrong; sit near us on the bough! we'll talk of sunshine and of song, and summer days when we were young; sweet childish days that were as long as twenty days are now. _w. wordsworth_ cxlvi _the dragon of wantley_ old stories tell how hercules a dragon slew at lerna, with seven heads and fourteen eyes, to see and well discern-a: but he had a club, this dragon to drub, or he ne'er had done it, i warrant ye: but more of more-hall, with nothing at all, he slew the dragon of wantley. this dragon had two furious wings, each one upon each shoulder; with a sting in his tail as long as a flail, which made him bolder and bolder. he had long claws, and in his jaws four and forty teeth of iron; with a hide as tough as any buff, which did him round environ. have you not heard how the trojan horse held seventy men in his belly? this dragon was not quite so big, but very near, i'll tell ye; devour'd he poor children three, that could not with him grapple; and at one sup he ate them up, as one would eat an apple. all sorts of cattle this dragon would eat, some say he ate up trees, and that the forests sure he would devour up by degrees: for houses and churches were to him geese and turkies; he ate all and left none behind, but some stones, dear jack, that he could not crack, which on the hills you will find. hard by a furious knight there dwelt; men, women, girls, and boys, sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, and made a hideous noise. o save us all, more of more-hall, thou peerless knight of these woods; do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, we'll give thee all our goods. this being done, he did engage to hew the dragon down; but first he went new armour to bespeak at sheffield town; with spikes all about, not within but without, of steel so sharp and strong, both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er, some five or six inches long. had you but seen him in this dress, how fierce he look'd, and how big, you would have thought him for to be some egyptian porcupig: he frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, each cow, each horse, and each hog: for fear they did flee, for they took him to be some strange, outlandish hedge-hog. to see this fight all people then got up on trees and houses, on churches some, and chimneys too; but these put on their trousers, not to spoil their hose. as soon as he rose, to make him strong and mighty, he drank, by the tale, six pots of ale and a quart of aqua-vitæ. it is not strength that always wins, for wit doth strength excel; which made our cunning champion creep down into a well, where he did think this dragon would drink, and so he did in truth; and as he stoop'd low, he rose up and cried, boh! and kick'd him in the mouth. oh, quoth the dragon with a deep sigh, and turn'd six times together, sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing out of his throat of leather: more of more-hall, o thou rascal, would i had seen thee never; with the thing at thy foot thou hast prick'd my throat, and i'm quite undone for ever. murder, murder, the dragon cried, alack, alack, for grief; had you but miss'd that place, you could have done me no mischief. then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked, and down he laid and cried; first on one knee, then on back tumbled he; so groan'd, and kick'd, and died. _old ballad_ cxlvii _the ungrateful cupid_ at dead of night, when mortals lose their various cares in soft repose, i heard a knocking at my door: 'who's that,' said i, 'at this late hour disturbs my rest?' it sobb'd and cried, and thus in mournful tone replied, 'a poor, unhappy child am i, that's come to beg your charity; pray, let me in. you need not fear; i mean no harm, i vow and swear; but, wet and cold, crave shelter here; betray'd by night, and led astray, i've lost, alas! i've lost my way.' moved with this little tale of fate, i took a lamp, and oped the gate! when, see! a naked boy before the threshold; at his back he wore a pair of wings, and by his side a crooked bow and quiver tied. 'my pretty angel! come,' said i, 'come to the fire, and do not cry.' i stroked his neck and shoulders bare, and squeez'd the water from his hair; then chafed his little hands in mine, and cheer'd him with a draught of wine recover'd thus, says he, 'i'd know, whether the rain has spoilt my bow; let's try'--then shot me with a dart. the venom throbb'd, did ache and smart, as if a bee had stung my heart. 'are these your thanks, ungrateful child, are these your thanks?' the impostor smiled. 'farewell, my loving host,' says he, all's well; my bow's unhurt, i see; but what a wretch i've made of thee!' _j. hughes_ cxlviii _the king of the crocodiles_ 'now, woman, why without your veil? and wherefore do you look so pale? and, woman, why do you groan so sadly, and wherefore beat your bosom madly?' 'oh, i have lost my darling boy, in whom my soul had all its joy; and i for sorrow have torn my veil, and sorrow hath made my very heart pale. 'oh, i have lost my darling child, and that's the loss that makes me wild; he stoop'd by the river down to drink, and there was a crocodile by the brink. 'he did not venture in to swim, he only stoop'd to drink at the brim; but under the reeds the crocodile lay, and struck with his tail and swept him away. 'now take me in your boat, i pray, for down the river lies my way, and me to the reed island bring, for i will go to the crocodile king. 'he reigns not now in crocodilople, proud as the turk at constantinople; no ruins of his great city remain; the island of reeds is his whole domain. 'like a dervise there he passes his days, turns up his eyes, and fasts and prays; and being grown pious and meek and mild, he now never eats man, woman, or child. 'the king of the crocodiles never does wrong, he has no tail so stiff and strong, he has no tail to strike and slay, but he has ears to hear what i say. 'and to the king i will complain how my poor child was wickedly slain; the king of the crocodiles he is good, and i shall have the murderer's blood.' the man replied, 'no, woman, no; to the island of reeds i will not go; i would not for any worldly thing see the face of the crocodile king.' 'then lend me now your little boat, and i will down the river float, i tell thee that no worldly thing shall keep me from the crocodile king. 'the king of the crocodiles he is good, and therefore will give me blood for blood; being so mighty and so just, he can revenge me, he will, and he must.' the woman she leapt into the boat, and down the river alone did she float, and fast with the stream the boat proceeds, and now she is come to the island of reeds. the king of the crocodiles there was seen; he sat upon the eggs of the queen, and all around, a numerous rout, the young prince crocodiles crawl'd about. the woman shook every limb with fear as she to the crocodile king came near, for never a man without fear and awe the face of his crocodile majesty saw. she fell upon her bended knee, and said, 'o king, have pity on me, for i have lost my darling child, and that's the loss that makes me wild. 'a crocodile ate him for his food: now let me have the murderer's blood; let me have vengeance for my boy, the only thing that can give me joy. 'i know that you, sire, never do wrong, you have no tail so stiff and strong, you have no tail to strike and slay, but you have ears to hear what i say.' 'you have done well,' the king replies, and fix'd on her his little eyes; 'good woman, yes, you have done right; but you have not described me quite. 'i have no tail to strike and slay, and i have ears to hear what you say; i have teeth, moreover, as you may see, and i will make a meal of thee.' wicked the word, and bootless the boast, as cruel king crocodile found to his cost, and proper reward of tyrannical might; he show'd his teeth, but he miss'd his bite. 'a meal of me!' the woman cried, taking wit in her anger, and courage beside; she took him his forelegs and hind between, and trundled him off the eggs of the queen. to revenge herself then she did not fail; he was slow in his motions for want of a tail; but well for the woman was it the while that the queen was gadding abroad in the nile. two crocodile princes, as they play'd on the sand, she caught, and grasping them one in each hand, thrust the head of one into the throat of the other, and made each prince crocodile choke his brother. and when she had truss'd three couple this way, she carried them off and hasten'd away, and plying her oars with might and main, cross'd the river and got to the shore again. when the crocodile queen came home, she found that her eggs were broken and scatter'd around, and that six young princes, darlings all, were missing; for none of them answered her call. then many a not very pleasant thing pass'd between her and the crocodile king; 'is this your care of the nest?' cried she; 'it comes of your gadding abroad,' said he. the queen had the better in this dispute, and the crocodile king found it best to be mute; while a terrible peal in his ears she rung, for the queen had a tail as well as a tongue. in woful patience he let her rail, standing less in fear of her tongue than her tail, and knowing that all the words which were spoken. could not mend one of the eggs that were broken. the woman, meantime, was very well pleased, she had saved her life, and her heart was eased; the justice she ask'd in vain for her son, she had taken herself, and six for one. 'mash-allah!' her neighbours exclaim'd in delight, she gave them a funeral supper that night, where they all agreed that revenge was sweet, and young prince crocodiles delicate meat. _r. southey_ cxlix _the lion and the cub_ a lion cub, of sordid mind, avoided all the lion kind; fond of applause, he sought the feasts of vulgar and ignoble beasts; with asses all his time he spent, their club's perpetual president. he caught their manners, looks, and airs; an ass in everything but ears! if e'er his highness meant a joke, they grinn'd applause before he spoke; but at each word what shouts of praise; goodness! how natural he brays! elate with flattery and conceit, he seeks his royal sire's retreat; forward and fond to show his parts, his highness brays; the lion starts. 'puppy! that curs'd vociferation betrays thy life and conversation: coxcombs, an ever-noisy race, are trumpets of their own disgrace. 'why so severe?' the cub replies; 'our senate always held me wise!' 'how weak is pride,' returns the sire: 'all fools are vain when fools admire! but know, what stupid asses prize, lions and noble beasts despise.' _j. gay_ cl _the snail_ to grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, the snail sticks close, nor fears to fall. as if he grew there house and all together. within that house secure he hides, when danger imminent betides of storm, or other harm besides of weather. give but his horns the slightest touch, his self-collecting power is such, he shrinks into his house with much displeasure. where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, except himself has chattels none, well satisfied to be his own whole treasure. thus hermit-like his life he leads, nor partner of his banquet needs, and, if he meets one, only feeds the faster. who seeks him must be worse than blind, (he and his house are so combined,) if, finding it, he fails to find its master. _v. bourne_ cli _the colubriad_ close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast, three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast. i, passing swift and inattentive by, at the three kittens cast a careless eye; not much concern'd to know what they did there, not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. but presently a loud and furious hiss caused me to stop, and to exclaim, 'what's this?' when lo! upon the threshold met my view, with head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, a viper, long as count de grasse's queue. forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, darting it full against a kitten's nose; who having never seen, in field or house, the like, sat still and silent as a mouse: only projecting, with attention due, her whisker'd face, she asked him, 'who are you? on to the hall went i, with pace not slow, but swift as lightning, for a long dutch hoe: with which well arm'd i hasten'd to the spot, to find the viper, but i found him not. and, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, found only, that he was not to be found. but still the kitten, sitting as before, sat watching close the bottom of the door. 'i hope,' said i, 'the villain i would kill has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill; and if i make despatch, and follow hard, no doubt but i shall find him in the yard;' for long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'twas in the garden that i found him first. even there i found him--there the full-grown cat, his head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; as curious as the kittens each had been to learn what this phenomenon might mean. fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight, and fearing every moment he would bite, and rob our household of our only cat that was of age to combat with a rat, with outstretch'd hoe i slew him at the door, and taught him never to come thither more. _w. cowper_ clii _the priest and the mulberry-tree_ did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare, and merrily trotted along to the fair? of creature more tractable none ever heard, in the height of her speed she would stop at a word; but again with a word, when the curate said, hey, she put forth her mettle and gallop'd away. as near to the gates of the city he rode, while the sun of september all brilliantly glow'd, the good priest discover'd, with eyes of desire, a mulberry-tree in a hedge of wild briar; on boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot, hung large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit. the curate was hungry and thirsty to boot; he shrunk from the thorns, though he long'd for the fruit; with a word he arrested his courser's keen speed, and he stood up erect on the back of his steed; on the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, and he gather'd the fruit till he took his good fill. 'sure never,' he thought, 'was a creature so rare, so docile, so true, as my excellent mare; lo, here now i stand,' and he gazed all around, 'as safe and as steady as if on the ground; yet how had it been, if some traveller this way, had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry, hey?' he stood with his head in the mulberry-tree, and he spoke out aloud in his fond reverie; at the sound of the word the good mare made a push, and down went the priest in the wild-briar bush. he remember'd too late, on his thorny green bed, much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said. _t. l. peacock_ cliii _the pride of youth_ proud maisie is in the wood, walking so early; sweet robin sits on the bush singing so rarely. 'tell me, thou bonny bird, when shall i marry me?' 'when six braw gentlemen kirkward shall carry ye. 'who makes the bridal bed, birdie, say truly?' 'the grey-headed sexton that delves the grave duly. 'the glow-worm o'er grave and stone shall light thee steady; the owl from the steeple sing welcome, proud lady.' _sir w. scott_ cliv _sir lancelot du lake_ when arthur first in court began, and was approved king, by force of arms great victories wan and conquest home did bring, then into england straight he came with fifty good and able knights, that resorted unto him, and were of his round table: and he had jousts and tournaments, whereto were many prest, wherein some knights did far excel and eke surmount the rest. but one sir lancelot du lake, who was approved well, he for his deeds and feats of arms all others did excel. when he had rested him awhile, in play, and game, and sport, he said he would go prove himself in some adventurous sort. he armed rode in a forest wide, and met a damsel fair who told him of adventures great, whereto he gave great ear. 'such would i find,' quoth lancelot: 'for that cause came i hither.' 'thou seem'st,' quoth she, 'a knight full good. and i will bring thee thither, 'whereas a mighty knight doth dwell, that now is of great fame: therefore tell me what wight thou art, and what may be thy name.' 'my name is lancelot du lake.' quoth she, 'it likes me than; here dwells a knight who never was yet match'd with any man: 'who has in prison three-score knights and four that he did wound; knights of king arthur's court they be, and of his table round.' she brought him to a river side, and also to a tree, whereon a copper basin hung, and many shields to see. he struck so hard the basin broke; and tarquin soon he spied: who drove a horse before him fast, whereon a knight lay tied. 'sir knight,' then said sir lancelot, 'bring me that horse-load hither, and lay him down and let him rest; we'll try our force together: 'for, as i understand, thou hast, so far as thou art able, done great despite and shame unto the knights of the round table.' 'if thou be of the table round,' quoth tarquin speedily, 'both thee and all thy fellowship i utterly defy.' 'that's overmuch,' quoth lancelot, 'tho, defend thee bye and bye,' they set their spears unto their steeds, and each at other fly. they couch'd their spears, (their horses ran as though there had been thunder,) and struck them each immidst their shields, wherewith they broke in sunder. their horses' backs brake under them, the knights were both astound: to avoid their horses they made haste to light upon the ground. they took them to their shields full fast, their swords they drew out then, with mighty strokes most eagerly, each at the other ran. they wounded were and bled full sore, they both for breath did stand, and leaning on their swords awhile, quoth tarquin, 'hold thy hand, 'and tell to me what i shall ask.' 'say on,' quoth lancelot, 'tho.' 'thou art,' quoth tarquin, 'the best knight that ever i did know; 'and like a knight that i did hate: so that thou be not he, i will deliver all the rest, and eke accord with thee. 'that is well said,' quoth lancelot; but sith it must be so, what knight is that thou hatest thus? i pray thee to me show.' 'his name is lancelot du lake, he slew my brother dear; him i suspect of all the rest: i would i had him here.' 'thy wish thou hast, but yet unknown, i am lancelot du lake, now knight of arthur's table round; king haud's son of schuwake; 'and i desire thee do thy worst.' 'ho, ho!' quoth tarquin, 'tho: one of us two shall end our lives before that we do go. 'if thou be lancelot du lake, then welcome shalt thou be. wherefore see thou thyself defend, for now defy i thee.' they buckled then together so like unto wild boars rashing; and with their swords and shields they ran, at one another slashing: the ground besprinkled was with blood: tarquin began to yield; for he gave back for weariness, and low did bear his shield. this soon sir lancelot espied, he leapt upon him then, he pull'd him down upon his knee, and, rushing off his helm, forthwith he struck his neck in two, and, when he had so done, from prison threescore knights and four delivered every one. _old ballad_ clv _the three fishers_ three fishers went sailing away to the west, away to the west as the sun went down; each thought on the woman who loved him best, and the children stood watching them out of the town; for men must work, and women must weep, and there's little to earn, and many to keep, though the harbour bar be moaning. three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, and they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; they look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, and the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. but men must work and women must weep, though storms be sudden, and waters deep, and the harbour bar be moaning. three corpses lay out on the shining sands in the morning gleam as the tide went down, and the women are weeping and wringing their hands for those who will never come home to the town; for men must work and women must weep, and the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep, and good-bye to the bar and its moaning. _c. kingsley_ clvi _alice fell; or, poverty_ the post-boy drove with fierce career, for threatening clouds the moon had drown'd; when, as we hurried on, my ear was smitten with a startling sound. as if the wind blew many ways, i heard the sound,--and more and more; it seem'd to follow with the chaise, and still i heard it as before. at length i to the boy call'd out; he stopp'd his horses at the word, but neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, nor aught else like it, could be heard. the boy then smack'd his whip, and fast the horses scamper'd through the rain; but hearing soon upon the blast the cry, i made him halt again. forthwith alighting on the ground, 'whence comes,' said i, 'that piteous moan?' and there a little girl i found, sitting behind the chaise alone. 'my cloak!' no other word she spake, but loud and bitterly she wept, as if her innocent heart would break; and down from off her seat she leapt. 'what ails you, child?'--she sobb'd, 'look here!' i saw it in the wheel entangled, a weather-beaten rag as e'er from any garden scarecrow dangled. there, twisted between nave and spoke, it hung, nor could at once be freed; but our joint pains unloosed the cloak, a miserable rag indeed! 'and whither are you going, child, to-night, along these lonesome ways?' 'to durham,' answer'd she, half wild-- 'then come with me into the chaise.' insensible to all relief sat the poor girl, and forth did send sob after sob, as if her grief could never, never have an end. 'my child, in durham do you dwell?' she check'd herself in her distress, and said, 'my name is alice fell; i'm fatherless and motherless. 'and i to durham, sir, belong.' again, as if the thought would choke her very heart, her grief grew strong; and all was for her tatter'd cloak! the chaise drove on; our journey's end was nigh; and, sitting by my side, as if she had lost her only friends, she wept, nor would be pacified. up to the tavern door we post; of alice and her grief i told; and i gave money to the host, to buy a new cloak for the old: 'and let it be of duffil grey, as warm a cloak as man can sell!' proud creature was she the next day, the little orphan, alice fell! _w. wordsworth_ clvii _the first swallow_ the gorse is yellow on the heath, the banks with speedwell flowers are gay, the oaks are budding, and, beneath, the hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, the silver wreath, of may. the welcome guest of settled spring, the swallow, too, has come at last; just at sunset, when thrushes sing, i saw her dash with rapid wing, and hail'd her as she past. come, summer visitant, attach to my reed roof your nest of clay, and let my ear your music catch, low twittering underneath the thatch at the grey dawn of day. _c. smith_ clviii _the graves of a household_ they grew in beauty side by side, they fill'd one home with glee;-- their graves are sever'd far and wide,-- by mount, and stream, and sea. the same fond mother bent at night o'er each fair sleeping brow: she had each folded flower in sight,-- where are those dreamers now? one, midst the forests of the west, by a dark stream is laid-- the indian knows his place of rest, far in the cedar shade. the sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-- he lies where pearls lie deep; he was the loved of all, yet none o'er his low bed may weep. one sleeps where southern vines are drest above the noble slain: he wrapt his colours round his breast, on a blood-red field of spain. and one--o'er her the myrtle showers its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; she faded midst italian flowers, the last of that bright band. and parted thus they rest who play'd beneath the same green tree; whose voices mingled as they pray'd around one parent knee; they that with smiles lit up the hall, and cheer'd with song the hearth!-- alas for love! if _thou_ wert all, and naught beyond, o, earth! _f. hemans_ clix _the thrush's nest_ within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, that overhung a mole-hill large and round, i heard from morn to morn a merry thrush sing hymns of rapture, while i drank the sound with joy; and oft, an unintruding guest, i watch'd her secret toils from day to day, how true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, and modell'd it within with wool and clay. and bye and bye, like heath-bells gilt with dew, there lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue; and there i witness'd, in the summer hours, a brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. _j. clare_ clx _the last of the flock_ in distant countries have i been, and yet i have not often seen a healthy man, a man full grown, weep in the public roads alone; but such a one, on english ground, and in the broad highway i met; along the broad highway he came, his cheeks with tears were wet; sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad; and in his arms a lamb he had. he saw me, and he turn'd aside, as if he wish'd himself to hide: and with his coat did then essay to wipe those briny tears away. i follow'd him and said, 'my friend, what ails you! wherefore weep you so?' --'shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb, he makes my tears to flow. to-day i fetch'd him from the rock; he is the last of all my flock. 'when i was young, a single man, and after youthful follies ran, though little given to care and thought, yet so it was, an ewe i bought; and other sheep from her i raised, as healthy sheep as you might see; and then i married, and was rich as i could wish to be; of sheep i number'd a full score, and every year increas'd my store. 'year after year my stock it grew; and from this one, this single ewe, full fifty comely sheep i raised, as fine a flock as ever grazed! upon the quantock hills they fed; they throve, and we at home did thrive: --this lusty lamb of all my store is all that is alive; and now i care not if we die, and perish all of poverty. 'six children, sir, had i to feed; hard labour, in a time of need! my pride was tamed, and in our grief, i of the parish ask'd relief, they said i was a wealthy man; my sheep upon the uplands fed, and it was fit that thence i took whereof to buy us bread. 'do this; how can we give to you,' they cried, 'what to the poor is due?' 'i sold a sheep, as they had said, and bought my little children bread, and they were healthy with their food; for me--it never did me good. a woful time it was for me, to see the end of all my gains, the pretty flock which i had rear'd with all my care and pains, to see it melt like snow away-- for me it was a woful day. another still! and still another! a little lamb, and then its mother! it was a vein that never stopp'd-- like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd, till thirty were not left alive; they dwindled, dwindled, one by one; and i may say that many a time i wish'd they all were gone; reckless of what might come at last, were but the bitter struggle past. to wicked deeds i was inclined, and wicked fancies cross'd my mind; and every man i chanced to see, i thought he knew some ill of me. no peace, no comfort could i find, no ease within doors or without; and crazily and wearily i went my work about; and oft was moved to flee from home and hide my head where wild beasts roam. 'sir, 'twas a precious flock to me, as dear as my own children be; for daily with my growing store i loved my children more and more. alas! it was an evil time; god cursed me in my sore distress; i pray'd, yet every day i thought i loved my children less; and every week, and every day, my flock it seem'd to melt away; they dwindled, sir, sad sight to see from ten to five, from five to three, a lamb, a wether, and a ewe; and then at last from three to two; and, of my fifty, yesterday i had but only one: and here it lies upon my arm, alas, and i have none; to-day i fetch'd it from the rock-- it is the last of all my flock.' _w. wordsworth_ clxi _the romance of the swan's nest_ little ellie sits alone 'mid the beeches of a meadow, by a stream-side on the grass; and the trees are showering down doubles of their leaves in shadow on her shining hair and face. she has thrown her bonnet by; and her feet she has been dipping in the shallow waters' flow-- now she holds them nakedly in her hands, all sleek and dripping, while she rocketh to and fro. little ellie sits alone, and the smile she softly useth fills the silence like a speech: while she thinks what shall be done, and the sweetest pleasure chooseth for her future, within reach. little ellie in her smile chooseth--'i will have a lover, riding on a steed of steeds! he shall love me without guile; and to _him_ i will discover that swan's nest among the reeds. 'and the steed it shall be red-roan, and the lover shall be noble, with an eye that takes the breath, and the lute he plays upon shall strike ladies into trouble, as his sword strikes men to death. 'and the steed it shall be shod all in silver, housed in azure, and the mane shall swim the wind; and the hoofs along the sod shall flash onward and keep measure, till the shepherds look behind. 'he will kiss me on the mouth then, and lead me as a lover, through the crowds that praise his deeds; and, when soul-tied by one troth, unto _him_ i will discover that swan's nest among the reeds.' little ellie, with her smile not yet ended, rose up gaily,-- tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe, and went homeward round a mile, just to see, as she did daily, what more eggs were with the two. pushing through the elm-tree copse, winding by the stream, light-hearted, where the osier pathway leads-- past the boughs she stoops and stops: lo! the wild swan had deserted, and a rat had gnaw'd the reeds. ellie went home sad and slow. if she found the lover ever, with his red-roan steed of steeds, sooth i know not! but i know she could never show him--never, that swan's nest among the reeds. _e. b. browning_ clxii _song_ i wander'd by the brook-side, i wander'd by the mill,-- i could not hear the brook flow, the noisy wheel was still; there was no burr of grasshopper, nor chirp of any bird; but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. i sat beneath the elm-tree, i watch'd the long, long shade. and as it grew still longer i did not feel afraid; for i listen'd for a foot-fall, i listen'd for a word,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. he came not,--no, he came not; the night came on alone; the little stars sat one by one each on his golden throne; the evening air pass'd by my cheek, the leaves above were stirr'd,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. fast silent tears were flowing, when some one stood behind; a hand was on my shoulder, i knew its touch was kind: it drew me nearer, nearer; we did not speak a word,-- for the beating of our own hearts was all the sound we heard. _r. m. milnes_ clxiii _timothy_ up, timothy, up with your staff and away! not a soul in the village this morning will stay: the hare has just started from hamilton's grounds, and skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.' of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green, on the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; with their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow, the girls on the hills make a holiday show. fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, fill'd the funeral basin at timothy's door; a coffin through timothy's threshold had past; one child did it bear, and that child was his last. now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, the horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away! old timothy took up his staff, and he shut, with a leisurely motion, the door of his hut. perhaps to himself at that moment he said; 'the key i must take, for my ellen is dead.' but of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak; and he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. _w. wordsworth_ clxiv _the sleeping beauty_ --the magic sleep year after year unto her feet, she lying on her couch alone, across the purple coverlet, the maiden's jet-black hair has grown, on either side her tranced form forth streaming from a braid of pearl: the slumbrous light is rich and warm, and moves not on the rounded curl. the silk star-broider'd coverlid unto her limbs itself doth mould, languidly ever; and, amid her full black ringlets downward roll'd, glows forth each softly shadow'd arm with bracelets of the diamond bright: her constant beauty doth inform stillness with love, and day with light. she sleeps: her breathings are not heard in palace chambers far apart. the fragrant tresses are not stirr'd, that lie upon her charmed heart. she sleeps: on either hand upswells the gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd: she sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells a perfect form in perfect rest. ii--the fairy prince's arrival a touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt, there rose a noise of striking clocks, and feet that ran and doors that clapt, and barking dogs, and crowing cocks; a fuller light illumin'd all, a breeze through all the garden swept, a sudden hubbub shook the hall, and sixty feet the fountain leapt. the hedge broke in, the banner blew, the butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, the fire shot up, the martin flew, the parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, the maid and page renew'd their strife, the palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt, and all the long pent stream of life dash'd downward in a cataract. and last with these the king awoke, and in his chair himself uprear'd, and yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 'by holy rood, a royal beard! how say you? we have slept, my lords. my beard has grown into my lap.' the barons swore, with many words, 'twas but an after-dinner's nap. 'pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still my joints are something stiff or so. my lord, and shall we pass the bill i mention'd half an hour ago?' the chancellor sedate and vain in courteous words return'd reply: but dallied with his golden chain, and, smiling, put the question by. _a. tennyson_ clxv _choral song of illyrian peasants_ up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay! to the meadows trip away. tis you must tend the flocks this morn, and scare the small birds from the corn. not a soul at home may stay: for the shepherds must go with lance and bow to hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. leave the hearth and leave the house to the cricket and the mouse: find grannam out a sunny seat, with babe and lambkin at her feet. not a soul at home may stay: for the shepherds must go with lance and bow to hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. _s. t. coleridge_ clxvi _the destruction of sennacherib_ the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold, and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee. like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen; like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown. for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd; and the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still. and there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, but through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride; and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. and there lay the rider, distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail, and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. and the widows of ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of baal, and the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord! _lord byron_ clxvii _the widow bird_ a widow bird sate mourning for her love upon a wintry bough; the frozen wind crept on above, the freezing stream below. there was no leaf upon the forest bare, no flower upon the ground, and little motion in the air except the mill-wheel's sound. _p. b. shelley_ clxviii _dora_ with farmer allan at the farm abode william and dora. william was his son, and she his niece. he often look'd at them, and often thought, 'i'll make them man and wife.' now dora felt her uncle's will in all, and yearn'd towards william; but the youth, because he had been always with her in the house, thought not of dora. then there came a day when allan call'd his son, and said: 'my son, i married late, but i would wish to see my grandchild on my knees before i die: and i have set my heart upon a match. now therefore look to dora; she is well to look to; thrifty too, beyond her age. she is my brother's daughter: he and i had once hard words, and parted, and he died in foreign lands; but for his sake i bred his daughter dora: take her for your wife; for i have wish'd this marriage, night and day, for many years.' but william answer'd short: 'i cannot marry dora; by my life, i will not marry dora.' then the old man was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: 'you will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! but in my time a father's word was law, and so it shall be now for me. look to't; consider, william; take a month to think, and let me have an answer to my wish; or, by the lord that made me, you shall pack and nevermore darken my doors again!' but william answer'd madly, bit his lips, and broke away. the more he look'd at her the less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; but dora bore them meekly. then before the month was out he left his father's house, and hired himself to work within the fields; and half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed a labourer's daughter, mary morrison. then, when the bells were ringing, allan call'd his niece and said: 'my girl, i love you well; but if you speak with him that was my son, or change a word with her he calls his wife, my home is none of yours. my will is law.' and dora promised, being meek. she thought, 'it cannot be: my uncle's mind will change.' and days went on, and there was born a boy to william; then distresses came on him; and day by day he pass'd his father's gate, heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. but dora stored what little she could save, and sent it them by stealth, nor did they know who sent it; till at last a fever seized on william, and in harvest-time he died. then dora went to mary. mary sat and look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought hard things of dora. dora came and said: 'i have obey'd my uncle until now, and i have sinn'd, for it was all through me this evil came on william at the first. but, mary, for the sake of him that's gone, and for your sake, the woman that he chose, and for this orphan, i am come to you: you know there has not been for these five years so full a harvest: let me take the boy, and i will set him in my uncle's eye among the wheat; that, when his heart is glad of the full harvest, he may see the boy, and bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' and dora took the child, and went her way across the wheat, and sat upon a mound that was unsown, where many poppies grew. far off the farmer came into the field and spied her not; for none of all his men dare tell him dora waited with the child; and dora would have risen and gone to him, but her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, and the sun fell, and all the land was dark. but when the morrow came, she rose and took the child once more, and sat upon the mound; and made a little wreath of all the flowers that grew about, and tied it on his hat to make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. then when the farmer pass'd into the field he spied her, and he left his men at work and came and said, 'where were you yesterday? whose child is that? what are you doing here?' so dora cast her eyes upon the ground, and answer'd softly, 'this is william's child.' 'and did i not,' said allan, 'did i not forbid you, dora?' dora said again: 'do with me as you will, but take the child and bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' and allan said: 'i see it is a trick got up betwixt you and the woman there. i must be taught my duty, and by you! you knew my word was law, and yet you dared to slight it. well--for i will take the boy; but go you hence, and never see me more.' so saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud and struggled hard. the wreath of flowers fell at dora's feet. she bow'd upon her hands, and the boy's cry came to her from the field. more and more distant. she bow'd down her head, remembering the day when first she came, and all the things that had been. she bow'd down and wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, and the sun fell and all the land was dark. then dora went to mary's house, and stood upon the threshold. mary saw the boy was not with dora. she broke out in praise to god that help'd her in her widowhood. and dora said: 'my uncle took the boy; but, mary, let me live and work with you: he says that he will never see me more.' then answer'd mary, 'this shall never be, that thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: and, now i think, he shall not have the boy, for he will teach him hardness, and to slight his mother: therefore thou and i will go, and i will have my boy, and bring him home; and i will beg of him to take thee back; and if he will not take thee back again, then thou and i will live within one house, and work for william's child until he grows of age to help us.' so the women kiss'd each other, and set out and reach'd the farm. the door was off the latch; they peep'd and saw the boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, and clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out and babbled for the golden seal that hung from allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. then they came in; but when the boy beheld his mother, he cried out to come to her: and allan sat him down, and mary said: 'o father!--if you let me call me so-- i never came a-begging for myself, or william, or this child; but now i come for dora: take her back; she loves you well; o sir, when william died, he died at peace with all men; for i ask'd him, and he said, he could not ever rue his marrying me. i had been a patient wife: but, sir, he said that he was wrong to cross his father thus: "god bless him!" he said, "and may he never know the troubles i have gone through!" then he turn'd his face and pass'd--unhappy that i am! but now, sir, let me have my boy, for you will make him hard, and he will learn to slight his father's memory; and take dora back, and let all this be as it was before.' so mary said, and dora hid her face by mary. there was silence in the room, and all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- 'i have been to blame--to blame! i have kill'd my son! i have kill'd him--but i loved him--my dear son! may god forgive me!--i have been to blame. kiss me, my children!' then they clung about the old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times, and all the man was broken with remorse; and all his love came back a hundredfold; and for three hours he sobb'd o'er william's child, thinking of william. so those four abode within one house together; and as years went forward, mary took another mate; but dora lived unmarried till her death. _a. tennyson_ clxix _a witch_ _spoken by a countryman_ there's that old hag moll brown, look, see, just past! i wish the ugly sly old witch would tumble over in the ditch; i wouldn't pick her out not very fast. i don't think she's belied, 'tis clear's the sun that she's a witch if ever there was one. yes, i do know just hereabout of two or three folk that have learnt what moll can do. she did, one time, a pretty deal of harm to farmer gruff's folks, down at lower farm. one day, you know, they happen'd to offend her, and not a little to their sorrow, because they would not give or lend her the thing she came to beg or borrow; and so, you know, they soon began to find that she'd a-left her evil wish behind. she soon bewitch'd them; and she had such power, that she did make their milk and ale turn sour, and addle all the eggs their fowls did lay; they couldn't fetch the butter in the churn, and cheeses soon began to turn all back again to curds and whey. the little pigs a-running with the sow did sicken somehow, nobody knew how, and fall, and turn their snouts towards the sky, and only give one little grunt and die; and all the little ducks and chicken were death-struck while they were a-pickin' their food, and fell upon their head, and flapp'd their wings and dropp'd down dead. they couldn't fat the calves; they wouldn't thrive; they couldn't save their lambs alive; their sheep all took the rot and gave no wool; their horses fell away to skin and bones, and got so weak they couldn't pull a half a peck of stones; the dog got dead-alive and drowsy, the cat fell sick and wouldn't mousey; and if the wretched souls went up to bed the hag did come and ride them all half dead. they used to keep her out o' the house 'tis true, a-nailing up at door a horse's shoe; and i've a-heard the farmer's wife did try to drive a needle or a pin in through her old hard wither'd skin and draw her blood, a-coming by; but she could never fetch a drop, she bent the pin and broke the needle's top against her skin, you know, and that, in course, did only make the hag bewitch them worse. _w. barnes_ clxx _nursery rhymes_ jenny wren fell sick; upon a merry time, in came robin redbreast, and brought her sops of wine eat well of the sop, jenny, drink well of the wine; thank you robin kindly, you shall be mine. jenny she got well, and stood upon her feet, and told robin plainly she loved him not a bit. robin, being angry, hopp'd on a twig, saying, out upon you, fye upon you, bold-faced jig! there were three jovial welshmen, as i have heard them say, and they would go a-hunting upon st. david's day. all the day they hunted, and nothing could they find, but a ship a-sailing, a-sailing with the wind. one said it was a ship, the other he said, nay; the third said it was a house, with the chimney blown away. and all night they hunted, and nothing could they find, but the moon a-gliding, a-gliding with the wind. one said it was the moon, the other he said, nay; the third said it was a cheese, and half o't cut away. there was an old woman, as i've heard tell, she went to market her eggs for to sell; she went to market all on a market day; and she fell asleep on the king's highway. there came by a pedlar whose name was stout, he cut her petticoats all round about; he cut her petticoats up to the knees, which made the old woman to shiver and freeze. when this little woman first did wake, she began to shiver and she began to shake. she began to wonder and she began to cry, 'lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of i: 'but if it be i, as i do hope it be, i've a little dog at home, and he'll know me; if it be i, he'll wag his little tail, and if it be not i, he'll loudly bark and wail!' home went the little woman all in the dark, up got the little dog, and he began to bark; he began to bark, so she began to cry, 'lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of i!' if all the world was apple-pie, and all the sea was ink, and all the trees were bread and cheese, what should we have to drink? there was a little boy and a little girl lived in an alley; says the little boy to the little girl, 'shall i, oh! shall i?' says the little girl to the little boy, 'what shall we do?' says the little boy to the little girl, 'i will kiss you!' clxxi _the age of children happiest_ _if they had still wit to understand it_ laid in my quiet bed in study as i were i saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear, and every thought did show so lively in mine eyes, that now i sigh'd, and then i smiled, as cause of thoughts did rise. i saw the little boy, in thought how oft that he did wish of god, to 'scape the rod, a tall young man to be, the young man eke that feels his bones with pain opprest, how he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest! the rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore, how would he be a boy again to live so much the more. whereat full oft i smiled, to see how all those three, from boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree. _earl of surrey_ clxxii _the noble nature_ it is not growing like a tree in bulk, doth make man better be; or standing long an oak three hundred year, to fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; a lily of a day is fairer far in may, although it fall and die that night-- it was the plant and flower of light. in small proportions we just beauty see; and in short measures life may perfect be. _b. jonson_ clxxiii _the rainbow_ my heart leaps up when i behold a rainbow in the sky; so was it when my life began; so is it now i am a man; so be it when i shall grow old, or let me die! the child is father of the man; and i could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety. _w. wordsworth_ index of writers allingham, w., xliv, lvii, lxxxi arnold, m., xxxiv barbauld, a. l., lxi barnefield, r., lxxxiii barnes, w., xxi, lxx, clxix beddoes, t. l., cxxiv blake, w., i, lxxix bourne, v., cl browning, e. b., clxi browning, r., xxvii, l, lxxviii bruce, m., xxx bryant, w. c., cxli byron, lord, clxvi campbell, t., lxvii, lxxxviii, lxxxix, xci, cvi, cxxi, cxxiii chatterton, t., cxviii cibber, c., lxix clare, j., clix coleridge, s. t., iv, xxix, xxxviii, clxv cornwall, b., vi, xliii, lviii cowley, a., lxii cowper, w., xiii, xxxvi, xlix, lxxv, xc, cxxii, cxxvii, cxxxviii, cxl, cli cunningham, j., cxxvi dibdin, xlii, lxxvii, xcii, cxx delone, t., cxiv dobell, s., xl drayton, m., ix, xxiv emerson, r. w., lxv fletcher, j., lxvi garnett, r., xlviii, xcviii gay, j., lxxxv, cvii, cxxxvi, cxlix goldsmith, o., cxix gray, t., lxxxiv hemans, f., xxv, ciii, clviii herrick, r., cii hood, t., li hughes, j., cxlvii hunt, leigh, xiv, liii, xcv jenner, e., xxvi jonson, b., clxxii keats, j., xv, lxviii keble, j., xxviii kingsley, c., xxxv, clv lloyd, r., lxxvi longfellow, h. w., xii, xlv, lii lowell, j. r., cxiii macaulay, lord, xli macdonald, g., cxvii marlowe, c., vii milnes, r. m., clxii milton, j., ii moore, t., xlvi moultrie, j., xxxii nash, t., cxi peacock, t. l., clii poe, e. a., xcvii read, t. b., lx rogers, s., cxxviii scott, sir w., xxxiii, xlvii, ci, cxxxiii, cliii shakespeare, w., iii, x, xvi, xxxvii, xxxix, cv, cxxx, cxxxii shelley, p. b., xcvi, clxvii shenstone, w., lxiii skelton, j., cxliv smith, c., clvii southey, r., xvii, lxxiii, lxxxvi, xciii, civ, cviii, cxlviii surrey, earl of, clxxi swift, j., cxxix tennyson, a., v, lxiv, lxxxvii, c, clxiv, clxviii tickell, t., liv wordsworth, w., viii, xi, xviii, xxiii, lv, lix, lxxi, xciv, xcix, cxxv, cxxxiv, cxlv, clvi, clx, clxiii, clxxiii old ballads, xix, xx, xxxi, lvi, lxxx, lxxxii, cix, cx, cxii, cxvi, cxxxi, cxxxv, cxxxvii, cxxxix, cxlii, cxliii, cxlvi, cliv old songs, xxii, lxxii, lxxiv, cxv richard clay and sons. limited. london and bungay. * * * * * macmillan's golden treasury series. uniformly printed in pott vo, with vignette titles by sir noel paton, t. woolner, w. holman hunt, sir j. e. millais, arthur hughes, etc. engraved on steel. bound in extra cloth. =the golden treasury of the best songs and lyrical poems in the english language.= selected and arranged, with notes, by professor francis turner palgrave. s. d., net. large paper edition. vo. s. d., net. =the children's garland from the best poets.= selected and arranged by coventry patmore. s. d., net. =the pilgrim's progress from this world to that which is to come.= by john bunyan. s. d., net. large paper edition. vo. s. d., net. =bacon's essays and colours of good and evil.= with notes and glossarial index. by w. aldis wright, m.a. s. d., net. large paper edition. vo. s. d., net. =the book of praise.= from the best english hymn writers, selected and arranged by the earl of selborne. s. d., net. large paper edition. vo. s. d., net. =poems of shelley.= edited by stopford a. brooke, m.a. s. d., net. large paper edition. vo. s. d. =the fairy book=; 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are you here?" _p_. ] very short stories and verses for children. by mrs. w. k. clifford, author of "anyhow stories," &c. _with illustrations by edith campbell._ london: walter scott, warwick lane, paternoster row. . preface. these stories, with the exception of the first one, are reprinted from two little books--"children busy," etc., and "under mother's wing." they were then only signed with my initials. some of the verses appear now for the first time. l. c. _to you--and ethel and alice_ contents. page master willie swinging the wooden doll watching the light on the hills writing a book the rabbit the sandy cat on the way to the sun in the moonlight the poor little doll the violets the fiddler the broken horse the rainbow-maker over the porridge a-coming down the street the proud boy seeking the violets tommy's stockings midsummer-night the little maid war peace my little brother the kite the tinker's marriage the children and the garland round the tea-table tommy the swallows a first love-making smut see-saw the bad girl morning time the pink parasol the sisters the white rabbits the wooden horse the duck pond the little maid the donkey on wheels cock-a-doodle the boy and little great lady good-day, gentle folk master willie. there was once a little boy called willie. i never knew his other name, and as he lived far off behind the mountain, we cannot go to inquire. he had fair hair and blue eyes, and there was something in his face that, when you had looked at him, made you feel quite happy and rested, and think of all the things you meant to do by-and-by when you were wiser and stronger. he lived all alone with the tall aunt, who was very rich, in the big house at the end of the village. every morning he went down the street with his little goat under his arm, and the village folk looked after him and said, "there goes master willie." the tall aunt had a very long neck; on the top of it was her head, on the top of her head she wore a white cap. willie used often to look up at her and think that the cap was like snow upon the mountain. she was very fond of willie, but she had lived a great many years and was always sitting still to think them over, and she had forgotten all the games she used to know, all the stories she had read when she was little, and when willie asked her about them, would say, "no, dear, no, i can't remember; go to the woods and play." sometimes she would take his face between her two hands and look at him well while willie felt quite sure that she was not thinking of him, but of someone else he did not know, and then she would kiss him, and turn away quickly, saying, "go to the woods, dear; it is no good staying with an old woman." then he, knowing that she wanted to be alone, would pick up his goat and hurry away. he had had a dear little sister, called apple-blossom, but a strange thing had happened to her. one day she over-wound her very big doll that talked and walked, and the consequence was quite terrible. no sooner was the winding-up key out of the doll's side than it blinked its eyes, talked very fast, made faces, took apple-blossom by the hand, saying, "i am not your doll any longer, but you are my little girl," and led her right away no one could tell whither, and no one was able to follow. the tall aunt and willie only knew that she had gone to be the doll's little girl in some strange place, where dolls were stronger and more important than human beings. after apple-blossom left him, willie had only his goat to play with; it was a poor little thing with no horns, no tail and hardly any hair, but still he loved it dearly, and put it under his arm every morning while he went along the street. "it is only made of painted wood and a little hair, master willie," said the blacksmith's wife one day. "why should you care for it; it is not even alive." "but if it were alive, anyone could love it." "and living hands made it," the miller's wife said. "i wonder what strange hands they were;--take care of it for the sake of them, little master." "yes, dame, i will," he answered gratefully, and he went on his way thinking of the hands, wondering what tasks had been set them to do since they fashioned the little goat. he stayed all day in the woods helping the children to gather nuts and blackberries. in the afternoon he watched them go home with their aprons full; he looked after them longingly as they went on their way singing. if he had had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, to whom he could have carried home nuts and blackberries, how merry he would have been. sometimes he told the children how happy they were to live in a cottage with the door open all day, and the sweet breeze blowing in, and the cocks and hens strutting about outside, and the pigs grunting in the styes at the end of the garden; to see the mother scrubbing and washing, to know that the father was working in the fields, and to run about and help and play, and be cuffed and kissed, just as it happened. then they would answer, "but you have the tall lady for your aunt, and the big house to live in, and the grand carriage to drive in, while we are poor, and sometimes have little to eat and drink; mother often tells us how fine it must be to be you." "but the food that you eat is sweet because you are very hungry," he answered them, "and no one sorrows in your house. as for the grand carriage, it is better to have a carriage if your heart is heavy, but when it is light, then you can run swiftly on your own two legs." ah, poor willie, how lonely he was, and yet the tall aunt loved him dearly. on hot drowsy days he had many a good sleep with his head resting against her high thin shoulders, and her arms about him. one afternoon, clasping his goat as usual, he sat down by the pond. all the children had gone home, so he was quite alone, but he was glad to look at the pond and think. there were so many strange things in the world, it seemed as if he would never have done thinking about them, not if he lived to be a hundred. he rested his elbows on his knees and sat staring at the pond. overhead the trees were whispering; behind him, in and out of their holes the rabbits whisked; far off he could hear the twitter of a swallow; the foxglove was dead, the bracken was turning brown, the cones from the fir trees were lying on the ground. as he watched, a strange thing happened. slowly and slowly the pond lengthened out and out, stretching away and away until it became a river--a long river that went on and on, right down the woods, past the great black firs, past the little cottage that was a ruin and only lived in now and then by a stray gipsy or a tired tramp, past the setting sun, till it dipped into space beyond. then many little boats came sailing towards willie, and one stopped quite close to where he sat, just as if it were waiting for him. he looked at it well; it had a snow-white sail and a little man with a drawn-sword for a figure-head. a voice that seemed to come from nowhere asked-- "are you ready, willie?" just as if he understood he answered back-- "not yet,--not quite, dear queen, but i shall be soon. i should like to wait a little longer." "no, no, come now, dear child; they are all waiting for you." so he got up and stepped into the boat, and it put out before he had even time to sit down. he looked at the rushes as the boat cut its way through them; he saw the hearts of the lilies as they lay spread open on their great wide leaves; he went on and on beneath the crimson sky towards the setting sun, until he slipped into space with the river. he saw land at last far on a-head, and as he drew near it he understood whither the boat was bound. all along the shore there were hundreds and hundreds of dolls crowding down to the water's edge, looking as if they had expected him. they stared at him with their shining round eyes; but he just clasped his little goat tighter and closer, and sailed on nearer and nearer to the land. the dolls did not move; they stood still, smiling at him with their painted lips, then suddenly they opened their painted mouths and put out their painted tongues at him; but still he was not afraid. he clasped the goat yet a little closer, and called out, "apple-blossom, i am waiting; are you here?" just as he had expected, he heard apple-blossom's voice answering from the back of the toy-town-- "yes, dear brother, i am coming." so he drew close to the shore, and waited for her. he saw her a long way off, and waved his hand. "i have come to fetch you," he said. "but i cannot go with you unless i am bought," she answered, sadly, "for now there is a wire spring inside me; and look at my arms, dear brother;" and pulling up her pink muslin sleeves, she showed him that they were stuffed with sawdust. "go home, and bring the money to pay for me," she cried, "and then i can come home again." but the dolls had crowded up behind, so that he might not turn his boat round. "straight on," cried apple-blossom, in despair; "what does it matter whether you go backwards or forwards if you only keep straight when you live in a world that is round?" so he sailed on once more beneath the sky that was getting grey, through all the shadows that gathered round, beneath the pale moon, and the little stars that came out one by one and watched him from the sky. i saw him coming towards the land of story-books. that was how i knew about him, dear children. he was very tired and had fallen asleep, but the boat stopped quite naturally, as if it knew that i had been waiting for him. i stooped, and kissed his eyes, and looked at his little pale face, and lifting him softly in my arms, put him into this book to rest. that is how he came to be here for you to know. but in the toy-land apple-blossom waits with the wire spring in her breast and the sawdust in her limbs; and at home, in the big house at the end of the village, the tall aunt weeps and wails and wonders if she will ever see again the children she loves so well. she will not wait very long, dear children. i know how it will all be. when it is quite dark to-night, and she is sitting in the leather chair with the high back, her head on one side, and her poor long neck aching, quite suddenly she will hear two voices shouting for joy. she will start up and listen, wondering how long she has been sleeping, and then she will call out-- "oh, my darlings, is it you?" and they will answer back-- "yes, it is us, we have come, we have come!" and before her will stand willie and apple-blossom. for the big doll will have run down, and the wire spring and the sawdust will have vanished, and apple-blossom will be the doll's little girl no more. then the tall aunt will look at them both and kiss them; and she will kiss the poor little goat too, wondering if it is possible to buy him a new tail. but though she will say little, her heart will sing for joy. ah, children, there is no song that is sung by bird or bee, or that ever burst from the happiest lips, that is half so sweet as the song we sometimes sing in our hearts--a song that is learnt by love, and sang only to those who love us. swinging. i. swing, swing, swing, through the drowsy afternoon; swing, swing, swing, up i go to meet the moon. swing, swing, swing, i can see as i go high far along the crimson sky; i can see as i come down the tops of houses in the town; high and low, fast and slow, swing, swing, swing. ii. swing, swing, swing, see! the sun is gone away; swing, swing, swing, gone to make a bright new day. swing, swing, swing. i can see as up i go the poplars waving to and fro, i can see as i come down the lights are twinkling in the town, high and low, fast and slow, swing, swing, swing. the wooden doll. the wooden doll had no peace. my dears, if ever you are a doll, hope to be a rag doll, or a wax doll, or a doll full of sawdust apt to ooze out, or a china doll easy to break--anything in the world rather than a good strong wooden doll with a painted head and movable joints, for that is indeed a sad thing to be. many a time the poor wooden doll wished it were a tin train, or a box of soldiers, or a woolly lamb, or anything on earth rather than what it was. it never had any peace; it was taken up and put down at all manners of odd moments, made to go to bed when the children went to bed, to get up when they got up, be bathed when they were bathed, dressed when they were dressed, taken out in all weathers, stuffed into their satchels when they went to school, left about in corners, dropped on stairs, forgotten, neglected, bumped, banged, broken, glued together,--anything and everything it suffered, until many a time it said sadly enough to its poor little self, "i might as well be a human being at once and be done with it!" and then it fell to thinking about human beings; what strange creatures they were, always going about, though none carried them save when they were very little; always sleeping and waking, and eating and drinking, and laughing and crying, and talking and walking, and doing this and that and the other, never resting for long together, or seeming as if they could be still for even a single day. "they are always making a noise," thought the wooden doll; "they are always talking and walking about, always moving things and doing things, building up and pulling down, and making and unmaking for ever and for ever, and never are they quiet. it is lucky that we are not all human beings, or the world would be worn out in no time, and there would not be a corner left in which to rest a poor doll's head." watching. dear father's ship is very near, we'll blow him kisses, baby dear,-- he may come home to-day. a happy wind that journeys south seems just to linger round my mouth, then bear a kiss away. come, baby, i will hold you--so, we'll watch the waves that outward go, and call, "come back to-day!" for father's heart seems always near, and who can tell but he may hear, or know the words we say? all round and up the cottage wall the honeysuckle's grown so tall, it sees above the gate; the flowers came hurrying up so sweet-- we told the little seeds they'd meet dear father,--and they wait. we first shall see a speck of white, far, far away, there where the light has swept the morning dim; so silent will his coming seem, 'twill be like waking from a dream to wave our hands to him. and then, and then he'll hoist you high, and swiftly pass the people by, just stopping here and there to shake the neighbours by the hand, and tell them of the southern land, and ask them how they fare. he is not very far away, for mother said he'd come to-day-- we knew it by her face; she caught you up and kissed you so, and now she's busy to and fro, and sings about the place. the light on the hills. "i want to work at my picture," he said, and went into the field. the little sister went too, and stood by him watching while he painted. "the trees are not quite straight," she said, presently, "and oh, dear brother, the sky is not blue enough." "it will all come right soon," he answered. "will it be of any good?" "oh yes," she said, wondering that he should even ask, "it will make people happy to look at it. they will feel as if they were in the field." "if i do it badly, will it make them unhappy?" "not if you do your very best," she answered; "for they will know how hard you have tried. look up," she said suddenly, "look up at the light upon the hills," and they stood together looking at all he was trying to paint, at the trees and the field, at the deep shadows and the hills beyond, and the light that rested upon them. "it is a beautiful world," the girl said. "it is a great honour to make things for it." "it is a beautiful world," the boy echoed sadly. "it is a sin to disgrace it with things that are badly done." "but you will do things well?" "i get so tired," he said, "and long to leave off so much. what do you do when you want to do your best,--your very, very best?" he asked, suddenly. "i think that i am doing it for the people i love," she answered. "it makes you very strong if you think of them; you can bear pain, and walk far, and do all manner of things, and you don't get tired so soon." he thought for a moment. "then i shall paint my picture for you," he said; "i shall think of you all the time i am doing it." once more they looked at the hills that seemed to rise up out of the deep shadows into the light, and then together they went home. soon afterwards a great sorrow came to the boy. while the little sister slept, she wandered into another world, and journeyed on so far that she lost the clue to earth, and came back no more. the boy painted many pictures before he saw the field again, but in the long hours, as he sat and worked, there came to him a strange power that answered more and more truly to the longing in his heart--the longing to put into the world something of which he was not ashamed, something which should make it, if only in the person of its meanest, humblest citizen, a little happier or better. at last, when he knew that his eye was true and his touch sure, he took up the picture he had promised to paint for the dear sister, and worked at it until he was finished. "this is better than all he has done before," the beholders said. "it is surely beautiful, for it makes one happy to look at it." "and yet my heart ached as i did it," the boy said, as he went back to the field. "i thought of her all the time i worked,--it was sorrow that gave me power." it seemed as if a soft voice, that spoke only to his heart, answered back-- "not sorrow but love, and perfect love has all things in its gift, and of it are all things born save happiness, and though that may be born too----" "how does one find happiness?" interrupted the boy. "it is a strange chase," the answer seemed to be; "to find it for one's own self, one must seek it for others. we all throw the ball for each other." "but it is so difficult to seize." "perfect love helps one to live without happiness," his own heart answered to himself; "and above all things it helps one to work and to wait." "but if it gives one happiness too?" he asked eagerly. "ah, then it is called heaven." writing a book. "let us write a book," they said; "but what shall it be about?" "a fairy story," said the elder sister. "a book about kings and queens," said the other. "oh, no," said the brother, "let's write about animals." "we will write about them all," they cried together. so they put the paper, and pens, and ink ready. the elder sister took up a fairy story and looked at it, and put it down again. "i have never known any fairies," she said, "except in books; but, of course, it would not do to put one book inside another--anyone could do that." "i shall not begin to-day," the little one said, "for i must know a few kings and queens before i write about them, or i may say something foolish." "i shall write about the pig, and the pony, and the white rabbit," said the brother; "but first i must think a bit. it would never do to write a book without thinking." then the elder sister took up the fairy story again, to see how many things were left out, for those, she thought, would do to go into her book. the little one said to herself, "really, it is no good thinking about kings and queens until i have known some, so i must wait;" and while the brother was considering about the pig, and the pony, and the white rabbit, he fell asleep. so the book is not written yet, but when it is we shall know a great deal. the rabbit. the moon is shining o'er the field, a little breeze is blowing, the radish leaves are crisp and green, the lettuces are growing. the owl is in the ivy-bush, with both his eyes a-winking; the rabbit shakes his little tail, and sits him down a-thinking-- "oh! where are all the dormice gone? and are the frogs a-wooing? will no one come to play with me? what are they all a-doing?" poor little rabbit, all alone, don't let the master meet you; he'll shoot you with his little gun, and merrily he'll eat you! the sandy cat. the sandy cat sat by the kitchen fire. yesterday it had had no supper; this morning everyone had forgotten it. all night it had caught no mice; all day as yet it had tasted no milk. a little grey mouse, a saucerful of milk, a few fish or chicken bones, would have satisfied it; but no grey mouse, with its soft stringy tail behind it, ran across the floor; no milk was near, no chicken bones, no fish, no anything. the serving-maid had been washing clothes, and was hanging them out to dry. the children had loitered on their way to school, and were wondering what the master would say to them. the father had gone to the fair to help a neighbour to choose a horse. the mother sat making a patchwork quilt. no one thought of the sandy cat; it sat by the fire alone and hungry. at last the clothes were all a-drying, the children had been scolded, and sat learning a lesson for the morrow. the father came from the fair, and the patchwork quilt was put away. the serving-maid put on a white apron with a frill, and a clean cap, then taking the sandy cat in her arms, said, "pussy, shall we go into the garden?" so they went and walked up and down, up and down the pathway, till at last they stopped before a rose tree; the serving-maid held up the cat to smell the roses, but with one long bound it leaped from her arms and away--away--away. whither? ah, dear children, i cannot tell, for i was not there to see; but if ever you are a sandy cat you will know that it is a terrible thing to be asked to smell roses when you are longing for a saucerful of milk and a grey mouse with a soft stringy tail. on the way to the sun. he had journeyed a long way, and was very tired. it seemed like a dream when he stood up after a sleep in the field, and looked over the wall, and saw the garden, and the flowers, and the children playing all about. he looked at the long road behind him, at the dark wood and the barren hills; it was the world to which he belonged. he looked at the garden before him, at the big house, and the terrace, and the steps that led down to the smooth lawn--it was the world which belonged to the children. "poor boy," said the elder child, "i will get you something to eat." "but where did he come from?" the gardener asked. "we do not know," the child answered; "but he is very hungry, and mother says we may give him some food." "i will take him some milk," said the little one; in one hand she carried a mug and with the other she pulled along her little broken cart. "but what is he called?" asked the gardener. "we do not know," the little one answered; "but he is very thirsty, and mother says we may give him some milk." "where is he going?" asked the gardener. "we do not know," the children said; "but he is very tired." when the boy had rested well, he got up saying, "i must not stay any longer," and turned to go on his way. "what have you to do?" the children asked. "i am one of the crew, and must help to make the world go round," he answered. "why do we not help too?" "you are the passengers." "how far have you to go?" they asked. "oh, a long way!" he answered. "on and on until i can touch the sun." "will you really touch it?" they said, awestruck. "i dare say i shall tire long before i get there," he answered sadly. "perhaps without knowing it, though, i shall reach it in my sleep," he added. but they hardly heard the last words, for he was already far off. "why did you talk to him?" the gardener said. "he is just a working boy." "and we do nothing! it was very good of him to notice us," they said, humbly. "good!" said the gardener in despair. "why, between you and him there is a great difference." "there was only a wall," they answered. "who set it up?" they asked curiously. "why, the builders, of course. men set it up." "and who will pull it down?" "it will not want any pulling down," the man answered grimly. "time will do that." as the children went back to their play, they looked up at the light towards which the boy was journeying. "perhaps we too shall reach it some day," they said. in the moonlight. he picked a buttercup, and held it up to her chin. "do you like butter?" he asked. "butter!" she exclaimed. "they are not made into butter. they are made into crowns for the queen; she has a new one every morning." "i'll make you a crown," he said. "you shall wear it to-night." "but where will my throne be?" she asked. "it shall be on the middle step of the stile by the corn-field." so when the moon rose i went out to see. he wore a red jacket and his cap with the feather in it. round her head there was a wreath of buttercups; it was not much like a crown. on one side of the wreath there were some daisies, and on the other was a little bunch of blackberry-blossom. "come and dance in the moonlight," he said; so she climbed up and over the stile, and stood in the corn-field holding out her two hands to him. he took them in his, and then they danced round and round all down the pathway, while the wheat nodded wisely on either side, and the poppies awoke and wondered. on they went, on and on through the corn-field towards the broad green meadows stretching far into the distance. on and on, he shouting for joy, and she laughing out so merrily that the sound travelled to the edge of the wood, and the thrushes heard, and dreamed of spring. on they went, on and on, and round and round, he in his red jacket, and she with the wild flowers dropping one by one from her wreath. on and on in the moonlight, on and on till they had danced all down the corn-field, till they had crossed the green meadows, till they were hidden in the mist beyond. that is all i know; but i think that in the far far off somewhere, where the moon is shining, he and she still dance along a corn-field, he in his red jacket, and she with the wild flowers dropping from her hair. the poor little doll. it was a plain little doll that had been bought for sixpence at a stall in the market-place. it had scanty hair and a weak composition face, a calico body and foolish feet that always turned inwards instead of outwards, and from which the sawdust now and then oozed. yet in its glass eyes there was an expression of amusement; they seemed to be looking not at you but through you, and the pursed-up red lips were always smiling at what the glass eyes saw. "well, you _are_ a doll," the boy said, looking up from his french exercise. "and what are you staring at me for--is there anything behind?" he asked, looking over his shoulder. the doll made no answer. "and whatever are you smiling for?" he asked; "i believe you are always smiling. i believe you'd go on if i didn't do my exercise till next year, or if the cat died, or the monument tumbled down." but still the doll smiled in silence, and the boy went on with his exercise. presently he looked up again and yawned. "i think i'll go for a stroll," he said, and put his book by. "i know what i'll do," he said, suddenly; "i'll take that doll and hang it up to the apple tree to scare away the sparrows." and calling out, "sis, i have taken your doll; i'm going to make a scarecrow of it," he went off to the garden. his sister rushed after him, crying out, "oh, my poor doll! oh, my dear little doll! what are you doing to it, you naughty boy?" "it's so ugly," he said. "no, it is not ugly," she cried. "and it's so stupid,--it never does anything but smile,--it can't even grow,--it never gets any bigger." "poor darling doll," sis said, as she got it once more safely into her arms, "of course you can't grow, but it is not your fault, they did not make any tucks in you to let out." "and it's so unfeeling. it went smiling away like anything when i could not do my french." "it has no heart. of course it can't feel." "why hasn't it got a heart?" "because it isn't alive. you ought to be sorry for it, and very, very kind to it, poor thing." "well, what is it always smiling for?" "because it is so good," answered sis, bursting into tears. "it is never bad-tempered; it never complains, and it never did anything unkind," and, kissing it tenderly, "you are always good and sweet," she said, "and always look smiling, though you must be very unhappy at not being alive." the violets. the sun came out and shone down on the leafless trees that cast hardly any shadows on the pathway through the woods. "surely the spring is coming," the birds said; "it must be time to wake the flowers." the thrush, and the lark, and the linnet sang sweetly. a robin flew up from the snow, and perched upon a branch; a little ragged boy at the end of the wood stopped and listened. "surely the spring is coming," he too said; "and mother will get well." the flowers that all through the winter had been sleeping in the ground heard the birds, but they were drowsy, and longed to sleep on. at last the snowdrops came up and looked shiveringly about; and a primrose leaf peeped through the ground, and died of cold. then some violets opened their blue eyes, and, hidden beneath the tangle of the wood, listened to the twittering of the birds. the little ragged boy came by; he saw the tender flowers, and, stooping down, gathered them one by one, and put them into a wicker basket that hung upon his arm. "dear flowers," he said, with a sigh, as if loth to pick them, "you will buy poor mother some breakfast," and, tying them up into little bunches, he carried them to the town. all the morning he stood by the road-side, offering his flowers to the passers-by, but no one took any notice of him; and his face grew sad and troubled. "poor mother!" he said, longingly; and the flowers heard him, and sighed. "those violets are very sweet," a lady said as she passed; the boy ran after her. "only a penny," he said, "just one penny, for mother is at home." then the lady bought them, and carried them to the beautiful house in which she lived, and gave them some water, touching them so softly that the poor violets forgot to long for the woods, and looked gratefully up into her face. "mother," said the boy, "see, i have brought some bread for your breakfast. the violets sent it to you," and he put the little loaf down before her. the birds knew nothing of all this, and went on singing till the ground was covered with flowers, till the leaves had hidden the brown branches of the trees, and the pathway through the woods was all shade, save for the sunshine that flecked it with light. the fiddler. the fiddler played upon his fiddle all through that leafy june, he always played hey-diddle-diddle, and played it out of tune. and down the hill the children came, and down the valley too: i never heard the fiddler's name, so cannot tell it you. hey-diddle-diddle, diddle-diddle-dee. on--on they came, and when they heard that tune so swift and sweet, they did not say a single word, but shuffled with their feet. then round they went, and round and round, all to that cracked old fiddle, and still was heard the magic sound, hey-diddle-diddle-diddle, hey-diddle-diddle, diddle-diddle-dee. the broken horse. they were all very sad, and the girl in the pink frock was crying bitterly, for they had been to the woods, and on the way home the wooden horse had fallen over on one side and broken off his head. "don't cry so, pray don't cry so," the little one said, as she knelt down in front of her sister, and tried to kiss her. "and oh, sister," said the brother, "it would have been far worse if he had lost his tail too. besides, perhaps he does not mind much; it is not as if he were alive." "ah, yes," sobbed the tall girl. "but when you are as old as i am you will know that it is a terrible thing to lose your head, even if it is only wooden." the rainbow-maker. the children stood under an archway. behind them was the blue sky; in front of them the clear, still lake that wandered and wound about the garden; above their heads the leaves of a tree whispered and told strange stories to the breeze. "poor tree! it is sighing for the blossoms the wind has carried away," they said to each other, and they looked back at the garden. "and, poor flowers, too," they said, "all your bright colours are gone, and your petals lie scattered on the ground; to-morrow they will be dead." "ah, no," the flowers sighed, "the rainbow-maker will gather them up, and once more they will see the sun." before the children could answer, a tall fair maiden came down the pathway. they could see her plainly in the twilight. her eyes were dim with gathering tears, but on her lips there was a smile that came and went and flickered round her mouth. all down her back hung her pale golden hair; round her neck was a kerchief of many colours; her dress was soft and white, and her snowy apron was gathered up in one hand. she looked neither to the right nor to the left. she did not utter a single word; and the children could hear no sound of her footstep, no rustling from her dress. she stooped, and picking up the fading petals, looked at them tenderly for a moment, while the tears fell slowly down her cheeks; but the smile hovered round her mouth; for she knew that they would shine again in the sight of their beloved sun. when her apron was quite full, she turned round and left the garden. hand-in-hand the children followed. she went slowly on by the side of the lake, far, far away across the meadows and up the farthest hill, until at last she found her home behind a cloud just opposite the sun. there she sat all through the summer days making rainbows. when the children had watched her for a long long time, they went softly back to their own home. the rainbow-maker had not even seen them. "mother," they said one day, "we know now where the colours go from the flowers. see, they are there," and as they spoke they thought of the maiden sitting silently at work in her cloud-home. they knew that she was weeping at sending forth her most beautiful one, and yet smiling as she watched the soft archway she had made. "see, they are all there, dear mother," the children repeated, looking at the falling rain and the shining sun, and pointing to the rainbow that spanned the river. over the porridge. they sat down to eat their porridge. the naughty little girl turned her back upon her sister, and put a large spoonful into her mouth. "oh--oh--oh!" she cried, "i have burnt my tongue." "eat it slowly," said the good little sister. _she_ took up her porridge carefully, and after blowing it very gently, and waiting for a minute or two while it cooled, ate it, and found it very nice. "i shall not eat mine until it is quite cold," said totsey, getting cross. "then it will be nasty," said the good little sister, still going on with her own porridge. "oh, dear," said totsey, "if i eat it too hot it burns me, and if i eat it too cold it's nasty. what shall i do?" "take it as i do mine," said the good little sister. "it is the right way." "there are two wrong ways and only one right way; it isn't fair," sighed the naughty little girl. "and, oh! my porridge is so nasty." then she asked, "did you ever eat your porridge too hot and burn your tongue?" "no," answered the good little sister; "i never ate my porridge too hot and burnt my tongue." "did you ever eat your porridge when it was quite cold and very nasty?" "no," answered the good little sister again; "i never ate my porridge when it was quite cold and very nasty." "well, i have," said totsey; "and so i know about two things that you do not know about." and the naughty little sister got up and walked away, and the good little sister sat still and thought about many things. a-coming down the street. i. the baby she has golden hair, her cheeks are like a rose, and she sits fastened in her chair, a-counting of her toes. the mother she stands by the door, and all the place is neat, she says, "when it is half-past four, he'll come along the street." and o! in all this happy world there's not a sight so sweet, as 'tis to see the master, dear, a-coming down the street. a-coming o! a-coming o! a-coming down the street. ii. the baby's sister toddles round, and sings a little song, and every word and every sound says, "father won't be long." and when he comes we'll laugh for glee, and then his bonnie face, however dark the day may be, makes sunshine in the place. and o! in all this happy world there's not a sight so sweet, as 'tis to see the master, dear, a-coming down the street, a-coming o! a-coming o! a-coming down the street. the proud boy. there was once a very proud boy. he always walked through the village with his eyes turned down and his hands in his pockets. the boys used to stare at him, and say nothing; and when he was out of sight, they breathed freely. so the proud boy was lonely, and would have had no friends out of doors if it had not been for two stray dogs, the green trees, and a flock of geese upon the common. one day, just by the weaver's cottage, he met the tailor's son. now the tailor's son made more noise than any other boy in the village, and when he had done anything wrong he stuck to it, and said he didn't care; so the neighbours thought that he was very brave, and would do wonders when he came to be a man, and some of them hoped he would be a great traveller, and stay long in distant lands. when the tailor's son saw the proud boy he danced in front of him, and made faces, and provoked him sorely, until, at last, the proud boy turned round and suddenly boxed the ears of the tailor's son, and threw his hat into the road. the tailor's son was surprised, and, without waiting to pick up his hat, ran away, and sitting down in the carpenter's yard, cried bitterly. after a few minutes, the proud boy came to him and returned him his hat, saying politely-- "there is no dust on it; you deserved to have your ears boxed, but i am sorry i was so rude as to throw your hat on to the road." "i thought you were proud," said the tailor's son, astonished; "i didn't think you'd say that--i wouldn't." "perhaps you are not proud?" "no, i am not." "ah, that makes a difference," said the proud boy, still more politely. "when you are proud, and have done a foolish thing, you make a point of owning it." "but it takes a lot of courage," said the tailor's son. "oh, dear, no," answered the proud boy; "it only takes a lot of cowardice not to;" and then turning his eyes down again, he softly walked away. seeking the violets. all the wood had been blue with violets, but now they were nearly gone. the birds sang louder and louder to keep them and to call them back, but soon there was not a violet left in all the wood from end to end. the snowdrops died, and the primrose faded, the cowslips and blue-bells vanished, the thorn grew white with blossom, the wild honeysuckle filled the wood with its fragrance, and soon the fruit began to ripen. the blackbirds and the swallows and the chaffinches, and all the birds they knew, gathered round the garden trees and bushes, and forgot the woods, until suddenly one day they espied a little child. she was sitting on a chair under a tree; she had a little table before her and a pink ribbon round her hat; she was eating fruit with a large silver spoon. the birds were afraid, and held aloof until a sparrow chirped and the child looked up, and when they saw how blue her eyes were, they sang out bravely and fluttered round her, thinking that she had brought them news from the violets. but she never looked up again, though the birds crowded on to the branch above her, and perched upon the table, and rubbed their little beaks against her plate. she just held on her hat with one hand, and with the other went on taking up fruit with a silver spoon. "ah, dear child," a swallow twittered, "perhaps you do not know what is written in your eyes; so many of us carry secrets that we ourselves know last of all." tommy's stockings. two little maids went out one day, and really it was shocking! they met poor tommy on the way, with holes in either stocking. they sat down on a low stone seat, and to and fro kept rocking, while they knitted, swift and neat, each of them a stocking. and sweet they sang a little song, the dickie-birds kept mocking; and tommy wished that all day long they'd sit and knit a stocking. midsummer-night. the children were very much puzzled what to do, for it was midsummer-night, and they knew that there was a dream belonging to it; but how to come across it they could not tell. they knew that the dream had something to do with fairies, a queen, and all manner of lovely things; but that was all. at first they thought they would sit up with the doors and windows open, and the dog on the steps ready to bark if he saw anything unusual. then they felt sure that they could not dream while they were wide-awake, so three of them went to bed, and one dozed in a corner of the porch, with her clothes on. presently the dog barked, and two children in their night-gowns ran out to see, and one took off her night-cap and looked out of window; but it was only old nurse coming back from a long gossip with the village blacksmith's wife and mother-in-law. so the dog looked foolish, and nurse was angry, and put them all to bed without any more ado. "oh," they cried, "but the fairies, and the queen, and the flowers! what shall we do to see them?" "go to sleep," said nurse, "and the dream may come to you;--you can't go to a dream," she added, for you see she was just a peasant woman, and had never travelled far, or into any land but her own. so the children shut their eyes tightly and went to sleep, and i think that they saw something, for their eyes were very bright next morning, and one of them whispered to me, softly, "the queen wore a wreath of flowers last night, dear mother, and, oh, she was very beautiful." the little maid. a little maid went to market, she went into the town, and all the things she had to buy she carefully wrote down. the coffee, sugar, tea, and rice-- the currant cake for tea, and then she had to reckon up, and see how much they'd be. she sat her down as she came back, she sat her down to see what they had cost--the currant cake, the coffee, and the tea. she could not make her money right, and yet, how she did try! she could not make her money right, and oh! how she did cry. she's counting still, my dears, my dears, she's counting day and night, but though she counts for years and years, she'll never make it right. she'll never make it right--right--right, oh! never any more, though she sits counting--count--count--count, till she is ninety-four. war. "i don't like you," said he, in a rage. "you are a naughty boy," said she, crossly. "i shall never speak to you again." "i shall never play with you any more." "i don't care." "and i don't care." "i shall tell of you." "all right. i shall tell of you." "nasty mean thing to threaten." "you threatened first." "nasty, disagreeable thing." "ugly, unkind boy." then they turned back to back, and stood sulking. he put his hands into his pockets, and she sucked her finger. "that's the worst of a girl," thought he; "i shan't give in." "i can't bear boys," thought she; "and i won't make it up to-day." "we might have had good fun all this afternoon if she hadn't been so silly," he thought presently. "it would have been so nice if he hadn't been disagreeable," she thought after a bit. then he began to fidget and to kick the floor a little with one foot, and she began to cry and to wipe her tears away very softly and quickly, so that he might not see them. peace. he looked over his shoulder quickly. she saw him, and turned still more quickly away. "i shall go and take a long walk in the woods," he said. "you don't know where the rabbit-holes are," she answered. "yes, i do; i found them out the other day." "i shall go out with mary." "all right." "and i shall never go into the woods with you any more." "very well. i don't care," he said. then she broke down and sobbed. "you are a very unkind boy." "it's all your fault." "no, it's all yours. you began." "no, you began." "you don't like me now," she sobbed. "yes, i do." "you said i was a nasty, disagreeable thing." "well, i didn't mean it if i did. you said i was an ugly, unkind boy." "oh, but i didn't mean it," she said. "you know i'm very fond of you." "so am i of you." "all right, then, let's make it up." so he turned round quickly and she turned round slowly, and he put his arms round her waist, and she put her hands up on to his shoulders, and they kissed each other, and hugged each other, and rubbed noses, and laughed. "shall we go to the woods?" she asked, doubtfully. "yes, come along." "you said you'd go without me," she pouted. "oh, but i shouldn't have liked it a bit." "and i should have been so unhappy," she said. "and now we just will have a game," he answered, as hand-in-hand they went off as fast as they could scamper. my little brother. my baby brother's fat, as fat as any boy can be, and he is just the sweetest duck that ever you did see. i count the dimples in his hands a dozen times a-day, and often wonder when he coos what he would like to say. i comb the down upon his head-- he hasn't any hair,-- it must be cold without, and yet he never seems to care. it is so nice to see him kick, he has such pretty feet; i think if we might eat him up it would be quite a treat. the kite. it was the most tiresome kite in the world, always wagging its tail, shaking its ears, breaking its string, sitting down on the tops of houses, getting stuck in trees, entangled in hedges, flopping down on ponds, or lying flat on the grass, and refusing to rise higher than a yard from the ground. i have often sat and thought about that kite, and wondered who its father and mother were. perhaps they were very poor people, just made of newspaper and little bits of common string knotted together, obliged to fly day and night for a living, and never able to give any time to their children or to bring them up properly. it was pretty, for it had a snow-white face, and pink and white ears; and, with these, no one, let alone a kite, could help being pretty. but though the kite was pretty, it was not good, and it did not prosper; it came to a bad end, oh! a terrible end indeed. it stuck itself on a roof one day, a common red roof with a broken chimney and three tiles missing. it stuck itself there, and it would not move; the children tugged and pulled and coaxed and cried, but still it would not move. at last they fetched a ladder, and had nearly reached it when suddenly the kite started and flew away--right away over the field and over the heath, and over the far far woods, and it never came back again--never--never. dear, that is all. but i think sometimes that perhaps beyond the dark pines and the roaring sea the kite is flying still, on and on, farther and farther away, for ever and for ever. the tinker's marriage. two beaux and a belle, a goat and a carriage, they all set off to the tinker's marriage. two three-cornered hats, and one with a feather, they looked very fine in the sweet summer weather. but the carriage turned over, the poor goat shied, the little belle laughed, the silly beaux cried, and the tinker fumed, "oh, why do they tarry? and why don't they come to see me marry? i shall throw my bride right into the sea, if they are not here by half-past three." but the belle was laughing, "oh, what shall we do!" and the beaux were crying, "bee-bee-bee-boo." the children and the garland. "to-morrow is may-day," the children said; "the birds must call us very early, and we will go to the woods and make a garland." and in the morning, long before the sun had looked over the tops of the houses into the village street, they were far away in the woods. "i will give them some roses as they come back," the gardener said. "they shall put them among the spring flowers, as a swallow among the thrushes, to show that summer is on its way." when the children had made their garland and a posy for each one of them, they went singing all down the village street, over the grey stone bridge, beyond the hayricks, and past the houses on the hill-side. in one of the houses there was a pale little child with a sad, thin face. "mother," he said, "here are some children with a garland. will it be summer when they have gone by?" he called after them as they went on, "come back, oh, come back again!" "yes, we will come back," they answered, but they went on their way singing. all through the day he waited for them, but they did not come; and at last, when it was evening, the mother took him up into her arms to carry him to his bed. suddenly he heard the children singing in the distance. "oh, mother," he exclaimed, "they are coming;" and he watched till they came up the hill again and stood before him. "but where is your garland?" he asked. "we gave it to lame mary, the postman's wife, for she is always longing to see the fields," they answered; "but these roses are for you, dear little boy; they are all for you," and putting them into his hands they went back to the village. "you are very tired," the child said to the roses; "all your leaves are drooping. poor roses, perhaps you are lonely away from the garden; but you shall sleep near me, and there is a star rising up in the sky; it will watch us all through the night." then the child nestled down in his white bed--he and his little warm heart, in which there was love for all things. while he slept the roses looked at his pale little face and sighed, and presently they stole softly on to his cheeks and rested there. the children saw them still there when the summer was over; when the garland was quite dead, and lame mary longed for the fields no more. round the tea-table. a nice little party we're seated at tea, the dollies all seem very glad, save the poor little thing who is leaning on me; i fear that she feels rather bad; poor limp little thing! she wants a back-bone, she's only just made up of rag. there's little miss prim sitting up all alone, and the japanese looks like a wag. now what shall we talk of, my own dollies fair? and what shall we give you for tea? that queer little thing with the short frizzy hair, why does he keep looking at me? my sister and i we will sing you a song before we get up from the table; it shall not be sad, and it shall not be long-- we'll sing it as well as we're able. song. the darkness is stealing all over the place, the flowers are weeping for sorrow, the daisy is hiding its little round face, the sun has gone seeking to-morrow. so while you are seated all round the tea-table, please join in the chorus as well as you're able; o! sing! sing away for your life. chorus. it's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, it's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, so bring me the carving-knife. the darkness is hiding the birds on the trees, the thrushes are weary of singing, a strange little rumour is borne on the breeze of summer the swallows are bringing. so while you are seated all round the tea-table, please join in the chorus as well as you're able; o! sing! sing away for your life. chorus. it's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, it's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, so bring me the carving-knife. the summer is stealing all over the place, the wind is all scented with roses, the dear little birds are all flying a race, on purpose to give us their noses. so while you are seated all round the tea-table, please join in the chorus as well as you're able; o! sing! sing away for your life. chorus. it's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, it's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, so bring me the carving-knife. tommy. tommy was sitting on the bench near the end of the lane. by his side was a basin tied up in a cotton handkerchief; in the buttonhole of his coat there was a sprig of sweet-william. the girls from the big house came and stood still in front of him, staring at him rudely, but he did not speak. "tommy, are you tired?" they asked. "yes," tommy answered, crossly, "i'm very tired, and father's working in the fields, and i have got to take him his dinner before i go to the fair." "why don't the servants take it?" "servants!" said tommy scornfully; "we've no servants. we are not rich people!" "wouldn't you like to be rich?" the eldest sister asked, while the two little ones walked slowly round tommy, looking at the feather in his hat; he had put it there so that he might look smart when he went on to the village. "no, it's too expensive," said tommy, shaking his head; "rich people have to buy such a lot of things, and to wear fine clothes, and they can't have dinner in the fields." "my father has his dinner in a room," said the girl. "that's because he's rich," answered tommy, "and people would talk if he didn't; rich people can't do as they like, as poor can." "and my father lives in a big house," the girl went on, for she was vulgar, and liked to boast. "yes, and it takes up a lot of room; my father's got the whole world to live in if he likes; that's better than a house." "but my father doesn't work," said the girl, scornfully. "mine does," said tommy, proudly. "rich people can't work," he went on, "so they are obliged to get the poor folk to do it. why, we have made everything in the world. oh! it's a fine thing to be poor." "but suppose all the rich folk died, what would the poor folk do?" "but suppose all the poor folk died," cried tommy, "what would the rich folk do? they can sit in carriages, but can't build them, and eat dinners, but can't cook them." and he got up and went his way. "poor folk ought to be very kind to rich folk, for it's hard to be the like of them," he said to himself as he went along. the swallows. there were some children in the north looking at the swallows flying south. "why are they going away?" the little one asked. "the summer is over," the elder sister answered, "and if they stayed here they would be starved and die of cold, and so, when the summer goes, they journey south." "our mother and sisters are in the south," the little one said, as they looked after the birds. "dear little swallows, tell mother that we are watching for her!" but they were already flying over the sea. the chilly winds tried to follow, but the swallows flew so swiftly they were not overtaken; they went on, with the summer always before them. they were tired many a time; once they stayed to rest upon the french coast, and once, in the bay of biscay, they clung to the rigging of a ship all through the night, but in the morning they went on again. far away in the south, two english children were looking from the turret window of an old castle. "here are the swallows," they said; "perhaps they have come from england. dear swallows, have you brought us a message?" they asked. "it was very cold, we had no time for messages; and we must not lose the track of summer," the swallows twittered, and they flew on till they reached the african shore. "poor little swallows," said the english children, as they watched the ship come into port that was to take them back to their own land; "they have to chase the summer and the sun, but we do not mind whether it is summer or winter, for if we only keep our hearts warm, the rest does not matter." "it is very good of the swallows to come to us," the elder sister said, in the next spring, when she heard their first soft twitter beneath the eaves, "for the summer is in many places, and we are so far from the south." "yes, it is very good of them to come," the children answered; "dear little swallows, perhaps they love us!" a first love-making. a land there is beyond the sea that i have never seen, but johnny says he'll take me there, and i shall be a queen. he'll build for me a palace there, its roof will be of thatch, and it will have a little porch and everything to match. and he'll give me a garden-green, and he'll give me a crown of flowers that love the wood and field and never grow in town. and we shall be so happy there, and never, never part, and i shall be the grandest queen-- the queen of johnny's heart. then, johnny, man your little boat to sail across the sea; there's only room for king and queen-- for johnny and for me. and, johnny dear, i'm not afraid of any wind or tide, for i am always safe, my dear, if you are by my side. smut. now, this story is quite true. once upon a time there was a cat called mr. puff; he lived in a grand house, quite close to the turkish embassy. a lord and a lady and several servants lived with mr. puff; he was very kind to them, letting them do in all things as they liked, and never sending them away or keeping the house to himself. one day mr. puff, being out in the rain, found a poor little kitten, covered with mud, and crying bitterly: so mr. puff took the kitten between his teeth, carried it home, and set it down on the drawing-room hearth-rug. the lord and the lady had the kitten washed, and gave it food, and called it smut. then smut went and sat him down on the lord's writing-table. when smut grew to be a cat, but before he was yet a large one, the lord and the lady thought awhile, and spoke, "we have a dear friend," they said, "and he is catless; therefore, if mr. puff will agree, we will take smut to him as a present." and mr. puff agreed. so smut was put into a birdcage, for there was nothing else to serve him for a travelling carriage, and taken to the dear friend's house. the dear friend had a little girl with golden hair, and when she saw smut, she cried out for joy, and said, "never before did i see a dicky-bird with a furry coat, a long tail, and little white teeth." but smut shook his head, as if to say, "i am not a dicky-bird, sweet maid, but only a four-legged cat;" then they opened the birdcage door, and he walked out, waving his tail. now, when smut grew up, his gravity and dignity made all who knew his history wonder, and few could believe that he had once been a dirty kitten, covered with mud, glad to accept the charity of mr. puff. when a year had gone, or perhaps even a longer time, there was a great war in turkey, and terrible battles were fought. then smut looked very anxious, and went quite bald, and his coat fell off in little patches; but none could tell why. at last he died, and the little girl wept sorely, and all who had known him grieved and lamented. and when smut had been sleeping only a little while beneath the lilac tree, accident revealed that, instead of a lowly foundling, he had been of high degree, for the little vagrant mr. puff had found was no less a person than the turkish ambassador's coachman's wife's cat's kitten. see-saw. get into the boat and away to the west, see-saw! see-saw! for they've cut down the tree with the poor linnet's nest, see-saw! see-saw! the bulrushes nod and the water-lilies sigh, see-saw! see-saw! and all of us know the sad reason why, see-saw! see-saw! for, oh! the tree--the tree's cut down, and every one of its leaves are brown; and in the field the children play, but the little linnet has flown away: oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! the bad girl. she was always called the bad girl, for she had once, when she was very little, put out her tongue at the postman. she lived alone with her grandmother and her three brothers in the cottage beyond the field, and the girls in the village took no notice of her. the bad girl did not mind this, for she was always thinking of the cuckoo clock. the clock stood in one corner of the cottage, and every hour a door opened at the top of its face, and a little cuckoo came out and called its name just the same number of times that the clock ought to have struck, and called it so loudly and in so much haste that the clock was afraid to strike at all. the bad girl was always wondering whether it was worse for the clock to have a cupboard in its forehead, and a bird that was always hopping in and out, or for the poor cuckoo to spend so much time in a dark little prison. "if it could only get away to the woods," she said to herself, "who knows but its voice might grow sweet, and even life itself might come to it!" she thought of the clock so much that her grandmother used to say-- "ah, lassie, if you would only think of me sometimes!" but the bad girl would answer-- "you are not in prison, granny dear, and you have not even a bee in your bonnet, let alone a bird in your head. why should i think of you?" one day, close by the farm, she saw the big girls from the school gathering flowers. "give me one," she said; "perhaps the cuckoo would like it." but they all cried, "no, no!" and tried to frighten her away. "they are for the little one's birthday. to-morrow she will be seven years old," they said, "and she is to have a crown of flowers and a cake, and all the afternoon we shall play merry games with her." "is she unhappy, that you are taking so much trouble for her?" asked the bad girl. "oh, no; she is very happy: but it will be her birthday, and we want to make her happier." "why?" "because we love her," said one; "because she is so little," said another; "because she is alive," said a third. "are all things that live to be loved and cared for?" the bad girl asked, but they were too busy to listen, so she went on her way thinking; and it seemed as if all things round--the birds, and bees, and the rustling leaves, and the little tender wild flowers, half hidden in the grass--answered, as she went along-- "yes, they are all to be cared for and made happier, if it be possible." "the cuckoo clock is not alive," she thought. "oh, no; it is not alive," the trees answered; "but many things that do not live have voices, and many others are just sign-posts, pointing the way." "the way! the way to what, and where?" "we find out for ourselves;--we must all find out for ourselves," the trees sighed and whispered to each other. as the bad girl entered the cottage, the cuckoo called out its name eleven times, but she did not even look up. she walked straight across to the chair by the fireside, and kneeling down, kissed her granny's hands. morning time. i. awake, my pet! what! slumbering yet, when the day's so warm and bright? the flowers that wept before they slept o'er the darkness of yesternight, have listened long to the lark's wild song, and awoke with the morning light. ii. again and again through the window-pane the jasmine flowers kept peeping, and in at the door, and along the floor, the sunny rays came creeping, so i opened wide the sash, and tried to tell them you were sleeping. iii. awake, my dear, the winter drear has fled with all things dreary, but quickly by the spring will fly, and soon the birds will weary.-- awake while yet the dew is wet and day is young, my deary. the pink parasol. the pink parasol had tender whalebone ribs and a slender stick of cherry-wood. it lived with the wilful child in the white-house, just beyond the third milestone. all about the trees were green, and the flowers grew tall; in the pond behind the willows the ducks swam round and round and dipped their heads beneath the water. every bird and bee, every leaf and flower, loved the child and the pink parasol as they wandered in the garden together, listening to the birds and seeking the shady spots to rest in, or walking up and down the long trim pathway in the sunshine. yet the child tired of it all, and before the summer was over, was always standing by the gate, watching the straight white road that stretched across the plain. "if i might but see the city, with the busy streets and the eager crowds," he was always saying to himself. then all that lived in the garden knew that the child would not be with them long. at last the day came when he flung down the pink parasol, and, without even one last look at the garden, ran out at the gate. the flowers died, and the swallows journeyed south; the trees stretched higher and higher, to see the child come back across the plain, but he never came. "ah, dear child!" they sighed many a time, "why are you staying? and are your eyes as blue as ever; or have the sad tears dimmed them? and is your hair golden still? and your voice, is it like the singing of the birds? and your heart--oh! my dear, my dear, what is in your heart now, that once was so full of summer and the sun?" the pink parasol lay on the pathway, where the child left it, spoilt by the rain, and splashed by the gravel, faded and forgotten. at last, a gipsy lad, with dark eyes, a freckled face, and little gold rings in his ears, came by; he picked up the pink parasol, hid it under his coat, and carried it to the gipsy tent. there it stayed till one day the cherry-wood stick was broken into three pieces, and the pink parasol was put on the fire to make the water boil for the gipsy's tea. the sisters. the little sisters went into the room to play at ball. "we must be careful not to wake the white cat," the tall one said, softly. "or to spoil the roses," the fat one whispered; "but throw high, dear sister, or we shall never hit the ceiling." "you dear children," thought the white cat, "why do you come to play here at all? only just round the corner are the shady trees, and the birds singing on the branches, and the sunshine is flecking the pathway. who knows but what, out there, your ball might touch the sky? here you will only disturb me, and perhaps spoil the roses; and at best you can but hit the ceiling!" the white rabbits. all the white rabbits but two, my dears, all the white rabbits but two, away they all sailed in a cockle-shell boat, painted a beautiful blue. all the white rabbits so snowy and sleek, away they went down to the shore; little they thought, so happy and meek, they'd never come up from it more. oh, the white rabbits they wept and they sobbed, till the boat it shook up in the sails; oh, the white rabbits they sobbed and they shook from their poor loppy ears to their tails. away they all sailed to a desolate land where never a lettuce-leaf grew, all the white rabbits but two, my dears, all the white rabbits but two. the wooden horse. "come and have a ride," the big brother said. "i am afraid," the little one answered; "the horse's mouth is wide open." "but it's only wooden. that is the best of a horse that isn't real. if his mouth is ever so wide open, he cannot shut it. so come," and the big brother lifted the little one up, and dragged him about. "oh, do stop!" the little one cried out in terror; "does the horse make that noise along the floor?" "yes." "and is it a real noise?" "of course it is," the big brother answered. "but i thought only real things could make real things," the little one said; "where does the imitation horse end and the real sound begin?" at this the big brother stood still for a few minutes. "i was thinking about real and imitation things," he said presently. "it's very difficult to tell which is which sometimes. you see they get so close together that the one often grows into the other, and some imitated things become real and some real ones become imitation as they go on. but i should say that you are a real coward for not having a ride." "no, i am not," the little one laughed; and, getting astride the wooden horse, he sat up bravely. "oh, jack, dear," he said to his brother, "we will always be glad that we are real boys, or we too might have been made with mouths we were never able to shut!" the duck pond. so little bridget took the baby on her right arm and a jug in her left hand, and went to the farm to get the milk. on her way she went by the garden-gate of a large house that stood close to the farm, and she told the baby a story:-- "last summer," she said, "a little girl, bigger than you, for she was just able to walk, came to stay in that house--she and her father and mother. all about the road just here, the ducks and the chickens from the farm, and an old turkey, used to walk about all the day long, but the poor little ducks were very unhappy, for they had no pond to swim about in, only that narrow ditch through which the streamlet is flowing. when the little girl's father saw this, he took a spade, and worked and worked very hard, and out of the ditch and the streamlet he made a little pond for the ducks, and they swam about and were very happy all through the summer days. every morning i used to stand and watch, and presently the garden-gate would open, and then the father would come out, leading the little girl by the hand, and the mother brought a large plateful of bits of broken bread. the little girl used to throw the bread to the ducks, and they ran after it and ate it up quickly, while she laughed out with glee, and the father and the mother laughed too just as merrily. baby, the father had blue eyes, and a voice that you seemed to hear with your heart. "the little girl used to feed the chickens too, and the foolish old turkey that was so fond of her it would run after her until she screamed and was afraid. the dear father and the little girl came out every morning, while the black pigs looked through the bars of the farm-yard gate and grunted at them, as if they were glad, and i think the ducks knew that the father had made the pond, for they swam round and round it proudly while he watched them, but when he went away they seemed tired and sad. "the pond is not there now, baby, for a man came by one day and made it into a ditch again; and the chickens and the ducks from the farm are kept in another place. "the little girl is far away in her own home, which the father made for her, and the dear father lives in his own home too--in the hearts of those he loved." that was the story that bridget told the baby. the little maid. there is a sweet maiden asleep by the sea, her lips are as red as a cherry; the roses are resting upon her brown cheeks-- her cheeks that are brown as a berry. she's tired of building up castles of sand, her hands they are gritty and grubby; her shoes, they are wet, and her legs, they are bare, her legs that are sturdy and chubby. i'll wrap a shawl round you, my dear little maid, to keep the wind off you completely, and soft i will sing you a lullaby song, and soon you will slumber most sweetly. the donkey on wheels. there was once a poor little donkey on wheels. it had never wagged its tail, or tossed its head, or said, "hee-haw!" or tasted a tender thistle. it always went about, anywhere that anyone pulled it, on four wooden wheels, carrying a foolish knight, who wore a large cocked hat and a long cloak, because he had no legs. now, a man who has no legs, and rides a donkey on wheels, has little cause for pride; but the knight was haughty, and seldom remembered his circumstances. so the donkey suffered sorely, and in many ways. one day the donkey and the knight were on the table in front of the child to whom they both belonged. she was cutting out a little doll's frock with a large pair of scissors. "mistress," said the knight, "this donkey tries my temper. will you give me some spurs?" "oh, no, sir knight," the child answered. "you would hurt the poor donkey; besides, you have no heels to put them on." "cruel knight!" exclaimed the donkey. "make him get off, dear mistress; i will carry him no longer." "let him stay," said the child, gently; "he has no legs, and cannot walk." "then why did he want spurs?" "just the way of the world, dear donkey; just the way of the world." "ah!" sighed the donkey, "some ways are very trying, especially the world's;" and then it said no more, but thought of the fields it would never see, and the thistles it would never taste. cock-a-doodle. i know a lovely dicky-bird, a cock-a-doodle-doo;-- my father and my mother and my sister know it too. it struts about so gaily, and it is brave and strong; and when it crows, it is a crow, both very loud and long. oh, "cock-a-doodle-doo," it crows, and cock-a-doodle won't leave off its cock-a-doodling, when mother dear cries "don't!" the boy and little great lady. she was always called the "little great lady," for she lived in a grand house, and was very rich. he was a strange boy; the little great lady never knew whence he came, or whither he went. she only saw him when the snow lay deep upon the ground. then in the early morning he swept a pathway to the stable in which she had once kept a white rabbit. when it was quite finished, she came down the steps in her white dress and little thin shoes, with bows on them, and walked slowly along the pathway. it was always swept so dry she might have worn paper shoes without getting them wet. at the far end he always stood waiting till she came, and smiled and said, "thank you, little boy," and passed on. then he was no more seen till the next snowy morning, when again he swept the pathway; and again the little great lady came down the steps in her dainty shoes, and went on her way to the stable. but at last, one morning when the snow lay white and thick, and she came down the steps as usual, there was no pathway. the little boy stood leaning on a spade, his feet buried deep in the snow. "where is your broom? and where is the pathway to the rabbit house?" she asked. "the rabbit is dead, and the broom is worn out," he answered; "and i am tired of making pathways that lead to empty houses." "but why have you done it so long?" she asked. "you have bows on your shoes," he said; "and they are so thin you could not walk over the snow in them--why, you would catch your death of cold," he added, scornfully. "what would you do if i wore boots?" "i should go and learn how to build ships, or paint pictures, or write books. but i should not think of you so much," he said. the little great lady answered eagerly, "go and learn how to do all those things; i will wait till you come back and tell me what you have done," and she turned and went into the house. "good-bye," the boy said, as he stood watching for a moment the closed door; "dear little great lady, good-bye." and he went along the unmade pathway beyond the empty rabbit house. good-day, gentle folk. oh, yes, sir and miss, i have been to the town; it really was pleasant and gay; but now i must hurry, the sun's going down, and so i will wish you good-day. and so i will wish you good-day, gentle folk, and so i will wish you good-day. i know a white rabbit just over the hill, he's eating a lettuce for tea; and a fat speckled duck, with a very large bill, is quacking, "oh, where can she be?" and two little mice are there, standing quite still, they're all of them waiting for me. for we all love the stars and the little pale moon, beneath them we frolic and play; my friends have been waiting the whole afternoon, and so i will wish you good-day. and so i will wish you good-day, gentle folk, and so i will wish you good-day. * * * * * new books for children. foolscap vo, paper boards, price one shilling each. very short stories and verses for children. by mrs. w. k. clifford, _author of "anyhow stories," etc._ with an illustration by edith campbell. a new natural history of birds, beasts, and fishes. by john k. leys, m.a. life stories of famous children. adapted from the french. _by the author of "spenser for children."_ london: walter scott, warwick lane, paternoster row. the canterbury poets. the children of the poets: an anthology, _from english and american writers of three centuries._ edited, with introduction, by eric robertson, m.a. this volume contains contributions by lord tennyson, william bell scott, robert browning, james russell lowell, george macdonald, algernon charles swinburne, theodore watts, austin dobson, hon. roden noel, edmund gosse, robert louis stevenson, etc., etc. london: walter scott, warwick lane, paternoster row. * * * * * transcriber's notes page : corrected typo has'nt to hasn't: (he has'nt any hair,--). page : added a (probably missing) period: (they looked very fine in the sweet summer weather.) harrison's amusing picture and poetry _book_, containing seventy engravings. [illustration] devizes: _printed and published by j. harrison_, and sold by the london booksellers and stationers. _price sixpence._ harrison's amusing _picture and poetry_ book, containing seventy engravings. [illustration] printed by j. harrison, devizes, and sold by the london booksellers and stationers. price sixpence. [illustration] oh! on this green and mossy seat, in my hours of sweet retreat; thus i would my soul employ, with sense of gratitude and joy. [illustration] farewell! farewell! the trumpet calls, the banner waves in view; and i must bid these friendly halls, one long! one last adieu! [illustration] the dappled herd of grazing deer, that seek the shades by day; now started from their path with fear, to give the stranger way. [illustration] this is the valiant cornish man, who slew the giant cormoran; a horrid savage monster, who, before he kill'd, would torture you. [illustration] why should we say 'tis yet too soon, to seek for heaven or think of death; a flower may fade before 'tis noon, and we this day may lose our breath. [illustration] ah! who is this totters along, and leans on the top of his stick; his wrinkles are many and long, and his beard is grown silver and thick. [illustration] i envy not thy ill-got riches, sure oft remorse thy conscience twitches; i'd rather be yon little mouse, and seek my bread from house to house. [illustration] come, goody dobbs, with me i pray, 'tis only down a little way; and i will give you bread and meat, as much as ever you can eat. [illustration] when we devote our youth to god, 'tis pleasing in his eyes; a flower, when offered in the bud, is no vain sacrifice. [illustration] charles polish so attentive grew, so civil and polite; that all admir'd and lov'd him too, for all he did was right. [illustration] upon a mountain's grassy side, where firs and cedars grew; young sylvia wandered with her flocks, and many a hardship knew. [illustration] hold monster, hold! forbear, forbear! thou shalt not take her life; to me she is a sister dear, to this brave man a wife. [illustration] i heard a noise of men and boys, the watchman's rattle too; and fire they cry; and then cry'd i, oh dear! what shall i do. [illustration] unhappy youth! what hast thou done, why urge thy steed so fast? alas! i hear him scream and groan; ah me! he breathes his last. [illustration] here cinderella you may see, weeping o'er her destiny; her sisters to the ball are gone, and she is left to toil alone. [illustration] the laughing harvest folks, at john, stood quizzing him askew, 'twas john's red face that set them on, and then they leer'd at sue. [illustration] why should a weak and vain desire, for outward show, and gay attire, engage your thoughts, employ your time, and waste the precious hours of prime? [illustration] all praise to him who made the sun, the world by day to light; who gave the gentle moon to cheer, the still and gloomy night. [illustration] alone beneath the gloom of night, monimia went to mourn; she left her parents' fost'ring arms, ah! never to return. [illustration] julia had a little bird, with feathers bright and yellow; and slender legs: upon my word, he was a pretty fellow. [illustration] oh! stay you cruel gipsey! nor steal this darling boy, from his distracted parents, he is their only joy. [illustration] oft ellen would go to a very deep well, to look at the water below; how naughty! to go to a dangerous well, when her mother forbade her to go. [illustration] oh! pray forbear you cruel man! to beat poor donkey so; i'll give you this sweet pretty fan, if you will let him go. [illustration] poor donkey, i'll give him a handfull of grass, i'm sure he's a good-natured honest old ass; he trots to the market, to carry the sack, and lets me ride all the way on his back. [illustration] here's old toby philpot, as hearty a soul, as e'er quaff'd a pipe, or partook of a bowl. [illustration] the sportsman here at early morn, with dog and gun is seen; the huntsman sounds his mellow horn; all nature looks serene. [illustration] the dying parent, like a wailing breeze, moans in the fev'rish grasp of pale disease; while sad and watching, with a sleepless eye, her lovely daughter sits and muses by. [illustration] the forked flash that now descends, and thunders too that roll; alike are guided by god's arm, and under his control. [illustration] these little girls, though very young, will never do what's rude or wrong; when spoken to, they always try, to give the most polite reply. [illustration] of blue beard 'tis in stories said, he married many wives; and that when they too curious grew, he soon cut short their lives. [illustration] i think i should like to be happy to-day if i could but tell the easiest way; but then i don't know any pretty new play, unless it's a romp with my little dog tray. [illustration] at length before his wide stretch'd eyes, st. paul's proud dome arose; that is, said ralph in great surprize the king i do suppose!! [illustration] a tale should be judicious, clear, succinct, the language plain, and incidents well link'd; tell not as new, what every body knows, and new or old, still hasten to a close. [illustration] and so you do not like to spell, ellen my dear; oh very well, 'tis dull and troublesome you say, and you would rather be at play. [illustration] an annual custom here was held, for all the corporation, to hear the boy that most excell'd, deliver an oration. [illustration] alas! and is domestic strife, that sorest ill of human life, a plague so little to be feared, as to be wantonly incurr'd? [illustration] my numbers this day she had sung, and gave them a grace so divine, as only her musical tongue, could infuse into numbers of mine. [illustration] here we see a common game, of which most boys are fond; some hit the ring with nicest aim, while others go beyond. [illustration] little sister come away, and in the garden let us play; but do not pluck the pretty flowers, because you know they are not ours. [illustration] a boat, which oft had stem'd the tide, was by the shore close moored; in which maria fain would ride, and therefore went on board. [illustration] good god! how abject is our race, condemn'd to slavery and disgrace; shall we our servitude retain, because our sires have borne the chain? [illustration] go; thou art all unfit to share, the pleasures of this place; with such as its old tenants are, creatures of gentle race. [illustration] in westminster abbey lie in grand state, the bones of kings and noblemen great, whose figures in wax and marble are shown, with generals and admirals carv'd in stone. [illustration] her heart beat strong; she gave a bound, down came the milk-pail on the ground, eggs, fowls, pig, hog, (ah! well-a-day,) cow, calf, and farm, all swam away. [illustration] why is this silly girl so vain? looking in the glass again; for the meekest flower of spring, is a gayer little thing. [illustration] i little thought that thus forlorn, in deserts i should bide; and have not where to lay my head, amid the world so wide. [illustration] dear lady, she cries, and tears trickle down, relieve a poor beggar, i pray; i've wander'd all hungry about the wide town, and have not eat a morsel to-day. [illustration] ah! there it falls, and now 'tis dead, poor harmless little thing; the shot went through its pretty head, and broke its little wing. [illustration] he looks of a strong hardy race, and his bonnet and jacket of plaid; with shrewdness and sense in his face, proclaim him a true scottish lad. [illustration] oh! say what stranger cause yet unexplor'd, could make a gentle belle reject a lord; in tasks so bold, can little men engage, and in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage. [illustration] i've fought at egypt, italy, marengo, waterloo; and now i'm helpless, left to die, in misery, want, and woe. [illustration] mamma shall we visit miss ellen to-day, and sweet little julia and ann; the morning's so fine, the sun is so bright, do go dear mamma if you can. [illustration] old susan in her cottage small, tho' low the roof and mud the wall, enjoys within her peaceful shed, her wholesome crust of barley-bread. [illustration] great god! with wonder and with praise, on all thy works i look; but still thy wisdom, power, and grace, shines brightest in thy book. [illustration] these harmless sports we like to see, no mischief here appears; young alfred shews activity, well suited to his years. [illustration] run william to the baker's man, and quick to him apply; i know he'll give you, if he can, a smoking hot mince-pie. [illustration] ah! poor little red riding hood, you never once dreamt, when you met the wolf in the wood, of his cruel intent. [illustration] oh! ask me not to be your bride, oh! do not call me fair; for i have thrown the wreath aside, i once was proud to wear. [illustration] away went gilpin neck or nought; away went hat and wig; he little dreamt when he set out, of running such a rig. [illustration] old cherry and blossom are having a fight, do let us get out of their way; and not stop to witness so shocking a sight, oh dear what a terrible fray! [illustration] dancing on the village green, the pretty english girl is seen; or beside the cottage neat, knitting on the garden seat. [illustration] some strength of arm and steady eye, this ancient game demands; to make the arrow distant fly, is not for feeble hands. [illustration] whoever played at blind-man's buff, and was the first to cry 'enough;' when nearly caught, who did not quake, or laugh to see poor buff's mistake? [illustration] when storms of passion rude arise, be nature's rule before your eyes; may friendship henceforth both unite, may both in future act aright. [illustration] with glowing cheeks the skaiter meets, the keen and frosty air; performs variety of feats, to shew what skaiters dare. [illustration] have you forgot kate, prithee say, how many seasons here we've tarried; 'tis forty years this very day, since you and i, old girl, were married. [illustration] two horses used to bit and bridle, but always much disposed to idle, agreed, as soon as they were able, to steal unnoticed from the stable. [illustration] thank you pretty cow that made, pleasant milk to soak my bread, every day and every night, warm and fresh, and sweet and white. finis. * * * * * printed by j. harrison, devizes. harrison's amusing picture and poetry _book_, containing seventy engravings * * * * * [illustration] * * * * * devizes: _printed and published by j. harrison,_ and sold by the london booksellers and stationers. * * * * * _price sixpence._ * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. one foot up and one foot down and that's the way to-- [illustration: london town] london town come children all, both great and small, with eager eye and ear, who dwell afar or near in hope that some day you'll contrive to view great london's busy hive, and hear the mighty hum of bees at work alike in sun or shower, while butterflies beneath the trees flit idly by from flower to flower in parks and gardens bright and gay: come,--climb saint paul's with us to-day, and with this book in hand, upon the dome we'll stand, and thence look down o'er london town. london town designed and illustrated by thos. crane & ellen houghton london belfast marcus ward & co new york [illustration: printed and bound by marcus ward & co. london belfast] verses by felix leigh contents the houses of parliament st. paul's cathedral page the tower of london , , , the omnibus the penny-ice man covent garden , the penny-toy man the orange girl the first of may st. james' park , westminster abbey , , charity girls the british museum , , the underground railway , the zoological gardens , , the milk woman the muffin man the shoeblacks christ's hospital , guildhall--gog and magog , the cat's-meat man the night watch the foundling hospital , the flower woman cleopatra's needle the chestnut woman the fifth of november the children's hospital the happy family the crossing sweeper punch and judy the lowther arcade , the dustman is coming , good bye the tower of london among the sights of london town which little visitors wish to view, the tower stands first, and its great renown has, you will notice, attracted prue. at a well-known spot, to miss prue's surprise, some fine old ravens are strutting about. if upon the picture a glance you cast, you will know the ravens next time, no doubt. the red-coated guard who's watching here is called a beefeater--fancy that! and prue discovers, as she draws near, a child by his side who is round and fat. "father and mother, pray come here," in tones so pleasant, laughs lively prue: "you've shown _me_ things that are odd and queer, a beefeater's baby i'll show _you_!" the tower prue has wandered high and wandered low through norman chapel and dungeon cell; the grand crown jewels that sparkle so, and the traitor's gate, she has seen as well. she has looked from the walls on the river, too, and spent in the armouries nearly an hour: ah! holiday folks like our miss prue enjoy themselves when they come to the tower! but the tower was a prison, in days of old, and few who got into it ever came out, though now we can visit the grim stronghold any day of the week, without fear or doubt. the omnibus every day along the streets of mighty london town nine hundred omnibuses rumble up and down. when you're tired of walking, call "hi! conductor, stop!" and he'll give you such a jolly ride, for twopence, on the top. sometimes by the 'bus's side small boys will run a mile, turning round just like the wheels, and hungry all the while:-- "we've not had any breakfast,--won't you toss us down a brown?"-- that's what they call a penny in the streets of london town. the penny-ice man in summer when the sun is high, and children's lips are parched and dry, an ice is just the thing to try. so this young man who comes, 'tis plain, from saffron hill or leather lane, a store of pence will quickly gain. "a lemon ice for me," says fred; cries sue, "no, have a cream instead." "a raspberry!" shouts newsboy ned. "what fun! although we're now in june, it feels"--says ned--"this afternoon, like eating winter with a spoon!" covent garden this is covent garden, what a lively scene! here are flowers so pretty, there are leaves so green. these are busy buyers, busy sellers those, selling, buying, selling, everything that grows. fruits and lovely blossoms hither come each day, fresh from _other_ gardens many miles away. cabbages potatoes, pears and apples too, grapes, and pines, and peaches, all are here on view. so the air is scented with the pleasant fruits, with the bright-hued nosegays, and the springing roots. for the little street-boys, walking up and down, it's almost like the country brought to london town. the penny-toy man "toys! toys! penny toys! toys for girls, and toys for boys! toys for dots who scarce can crawl, toys for youngsters stout and tall, toys for prince and peasant too, toys, my dears, for all of you! toys for girls and toys for boys! toys! toys! penny toys!" that is how the toyman talks, as through london town he walks; bawling out his toyman's song, while he slowly moves along, on the pavement with a tray which is filled, from day to day, with new toys to catch the eye of the youthful passer-by. sometimes it's a great big spider, like that miss muffet had beside her; sometimes it's a bat that flies, or a baby doll that cries; sometimes it's a frog that leaps, or a crocodile that creeps: but whatever toy is shown, for a penny it's your own. the orange girl orange-girl kitty here you may see. that she is pretty all will agree. "three for a penny!" that is her cry; no wonder many hasten to buy. orange-girl kitty's mother, we're told, everyone pities-- so feeble and old. poor mother's living kitty obtains, cheerfully giving her all that she gains. orange-girl kitty roams to and fro; all through the city she's known high and low. when the sun's shining, when the rain falls, never repining,-- "fine fruit!" kitty calls. the first of may chimney sweeps' day, blackbird is gay, here he is singing, you see, in the "may." he has feathers as black as a chimney sweep's coat, so on chimney sweeps' day he must pipe a glad note. [illustration: jack in the green] jack-in-the-green from door to door capers along with his followers four. as may day mummers are seldom seen, let us all give a copper to jack-in-the-green. st. james's park what a countrified scene we have here! who would think london town was so near, that its murmur comes borne on the breeze to the listener under the trees? to this spot, to buy biscuits or buns, each city child joyously runs. but the park's greatest treat, they all vow, is a glass of new milk from the cow. cried the drake to the ducks, "here's a boy with a bun, come, make haste! we shall have quite a feast!" "would you mind," said a swan, "if we shared in the fun?" "o dear no!" said he; "not in the least!" it was surely through fear, not politeness at all, that the drake made so civil a speech, for that one penny bun, after all, was so small, there was hardly a mouthful for each! from the ducks and the swans on the lake, to next page-- a much quieter scene--you may pass: though westminster cloisters are hoary with age, yet green is their velvety grass, and cheerily bright are their gables and peaks, as they glow in the westering sun: 'tis some house in the cloisters yon schoolboy seeks-- don't you wonder, now, which is the one? [illustration: the inner cloisters westminster] westminster abbey in all the land a pile so grand is scarcely found as this. around its old grey walls the shadow falls of bygone years, and so one fears to raise one's tone, when one is shown some ancient tomb, half hid in gloom. beneath such stones there rest the bones of monarchs bold, whose story's told for you and me in history. from kings of men we wander; then we're quickly brought to kings of thought, for poets lie interred hard by. here, too, repose the bones of those who fought the foe long, long ago. brave knights were they; and in the fray they kept from shame the english name, and proved in fight great britain's might. where they are laid their rest is made as sweet as prayer by music rare: over their head the sleeping dead can daily hear the anthem clear floating along like angel's song, until it dies like angel's sighs. on the way to the british museum not far from the british museum there stands an apple stall, painted bright green, whence a penny may buy from the stall-keeper's hands three apples, all rosy and clean. now the girls of st. george's great charity school very often are passing that way, for their governors wise make this very good rule-- they must go for a walk every day. how wistful the glances they cast as they pass, how they long for an apple to eat; but their pockets are quite without pennies, alas! to purchase so dainty a treat. these maidens have cheeks that are rosy and sweet as the choicest of fruit on the stall, and the very next time that we meet in this street, i'll buy apples enough for them all. goodness gracious! what a noise baby bunting's bent on making; it is quite enough to set all the heads around him aching. still we're sure that baby has many griefs if we could see 'em, for with other babes he's come miles and miles to the museum. baby bunting thought, of course, when he said good bye to mother, that he'd pass in through the gates with big sister and big brother. but poor baby finds, alas, that his little hopes have flitted, for the nasty notice says "babes in arms are not admitted." [illustration: in the british museum north west edifice nimroud] in the british museum if you want to see all sorts of wonderful things, stuffed crocodiles, mammoths, and sloths, hairy ducks with four feet, and fishes with wings, fat beetles, and strange spotted moths; and enormous winged bulls with long beards, carved in stone, dug up from assyria's sand, and old blackened mummies as dry as a bone, discovered in egypt's lone land, and beautiful statues from greece and from rome, and other fine things without end,-- you will find you can see half the world here at home, if a day in this place you will spend. the underground railway who is this in the weighing chair? why, little dot, i do declare! three stone five! "so much as that?" calls out miss dot; "then i _must_ be fat!" on this and the opposite page you see dot's mother, and brother, and sisters three. they wait for an underground train to come and carry them swiftly back to their home. wonderful trains! from morn till night, clattering through tunnels without daylight, hither and thither they run, up and down, beneath the streets of london town. many prefer these trains instead of the cabs and "busses" overhead, for they run much faster than horses can. miss dot's papa is a busy man, and goes to the city every day by the "underground,"--the quickest way: and one hundred millions of people, 'tis found, are carried each year by the "underground." the zoological gardens away we go to the famous zoo' with bertie, and nellie, and dick, and sue. and we feel quite ready to jump for glee when the wonderful birds and beasts we see. the pelican solemn with monster beak, and the plump little penguin round and sleek, have set us laughing--ha, ha! ho! ho! and you'll laugh too, if you look below. to the monkey-house then we make our way, where the monkeys chatter, and climb, and play; at the snakes we peep, then onward stroll, to talk to the parrots, and "scratch a poll," and after all that, there will still be time on the patient elephant's back to climb. the bear & the buns don't forget at the zoo' to take a good view of the funny old bear, who climbs out of his lair up a pole--look, he's here, with his figure so queer, and his thick clumsy paws, and his bun-seeking jaws. on the end of a stick place a bun--"now quick, master bertie"--and, snap!-- what an awful red trap!-- the bun's out of sight, but one more will delight father bruin up there, for his appetite's rare, and he never says "no" to a dozen or so. the milk woman "milk o! milk o!" each morn she cries, and little sleepers ope their eyes, and wonder if pure milk is sold by betty here, for they've been told that london milk (how people talk!) is only water mixed with chalk! the muffin man you've heard about the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man, you've heard about the muffin man who lives in drury lane? well, here you see that muffin man-- that celebrated muffin man, and if you try his muffins, you'll be sure to buy again. the shoeblack brigade if you wanted a boy to polish your shoes, which of these two, do you think, you would choose? they were once "street arabs," hungry, ill-clad, and in very sore danger of going to the bad; but now!--one might think that their fortunes were made, they're so proud to belong to the shoeblack brigade. the blue-coat boys if you should pass through newgate street, bareheaded boys with coats of blue, among the crowd you're sure to meet-- and all with yellow stockings too. their coats are long as well as blue, and when at football they do play, they find them rather heavy too, so tuck them up out of the way. in christchurch passage will be found the entrance to the school; and though it looks so quiet, all around we hear the crowd go to and fro. above the doorway there you see the boy king's statue:--would you know who founded this great school? 'twas he, more than three hundred years ago. gog and magog in the guildhall in the famous guildhall mayor and alderman all meet to banquet and feast, and it's whispered that they aren't inclined in the least from the table to stray: for they're fond of good cheer, and they meet with it here, where the wine is so fine, and still better than that, where the turtle's rich fat tempts the guests when they dine. turtle soup's very good, and a favourite food, with the banqueters all who frequent the guildhall. two giants so tall guard the famous guildhall. (gog is one, and the other is magog his brother.) well, these giants so tall watch the feast, but can't call for a crumb, as they're dumb, and not living at all! else 'twould seem scarcely fair, that when good things were by, gog and magog should stare from their pedestals high, for if placed at a table at least they'd look able, to dine there and then like two live aldermen! the cat's-meat man he calls "meat, meat!" all down the street; and dogs "bow-wow," and cats "mi-ow," while kittens sly come purring by, as if to say-- "do serve us, pray, the first of all, for we're so small." the man throws bits of meat to kits, and cats, and dogs; then on he jogs, and down the street still cries "meat, meat!" the night watch policeman a, policeman b, likewise policemen c and d-- all in a row, sedate and slow, away to their beats, tramp! tramp! they go. now the first is beloved by ann the cook, and his manly face has a bashful look, as he thinks, with a sigh, of the beer and the pie he has had from those area steps close by. and here are three housemaids trim and slim; mr. b. knows betty is fond of him; but policeman c loves cicely, and dolly's engaged to policeman d. chapel of the foundling hospital in guildford street, great london town, is a nursery, bigger than ever has been: when each child grows up and leaves its walls, another new baby that day is seen in the foundling cots. each little babe has no baby sister or baby brother, and never shall know the anxious care and tender touch of a loving mother. but "our father," who gives their "daily bread" to all of his creatures, caused kindly men to build this home for famishing babes from many a poverty-stricken den: and here they are fed, and clothed, and taught, and lift their voices in prayer and praise; and here every sunday the people flock to hear the anthem the foundlings raise. after chapel, see them all assembled in the dining hall. the bugle sounds e'er grace is sung,-- then fork and spoon and lip and tongue clatter, chatter,-- such a noise! oh! such happy girls and boys. the flower woman "flowers sweet and fair, sir, flowers that any princess might wear, sir-- a bunch for a penny!" many a bunch must the flower-woman sell, to buy food for herself, and her children as well. cleopatra's needle upon the broad embankment you'll find a curious sight,-- the children play around it from morning until night; and crowds of grown-up people come here to see it too, 'tis cleopatra's needle folks gather thus to view. in mother's pretty work-box there's no such needle shown; this needle, brought from egypt, is nothing but a stone. how silently it watches old thames go gliding by! "you're very old," the river says, "but not so old as i." think you it longs for egypt, this wondrous solemn stone, that stands and gazes at us each day so sad and lone? ah yes! when london's sleeping, if monuments can dream, it longs for egypt's palm-trees, and nile's slow murmuring stream. [illustration: cleopatra's needle] the chestnut woman "all hot! all hot! come buy! ten a penny is the price, and if you my chestnuts try, you'll declare they're very nice. see how brightly burns my fire! hear the chestnuts hiss and crack! better nuts you can't desire than these beauties, big and black. "all hot!--if you are cold, have a pennyworth of heat, something nice and warm to hold, something nice and warm to eat. munch your chestnuts up, and then, if your toes want warming too, say, 'i'll have another ten, just to warm me through and through." so the cheerful chestnut dame to each chilly passer calls, as she roasts above the flame fine round nuts like floury balls. hungry children soon draw near, if a penny they have got, and with warmth and food to cheer, _they_ become "all hot! all hot!" the th of november the fifth of november they bid you remember, these bright little boys with the funny old guy. in his chair up and down he'll be borne through the town, then burned in a bonfire he'll be by-and-by. all those who remember the fifth of november some money will give to the boys with the guy. if all gave a penny, i wonder how many wheels, crackers, and squibs they'd be able to buy? guy fawkes day in the children's hospital little sick tommy, what trouble he's had-- medicine and blisters! his cough was _so_ bad! now he is better: he soon will be well, and go back to mother, with stories to tell, of softly reclining on pillows of down,-- of mary his nurse in her pretty blue gown, of the doctor so gentle, the other sick boys, and oh! a whole shopful of beautiful toys! the happy family here's my happy family, little folks, as you may see: cats who fight, but just in fun, mice who up the flag-staff run, paroquet, canaries too,-- now, my dears, 'twixt me and you, girls and boys who scold and tease, might a lesson learn from these birds and beasts who all agree in my happy family. the crossing sweeper he is weak and old, and he feels the cold, but a nice clean path he keeps, for passengers all, both great and small, as the mud to each side he sweeps. the people stare, in london town, at his turban rare, and his face so brown, but the poor old hindoo does not mind, so long as a coin for him they find. and he nods and smiles, as he sweeps away, as if to the passer-by he'd say,-- "think of your shining boots and shoes, and a copper to me you can't refuse. for each penny i get i sweep the faster-- ah! thank you, thank you, kind young master!" punch and judy have you a penny? well then, stay! haven't you any? don't go away! punch holds receptions all through the day, squeaking aloud to gather a crowd, scolding at toby, beating his wife, frightening the constable out of his life, and making jokes in a terrible passion, as is mr. punch's peculiar fashion; for this is his old, delightful plan of getting as many pence as he can. then away he'll jog, with his wife and his dog, new folks to meet in the very next street. the lowther arcade tell me, rosy little boy, listen, little maiden, too, do you love a fine new toy? yes, you say, of course you do. then your thought to mother tell, and she'll take her little maid, and her little boy as well, to this wonderful arcade. active apes that climb up sticks, swords and guns and trumpets bright, wooden horses, wooden bricks, big fat lambs with fleeces white, dolls that smile and dolls that cry, soldiers ready for parade, all are here for you to buy, in this wonderful arcade. toys are hanging up on strings, toys are laid in tempting rows, and each shop with pretty things is so crammed it overflows. little girls and little boys oft are puzzled, we're afraid, which to choose of all the toys in this wonderful arcade. the dustman is coming off to bed the pets must flock. look! it's nearly eight o'clock. baby's sleepy, so is claire-- "ah!" says mother on the stair, to little folks that yawn and blink, "the dustman's coming, i should think." mother's right, for sure enough here's the dustman, strong and bluff. "dust ho! dust ho!" hear his cry, as the dust-cart rumbles by. the dustman home is going soon, for there you see the rising moon. and sleepy claire, in cot so white, thinks that his cry must mean "good night." good-bye songs of childhood by walter ramal [walter de la mare] _with a preface for the garland edition by_ anthony hecht _garland publishing, inc., new york & london_ bibliographical note: this facsimile has been made from a copy in the beinecke library of yale university. (iq.d . ) library of congress cataloging in publication data de la mare, walter john, - . songs of childhood. (classics of children's literature, - ) reprint of the ed. published by longmans, green, london, new york. "walter de la mare ( - ), bibliography of his books for children": p. summary: a collection of forty-seven poems about subjects and experiences familiar to children. [ . english poetry] i. title. ii. series. [pr .e s ] '. ' - isbn - - - _printed in the united states of america_ _preface_ the romantic poets rediscovered a pastoral and biblical dream: that a child was the most innocent and the wisest of us all. wordsworth hailed him as "mighty prophet! seer blest!" and in the next generation victorian novelists took that dream seriously enough to make children the heroes and heroines of their most searching fictions. there had been no "children's literature" to speak of before, except for the oral and "popular" tradition, including lullabies and _mother goose_, some of which go back as far as tudor and even medieval times. children's literature today is an immense and complex domain; and leaving aside for the present the works composed by children themselves, what remains varies tremendously in skill and delight, as well as in subtlety and intention. so i shall also set aside those minimal "vocabulary-building" tales and verses whose small virtues are rarely more than therapeutic, and direct myself only to that specialized but most important category--poems written by a skilled and adult poet but addressed to an audience of children who are likely to be read to until they are skillful enough to read the same verses for themselves. the dangers for the poet in addressing so composite an audience are enormous: cuteness, coyness, archness and condescension are only the most obvious ones. some great writers of children's verse--lewis carroll and edward lear--have successfully hedged themselves against these dangers by insistent comedy and parody (carroll's "serious" children's verse is maudlin and embarrassing). by this means they have contrived what the child will take as lovely, unintimidating, mysterious, rational nonsense, and what the adult will recognize as a travesty or burlesque of something very edgy indeed. thus, lear's "the dong with the luminous nose" and carroll's "jabberwocky" are, respectively, bright and disguised versions of gothic terror and misery on the one hand, and medieval knightly exploit on the other, both rendered innocuous for the nursery and ridiculous for the adult. the risks of seriousness have been successfully avoided. the poetry of walter de la mare sings boldly and beautifully without any of these hedges and condescensions. his work has the honest candor of the border ballads and the fairy tales: as well as unmitigated joys, they are full of the dangers and horrors and sorrows that every child soon knows to be part of the world, however vainly parents try to veil them. a child's curiosity about the forbidden will insist on being satisfied; and better by verse than otherwise. this poetry is also musically astute and demanding; it may surprise and alert the parental reader; and it has its share of archaisms and poeticisms, which, contrary to adult surmise, bemuse and fascinate children. and it must be admitted that it is also relentlessly british; but then, so is much good children's literature. as a poet (he was also a gifted novelist and short-story writer) de la mare was praised by t. s. eliot ("the delicate, invisible web you wove") and by w. h. auden ("there are no good poems which are only for children"). his technical and linguistic skills are not, as auden rightly points out, a matter of indifference to children, who are in the very business of learning language, as well as other facts of life, and who are particularly sensitive to verbal rhythms, as iona and peter opie have splendidly demonstrated in _the lore and language of schoolchildren_. just as important, this is a poetry of charms and spells, witches and dwarfs, ogres and fairies, full of dangers, omens, riddles and triumphs. in "the ogre," for example, two sleeping children are about to be plucked by an enormous ogre from their home: into their dreams no shadow fell of his disastrous thumb groping discreet, and gradual, across the quiet room. but he is stopped, spellbound, abashed and defeated by the mother of the children, who is in another room and, all unaware of the danger, is singing a version of the coventry carol (which, in its original, is addressed to the christ child) as a lullaby to her new-born baby. i would guess that any child fortunate enough to grow up with these poems ringing in memory's ear might have a remarkable reservoir of music and excitement available to him. that is not a small gift. anthony hecht _anthony hecht teaches in the english department of the university of rochester. he is the author of several books of poetry, of which the most recent are_ the hard hours _( ) and_ aesopic _( ). his poems appear in many anthologies and he has contributed to the_ hudson review, _the_ new york review of books, quarterly review of literature, _and other periodicals. he also translated (with helen h. bacon) aeschylus'_ seven against thebes _( )._ walter de la mare ( - ) bibliography of his books for children (poetry): _songs of childhood._ london . _a child's day: a book of rhymes to pictures by c. w. cadby._ london . _peacock pie: a book of rhymes._ london . _down-adown-derry: a book of fairy poems._ london . _stuff and nonsense._ london . _poems for children._ london [ ]. _this year, next year._ london . _bells and grass._ london . _collected rhymes and verses._ london . bibliography of his books for children (stories, plays): _the three mulla-mulgars._ london . _crossings; a fairy play, with music by e. a. gibbs._ london . _story and rhyme._ london . _broomsticks and other tales._ london . _miss jemima._ oxford [ ]. _told again: traditional tales._ oxford . _readings: traditional tales - ._ oxford . _old joe._ oxford [ ]. _stories from the bible._ london . _the lord fish and other tales._ london [ ]. _the old lion and other stories._ london . _the magic jacket and other stories._ london . _the scarecrow and other stories._ london . _the dutch cheese and other stories._ london . _collected stories for children._ london . selected references: atkins, john w. h. _walter de la mare: an exploration._ london [ ]. clark, l. _walter de la mare_ (_a bodley monograph_). london . mccrosson, d. r. _walter de la mare._ new york . songs of childhood [illustration: under the dock leaves, by richard doyle.] songs of childhood by walter ramal _with frontispiece_ longmans, green, and co. paternoster row, london new york and bombay contents 'under the dock leaves,' _frontispiece_ _from a drawing by_ richard doyle _in the possession of_ c. j. longman, esq. page the gnomies, bluebells, lovelocks, o dear me! tartary, the buckle, the hare, bunches of grapes, john mouldy, the fly, song, i saw three witches, the silver penny, the night-swans, the fairies dancing, reverie, the three beggars, the dwarf, alulvan, the pedlar, the grey wolf, the ogre, dame hickory, the pilgrim, the gage, as lucy went a-walking, the englishman, the phantom, the miller and his son, down-adown-derry, the supper, the isle of lone, the sleeping beauty, the horn, captain lean, the portrait of a warrior, haunted, the raven's tomb, the christening, the mother bird, the child in the story goes to bed, the child in the story awakes, the lamplighter, cecil, i met at eve, lullaby envoy, the gnomies as i lay awake in the white moonlight, i heard a sweet singing in the wood-- 'out of bed, sleepyhead, put your white foot now, here are we, 'neath the tree, singing round the root now!' i looked out of window in the white moonlight, the trees were like snow in the wood-- 'come away child and play, light wi' the gnomies; in a mound, green and round, that's where their home is! 'honey sweet, curds to eat, cream and frumènty, shells and beads, poppy seeds, you shall have plenty.' but soon as i stooped in the dim moonlight to put on my stocking and my shoe, the sweet, sweet singing died sadly away, and the light of the morning peep'd through: then instead of the gnomies there came a red robin to sing of the buttercups and dew. bluebells where the bluebells and the wind are, fairies in a ring i spied, and i heard a little linnet singing near beside. where the primrose and the dew are, soon were sped the fairies all: only now the green turf freshens, and the linnets call. lovelocks i watched the lady caroline bind up her dark and beauteous hair; her face was rosy in the glass, and 'twixt the coils her hands would pass, white in the candleshine. her bottles on the table lay, stoppered yet sweet of violet; her image in the mirror stooped to view those locks as lightly looped as cherry-boughs in may. the snowy night lay dim without, i heard the waits their sweet song sing; the window smouldered keen with frost; yet still she twisted, sleeked and tossed her beauteous hair about. o dear me! here are crocuses, white, gold, grey! 'o dear me!' says marjorie may; flat as a platter the blackberry blows: 'o dear me!' says madeleine rose; the leaves are fallen, the swallows flown: 'o dear me!' says humphrey john; snow lies thick where all night it fell: 'o dear me!' says emmanuel. tartary if i were lord of tartary, myself and me alone, my bed should be of ivory, of beaten gold my throne; and in my court should peacocks flaunt, and in my forests tigers haunt, and in my pools great fishes slant their fins athwart the sun. if i were lord of tartary, trumpeters every day to all my meals should summon me, and in my courtyards bray; and in the evenings lamps should shine, yellow as honey, red as wine, while harp, and flute, and mandoline, made music sweet and gay. if i were lord of tartary, i'd wear a robe of beads, white, and gold, and green they'd be-- and small, and thick as seeds; and ere should wane the morning-star, i'd don my robe and scimitar, and zebras seven should draw my car through tartary's dark glades. lord of the fruits of tartary, her rivers silver-pale! lord of the hills of tartary, glen, thicket, wood, and dale! her flashing stars, her scented breeze, her trembling lakes, like foamless seas, her bird-delighting citron-trees in every purple vale! the buckle i had a silver buckle, i sewed it on my shoe, and 'neath a sprig of mistletoe i danced the evening through! i had a bunch of cowslips, i hid 'em in a grot, in case the elves should come by night and me remember not. i had a yellow riband, i tied it in my hair, that, walking in the garden, the birds might see it there. i had a secret laughter, i laughed it near the wall: only the ivy and the wind may tell of it at all. the hare in the black furrow of a field i saw an old witch-hare this night; and she cocked her lissome ear, and she eyed the moon so bright, and she nibbled o' the green; and i whispered 'whsst! witch-hare,' away like a ghostie o'er the field she fled, and left the moonlight there. bunches of grapes 'bunches of grapes,' says timothy; 'pomegranates pink,' says elaine; 'a junket of cream and a cranberry tart for me,' says jane. 'love-in-a-mist,' says timothy; 'primroses pale,' says elaine; 'a nosegay of pinks and mignonette for me,' says jane. 'chariots of gold,' says timothy; 'silvery wings,' says elaine; 'a bumpity ride in a wagon of hay for me,' says jane. john mouldy i spied john mouldy in his cellar, deep down twenty steps of stone; in the dusk he sat a-smiling, smiling there alone. he read no book, he snuffed no candle; the rats ran in, the rats ran out; and far and near, the drip of water went whisp'ring about. the dusk was still, with dew a-falling, i saw the dog-star bleak and grim, i saw a slim brown rat of norway creep over him. i spied john mouldy in his cellar, deep down twenty steps of stone; in the dusk he sat a-smiling, smiling there alone. the fly how large unto the tiny fly must little things appear!-- a rosebud like a feather bed, its prickle like a spear; a dewdrop like a looking-glass, a hair like golden wire; the smallest grain of mustard-seed as fierce as coals of fire; a loaf of bread, a lofty hill; a wasp, a cruel leopard; and specks of salt as bright to see as lambkins to a shepherd. song o for a moon to light me home! o for a lanthorn green! for those sweet stars the pleiades, that glitter in the twilight trees; o for a lovelorn taper! o for a lanthorn green! o for a frock of tartan! o for clear, wild, grey eyes! for fingers light as violets, 'neath branches that the blackbird frets; o for a thistly meadow! o for clear, wild grey eyes! o for a heart like almond boughs! o for sweet thoughts like rain! o for first-love like fields of grey, shut april-buds at break of day! o for a sleep like music! for still dreams like rain! i saw three witches i saw three witches that bowed down like barley, and took to their brooms 'neath a louring sky, and, mounting a storm-cloud, aloft on its margin, stood black in the silver as up they did fly. i saw three witches that mocked the poor sparrows they carried in cages of wicker along, till a hawk from his eyrie swooped down like an arrow, and smote on the cages, and ended their song. i saw three witches that sailed in a shallop, all turning their heads with a truculent smile, till a bank of green osiers concealed their grim faces, though i heard them lamenting for many a mile. i saw three witches asleep in a valley, their heads in a row, like stones in a flood, till the moon, creeping upward, looked white through the valley, and turned them to bushes in bright scarlet bud. the silver penny 'sailorman, i'll give to you my bright silver penny, if out to sea you'll sail me and my dear sister jenny.' 'get in, young sir, i'll sail ye and your dear sister jenny, but pay she shall her golden locks instead of your penny.' they sail away, they sail away, o fierce the winds blew! the foam flew in clouds, and dark the night grew! and all the wild sea-water climbed steep into the boat; back to the shore again sail they will not. drowned is the sailorman, drowned is sweet jenny, and drowned in the deep sea a bright silver penny. the night-swans 'tis silence on the enchanted lake, and silence in the air serene, save for the beating of her heart, the lovely-eyed evangeline. she sings across the waters clear and dark with trees and stars between, the notes her fairy godmother taught her, the child evangeline. as might the unrippled pool reply, faltering an answer far and sweet, three swans as white as mountain snow swim mantling to her feet. and still upon the lake they stay, their eyes black stars in all their snow, and softly, in the glassy pool, their feet beat darkly to and fro. she rides upon her little boat, her swans swim through the starry sheen, rowing her into fairyland-- the lovely-eyed evangeline. 'tis silence on the enchanted lake, and silence in the air serene; voices shall call in vain again on earth the child evangeline. 'evangeline! evangeline!' upstairs, downstairs, all in vain. her room is dim; her flowers faded; she answers not again. the fairies dancing i heard along the early hills, ere yet the lark was risen up, ere yet the dawn with firelight fills the night-dew of the bramble-cup,-- i heard the fairies in a ring sing as they tripped a lilting round soft as the moon on wavering wing. the starlight shook as if with sound, as if with echoing, and the stars prankt their bright eyes with trembling gleams; while red with war the gusty mars rained upon earth his ruddy beams. he shone alone, adown the west, while i, behind a hawthorn-bush, watched on the fairies flaxen-tressed the fires of the morning flush. till, as a mist, their beauty died, their singing shrill and fainter grew; and daylight tremulous and wide flooded the moorland through and through; till urdon's copper weathercock was reared in golden flame afar, and dim from moonlit dreams awoke the towers and groves of arroar. reverie when slim sophia mounts her horse and paces down the avenue, it seems an inward melody she paces to. each narrow hoof is lifted high beneath the dark enclust'ring pines, a silver ray within his bit and bridle shines. his eye burns deep, his tail is arched, and streams upon the shadowy air, the daylight sleeks his jetty flanks, his mistress' hair. her habit flows in darkness down, upon the stirrup rests her foot, her brow is lifted, as if earth she heeded not. 'tis silent in the avenue, the sombre pines are mute of song, the blue is dark, there moves no breeze the boughs among. when slim sophia mounts her horse and paces down the avenue, it seems an inward melody she paces to. the three beggars 'twas autumn daybreak gold and wild, while past st ann's grey tower they shuffled, three beggars spied a fairy-child in crimson mantle muffled. the daybreak lighted up her face all pink, and sharp, and emerald-eyed; she looked on them a little space, and shrill as hautboy cried:-- 'o three tall footsore men of rags which walking this gold morn i see, what will ye give me from your bags for fairy kisses three?' the first, that was a reddish man, out of his bundle takes a crust: 'la, by the tombstones of st ann, there's fee, if fee ye must!' the second, that was a chesnut man, out of his bundle draws a bone: 'la, by the belfry of st ann, and all my breakfast gone!' the third, that was a yellow man, out of his bundle picks a groat, 'la, by the angel of st ann, and i must go without.' that changeling, lean and icy-lipped, touched crust, and bone, and groat, and lo! beneath her finger taper-tipped the magic all ran through. instead of crust a peacock pie, instead of bone sweet venison, instead of groat a white lilie with seven blooms thereon. and each fair cup was deep with wine: such was the changeling's charity, the sweet feast was enough for nine, but not too much for three. o toothsome meat in jelly froze! o tender haunch of elfin stag! o rich the odour that arose! o plump with scraps each bag! there, in the daybreak gold and wild, each merry-hearted beggar man drank deep unto the fairy child, and blessed the good st ann. the dwarf 'now, jinnie, my dear, to the dwarf be off, that lives in barberry wood, and fetch me some honey, but be sure you don't laugh,-- he hates little girls that are rude, are rude, he hates little girls that are rude.' jane tapped at the door of the house in the wood, and the dwarf looked over the wall, he eyed her so queer, 'twas as much as she could to keep from laughing at all, at all, to keep from laughing at all. his shoes down the passage came clod, clod, clod, and when he opened the door, he croaked so harsh, 'twas as much as she could to keep from laughing the more, the more, to keep from laughing the more. as there, with his bushy red beard, he stood, pricked out to double its size, he squinted so cross, 'twas as much as she could to keep the tears out of her eyes, her eyes, to keep the tears out of her eyes. he slammed the door, and went clod, clod, clod, but while in the porch she bides, he squealed so fierce, 'twas as much as she could to keep from cracking her sides, her sides, to keep from cracking her sides. he threw a pumpkin over the wall, and melons and apples beside, so thick in the air, that to see 'em all fall, she laughed, and laughed, till she cried, cried, cried, jane laughed and laughed till she cried. down fell her teardrops a pit-apat-pat, and red as a rose she grew;-- 'kah! kah!' said the dwarf, 'is it crying you're at? it's the very worst thing you could do, do, do, it's the very worst thing you could do.' he slipped like a monkey up into a tree, he shook her down cherries like rain; 'see now,' says he, cheeping, 'a blackbird i be, laugh, laugh, little jinnie, again-gain-gain, laugh, laugh, little jinnie, again.' ah me! what a strange, what a gladsome duet from a house i' the deeps of a wood! such shrill and such harsh voices never met yet a-laughing as loud as they could-could-could, a-laughing as loud as they could. come jinnie, come dwarf, cocksparrow, and bee, there's a ring gaudy-green in the dell, sing, sing, ye sweet cherubs, that flit in the tree; la! who can draw tears from a well-well-well, who ever drew tears from a well! alulvan the sun is clear of bird and cloud, the grass shines windless, grey, and still, in dusky ruin the owl dreams on, the cuckoo echoes on the hill; yet soft along alulvan's walks the ghost at noonday stalks. his eyes in shadow of his hat stare on the ruins of his house; his cloak, up-fasten'd with a brooch, of faded velvet grey as mouse, brushes the roses as he goes: yet wavers not one rose. the wild birds in a cloud fly up from their sweet feeding in the fruit; the droning of the bees and flies rises gradual as a lute; is it for fear the birds are flown, and shrills the insect-drone? thick is the ivy o'er alulvan, and crisp with summer-heat its turf; far, far across its empty pastures alulvan's sands are white with surf: and he himself is grey as sea, watching beneath an elder-tree. all night the fretful, shrill banshee lurks in the chambers' dark festoons, calling for ever, o'er garden and river, through magpie changing of the moons: 'alulvan, o, alas! alulvan, the doom of lone alulvan!' the pedlar there came a pedlar to an evening house; sweet lettice, from her lattice looking down, wondered what man he was, so curious his black hair dangled on his tattered gown: then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes,-- 'what will you buy, sweetheart?--here's honeycomb, and mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies, comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom, to keep in water for to make night sweet: all that you want, sweetheart,--come, taste and eat!' ev'n with his sugared words, returned to her the clear remembrance of a gentle voice:-- 'and o! my child, should ever a flatterer tap with his wares, and promise of all joys and vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be; seal up your ears, sing some old happy song, confuse his magic who is all mockery: his sweets are death.' yet, still, how she doth long but just to taste, then shut the lattice tight, and hide her eyes from the delicious sight! 'what must i pay?' she whispered. 'pay!' says he, 'pedlar i am who through this wood do roam, one lock of hair is gold enough for me, for apple, peach, comfit, or honeycomb!' but from her bough a drowsy squirrel cried, 'trust him not, lettice, trust, oh trust him not!' and many another woodland tongue beside rose softly in the silence--'trust him not!' then cried the pedlar in a bitter voice, 'what, in the thicket, is this idle noise?' a late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings, as through the glade, dark in the dim, she flew; yet still the pedlar his old burden sings,-- 'what, pretty sweetheart, shall i show to you? here's orange ribands, here's a string of pearls, here's silk of buttercup and pansy glove, a pin of tortoiseshell for windy curls, a box of silver, scented sweet with clove: come now,' he says, with dim and lifted face, 'i pass not often such a lonely place.' 'pluck not a hair!' a hidden rabbit cried, 'with but one hair he'll steal thy heart away, then only sorrow shall thy lattice hide: go in! all honest pedlars come by day.' there was dead silence in the drowsy wood; 'here's syrup for to lull sweet maids to sleep; and bells for dreams, and fairy wine and food all day thy heart in happiness to keep';-- and now she takes the scissors on her thumb,-- 'o, then, no more unto my lattice come!' o sad the sound of weeping in the wood! now only night is where the pedlar was; and bleak as frost upon a too-sweet bud his magic steals in darkness, o alas! why all the summer doth sweet lettice pine? and, ere the wheat is ripe, why lies her gold hid 'neath fresh new-pluckt sprigs of eglantine? why all the morning hath the cuckoo tolled, sad to and fro in green and secret ways, with lonely bells the burden of his days? and, in the market-place, what man is this who wears a loop of gold upon his breast, stuck heartwise; and whose glassy flatteries take all the townsfolk ere they go to rest who come to buy and gossip? doth his eye remember a face lovely in a wood? o people! hasten, hasten, do not buy his woful wares; the bird of grief doth brood there where his heart should be; and far away dew lies on grave-flowers this selfsame day! the grey wolf 'a fagot, a fagot, go fetch for the fire, son!' 'o, mother, the wolf looks in at the door!' 'cry shoo! now, cry shoo! thou fierce grey wolf fly, now; haste thee away, he will fright thee no more.' 'i ran, o, i ran, but the grey wolf ran faster, o, mother, i cry in the air at thy door, cry shoo! now, cry shoo! but his fangs were so cruel, thy son (save his hatchet) thou'lt never see more.' the ogre 'tis moonlight on trebarwith vale, and moonlight on an ogre keen, who prowling hungry through the dale a lone cottage hath seen. small with thin smoke ascending up three casements and a door:-- the ogre eager is to sup, and here seems dainty store. sweet as a larder to a mouse, so to him staring down, seemed the sweet-windowed moonlit house, with jasmine overgrown. he snorted, as the billows snort in darkness of the night, betwixt his lean locks tawny-swart, he glowered on the sight. into the garden sweet with peas he put his wooden shoe, and bending back the apple trees crept covetously through; then, stooping, with an impious eye stared through the lattice small, and spied two children which did lie asleep, against the wall. into their dreams no shadow fell, of his disastrous thumb groping discreet, and gradual, across the quiet room. but scarce his nail had scraped the cot wherein these children lay, as if his malice were forgot, it suddenly did stay. for faintly in the ingle-nook he heard a cradlesong, that rose into his thoughts and woke terror them among. for she who in the kitchen sat darning by the fire, guileless of what he would be at, sang sweet as wind or wire:-- 'lullay, thou little tiny child, by-by, lullay, lullie; jesu of glory, meek and mild, this night remember ye! 'fiend, witch, and goblin, foul and wild, he deems 'em smoke to be; lullay, thou little tiny child, by-by, lullay, lullie!' the ogre lifted up his eyes into the moon's pale ray, and gazed upon her leopard-wise, cruel and clear as day; he snarled in gluttony and fear: 'the wind blows dismally, jesu in storm my lambs be near, by-by, lullay, lullie!' and like a ravenous beast which sees the hunter's icy eye, so did this wretch in wrath confess sweet jesu's mastery. he lightly drew his greedy thumb from out that casement pale, and strode, enormous, swiftly home, whinnying down the dale. dame hickory 'dame hickory, dame hickory, here's sticks for your fire, furze-twigs, and oak-twigs, and beech-twigs, and briar!' but when old dame hickory came for to see, she found 'twas the voice of the false faerie. 'dame hickory, dame hickory, here's meat for your broth, goose-flesh, and hare's flesh, and pig's trotters both!' but when old dame hickory came for to see, she found 'twas the voice of the false faerie. 'dame hickory, dame hickory, here's a wolf at your door, his teeth grinning white, and his tongue wagging sore!' 'nay!' said dame hickory, 'ye false faerie!' but a wolf 'twas indeed, and famished was he. 'dame hickory, dame hickory, here's buds for your tomb, bramble, and lavender, and rosemary bloom!' 'hush!' said dame hickory, 'ye false faerie, ye cry like a wolf, ye do, and trouble poor me.' the pilgrim 'shall we carry now your bundle, you old grey man? over hill and over meadow, lighter than an owlet's shadow, we will whirl it through the air, through blue regions shrill and bare; shall we carry now your bundle, you old grey man?' the pilgrim lifted up his eyes and saw three fiends, in the skies, stooping o'er that lonely place evil in form and face. 'o leave me, leave me, leave me, ye three wild fiends! far it is my feet must wander, and my city lieth yonder; i must bear my bundle alone, help nor solace suffer none: o leave me, leave me, leave me, ye three wild fiends!' the fiends stared down with greedy eye, fanning the chill air duskily, 'twixt their hoods they stoop and cry:-- 'shall we smooth the path before you, you old grey man? sprinkle it green with gilded showers, strew it o'er with painted flowers? shall we blow sweet airs on it, lure the magpie there to flit? shall we smooth the path before you, you old grey man?' 'o silence, silence, silence! ye three wild fiends! over bog, and fen, and boulder, i must bear it on my shoulder, beaten of wind, torn of briar, smitten of rain, parched of fire: o silence, silence, silence! ye three wild fiends!' it seemed a smoke obscured the air, bright lightning quivered in the gloom, and a faint voice of thunder spake far in the lone hill-hollows--'come!' then half in fury, half in dread, the fiends drew closer down and said:-- 'grey old man but sleep awhile; sad old man! thorn, and dust, and ice, and heat; tarry now, sit down and eat; heat, and ice, and dust, and thorn; stricken, footsore, parched, forlorn,-- juice of purple grape shall be youth and solace unto thee. with sweet wire and reed we'll haunt you; songs of the valley shall enchant you; rest now, lest this night you die: sweet be now our lullaby: 'grey old man, come sleep awhile, stubborn old man!' the pilgrim crouches terrified at stooping hood, and glassy face, gloating, evil, side by side; terror and hate brood o'er the place; he flings his withered hands on high with a bitter, breaking cry:-- 'leave me, leave me, leave me, leave me, ye three wild fiends: if i lay me down in slumber, then i lay me down in wrath; if i stir not in sweet dreaming, then i wither in my path; if i hear sweet voices singing, 'tis a demon's lullaby, and in "hideous storm and terror" wake but to die!' and even while he spake, the sun from the sweet hills pierced the gloom, kindling th' affrighted fiends upon. wild flapped their wings, as if in doom, he heard a dismal hooting laughter:-- nought but a little rain fell after, and from the cloud whither they flew a storm-sweet lark rose in the blue: and his bundle seemed of flowers in his solitary hours. the gage 'lady jane, o lady jane! your hound hath broken bounds again, and chased my timorous deer, o; if him i see, that hour he'll dee; my brakes shall be his bier, o.' 'lord aërie, lord aërie, my hound, i trow, is fleet and free, he's welcome to your deer, o; shoot, shoot you may, he'll gang his way, your threats we nothing fear, o.' he's fetched him in, he's fetched him in, gone all his swiftness, all his din, white fang, and glowering eye, o: 'here is your beast, and now at least my herds in peace shall lie, o.' "in peace!" my lord, o mark me well! for what my jolly hound befell you shall sup twenty-fold, o! for every tooth of his, i'sooth, a stag in pawn i hold, o. 'huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn, shall scare your heaths and coverts lorn, braying 'em shrill and clear, o; but lone and still shall lift each hill, each valley wan and sere, o. 'ride up you may, ride down you may, lonely or trooped, by night or day, my hound shall haunt you ever: bird, beast, and game shall dread the same, the wild fish of your river.' her cheek is like the angry rose, her eye with wrath and pity flows: he gazes fierce and round, o,-- 'dear lord!' he says, 'what loveliness to waste upon a hound, o. 'i'd give my stags, my hills and dales, my stormcocks and my nightingales to have undone this deed, o; for deep beneath my heart is death which for her love doth bleed, o.' wanders he up, wanders he down, on foot, a-horse, by night and noon: his lands are bleak and drear, o; forsook his dales of nightingales, forsook his moors of deer, o. forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth; there's nothing lightsome left on earth: only one scene is fain, o, where far remote the moonbeams gloat, and sleeps the lovely jane, o. until an eve when lone he went, gnawing his beard in dreariment, lo! from a thicket hidden, lovely as flower in april hour, steps forth a form unbidden. 'get ye now down, lord aërie, i'm troubled so i'm like to dee,' she cries, 'twixt joy and grief, o; 'the hound is dead, when all is said, but love is past belief, o. 'nights, nights i've lain your lands to see, forlorn and still--and all for me, all for a foolish curse, o; now here am i come out to die, to live unlov'd is worse, o!' in faith, this lord, in that lone dale, hears now a sweeter nightingale, and lairs a tend'rer deer, o; his sorrow goes like mountain snows in waters sweet and clear, o! let the hound bay in shadowland, tuning his ear to understand what voice hath tamed this aërie; chafe, chafe he may the stag all day, and never thirst nor weary. now here he smells, now there he smells, winding his voice along the dells, till grey flows up the morn, o; then hies again to lady jane, no longer now forlorn, o. ay, as it were a bud, did break to loveliness for aërie's sake, so she in beauty moving rides at his hand across his land, beloved as well as loving. as lucy went a-walking as lucy went a-walking one wintry morning fine, there sate three crows upon a bough, and three times three is nine: then 'o!' said lucy, in the snow, 'it's very plain to see a witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me.' then stept she light and heedfully across the frozen snow, and plucked a bunch of elder-twigs that near a pool did grow: and, by and by, she comes to seven shadows in one place all stretched by seven poplar-trees against the sun's bright face. she looks to left, she looks to right, and in the midst she sees a little well of water clear and frozen 'neath the trees; then down beside its margent in the crusty snow she kneels, and hears a magic belfry a-ringing with sweet bells. but when the belfry ceased to sound yet nothing could she see, save only frozen water in the shadow of the tree. but presently she lifted up her eyes along the snow, and sees a witch in brindled shawl a-frisking to and fro. her shoes were buckled scarlet that capered to and fro, and all her rusty locks were wreathed with twisted mistletoe; but never a dint, or mark, or print, in the whiteness for to see, though danced she high, though danced she fast, though danced she lissomely. it seemed 'twas diamonds in the air, or little flakes of frost; it seemed 'twas golden smoke around, or sunbeams lightly tost; it seemed an elfin music like to reeds and warblers rose: 'nay!' lucy said, 'it is the wind that through the branches flows.' and as she peeps, and as she peeps, 'tis no more one, but three, and eye of bat, and downy wing of owl within the tree, and the bells of that sweet belfry a-pealing as before, and now it is not three she sees, and now it is not four. 'o! who are ye,' sweet lucy cries, 'that in a dreadful ring, all muffled up in brindled shawls, do caper, frisk, and spring?' 'a witch and witches, one and nine,' they straight to her reply, and looked upon her narrowly, with green and needle eye. then lucy sees in clouds of gold sweet cherry-trees upgrow, and bushes of red roses that bloomed above the snow; she smells all faint the almond-boughs that blow so wild and fair, and doves with milky eyes ascend fluttering in the air. clear flow'rs she sees, like tulip buds, go floating by like birds, with wavering tips that warbled sweetly strange enchanted words; and as with ropes of amethyst the boughs with lamps were hung, and clusters of green emeralds like fruit upon them clung. 'o witches nine, ye dreadful nine, o witches seven and three! whence come these wondrous things that i this christmas morning see?' but straight, as in a clap, when she of christmas says the word, here is the snow, and there the sun, but never bloom nor bird; nor warbling flame, nor gloaming-rope of amethyst there shows, nor bunches of green emeralds, nor belfry, well, and rose, nor cloud of gold, nor cherry-tree, nor witch in brindled shawl, but like a dream which vanishes, so vanished were they all. when lucy sees, and only sees, three crows upon a bough, and earthly twigs, and bushes hidden white in driven snow, then 'o!' said lucy, 'three times three is nine--i plainly see some witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me.' the englishman i met a sailor in the woods, a silver ring wore he, his hair hung black, his eyes shone blue, and thus he said to me:-- 'what country, say, of this round earth, what shore of what salt sea, be this, my son, i wander in, and looks so strange to me?' says i, 'o foreign sailorman, in england now you be, this is her wood, and this her sky, and that her roaring sea.' he lifts his voice yet louder, 'what smell be this,' says he, 'my nose on the sharp morning air snuffs up so greedily?' says i, 'it is wild roses do smell so winsomely, and winy briar too,' says i, 'that in these thickets be.' 'and oh!' says he, 'what leetle bird is singing in yon high tree, so every shrill and long-drawn note like bubbles breaks in me?' says i, 'it is the mavis that perches in the tree, and sings so shrill, and sings so sweet, when dawn comes up the sea.' at which he fell a-musing, and fixed his eye on me, as one alone 'twixt light and dark a spirit thinks to see 'england!' he whispers soft and harsh, 'england!' repeated he, 'and briar, and rose, and mavis, a-singing in yon high tree. 'ye speak me true, my leetle son, so--so, it came to me, a-drifting landwards on a spar, and grey dawn on the sea. 'ay, ay, i could not be mistook; i knew them leafy trees, i knew that land so witcherie sweet, and that old noise of seas. 'though here i've sailed a score of years, and heard 'em, dream or wake, lap small and hollow 'gainst my cheek, on sand and coral break; '"yet now, my leetle son," says i, a-drifting on the wave, "that land i see so safe and green is england, i believe. '"and that there wood is english wood, and this here cruel sea, the selfsame old blue ocean years gone remembers me, "a-sitting with my bread and butter down ahind yon chitterin' mill; and this same marinere"--(that's me), "is that same leetle will!-- "that very same wee leetle will eating his bread and butter there, a-looking on the broad blue sea betwixt his yaller hair!" 'and here be i, my son, throwed up like corpses from the sea, ships, stars, winds, tempests, pirates past, yet leetle will i be!' he said no more, that sailorman, but in a reverie stared like the figure of a ship with painted eyes to sea. the phantom 'upstairs in the large closet, child, this side the blue-room door, is an old bible, bound in leather, standing upon the floor; 'go with this taper, bring it me; carry it on your arm; it is the book on many a sea hath stilled the waves' alarm.' late the hour, dark the night, the house is solitary, feeble is a taper's light to light poor ann to see. her eyes are yet with visions bright of sylph and river, flower and fay, now through a narrow corridor she takes her lonely way. vast shadows on the heedless walls gigantic loom, stoop low: each little hasty footfall calls hollowly to and fro. in the dim solitude her heart remembers tearlessly white winters when her mother was her loving company. now in the dark clear glass she sees a taper mocking hers,-- a phantom face of light blue eyes, reflecting phantom fears. around her loom the vacant rooms, wind the upward stairs, she climbs on into a loneliness only her taper shares. her grandmother is deaf with age; a garden of moonless trees would answer not though she should cry in anguish on her knees. so that she scarcely heeds--so fast her pent-up heart doth beat-- when, faint along the corridor, falleth the sound of feet:-- sounds lighter than silk slippers make upon a ballroom floor, when sweet violin and 'cello wake music for twirling feet. o! in an old unfriendly house, what shapes may not conceal their faces in the open day, at night abroad to steal? even her taper seems with fear to languish small and blue; far in the woods the winter wind runs whistling through. a dreadful cold plucks at each hair, her mouth is stretched to cry, but sudden, with a gush of joy, it narrows to a sigh. it is a wilding child which comes swift through the corridor, singing an old forgotten song, this ancient burden bore:-- 'thorn, thorn, i wis, and roses twain, a red rose and a white, stoop in the blossom, bee, and kiss a lonely child good-night. 'swim fish, sing bird, and sigh again, i that am lost am lone, bee in the blossom never stirred locks hid beneath a stone!'-- her eye was of the azure fire that hovers in wintry flame; her raiment wild and yellow as furze that spouteth out the same; and in her hand she bore no flower, but on her head a wreath of faded flag-flowers that did yet smell sweetly after death. clear was the light of loveliness that lit her face like rain; and sad the mouth that uttered her immemorial strain. * * * * gloomy with night the corridor is now that she is gone, albeit this solitary child no longer seems alone. fast though her taper dwindles down, heavy and thick the tome, a beauty beyond fear to dim haunts now her alien home. ghosts in the world malignant, grim, vex many a wood, and glen, and house, and pool,--the unquiet ghosts of dead and restless men. but in her grannie's house this spirit-- a child as lone as she-- pining for love not found on earth, ann dreams again to see. seated upon her tapestry-stool, her fairy-book laid by, she gazes in the fire, knowing she hath sweet company. the miller and his son a twangling harp for mary, a silvery flute for john, and now we'll play the livelong day, 'the miller and his son.' 'the miller went a-walking all in the forest high, he sees three doves a-flitting against the dark blue sky: 'says he, "my son, now follow these doves so white and free, that cry above the forest, and surely cry to thee." "i go, my dearest father, but o! i sadly fear, these doves so white will lead me far, but never bring me near." 'he kisses the miller, he cries, "awhoop to ye!" and straightway through the forest follows the wood-doves three. 'there came a sound of weeping to the miller in his mill; red roses in a thicket bloomed over near his wheel; 'three stars shone wild and brightly above the forest dim: but never his dearest son returns again to him. 'the cuckoo shall call "cuckoo!" in vain along the vale, the linnet, and the blackbird, the mournful nightingale; 'the miller hears and sees not, a-thinking of his son; his toppling wheel is silent; his grinding done. '"ye doves so white," he weepeth, "ye roses on the tree, ye stars that shine so brightly, ye shine in vain for me!" 'i bade him follow, follow, he said, "o father dear, these doves so white will lead me far but never bring me near!"' a twangling harp for mary, a silvery flute for john, and now we'll play the livelong day, 'the miller and his son.' down-adown-derry down-adown-derry, sweet annie maroon, gathering daisies in the meadows of doone, sees a white fairy skip buxom and free where the waters go brawling in rills to the sea; singing down-adown-derry. down-adown-derry, sweet annie maroon through the green grasses runs fleetly and soon, and lo! on a lily she sees one recline whose eyes in her wee face like the water-sparks shine; singing down-adown-derry. down-adown-derry, and shrill was her tune:-- 'come to my water-house, annie maroon, come in your pink gown, your curls on your head, to wear the white samite and rubies instead'; singing down-adown-derry. 'down-adown-derry, lean fish of the sea, bring lanthorns for feasting the gay faërie; and it's dancing on sand 'tis that's smoother than wool;-- foam-fruit and wild honey to pleasure you full'; singing down-adown-derry. down-adown-derry, sweet annie maroon looked large on the fairy curled wan as the moon; and all the grey ripples to the mill racing by, with harps and with timbrels did ringing reply; singing down-adown-derry. 'down-adown-derry,' sang the fairy of doone, piercing the heart of sweet annie maroon; and lo! when like roses the clouds of the sun faded at dusk, gone was annie maroon; singing down-adown-derry. down-adown-derry, the daisies are few; frost twinkles powd'ry in haunts of the dew; only the robin perched on a white thorn, can comfort the heart of a father forlorn; singing down-adown-derry. down-adown-derry, there's snow in the air; ice where the lily bloomed waxen and fair; he may call o'er the water, cry--cry through the mill, but annie maroon, alas! answer ne'er will; singing down-adown-derry. the supper a wolf he pricks with eyes of fire across the night's o'ercrusted snows, seeking his prey, he pads his way where jane benighted goes, where jane benighted goes. he curdles the bleak air with ire, ruffling his hoary raiment through, and lo! he sees beneath the trees where jane's light footsteps go, where jane's light footsteps go. no hound peals thus in wicked joy, he snaps his muzzle in the snows, his five-clawed feet do scamper fleet where jane's bright lanthorn shows, where jane's bright lanthorn shows. now his greed's green doth gaze unseen on a pure face of wilding rose, her amber eyes in fear's surprise watch largely as she goes, watch largely as she goes. salt wells his hunger in his jaws, his lust it revels to and fro, yet small beneath a soft voice saith, 'jane shall in safety go, jane shall in safety go.' he lurched as if a fiery lash had scourged his hide, and through and through, his furious eyes o'erscanned the skies, but nearer dared not go, but nearer dared not go. he reared like wild bucephalus, his fangs like spears in him uprose, ev'n to the town jane's flitting gown he grins on as she goes, he grins on as she goes. in fierce lament he howls amain, he scampers, marvelling in his throes what brought him there to sup on air, while jane unarmèd goes, while jane unarmèd goes. the isle of lone three dwarfs there were which lived on an isle, and the name of the isle was lone, and the names of the dwarfs were alliolyle, lallerie, muziomone. alliolyle was green of een, lallerie light of locks, muziomone was mild of mien, as ewes in april flocks. their house was small and sweet of the sea, and pale as the malmsey wine; their bowls were three, and their beds were three, and their nightcaps white were nine. their beds were of the holly-wood, their combs of the tortoiseshell, their mirrors clear as wintry flood, frozen dark and snell. so each would lie on his plumpy pillow, the moon for company, and hear the parrot scream to the billow, and the billow roar reply.-- sulphur parrots, and parrots red, scarlet, and flame, and green; and five-foot apes that jargonèd in feathery-tufted treen. and oh, or ever the dawning shed on dreams a narrow flame, three gaping dwarfs gat out of bed and gazed upon the same. at dawn they fished, at noon they snared young foxes in the dells, at even on dew-berries they fared, and blew in their twisted shells. dark was the sea they gambolled in, and thick with silver fish, dark as green glass blown clear and thin to be a monarch's dish. they sate to sup in a jasmine bower, lit pale with flies of fire, their bowls the hue of the iris-flower, and lemon their attire. sweet wine in little cups they sipped, and golden honeycomb into their bowls of cream they dipped, whipt light and white as foam. alliolyle, where the salt sea flows, taught three old apes to sing, and there to the moon, like a full-blown rose, they capered in a ring. but down to the shore skipped lallerie, his parrot on his thumb, and the twain they scritched in mockery, while the dancers go and come. so, alas! in the evening, rosy and still, light-haired lallerie bitterly quarrelled with alliolyle by the yellow-sanded sea. the rising moon swam sweet and large before their furious eyes, and they rolled and rolled to the coral marge where the surf for ever cries. too late, too late, comes muziomone: clear in the clear green sea alliolyle lies not alone, but clasped with lallerie. he blows on his shell plaintive notes; ape, parraquito, bee flock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,-- the shoe of lallerie. he fetches nightcaps, one and nine, grey apes he dowers three, his house as fair as the malmsey wine seems sad as cypress-tree. three bowls he brims with honeycomb to feast the bumble bees, saying, 'o bees, be this your home, for grief is on the seas!' he sate him lone in a coral grot, at the flowing of the tide; when ebbed the billow, there was not, save coral, aught beside. so hairy apes in three white beds, and nightcaps, one and nine, on moonlit pillows lay three heads bemused with dwarfish wine. a tomb of coral, the dirge of bee, the grey apes' guttural groan for alliolyle, for lallerie, for thee, o muziomone! the sleeping beauty the scent of bramble sweets the air, amid her folded sheets she lies, the gold of evening in her hair, the blue of morn shut in her eyes. how many a changing moon hath lit the unchanging roses of her face! her mirror ever broods on it in silver stillness of the days. oft flits the moth on filmy wings into his solitary lair; shrill evensong the cricket sings from some still shadow in her hair. in heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, she sleeps in lovely loneliness, half folded like an april bud on winter-haunted trees. the horn hark! is that a horn i hear, in cloudland winding sweet-- and bell-like clash of bridle-rein, and silver-shod light feet? is it the elfin laughter of fairies riding faint and high, 'neath the branches of the moon, straying through the starry sky? is it in the globèd dew such sweet melodies may fall? wood and valley--all are still, hushed the shepherd's call. hark! is that a horn i hear in cloudland winding sweet? or gloomy goblins marching out their captain puck to greet? captain lean out of the east a hurricane swept down on captain lean-- that mariner and gentleman will ne'er again be seen. he sailed his ship against the foes of his own country dear, but now in the trough of the billows an aimless course doth steer. powder was violets to his nostril, sweet the din of the fighting-line, now he is flotsam on the seas, and his bones are bleached with brine. the stars move up along the sky, the moon she shines so bright, and in that solitude the foam sparkles unearthly white. this is the tomb of captain lean, would a straiter please his soul? i trow he sleeps in peace, howsoever the billows roll! the portrait of a warrior his brow is seamed with line and scar; his cheek is red and dark as wine; the fires as of a northern star beneath his cap of sable shine. his right hand, bared of leathern glove, hangs open like an iron gin, you stoop to see his pulses move, to hear the blood sweep out and in. he looks some king, so solitary in earnest thought he seems to stand, as if across a lonely sea he gazed impatient of the land. out of the noisy centuries the foolish and the fearful fade; yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes, time hath not dimmed nor death dismayed. haunted from out the wood i watched them shine,-- the windows of the haunted house, now ruddy as enchanted wine, now dim as flittermouse. there went a thin voice piping airs along the grey and crooked walks,-- a garden of thistledown and tares, bright leaves, and giant stalks. the twilight rain shone at its gates, where long-leaved grass in shadow grew; and black in silence to her mates a voiceless raven flew. lichen and moss the lone stones greened, green paths led lightly to its door, keen from her lair the spider leaned, and dusk to darkness wore. amidst the sedge a whisper ran, the west shut down a heavy eye, and like last tapers, few and wan, the watch-stars kindled in the sky. the raven's tomb 'build me my tomb,' the raven said, 'within the dark yew-tree, so in the autumn yewberries sad lamps may burn for me. summon the haunted beetle, from twilight bud and bloom, to drone a gloomy dirge for me at dusk above my tomb. beseech ye too the glowworm to bear her cloudy flame, where the small, flickering bats resort, whistling in tears my name. let the round dew a whisper make, welling on twig and thorn; and only the grey cock at night call through his silver horn. and you, dear sisters, don your black for ever and a day, to show how sweet a raven in his tomb is laid away.' the christening the bells chime clear, soon will the sun behind the hills sink down; come, little ann, your baby brother dear lies in his christening-gown. his godparents are all across the fields stepped on before, and wait beneath the crumbling monuments, this side the old church door. your mammie dear leans frail and lovely on your daddie's arm; watching her chick, 'twixt happiness and fear, lest he should come to harm. all to be blest full soon in the clear heavenly water, he sleeps on unwitting of't, his little breast heaving so tenderly. i carried you, my little ann, long since on this same quest, and from the painted windows a pale hue lit golden on your breast; and then you woke, chill as the holy water trickled down, and, weeping, cast the window a strange look, half smile, half infant frown. i scarce could hear the larks a-singing in the green meadows, 'twas summertide, and budding far and near the hedges thick with rose. and now you're grown a little girl, and this same helpless mite is come like such another bud half-blown, out of the wintry night. time flies, time flies! and yet, bless me! 'tis little changed am i; may jesu keep from tears those infant eyes, be love their lullaby! the mother bird through the green twilight of a hedge i peered, with cheek on the cool leaves pressed, and spied a bird upon a nest: two eyes she had beseeching me meekly and brave, and her brown breast throbb'd hot and quick above her heart; and then she oped her dagger bill,-- 'twas not a chirp, as sparrows pipe at break of day; 'twas not a trill, as falters through the quiet even; but one sharp solitary note, one desperate, fierce, and vivid cry of valiant tears, and hopeless joy, one passionate note of victory: off, like a fool afraid, i sneaked, smiling the smile the fool smiles best, at the mother bird in the secret hedge patient upon her lonely nest. the child in the story goes to bed i prythee, nurse, come smooth my hair, and prythee, nurse, unloose my shoe, and trimly turn my silken sheet upon my quilt of gentle blue. my pillow sweet of lavender smooth with an amiable hand, and may the dark pass peacefully by as in the hour-glass droops the sand. prepare my cornered manchet sweet, and in my little crystal cup pour out the blithe and flowering mead that forthwith i may sup. withdraw my curtains from the night, and let the crispèd crescent shine upon my eyelids while i sleep, and soothe me with her beams benign. from far-away there streams the singing of the mellifluent nightingale,-- surely if goblins hear her lay, they shall not o'er my peace prevail. now quench my silver lamp, prythee, and bid the harpers harp that tune fairies which haunt the meadowlands sing clearly to the stars of june. and bid them play, though i in dreams no longer heed their pining strains, for i would not to silence wake when slumber o'er my senses wanes. you angels bright who me defend, enshadow me with curvèd wing, and keep me in the darksome night till dawn another day do bring. the child in the story awakes the light of dawn rose on my dreams, and from afar i seemed to hear in sleep the mellow blackbird call hollow and sweet and clear. i prythee, nurse, my casement open, wildly the garden peals with singing, and hooting through the dewy pines the goblins all are winging. o listen the droning of the bees, that in the roses take delight! and see a cloud stays in the blue like an angel still and bright. the gentle sky is spread like silk, and, nurse, the moon doth languish there, as if it were a perfect jewel in the morning's soft-spun hair. the greyness of the distant hills is silvered in the lucid east, see, now the sheeny-plumèd cock wags haughtily his crest. 'o come you out, o come you out, lily, and lavender, and lime; the kingcup swings his golden bell, and plumpy cherries drum the time. 'o come you out, o come you out! roses, and dew, and mignonette, the sun is in the steep blue sky, sweetly the morning star is set.' the lamplighter when the light of day declineth, and a swift angel through the sky kindleth god's tapers clear, with ashen staff the lamplighter passeth along the darkling streets to light our earthly lamps; lest, prowling in the darkness, the thief should haunt with quiet tread, or men on evil errands set; or wayfarers be benighted; or neighbours bent from house to house should need a guiding torch. he is like a needlewoman who deftly on a sable hem stitches in gleaming jewels; or, haply, he is like a hero, whose bright deeds on the long journey are beacons on our way. and when in the east cometh morning, and the broad splendour of the sun, then, with the tune of little birds ringing on high, the lamplighter passeth by each quiet house, and putteth out the lamps. cecil ye little elves, who haunt sweet dells, where flowers with the dew commune, i pray you hush the child, cecil, with windlike song. o little elves, so white she lieth, each eyelid gentler than the flow'r of the bramble, and her fleecy hair like smoke of gold. o little elves, her hands and feet the angels muse upon, and god hath shut a glimpse of paradise in each blue eye. o little elves, her tiny body like a white flake of snow it is, drooping upon the pale green hood of the chill snowdrop. o little elves, with elderflower, and pimpernel, and the white hawthorn, sprinkle the journey of her dreams: and, little elves, call to her magically sweet, lest of her very tenderness she do forsake this rough brown earth and return to us no more. i met at eve i met at eve the prince of sleep, his was a still and lovely face, he wandered through a valley steep lovely in a lonely place. his garb was grey of lavender, about his brows a poppy-wreath burned like dim coals, and everywhere the air was sweeter for his breath. his twilight feet no sandals wore, his eyes shone faint in their own flame, fair moths that gloomed his steps before seemed letters of his lovely name. his house is in the mountain ways, a phantom house of misty walls, whose golden flocks at evening graze, and witch the moon with muffled calls. upwelling from his shadowy springs sweet waters shake a trembling sound, there flit the hoot-owl's silent wings, there hath his web the silkworm wound. dark in his pools clear visions lurk, and rosy, as with morning buds, along his dales of broom and birk dreams haunt his solitary woods. i met at eve the prince of sleep, his was a still and lovely face, he wandered through a valley steep, lovely in a lonely place. lullaby sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! the singing mouse sings plaintively, the sweet night-bird in the chesnut-tree-- they sing together, bird and mouse, in starlight, in darkness, lonely, sweet, the wild notes and the faint notes meet-- sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! amid the lilies floats the moth, the mole along his galleries goeth in the dark earth; the summer moon looks like a shepherd through the pane seeking his feeble lamb again-- sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! time comes to keep night-watch with thee nodding with roses; and the sea saith 'peace! peace!' amid his foam white as thy night-clothes; 'o be still!' the wind cries up the whisp'ring hill-- sleep, sleep, lovely white soul! envoy there clung three roses to a stem, did all their hues of summer don, but came a wind and troubled them, and all were gone. i heard three bells in unison clap out some transient heart's delight, time and the hour brought silence on and the dark night. doth not orion even set! o love, love, prove true alone, till youthful hearts ev'n love forget, then, child, begone! printed by t. and a. constable, (late) printers to her majesty at the edinburgh university press none none none none none none none [illustration] [illustration] copyright all rights reserved mother goose. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] mother goose or the old nursery rhymes illustrated by kate greenaway [illustration] london frederick warne and co. ltd and new york [illustration] printed in great britain . [illustration: dedicated to lily and eddie.] [illustration] * * * * * contents page _hark! hark! the dogs bark_ _little jack horner, sat in a corner_ _there was an old woman_ _diddlty, diddlty, dumpty_ _we're all jolly boys_ _to market, to market to buy a plum cake_ _elsie marley has grown so fine_ _daffy-down-dilly has come up to town_ _jack sprat could eat no fat_ _lucy locket, lost her pocket_ _cross patch, lift the latch_ _johnny shall have a new bonnet_ _there was a little boy and a little girl_ _draw a pail of water_ _jack and jill_ _little bo-peep has lost her sheep_ _polly put the kettle on_ _little tommy tittlemouse_ _tell tale tit_ _goosey, goosey, gander_ _willy boy, willy boy, where are you going?_ _mary, mary, quite contrary_ _bonny lass, pretty lass, wilt thou be mine?_ _a dillar, a dollar_ _little betty blue_ _billy boy blue, come blow me your horn_ _girls and boys come out to play_ _here am i, little jumping joan_ _ride a cock-horse_ _rock-a-bye baby_ _little tom tucker_ _little miss muffet_ _humpty dumpty sat on a wall_ _see-saw-jack in the hedge_ _little lad, little lad_ _as i was going up pippin hill_ _little maid, little maid_ _my mother, and your mother_ _all around the green gravel_ _one foot up, the other foot down_ _georgie peorgie, pudding and pie_ _as tommy snooks and bessie brooks_ _tom, tom, the piper's son_ _ring-a-ring-a-roses_ [illustration] * * * * * [illustration] hark! hark! the dogs bark, the beggars are coming to town; some in rags and some in tags, and some in a silken gown. some gave them white bread, and some gave them brown, and some gave them a good horse-whip, and sent them out of the town. [illustration] little jack horner sat in the corner, eating a christmas pie; he put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum, and said, oh! what a good boy am i. [illustration] there was an old woman lived under a hill; and if she's not gone, she lives there still. [illustration] diddlty, diddlty, dumpty, the cat ran up the plum tree, give her a plum, and down she'll come, diddlty, diddlty, dumpty. [illustration] we're all jolly boys, and we're coming with a noise, our stockings shall be made of the finest silk, and our tails shall trail the ground. [illustration] to market, to market, to buy a plum cake, home again, home again, market is late; to market, to market, to buy a plum bun, home again, home again, market is done. [illustration] elsie marley has grown so fine, she won't get up to serve the swine; but lies in bed till eight or nine, and surely she does take her time. [illustration] daffy-down-dilly has come up to town, in a yellow petticoat and a green gown. [illustration] jack sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean; and so between them both, they licked the platter clean. [illustration] lucy locket, lost her pocket, kitty fisher found it; there was not a penny in it, but a ribbon round it. [illustration] cross patch, lift the latch, sit by the fire and spin; take a cup, and drink it up, then call your neighbours in. [illustration] johnny shall have a new bonnet, and johnny shall go to the fair; and johnny shall have a blue ribbon, to tie up his bonny brown hair. [illustration] there was a little boy and a little girl lived in an alley; says the little boy to the little girl, "shall i, oh, shall i?" says the little girl to the little boy, "what shall we do?" says the little boy to the little girl, "i will kiss you!" [illustration] draw a pail of water, for my lady's daughter; my father's a king, and my mother's a queen, my two little sisters are dressed in green, stamping grass and parsley, marigold leaves and daisies. one rush! two rush! pray thee, fine lady, come under my bush. [illustration] jack and jill went up the hill, to fetch a pail of water; jack fell down and broke his crown, and jill came tumbling after. [illustration] little bo-peep has lost her sheep, and can't tell where to find them; leave them alone, and they'll come home, and bring their tails behind them. [illustration] polly put the kettle on, polly put the kettle on, polly put the kettle on, we'll all have tea. sukey take it off again, sukey take it off again, sukey take it off again, they're all gone away. [illustration] little tommy tittlemouse, lived in a little house; he caught fishes in other men's ditches. [illustration] tell tale tit, your tongue shall be slit; and all the dogs in the town shall have a little bit. [illustration] goosey, goosey, gander, where shall i wander? up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady's chamber: there i met an old man, who would not say his prayers; take him by the left leg, throw him down the stairs. [illustration] willy boy, willy boy, where are you going? i will go with you, if i may. i'm going to the meadow to see them a mowing, i'm going to help them make the hay. [illustration] mary, mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and cowslips all of a row. [illustration] bonny lass, pretty lass, wilt thou be mine? thou shall not wash dishes, nor yet serve the swine; thou shalt sit on a cushion, and sew a fine seam, and thou shalt eat strawberries, sugar, and cream! [illustration] a dillar, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar; what makes you come so soon? you used to come at ten o'clock, but now you come at noon! [illustration] little betty blue, lost her holiday shoe. what will poor betty do? why, give her another, to match the other, and then she will walk in two. [illustration] billy boy blue, come blow me your horn, the sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn; is that the way you mind your sheep, under the haycock fast asleep! [illustration] girls and boys come out to play, the moon it shines as bright as day; leave your supper, and leave your sleep, and come to your playmates in the street; come with a whoop, come with a call, come with a good will, or come not at all; up the ladder and down the wall, a halfpenny loaf will serve us all. [illustration] here am i, little jumping joan, when nobody's with me, i'm always alone. [illustration] ride a cock-horse, to banbury-cross, to see little johnny get on a white horse. [illustration] rock-a-bye baby, thy cradle is green; father's a nobleman, mother's a queen. and betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring; and johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king. [illustration] little tom tucker, he sang for his supper. what did he sing for? why, white bread and butter. how can i cut it without a knife? how can i marry without a wife? [illustration] little miss muffet, sat on a tuffet, eating some curds and whey; there came a great spider, and sat down beside her, and frightened miss muffet away. [illustration] humpty dumpty sat on a wall, humpty dumpty had a great fall. [illustration] see-saw-jack in the hedge, which is the way to london bridge? [illustration] little lad, little lad, where wast thou born? far off in lancashire, under a thorn; where they sup sour milk from a ram's horn. [illustration] as i was going up pippin hill, pippin hill was dirty; there i met a sweet pretty lass, and she dropped me a curtsey. [illustration] little maid, little maid, whither goest thou? down in the meadow to milk my cow. [illustration] my mother, and your mother, went over the way; said my mother, to your mother, "it's chop-a-nose day." [illustration] all around the green gravel, the grass grows so green, and all the pretty maids are fit to be seen; wash them in milk, dress them in silk, and the first to go down shall be married. [illustration] one foot up, the other foot down, that's the way to london town. [illustration] georgie peorgie, pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry; when the girls begin to play, georgie peorgie runs away. [illustration] as tommy snooks, and bessie brooks were walking out one sunday; says tommy snooks to bessie brooks, "to-morrow--will be monday." [illustration] tom, tom, the piper's son, he learnt to play when he was young, he with his pipe made such a noise, that he pleased all the girls and boys. [illustration] ring-a-ring-a-roses, a pocket full of posies; hush! hush! hush! hush! we're all tumbled down. [illustration] engraved and printed by edmund evans, ltd. clerkenwell road, london, e.c. . [illustration] the pied piper of hamelin the pied piper of hamelin by robert browning illustrated by kate greenaway london frederick warne and co., ltd. and new york printed in u.s.a. the pied piper of hamelin i. hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, washes its wall on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, was a pity. ii. rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats. and licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats, by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. iii. at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking: "tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's a noddy; and as for our corporation--shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease? rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. iv. an hour they sate in council, at length the mayor broke silence: "for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell; i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber door but a gentle tap? "bless us," cried the mayor, "what's that?" (with the corporation as he sat, looking little though wondrous fat; nor brighter was his eye, nor moister than a too-long-opened oyster, save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "only a scraping of shoes on the mat? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" v. "come in!"--the mayor cried, looking bigger: and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red, and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, and light loose hair, yet swarthy skin no tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, but lips where smile went out and in; there was no guessing his kith and kin: and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. quoth one: "it's as my great-grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" vi. he advanced to the council-table: and, "please your honours," said he, "i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole and toad and newt and viper; and people call me the pied piper." (and here they noticed round his neck a scarf of red and yellow stripe, to match with his coat of the self-same cheque; and at the scarf's end hung a pipe; and his fingers they noticed were ever straying as if impatient to be playing upon his pipe, as low it dangled over his vesture so old-fangled.) "yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham, last june, from his huge swarms of gnats, i eased in asia the nizam of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?" "one? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. vii. into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; then, like a musical adept, to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, you heard as if an army muttered; and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling. great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser wherein all plunged and perished! --save one who, stout as julius cæsar, swam across and lived to carry (as he, the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary: which was, "at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples, wondrous ripe, into a cider-press's gripe: and a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, 'oh rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' and just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, all ready staved, like a great sun shone glorious scarce an inch before me, just as methought it said, 'come, bore me!' --i found the weser rolling o'er me." viii. you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple "go," cried the mayor, "and get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats!"--when suddenly up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders!" ix. a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue; so did the corporation too. for council dinners made rare havoc with claret, moselle, vin-de-grave, hock; and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish. to pay this sum to a wandering fellow with a gipsy coat of red and yellow! "beside," quoth the mayor with a knowing wink, "our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something to drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke. beside, our losses have made us thrifty. a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" x. the piper's face fell, and he cried, "no trifling! i can't wait, beside! i've promised to visit by dinner-time bagdad, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left, in the caliph's kitchen, of a nest of scorpions no survivor: with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe after another fashion." xi. "how?" cried the mayor, "d' ye think i brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst, blow your pipe there till you burst!" xii. once more he stept into the street, and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air) there was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, and, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, out came the children running. all the little boys and girls, with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. tripping and skipping, ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. xiii. the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood, unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by. --could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. but how the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosoms beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters right in the way of their sons and daughters! however he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed; great was the joy in every breast. "he never can cross that mighty top! he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop!" when, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced and the children followed, and when all were in to the very last, the door in the mountain side shut fast. did i say, all? no; one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say,-- "it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me. for he led us, he said, to a joyous land, joining the town and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new; the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow deer, and honey-bees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings; and just as i became assured my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before, and never hear of that country more!" xiv. alas, alas for hamelin! there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opes to the rich at as easy rate as the needle's eye takes a camel in! the mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the piper, by word of mouth, wherever it was men's lot to find him, silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, and piper and dancers were gone for ever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly if, after the day of the month and year, these words did not as well appear, "and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july, thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it, the pied piper's street-- where any one playing on pipe or tabor, was sure for the future to lose his labour. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church-window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away, and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people that ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long time ago in a mighty band out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. xv. so, willy, let me and you be wipers of scores out with all men--especially pipers! and, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! first published original wood block designs engraved by edward evans limited book of nonsense by edward lear there was an old derry down derry, who loved to see little folks merry; so he made them a book, and with laughter they shook, at the fun of that derry down derry! to the great-grandchildren, grand-nephews, and grand-nieces of edward, th earl of derby, this book of drawings and verses (the greater part of which were originally made and composed for their parents,) is dedicated by the author, edward lear . there was an old man with a beard, who said, "it is just as i feared!-- two owls and a hen, four larks and a wren, have all built their nests in my beard!" . there was a young lady of ryde, whose shoe-strings were seldom untied; she purchased some clogs, and some small spotty dogs, and frequently walked about ryde. . there was an old man with a nose, who said, "if you choose to suppose, that my nose is too long, you are certainly wrong!" that remarkable man with a nose. . there was an old man on a hill, who seldom, if ever, stood still; he ran up and down, in his grandmother's gown, which adorned that old man on a hill. . there was a young lady whose bonnet, came untied when the birds sate upon it; but she said, "i don't care! all the birds in the air are welcome to sit on my bonnet!" . there was a young person of smyrna, whose grandmother threatened to burn her; but she seized on the cat, and said, "granny, burn that! "you incongruous old woman of smyrna!" . there was an old person of chili, whose conduct was painful and silly; he sate on the stairs, eating apples and pears, that imprudent old person of chili. . there was an old man with a gong, who bumped at it all the day long; but they called out, "o law! you're a horrid old bore!" so they smashed that old man with a gong. . there was an old lady of chertsey, who made a remarkable curtsey; she twirled round and round, till she sunk underground, which distressed all the people of chertsey. . there was an old man in a tree, who was horribly bored by a bee; when they said, "does it buzz?" he replied, "yes, it does! "it's a regular brute of a bee!" . there was an old man with a flute, a sarpint ran into his boot; but he played day and night, till the sarpint took flight, and avoided that man with a flute. . there was a young lady whose chin, resembled the point of a pin: so she had it made sharp, and purchased a harp, and played several tunes with her chin. . there was an old man of kilkenny, who never had more than a penny; he spent all that money, in onions and honey, that wayward old man of kilkenny. . there was an old person of ischia, whose conduct grew friskier and friskier; he danced hornpipes and jigs, and ate thousands of figs, that lively old person of ischia. . there was an old man in a boat, who said, "i'm afloat! i'm afloat!" when they said, "no! you ain't!" he was ready to faint, that unhappy old man in a boat. . there was a young lady of portugal, whose ideas were excessively nautical; she climbed up a tree, to examine the sea, but declared she would never leave portugal. . there was an old man of moldavia, who had the most curious behaviour; for while he was able, he slept on a table, that funny old man of moldavia . there was an old man of madras, who rode on a cream-coloured ass; but the length of its ears, so promoted his fears, that it killed that old man of madras. . there was an old person of leeds, whose head was infested with beads; she sat on a stool, and ate gooseberry fool, which agreed with that person of leeds. . there was an old man of peru, who never knew what he should do; so he tore off his hair, and behaved like a bear, that intrinsic old man of peru. . there was an old person of hurst, who drank when he was not athirst; when they said, "you'll grow fatter," he answered, "what matter?" that globular person of hurst. . there was a young person of crete, whose toilette was far from complete; she dressed in a sack, spickle-speckled with black, that ombliferous person of crete. . there was an old man of the isles, whose face was pervaded with smiles; he sung high dum diddle, and played on the fiddle, that amiable man of the isles. . there was an old person of buda, whose conduct grew ruder and ruder; till at last, with a hammer, they silenced his clamour, by smashing that person of buda . there was an old man of columbia, who was thirsty, and called out for some beer; but they brought it quite hot, in a small copper pot, which disgusted that man of columbia. . there was a young lady of dorking, who bought a large bonnet for walking; but its colour and size, so bedazzled her eyes, that she very soon went back to dorking. . there was an old man who supposed, that the street door was partially closed; but some very large rats, ate his coats and his hats, while that futile old gentleman dozed. . there was an old man of the west, who wore a pale plum-coloured vest; when they said, "does it fit?" he replied, "not a bit!" that uneasy old man of the west. . there was an old man of the wrekin, whose shoes made a horrible creaking; but they said, "tell us whether, your shoes are of leather, or of what, you old man of the wrekin?" . there was a young lady whose eyes, were unique as to colour and size; when she opened them wide, people all turned aside, and started away in surprise. . there was a young lady of norway, who casually sat in a doorway; when the door squeezed her flat, she exclaimed, "what of that?" this courageous young lady of norway. . there was an old man of vienna, who lived upon tincture of senna; when that did not agree, he took camomile tea, that nasty old man of vienna. . there was an old person whose habits, induced him to feed upon rabbits; when he'd eaten eighteen, he turned perfectly green, upon which he relinquished those habits. . there was an old person of dover, who rushed through a field of blue clover; but some very large bees, stung his nose and his knees, so he very soon went back to dover. . there was an old man of marseilles, whose daughters wore bottle-green veils; they caught several fish, which they put in a dish, and sent to their pa at marseilles. . there was an old person of cadiz, who was always polite to all ladies; but in handing his daughter, he fell into the water, which drowned that old person of cadiz. . there was an old person of basing, whose presence of mind was amazing; he purchased a steed, which he rode at full speed, and escaped from the people of basing. . there was an old man of quebec, a beetle ran over his neck; but he cried, "with a needle, i'll slay you, o beadle!" that angry old man of quebec. . there was an old person of philae, whose conduct was scroobious and wily; he rushed up a palm, when the weather was calm, and observed all the ruins of philae. . there was a young lady of bute, who played on a silver-gilt flute; she played several jigs, to her uncle's white pigs, that amusing young lady of bute. . there was a young lady whose nose, was so long that it reached to her toes; so she hired an old lady, whose conduct was steady, to carry that wonderful nose. . there was a young lady of turkey, who wept when the weather was murky; when the day turned out fine, she ceased to repine, that capricious young lady of turkey. . there was an old man of apulia, whose conduct was very peculiar; he fed twenty sons, upon nothing but buns, that whimsical man of apulia. . there was an old man with a poker, who painted his face with red oker; when they said, "you're a guy!" he made no reply, but knocked them all down with his poker. . there was an old person of prague, who was suddenly seized with the plague; but they gave him some butter, which caused him to mutter, and cured that old person of prague. . there was an old man of the north, who fell into a basin of broth; but a laudable cook, fished him out with a hook, which saved that old man of the north. . there was a young lady of poole, whose soup was excessively cool; so she put it to boil, by the aid of some oil, that ingenious young lady of poole. . there was an old person of mold, who shrank from sensations of cold; so he purchased some muffs, some furs and some fluffs, and wrapped himself from the cold. . there was an old man or nepaul, from his horse had a terrible fall; but, though split quite in two, by some very strong glue, they mended that man of nepaul. . there was an old man of th' abruzzi, so blind that he couldn't his foot see; when they said, "that's your toe," he replied, "is it so?" that doubtful old man of th' abruzzi. . there was an old person of rhodes, who strongly objected to toads; he paid several cousins, to catch them by dozens, that futile old person of rhodes. . there was an old man of peru, who watched his wife making a stew; but once by mistake, in a stove she did bake, that unfortunate man of peru. . there was an old man of melrose, who walked on the tips of his toes; but they said, "it ain't pleasant, to see you at present, you stupid old man of melrose." . there was a young lady of lucca, whose lovers completely forsook her; she ran up a tree, and said, "fiddle-de-dee!" which embarrassed the people of lucca. . there was an old man of bohemia, whose daughter was christened euphemia; till one day, to his grief, she married a thief, which grieved that old man of bohemia. . there was an old man of vesuvius, who studied the works of vitruvius; when the flames burnt his book, to drinking he took, that morbid old man of vesuvius. . there was an old man of cape horn, who wished he had never been born; so he sat on a chair, till he died of despair, that dolorous man of cape horn. . there was an old lady whose folly, induced her to sit in a holly; whereon by a thorn, her dress being torn, she quickly became melancholy. . there was an old man of corfu, who never knew what he should do; so he rushed up and down, till the sun made him brown, that bewildered old man of corfu. . there was an old man of the south, who had an immoderate mouth; but in swallowing a dish, that was quite full of fish, he was choked, that old man of the south. . there was an old man of the nile, who sharpened his nails with a file; till he cut off his thumbs, and said calmly, "this comes-- of sharpening one's nails with a file!" . there was an old person of rheims, who was troubled with horrible dreams; so, to keep him awake, they fed him with cake, which amused that old person of rheims. . there was an old person of cromer, who stood on one leg to read homer; when he found he grew stiff, he jumped over the cliff, which concluded that person of cromer. . there was an old person of troy, whose drink was warm brandy and soy; which he took with a spoon, by the light of the moon, in sight of the city of troy. . there was an old man of the dee, who was sadly annoyed by a flea; when he said, "i will scratch it," they gave him a hatchet, which grieved that old man of the dee. . there was an old man of dundee, who frequented the top of a tree; when disturbed by the crows, he abruptly arose, and exclaimed, "i'll return to dundee." . there was an old person of tring, who embellished his nose with a ring; he gazed at the moon, every evening in june, that ecstatic old person of tring. . there was an old man on some rocks, who shut his wife up in a box; when she said, "let me out," he exclaimed, "without doubt, you will pass all your life in that box." . there was an old man of coblenz, the length of whose legs was immense; he went with one prance, from turkey to france, that surprising old man of coblenz. . there was an old man of calcutta, who perpetually ate bread and butter; till a great bit of muffin, on which he was stuffing, choked that horrid old man of calcutta. . there was an old man in a pew, whose waistcoat was spotted with blue; but he tore it in pieces, to give to his nieces,-- that cheerful old man in a pew. . there was an old man who said, "how,-- shall i flee from this horrible cow? i will sit on this stile, and continue to smile, which may soften the heart of that cow." . there was a young lady of hull, who was chased by a virulent bull; but she seized on a spade, and called out--"who's afraid!" which distracted that virulent bull. . there was an old man of whitehaven, who danced a quadrille with a raven; but they said--"it's absurd, to encourage this bird!" so they smashed that old man of whitehaven. . there was an old man of leghorn, the smallest as ever was born; but quickly snapt up he, was once by a puppy, who devoured that old man of leghorn. . there was an old man of the hague, whose ideas were excessively vague; he built a balloon, to examine the moon, that deluded old man of the hague. . there was an old man of jamaica, who suddenly married a quaker; but she cried out--"o lack! i have married a black!" which distressed that old man of jamaica. . there was an old person of dutton, whose head was so small as a button; so to make it look big, he purchased a wig, and rapidly rushed about dutton. . there was a young lady of tyre, who swept the loud chords of a lyre; at the sound of each sweep, she enraptured the deep, and enchanted the city of tyre. . there was an old man who said, "hush! i perceive a young bird in this bush!" when they said--"is it small?" he replied--"not at all! it is four times as big as the bush!" . there was an old man of the east, who gave all his children a feast; but they all ate so much, and their conduct was such, that it killed that old man of the east. . there was an old man of kamschatka, who possessed a remarkably fat cur, his gait and his waddle, were held as a model, to all the fat dogs in kamschatka. . there was an old man of the coast, who placidly sat on a post; but when it was cold, he relinquished his hold, and called for some hot buttered toast. . there was an old person of bangor, whose face was distorted with anger; he tore off his boots, and subsisted on roots, that borascible person of bangor. . there was an old man with a beard, who sat on a horse when he reared; but they said, "never mind! you will fall off behind, you propitious old man with a beard!" . there was an old man of the west, who never could get any rest; so they set him to spin, on his nose find his chin, which cured that old man of the west. . there was an old person of anerley, whose conduct was strange and unmannerly; he rushed down the strand, with a pig in each hand, but returned in the evening to anerley. . there was a young lady of troy, whom several large flies did annoy; some she killed with a thump, some she drowned at the pump, and some she took with her to troy. . there was an old man of berlin, whose form was uncommonly thin; till he once, by mistake, was mixed up in a cake, so they baked that old man of berlin. . there was an old person of spain, who hated all trouble and pain; so he sate on a chair, with his feet in the air, that umbrageous old person of spain. . there was a young lady of russia, who screamed so that no one could hush her; her screams were extreme, no one heard such a scream, as was screamed by that lady of russia. . there was an old man, who said, "well! will nobody answer this bell? i have pulled day and night, till my hair has grown white, but nobody answers this bell!" . there was a young lady of wales, who caught a large fish without scales; when she lifted her hook, she exclaimed, "only look!" that ecstatic young lady of wales. . there was an old person of cheadle, was put in the stocks by the beadle; for stealing some pigs, some coats, and some wigs, that horrible person of cheadle. . there was a young lady of welling, whose praise all the world was a-telling; she played on the harp, and caught several carp, that accomplished young lady of welling. . there was an old person of tartary, who divided his jugular artery; but he screeched to his wife, and she said, "oh, my life! your death will be felt by all tartary!" . there was an old person of chester, whom several small children did pester; they threw some large stones, which broke most of his bones, and displeased that old person of chester. . there was an old man with an owl, who continued to bother and howl; he sate on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale, which refreshed that old man and his owl. . there was an old person of gretna, who rushed down the crater of etna; when they said, "is it hot?" he replied, "no, it's not!" that mendacious old person of gretna. . there was a young lady of sweden, who went by the slow train to weedon; when they cried, "weedon station!" she made no observation, but thought she should go back to sweden. . there was a young girl of majorca, whose aunt was a very fast walker; she walked seventy miles, and leaped fifteen stiles, which astonished that girl of majorca. . there was an old man of the cape, who possessed a large barbary ape; till the ape one dark night, set the house on a light, which burned that old man of the cape. . there was an old lady of prague, whose language was horribly vague; when they said, "are these caps?" she answered, "perhaps!" that oracular lady of prague. . there was an old person of sparta, who had twenty-five sons and one daughter; he fed them on snails, and weighed them in scales, that wonderful person of sparta. . there was an old man at a easement, who held up his hands in amazement; when they said, "sir, you'll fall!" he replied, "not at all!" that incipient old man at a casement. . there was an old person of burton, whose answers were rather uncertain; when they said, "how d'ye do?" he replied, "who are you?" that distressing old person of burton. . there was an old person of ems, who casually fell in the thames; and when he was found, they said he was drowned, that unlucky old person of ems. . there was an old person of ewell, who chiefly subsisted on gruel; but to make it more nice, he inserted some mice, which refreshed that old person of ewell. . there was a young lady of parma, whose conduct grew calmer and calmer; when they said, "are you dumb?" she merely said, "hum!" that provoking young lady of parma. . there was an old man of aosta, who possessed a large cow, but he lost her; but they said, "don't you see, she has rushed up a tree? you invidious old man of aosta!" . there was an old man, on whose nose, most birds of the air could repose; but they all flew away, at the closing of day, which relieved that old man and his nose. . there was a young lady of clare, who was sadly pursued by a bear; when she found she was tired, she abruptly expired, that unfortunate lady of clare. ********************************************************************** this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed at ebook (# ) ********************************************************************** a child's garden of verses by robert louis stevenson to alison cunningham from her boy for the long nights you lay awake and watched for my unworthy sake: for your most comfortable hand that led me through the uneven land: for all the story-books you read: for all the pains you comforted: for all you pitied, all you bore, in sad and happy days of yore:-- my second mother, my first wife, the angel of my infant life-- from the sick child, now well and old, take, nurse, the little book you hold! and grant it, heaven, that all who read may find as dear a nurse at need, and every child who lists my rhyme, in the bright, fireside, nursery clime, may hear it in as kind a voice as made my childish days rejoice! r. l. s. contents to alison cunningham i bed in summer ii a thought iii at the sea-side iv young night-thought v whole duty of children vi rain vii pirate story viii foreign lands ix windy nights x travel xi singing xii looking forward xiii a good play xiv where go the boats? xv auntie's skirts xvi the land of counterpane xvii the land of nod xviii my shadow xix system xx a good boy xxi escape at bedtime xxii marching song xxiii the cow xxiv the happy thought xxv the wind xxvi keepsake mill xxvii good and bad children xxviii foreign children xxix the sun travels xxx the lamplighter xxxi my bed is a boat xxxii the moon xxxiii the swing xxxiv time to rise xxxv looking-glass river xxxvi fairy bread xxxvii from a railway carriage xxxviii winter-time xxxix the hayloft xl farewell to the farm xli north-west passage . good-night . shadow march . in port the child alone i the unseen playmate ii my ship and i iii my kingdom iv picture-books in winter v my treasures vi block city vii the land of story-books viii armies in the fire ix the little land garden days i night and day ii nest eggs iii the flowers iv summer sun v the dumb soldier vi autumn fires vii the gardener viii historical associations envoys i to willie and henrietta ii to my mother iii to auntie iv to minnie v to my name-child vi to any reader a child's garden of verses i bed in summer in winter i get up at night and dress by yellow candle-light. in summer quite the other way, i have to go to bed by day. i have to go to bed and see the birds still hopping on the tree, or hear the grown-up people's feet still going past me in the street. and does it not seem hard to you, when all the sky is clear and blue, and i should like so much to play, to have to go to bed by day? ii a thought it is very nice to think the world is full of meat and drink, with little children saying grace in every christian kind of place. iii at the sea-side when i was down beside the sea a wooden spade they gave to me to dig the sandy shore. my holes were empty like a cup. in every hole the sea came up, till it could come no more. iv young night-thought all night long and every night, when my mama puts out the light, i see the people marching by, as plain as day before my eye. armies and emperor and kings, all carrying different kinds of things, and marching in so grand a way, you never saw the like by day. so fine a show was never seen at the great circus on the green; for every kind of beast and man is marching in that caravan. as first they move a little slow, but still the faster on they go, and still beside me close i keep until we reach the town of sleep. v whole duty of children a child should always say what's true and speak when he is spoken to, and behave mannerly at table; at least as far as he is able. vi rain the rain is falling all around, it falls on field and tree, it rains on the umbrellas here, and on the ships at sea. vii pirate story three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing, three of us abroad in the basket on the lea. winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, and waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea. where shall we adventure, to-day that we're afloat, wary of the weather and steering by a star? shall it be to africa, a-steering of the boat, to providence, or babylon or off to malabar? hi! but here's a squadron a-rowing on the sea-- cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! quick, and we'll escape them, they're as mad as they can be, the wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore. viii foreign lands up into the cherry tree who should climb but little me? i held the trunk with both my hands and looked abroad in foreign lands. i saw the next door garden lie, adorned with flowers, before my eye, and many pleasant places more that i had never seen before. i saw the dimpling river pass and be the sky's blue looking-glass; the dusty roads go up and down with people tramping in to town. if i could find a higher tree farther and farther i should see, to where the grown-up river slips into the sea among the ships, to where the roads on either hand lead onward into fairy land, where all the children dine at five, and all the playthings come alive. ix windy nights whenever the moon and stars are set, whenever the wind is high, all night long in the dark and wet, a man goes riding by. late in the night when the fires are out, why does he gallop and gallop about? whenever the trees are crying aloud, and ships are tossed at sea, by, on the highway, low and loud, by at the gallop goes he. by at the gallop he goes, and then by he comes back at the gallop again. x travel i should like to rise and go where the golden apples grow;-- where below another sky parrot islands anchored lie, and, watched by cockatoos and goats, lonely crusoes building boats;-- where in sunshine reaching out eastern cities, miles about, are with mosque and minaret among sandy gardens set, and the rich goods from near and far hang for sale in the bazaar;-- where the great wall round china goes, and on one side the desert blows, and with the voice and bell and drum, cities on the other hum;-- where are forests hot as fire, wide as england, tall as a spire, full of apes and cocoa-nuts and the negro hunters' huts;-- where the knotty crocodile lies and blinks in the nile, and the red flamingo flies hunting fish before his eyes;-- where in jungles near and far, man-devouring tigers are, lying close and giving ear lest the hunt be drawing near, or a comer-by be seen swinging in the palanquin;-- where among the desert sands some deserted city stands, all its children, sweep and prince, grown to manhood ages since, not a foot in street or house, not a stir of child or mouse, and when kindly falls the night, in all the town no spark of light. there i'll come when i'm a man with a camel caravan; light a fire in the gloom of some dusty dining room; see the pictures on the walls, heroes, fights and festivals; and in a corner find the toys of the old egyptian boys. xi singing of speckled eggs the birdie sings and nests among the trees; the sailor sings of ropes and things in ships upon the seas. the children sing in far japan, the children sing in spain; the organ with the organ man is singing in the rain. xii looking forward when i am grown to man's estate i shall be very proud and great, and tell the other girls and boys not to meddle with my toys. xiii a good play we built a ship upon the stairs all made of the back-bedroom chairs, and filled it full of sofa pillows to go a-sailing on the billows. we took a saw and several nails, and water in the nursery pails; and tom said, "let us also take an apple and a slice of cake;"-- which was enough for tom and me to go a-sailing on, till tea. we sailed along for days and days, and had the very best of plays; but tom fell out and hurt his knee, so there was no one left but me. xiv where go the boats? dark brown is the river, golden is the sand. it flows along for ever, with trees on either hand. green leaves a-floating, castles of the foam, boats of mine a-boating-- where will all come home? on goes the river and out past the mill, away down the valley, away down the hill. away down the river, a hundred miles or more, other little children shall bring my boats ashore. xv auntie's skirts whenever auntie moves around, her dresses make a curious sound, they trail behind her up the floor, and trundle after through the door. xvi the land of counterpane when i was sick and lay a-bed, i had two pillows at my head, and all my toys beside me lay, to keep me happy all the day. and sometimes for an hour or so i watched my leaden soldiers go, with different uniforms and drills, among the bed-clothes, through the hills; and sometimes sent my ships in fleets all up and down among the sheets; or brought my trees and houses out, and planted cities all about. i was the giant great and still that sits upon the pillow-hill, and sees before him, dale and plain, the pleasant land of counterpane. xvii the land of nod from breakfast on through all the day at home among my friends i stay, but every night i go abroad afar into the land of nod. all by myself i have to go, with none to tell me what to do-- all alone beside the streams and up the mountain-sides of dreams. the strangest things are these for me, both things to eat and things to see, and many frightening sights abroad till morning in the land of nod. try as i like to find the way, i never can get back by day, nor can remember plain and clear the curious music that i hear. xviii my shadow i have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, and what can be the use of him is more than i can see. he is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; and i see him jump before me, when i jump into my bed. the funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; for he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, and he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all. he hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. he stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see; i'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! one morning, very early, before the sun was up, i rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; but my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. xix system every night my prayers i say, and get my dinner every day; and every day that i've been good, i get an orange after food. the child that is not clean and neat, with lots of toys and things to eat, he is a naughty child, i'm sure-- or else his dear papa is poor. xx a good boy i woke before the morning, i was happy all the day, i never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play. and now at last the sun is going down behind the wood, and i am very happy, for i know that i've been good. my bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair, and i must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer. i know that, till to-morrow i shall see the sun arise, no ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes. but slumber hold me tightly till i waken in the dawn, and hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn. xxi escape at bedtime the lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out through the blinds and the windows and bars; and high overhead and all moving about, there were thousands of millions of stars. there ne'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree, nor of people in church or the park, as the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me, and that glittered and winked in the dark. the dog, and the plough, and the hunter, and all, and the star of the sailor, and mars, these shown in the sky, and the pail by the wall would be half full of water and stars. they saw me at last, and they chased me with cries, and they soon had me packed into bed; but the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes, and the stars going round in my head. xxii marching song bring the comb and play upon it! marching, here we come! willie cocks his highland bonnet, johnnie beats the drum. mary jane commands the party, peter leads the rear; feet in time, alert and hearty, each a grenadier! all in the most martial manner marching double-quick; while the napkin, like a banner, waves upon the stick! here's enough of fame and pillage, great commander jane! now that we've been round the village, let's go home again. xxiii the cow the friendly cow all red and white, i love with all my heart: she gives me cream with all her might, to eat with apple-tart. she wanders lowing here and there, and yet she cannot stray, all in the pleasant open air, the pleasant light of day; and blown by all the winds that pass and wet with all the showers, she walks among the meadow grass and eats the meadow flowers. xxiv happy thought the world is so full of a number of things, i'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. xxv the wind i saw you toss the kites on high and blow the birds about the sky; and all around i heard you pass, like ladies' skirts across the grass-- o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! i saw the different things you did, but always you yourself you hid. i felt you push, i heard you call, i could not see yourself at all-- o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! o you that are so strong and cold, o blower, are you young or old? are you a beast of field and tree, or just a stronger child than me? o wind, a-blowing all day long, o wind, that sings so loud a song! xxvi keepsake mill over the borders, a sin without pardon, breaking the branches and crawling below, out through the breach in the wall of the garden, down by the banks of the river we go. here is a mill with the humming of thunder, here is the weir with the wonder of foam, here is the sluice with the race running under-- marvellous places, though handy to home! sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller, stiller the note of the birds on the hill; dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller, deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill. years may go by, and the wheel in the river wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day, wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever long after all of the boys are away. home for the indies and home from the ocean, heroes and soldiers we all will come home; still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion, turning and churning that river to foam. you with the bean that i gave when we quarrelled, i with your marble of saturday last, honoured and old and all gaily apparelled, here we shall meet and remember the past. xxvii good and bad children children, you are very little, and your bones are very brittle; if you would grow great and stately, you must try to walk sedately. you must still be bright and quiet, and content with simple diet; and remain, through all bewild'ring, innocent and honest children. happy hearts and happy faces, happy play in grassy places-- that was how in ancient ages, children grew to kings and sages. but the unkind and the unruly, and the sort who eat unduly, they must never hope for glory-- theirs is quite a different story! cruel children, crying babies, all grow up as geese and gabies, hated, as their age increases, by their nephews and their nieces. xxviii foreign children little indian, sioux, or crow, little frosty eskimo, little turk or japanee, oh! don't you wish that you were me? you have seen the scarlet trees and the lions over seas; you have eaten ostrich eggs, and turned the turtles off their legs. such a life is very fine, but it's not so nice as mine: you must often as you trod, have wearied not to be abroad. you have curious things to eat, i am fed on proper meat; you must dwell upon the foam, but i am safe and live at home. little indian, sioux or crow, little frosty eskimo, little turk or japanee, oh! don't you wish that you were me? xxix the sun travels the sun is not a-bed, when i at night upon my pillow lie; still round the earth his way he takes, and morning after morning makes. while here at home, in shining day, we round the sunny garden play, each little indian sleepy-head is being kissed and put to bed. and when at eve i rise from tea, day dawns beyond the atlantic sea; and all the children in the west are getting up and being dressed. xxx the lamplighter my tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky. it's time to take the window to see leerie going by; for every night at teatime and before you take your seat, with lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. now tom would be a driver and maria go to sea, and my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; but i, when i am stronger and can choose what i'm to do, o leerie, i'll go round at night and light the lamps with you! for we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, and leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; and oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light; o leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night! xxxi my bed is a boat my bed is like a little boat; nurse helps me in when i embark; she girds me in my sailor's coat and starts me in the dark. at night i go on board and say good-night to all my friends on shore; i shut my eyes and sail away and see and hear no more. and sometimes things to bed i take, as prudent sailors have to do; perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, perhaps a toy or two. all night across the dark we steer; but when the day returns at last, safe in my room beside the pier, i find my vessel fast. xxxii the moon the moon has a face like the clock in the hall; she shines on thieves on the garden wall, on streets and fields and harbour quays, and birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. the squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, the howling dog by the door of the house, the bat that lies in bed at noon, all love to be out by the light of the moon. but all of the things that belong to the day cuddle to sleep to be out of her way; and flowers and children close their eyes till up in the morning the sun shall arise. xxxiii the swing how do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue? oh, i do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do! up in the air and over the wall, till i can see so wide, river and trees and cattle and all over the countryside-- till i look down on the garden green, down on the roof so brown-- up in the air i go flying again, up in the air and down! xxxiv time to rise a birdie with a yellow bill hopped upon my window sill, cocked his shining eye and said: "ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head!" xxxv looking-glass river smooth it glides upon its travel, here a wimple, there a gleam-- o the clean gravel! o the smooth stream! sailing blossoms, silver fishes, paven pools as clear as air-- how a child wishes to live down there! we can see our colored faces floating on the shaken pool down in cool places, dim and very cool; till a wind or water wrinkle, dipping marten, plumping trout, spreads in a twinkle and blots all out. see the rings pursue each other; all below grows black as night, just as if mother had blown out the light! patience, children, just a minute-- see the spreading circles die; the stream and all in it will clear by-and-by. xxxvi fairy bread come up here, o dusty feet! here is fairy bread to eat. here in my retiring room, children, you may dine on the golden smell of broom and the shade of pine; and when you have eaten well, fairy stories hear and tell. xxxvii from a railway carriage faster than fairies, faster than witches, bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; and charging along like troops in a battle all through the meadows the horses and cattle: all of the sights of the hill and the plain fly as thick as driving rain; and ever again, in the wink of an eye, painted stations whistle by. here is a child who clambers and scrambles, all by himself and gathering brambles; here is a tramp who stands and gazes; and here is the green for stringing the daisies! here is a cart run away in the road lumping along with man and load; and here is a mill, and there is a river: each a glimpse and gone forever! xxxviii winter-time late lies the wintry sun a-bed, a frosty, fiery sleepy-head; blinks but an hour or two; and then, a blood-red orange, sets again. before the stars have left the skies, at morning in the dark i rise; and shivering in my nakedness, by the cold candle, bathe and dress. close by the jolly fire i sit to warm my frozen bones a bit; or with a reindeer-sled, explore the colder countries round the door. when to go out, my nurse doth wrap me in my comforter and cap; the cold wind burns my face, and blows its frosty pepper up my nose. black are my steps on silver sod; thick blows my frosty breath abroad; and tree and house, and hill and lake, are frosted like a wedding cake. xxxix the hayloft through all the pleasant meadow-side the grass grew shoulder-high, till the shining scythes went far and wide and cut it down to dry. those green and sweetly smelling crops they led in waggons home; and they piled them here in mountain tops for mountaineers to roam. here is mount clear, mount rusty-nail, mount eagle and mount high;-- the mice that in these mountains dwell, no happier are than i! oh, what a joy to clamber there, oh, what a place for play, with the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, the happy hills of hay! xl farewell to the farm the coach is at the door at last; the eager children, mounting fast and kissing hands, in chorus sing: good-bye, good-bye, to everything! to house and garden, field and lawn, the meadow-gates we swang upon, to pump and stable, tree and swing, good-bye, good-bye, to everything! and fare you well for evermore, o ladder at the hayloft door, o hayloft where the cobwebs cling, good-bye, good-bye, to everything! crack goes the whip, and off we go; the trees and houses smaller grow; last, round the woody turn we sing: good-bye, good-bye, to everything! xli north-west passage . good-night when the bright lamp is carried in, the sunless hours again begin; o'er all without, in field and lane, the haunted night returns again. now we behold the embers flee about the firelit hearth; and see our faces painted as we pass, like pictures, on the window glass. must we to bed indeed? well then, let us arise and go like men, and face with an undaunted tread the long black passage up to bed. farewell, o brother, sister, sire! o pleasant party round the fire! the songs you sing, the tales you tell, till far to-morrow, fare you well! . shadow march all around the house is the jet-black night; it stares through the window-pane; it crawls in the corners, hiding from the light, and it moves with the moving flame. now my little heart goes a beating like a drum, with the breath of the bogies in my hair; and all around the candle the crooked shadows come, and go marching along up the stair. the shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp, the shadow of the child that goes to bed-- all the wicked shadows coming tramp, tramp, tramp, with the black night overhead. . in port last, to the chamber where i lie my fearful footsteps patter nigh, and come out from the cold and gloom into my warm and cheerful room. there, safe arrived, we turn about to keep the coming shadows out, and close the happy door at last on all the perils that we past. then, when mamma goes by to bed, she shall come in with tip-toe tread, and see me lying warm and fast and in the land of nod at last. the child alone i the unseen playmate when children are playing alone on the green, in comes the playmate that never was seen. when children are happy and lonely and good, the friend of the children comes out of the wood. nobody heard him, and nobody saw, his is a picture you never could draw, but he's sure to be present, abroad or at home, when children are happy and playing alone. he lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass, he sings when you tinkle the musical glass; whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why, the friend of the children is sure to be by! he loves to be little, he hates to be big, 'tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig; 'tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin that sides with the frenchmen and never can win. 'tis he, when at night you go off to your bed, bids you go to sleep and not trouble your head; for wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf, 'tis he will take care of your playthings himself! ii my ship and i o it's i that am the captain of a tidy little ship, of a ship that goes a sailing on the pond; and my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about; but when i'm a little older, i shall find the secret out how to send my vessel sailing on beyond. for i mean to grow as little as the dolly at the helm, and the dolly i intend to come alive; and with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing i shall go, it's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow and the vessel goes a divie-divie-dive. o it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds, and you'll hear the water singing at the prow; for beside the dolly sailor, i'm to voyage and explore, to land upon the island where no dolly was before, and to fire the penny cannon in the bow. iii my kingdom down by a shining water well i found a very little dell, no higher than my head. the heather and the gorse about in summer bloom were coming out, some yellow and some red. i called the little pool a sea; the little hills were big to me; for i am very small. i made a boat, i made a town, i searched the caverns up and down, and named them one and all. and all about was mine, i said, the little sparrows overhead, the little minnows too. this was the world and i was king; for me the bees came by to sing, for me the swallows flew. i played there were no deeper seas, nor any wider plains than these, nor other kings than me. at last i heard my mother call out from the house at evenfall, to call me home to tea. and i must rise and leave my dell, and leave my dimpled water well, and leave my heather blooms. alas! and as my home i neared, how very big my nurse appeared. how great and cool the rooms! iv picture-books in winter summer fading, winter comes-- frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, window robins, winter rooks, and the picture story-books. water now is turned to stone nurse and i can walk upon; still we find the flowing brooks in the picture story-books. all the pretty things put by, wait upon the children's eye, sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, in the picture story-books. we may see how all things are seas and cities, near and far, and the flying fairies' looks, in the picture story-books. how am i to sing your praise, happy chimney-corner days, sitting safe in nursery nooks, reading picture story-books? v my treasures these nuts, that i keep in the back of the nest, where all my tin soldiers are lying at rest, were gathered in autumn by nursie and me in a wood with a well by the side of the sea. this whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!) by the side of a field at the end of the grounds. of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own, it was nursie who made it, and nursie alone! the stone, with the white and the yellow and grey, we discovered i cannot tell how far away; and i carried it back although weary and cold, for though father denies it, i'm sure it is gold. but of all my treasures the last is the king, for there's very few children possess such a thing; and that is a chisel, both handle and blade, which a man who was really a carpenter made. vi block city what are you able to build with your blocks? castles and palaces, temples and docks. rain may keep raining, and others go roam, but i can be happy and building at home. let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea, there i'll establish a city for me: a kirk and a mill and a palace beside, and a harbour as well where my vessels may ride. great is the palace with pillar and wall, a sort of a tower on the top of it all, and steps coming down in an orderly way to where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay. this one is sailing and that one is moored: hark to the song of the sailors aboard! and see, on the steps of my palace, the kings coming and going with presents and things! now i have done with it, down let it go! all in a moment the town is laid low. block upon block lying scattered and free, what is there left of my town by the sea? yet as i saw it, i see it again, the kirk and the palace, the ships and the men, and as long as i live and where'er i may be, i'll always remember my town by the sea. vii the land of story-books at evening when the lamp is lit, around the fire my parents sit; they sit at home and talk and sing, and do not play at anything. now, with my little gun, i crawl all in the dark along the wall, and follow round the forest track away behind the sofa back. there, in the night, where none can spy, all in my hunter's camp i lie, and play at books that i have read till it is time to go to bed. these are the hills, these are the woods, these are my starry solitudes; and there the river by whose brink the roaring lions come to drink. i see the others far away as if in firelit camp they lay, and i, like to an indian scout, around their party prowled about. so when my nurse comes in for me, home i return across the sea, and go to bed with backward looks at my dear land of story-books. viii armies in the fire the lamps now glitter down the street; faintly sound the falling feet; and the blue even slowly falls about the garden trees and walls. now in the falling of the gloom the red fire paints the empty room: and warmly on the roof it looks, and flickers on the back of books. armies march by tower and spire of cities blazing, in the fire;-- till as i gaze with staring eyes, the armies fade, the lustre dies. then once again the glow returns; again the phantom city burns; and down the red-hot valley, lo! the phantom armies marching go! blinking embers, tell me true where are those armies marching to, and what the burning city is that crumbles in your furnaces! ix the little land when at home alone i sit and am very tired of it, i have just to shut my eyes to go sailing through the skies-- to go sailing far away to the pleasant land of play; to the fairy land afar where the little people are; where the clover-tops are trees, and the rain-pools are the seas, and the leaves, like little ships, sail about on tiny trips; and above the daisy tree through the grasses, high o'erhead the bumble bee hums and passes. in that forest to and fro i can wander, i can go; see the spider and the fly, and the ants go marching by, carrying parcels with their feet down the green and grassy street. i can in the sorrel sit where the ladybird alit. i can climb the jointed grass and on high see the greater swallows pass in the sky, and the round sun rolling by heeding no such things as i. through that forest i can pass till, as in a looking-glass, humming fly and daisy tree and my tiny self i see, painted very clear and neat on the rain-pool at my feet. should a leaflet come to land drifting near to where i stand, straight i'll board that tiny boat round the rain-pool sea to float. little thoughtful creatures sit on the grassy coasts of it; little things with lovely eyes see me sailing with surprise. some are clad in armour green-- (these have sure to battle been!)-- some are pied with ev'ry hue, black and crimson, gold and blue; some have wings and swift are gone;-- but they all look kindly on. when my eyes i once again open, and see all things plain: high bare walls, great bare floor; great big knobs on drawer and door; great big people perched on chairs, stitching tucks and mending tears, each a hill that i could climb, and talking nonsense all the time-- o dear me, that i could be a sailor on a the rain-pool sea, a climber in the clover tree, and just come back a sleepy-head, late at night to go to bed. garden days i night and day when the golden day is done, through the closing portal, child and garden, flower and sun, vanish all things mortal. as the building shadows fall as the rays diminish, under evening's cloak they all roll away and vanish. garden darkened, daisy shut, child in bed, they slumber-- glow-worm in the hallway rut, mice among the lumber. in the darkness houses shine, parents move the candles; till on all the night divine turns the bedroom handles. till at last the day begins in the east a-breaking, in the hedges and the whins sleeping birds a-waking. in the darkness shapes of things, houses, trees and hedges, clearer grow; and sparrow's wings beat on window ledges. these shall wake the yawning maid; she the door shall open-- finding dew on garden glade and the morning broken. there my garden grows again green and rosy painted, as at eve behind the pane from my eyes it fainted. just as it was shut away, toy-like, in the even, here i see it glow with day under glowing heaven. every path and every plot, every blush of roses, every blue forget-me-not where the dew reposes, "up!" they cry, "the day is come on the smiling valleys: we have beat the morning drum; playmate, join your allies!" ii nest eggs birds all the sunny day flutter and quarrel here in the arbour-like tent of the laurel. here in the fork the brown nest is seated; four little blue eggs the mother keeps heated. while we stand watching her staring like gabies, safe in each egg are the bird's little babies. soon the frail eggs they shall chip, and upspringing make all the april woods merry with singing. younger than we are, o children, and frailer, soon in the blue air they'll be, singer and sailor. we, so much older, taller and stronger, we shall look down on the birdies no longer. they shall go flying with musical speeches high overhead in the tops of the beeches. in spite of our wisdom and sensible talking, we on our feet must go plodding and walking. iii the flowers all the names i know from nurse: gardener's garters, shepherd's purse, bachelor's buttons, lady's smock, and the lady hollyhock. fairy places, fairy things, fairy woods where the wild bee wings, tiny trees for tiny dames-- these must all be fairy names! tiny woods below whose boughs shady fairies weave a house; tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, where the braver fairies climb! fair are grown-up people's trees, but the fairest woods are these; where, if i were not so tall, i should live for good and all. iv summer sun great is the sun, and wide he goes through empty heaven with repose; and in the blue and glowing days more thick than rain he showers his rays. though closer still the blinds we pull to keep the shady parlour cool, yet he will find a chink or two to slip his golden fingers through. the dusty attic spider-clad he, through the keyhole, maketh glad; and through the broken edge of tiles into the laddered hay-loft smiles. meantime his golden face around he bares to all the garden ground, and sheds a warm and glittering look among the ivy's inmost nook. above the hills, along the blue, round the bright air with footing true, to please the child, to paint the rose, the gardener of the world, he goes. v the dumb soldier when the grass was closely mown, walking on the lawn alone, in the turf a hole i found, and hid a soldier underground. spring and daisies came apace; grasses hide my hiding place; grasses run like a green sea o'er the lawn up to my knee. under grass alone he lies, looking up with leaden eyes, scarlet coat and pointed gun, to the stars and to the sun. when the grass is ripe like grain, when the scythe is stoned again, when the lawn is shaven clear, then my hole shall reappear. i shall find him, never fear, i shall find my grenadier; but for all that's gone and come, i shall find my soldier dumb. he has lived, a little thing, in the grassy woods of spring; done, if he could tell me true, just as i should like to do. he has seen the starry hours and the springing of the flowers; and the fairy things that pass in the forests of the grass. in the silence he has heard talking bee and ladybird, and the butterfly has flown o'er him as he lay alone. not a word will he disclose, not a word of all he knows. i must lay him on the shelf, and make up the tale myself. vi autumn fires in the other gardens and all up the vale, from the autumn bonfires see the smoke trail! pleasant summer over and all the summer flowers, the red fire blazes, the grey smoke towers. sing a song of seasons! something bright in all! flowers in the summer, fires in the fall! vii the gardener the gardener does not love to talk. he makes me keep the gravel walk; and when he puts his tools away, he locks the door and takes the key. away behind the currant row, where no one else but cook may go, far in the plots, i see him dig, old and serious, brown and big. he digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, nor wishes to be spoken to. he digs the flowers and cuts the hay, and never seems to want to play. silly gardener! summer goes, and winter comes with pinching toes, when in the garden bare and brown you must lay your barrow down. well now, and while the summer stays, to profit by these garden days o how much wiser you would be to play at indian wars with me! viii historical associations dear uncle jim, this garden ground that now you smoke your pipe around, has seen immortal actions done and valiant battles lost and won. here we had best on tip-toe tread, while i for safety march ahead, for this is that enchanted ground where all who loiter slumber sound. here is the sea, here is the sand, here is simple shepherd's land, here are the fairy hollyhocks, and there are ali baba's rocks. but yonder, see! apart and high, frozen siberia lies; where i, with robert bruce and william tell, was bound by an enchanter's spell. envoys i to willie and henrietta if two may read aright these rhymes of old delight and house and garden play, you two, my cousins, and you only, may. you in a garden green with me were king and queen, were hunter, soldier, tar, and all the thousand things that children are. now in the elders' seat we rest with quiet feet, and from the window-bay we watch the children, our successors, play. "time was," the golden head irrevocably said; but time which one can bind, while flowing fast away, leaves love behind. ii to my mother you too, my mother, read my rhymes for love of unforgotten times, and you may chance to hear once more the little feet along the floor. iii to auntie "chief of our aunts"--not only i, but all your dozen of nurselings cry-- "what did the other children do? and what were childhood, wanting you?" iv to minnie the red room with the giant bed where none but elders laid their head; the little room where you and i did for awhile together lie and, simple suitor, i your hand in decent marriage did demand; the great day nursery, best of all, with pictures pasted on the wall and leaves upon the blind-- a pleasant room wherein to wake and hear the leafy garden shake and rustle in the wind-- and pleasant there to lie in bed and see the pictures overhead-- the wars about sebastopol, the grinning guns along the wall, the daring escalade, the plunging ships, the bleating sheep, the happy children ankle-deep and laughing as they wade: all these are vanished clean away, and the old manse is changed to-day; it wears an altered face and shields a stranger race. the river, on from mill to mill, flows past our childhood's garden still; but ah! we children never more shall watch it from the water-door! below the yew--it still is there-- our phantom voices haunt the air as we were still at play, and i can hear them call and say: "how far is it to babylon?" ah, far enough, my dear, far, far enough from here-- yet you have farther gone! "can i get there by candlelight?" so goes the old refrain. i do not know--perchance you might-- but only, children, hear it right, ah, never to return again! the eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, shall break on hill and plain, and put all stars and candles out ere we be young again. to you in distant india, these i send across the seas, nor count it far across. for which of us forgets the indian cabinets, the bones of antelope, the wings of albatross, the pied and painted birds and beans, the junks and bangles, beads and screens, the gods and sacred bells, and the loud-humming, twisted shells! the level of the parlour floor was honest, homely, scottish shore; but when we climbed upon a chair, behold the gorgeous east was there! be this a fable; and behold me in the parlour as of old, and minnie just above me set in the quaint indian cabinet! smiling and kind, you grace a shelf too high for me to reach myself. reach down a hand, my dear, and take these rhymes for old acquaintance' sake! v to my name-child some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed, little louis sanchez, will be given you to read. then you shall discover, that your name was printed down by the english printers, long before, in london town. in the great and busy city where the east and west are met, all the little letters did the english printer set; while you thought of nothing, and were still too young to play, foreign people thought of you in places far away. ay, and when you slept, a baby, over all the english lands other little children took the volume in their hands; other children questioned, in their homes across the seas: who was little louis, won't you tell us, mother, please? now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play, seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of monterey, watching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze, tiny sandy-pipers, and the huge pacific seas. and remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you, long ere you could read it, how i told you what to do; and that while you thought of no one, nearly half the world away some one thought of louis on the beach of monterey! vi to any reader as from the house your mother sees you playing round the garden trees, so you may see, if you will look through the windows of this book, another child, far, far away, and in another garden, play. but do not think you can at all, by knocking on the window, call that child to hear you. he intent is all on his play-business bent. he does not hear, he will not look, nor yet be lured out of this book. for, long ago, the truth to say, he has grown up and gone away, and it is but a child of air that lingers in the garden there. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) nonsense song stories, botany, and alphabets by edward lear [illustration] contents nonsense songs. the owl and the pussy-cat the duck and the kangaroo the daddy long-legs and the fly the jumblies the nutcrackers and the sugar-tongs calico pie mr. and mrs. spikky sparrow the broom, the shovel, the poker, and the tongs the table and the chair nonsense stories. the story of the four little children who went round the world the history of the seven families of the lake pipple-popple nonsense cookery nonsense botany nonsense alphabet, no. " " no. " " no. nonsense songs. the owl and the pussy-cat. [illustration] i. the owl and the pussy-cat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat: they took some honey, and plenty of money wrapped up in a five-pound note. the owl looked up to the stars above, and sang to a small guitar, "o lovely pussy, o pussy, my love, what a beautiful pussy you are, you are, you are! what a beautiful pussy you are!" ii. pussy said to the owl, "you elegant fowl, how charmingly sweet you sing! oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: but what shall we do for a ring?" they sailed away, for a year and a day, to the land where the bong-tree grows; and there in a wood a piggy-wig stood, with a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose. iii. "dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?" said the piggy, "i will." so they took it away, and were married next day by the turkey who lives on the hill. they dined on mince and slices of quince, which they ate with a runcible spoon; and hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon. [illustration] the duck and the kangaroo. [illustration] i. said the duck to the kangaroo, "good gracious! how you hop over the fields, and the water too, as if you never would stop! my life is a bore in this nasty pond; and i long to go out in the world beyond: i wish i could hop like you," said the duck to the kangaroo. ii. "please give me a ride on your back," said the duck to the kangaroo: "i would sit quite still, and say nothing but 'quack' the whole of the long day through; and we 'd go the dee, and the jelly bo lee, over the land, and over the sea: please take me a ride! oh, do!" said the duck to the kangaroo. [illustration] iii. said the kangaroo to the duck, "this requires some little reflection. perhaps, on the whole, it might bring me luck; and there seems but one objection; which is, if you'll let me speak so bold, your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold, and would probably give me the roo- matiz," said the kangaroo. [illustration] iv. said the duck, "as i sate on the rocks, i have thought over that completely; and i bought four pairs of worsted socks, which fit my web-feet neatly; and, to keep out the cold, i've bought a cloak; and every day a cigar i'll smoke; all to follow my own dear true love of a kangaroo." v. said the kangaroo, "i'm ready, all in the moonlight pale; but to balance me well, dear duck, sit steady, and quite at the end of my tail." so away they went with a hop and a bound; and they hopped the whole world three times round. and who so happy, oh! who, as the duck and the kangaroo? [illustration] the daddy long-legs and the fly. [illustration] i. once mr. daddy long-legs, dressed in brown and gray, walked about upon the sands upon a summer's day: and there among the pebbles, when the wind was rather cold, he met with mr. floppy fly, all dressed in blue and gold; and, as it was too soon to dine, they drank some periwinkle-wine, and played an hour or two, or more, at battlecock and shuttledore. ii. said mr. daddy long-legs to mr. floppy fly, "why do you never come to court? i wish you 'd tell me why. all gold and shine, in dress so fine, you'd quite delight the court. why do you never go at all? i really think you _ought_. and, if you went, you'd see such sights! such rugs and jugs and candle-lights! and, more than all, the king and queen,-- one in red, and one in green." iii. "o mr. daddy long-legs!" said mr. floppy fly, "it's true i never go to court; and i will tell you why. if i had six long legs like yours, at once i'd go to court; but, oh! i can't, because _my_ legs are so extremely short. and i'm afraid the king and queen (one in red, and one in green) would say aloud, 'you are not fit, you fly, to come to court a bit!'" iv. "oh, mr. daddy long-legs!" said mr. floppy fly, "i wish you 'd sing one little song, one mumbian melody. you used to sing so awful well in former days gone by; but now you never sing at all: i wish you'd tell me why: for, if you would, the silvery sound would please the shrimps and cockles round, and all the crabs would gladly come to hear you sing, 'ah, hum di hum!'" v. said mr. daddy long-legs, "i can never sing again; and, if you wish, i'll tell you why, although it gives me pain. for years i cannot hum a bit, or sing the smallest song; and this the dreadful reason is,-- my legs are grown too long! my six long legs, all here and there, oppress my bosom with despair; and, if i stand or lie or sit, i cannot sing one single bit!" vi. so mr. daddy long-legs and mr. floppy fly sat down in silence by the sea, and gazed upon the sky. they said, "this is a dreadful thing! the world has all gone wrong, since one has legs too short by half, the other much too long. one never more can go to court, because his legs have grown too short; the other cannot sing a song, because his legs have grown too long!" vii. then mr. daddy long-legs and mr. floppy fly rushed downward to the foamy sea with one sponge-taneous cry: and there they found a little boat, whose sails were pink and gray; and off they sailed among the waves, far and far away: they sailed across the silent main, and reached the great gromboolian plain; and there they play forevermore at battlecock and shuttledore. [illustration] the jumblies. [illustration] i. they went to sea in a sieve, they did; in a sieve they went to sea: in spite of all their friends could say, on a winter's morn, on a stormy day, in a sieve they went to sea. and when the sieve turned round and round, and every one cried, "you'll all be drowned!" they called aloud, "our sieve ain't big; but we don't care a button, we don't care a fig: in a sieve we'll go to sea!" far and few, far and few, are the lands where the jumblies live: their heads are green, and their hands are blue and they went to sea in a sieve. ii. they sailed away in a sieve, they did, in a sieve they sailed so fast, with only a beautiful pea-green veil tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail, to a small tobacco-pipe mast. and every one said who saw them go, "oh! won't they be soon upset, you know? for the sky is dark, and the voyage is long; and, happen what may, it's extremely wrong in a sieve to sail so fast." far and few, far and few, are the lands where the jumblies live: their heads are green, and their hands are blue; and they went to sea in a sieve. iii. the water it soon came in, it did; the water it soon came in: so, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet in a pinky paper all folded neat; and they fastened it down with a pin. and they passed the night in a crockery-jar; and each of them said, "how wise we are! though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, while round in our sieve we spin." far and few, far and few, are the lands where the jumblies live: their heads are green, and their hands are blue; and they went to sea in a sieve. iv. and all night long they sailed away; and when the sun went down, they whistled and warbled a moony song to the echoing sound of a coppery gong, in the shade of the mountains brown. "o timballoo! how happy we are when we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! and all night long, in the moonlight pale, we sail away with a pea-green sail in the shade of the mountains brown." far and few, far and few, are the lands where the jumblies live: their heads are green, and their hands are blue; and they went to sea in a sieve. v. they sailed to the western sea, they did,-- to a land all covered with trees: and they bought an owl, and a useful cart, and a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, and a hive of silvery bees; and they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, and a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, and forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, and no end of stilton cheese. far and few, far and few, are the lands where the jumblies live: their heads are green, and their hands are blue; and they went to sea in a sieve. vi. and in twenty years they all came back,-- in twenty years or more; and every one said, "how tall they've grown! for they've been to the lakes, and the torrible zone, and the hills of the chankly bore." and they drank their health, and gave them a feast of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; and every one said, "if we only live, we, too, will go to sea in a sieve, to the hills of the chankly bore." far and few, far and few, are the lands where the jumblies live: their heads are green, and their hands are blue; and they went to sea in a sieve. the nutcrackers and the sugar-tongs. [illustration] i. the nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table; the sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side; and the nutcrackers said, "don't you wish we were able along the blue hills and green meadows to ride? must we drag on this stupid existence forever, so idle and weary, so full of remorse, while every one else takes his pleasure, and never seems happy unless he is riding a horse? ii. "don't you think we could ride without being instructed, without any saddle or bridle or spur? our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed, i'm sure that an accident could not occur. let us all of a sudden hop down from the table, and hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse! shall we try? shall we go? do you think we are able?" the sugar-tongs answered distinctly, "of course!" iii. so down the long staircase they hopped in a minute; the sugar-tongs snapped, and the crackers said "crack!" the stable was open; the horses were in it: each took out a pony, and jumped on his back. the cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway; the mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay; the brown and white rats, and the black ones from norway, screamed out, "they are taking the horses away!" iv. the whole of the household was filled with amazement: the cups and the saucers danced madly about; the plates and the dishes looked out of the casement; the salt-cellar stood on his head with a shout; the spoons, with a clatter, looked out of the lattice; the mustard-pot climbed up the gooseberry-pies; the soup-ladle peeped through a heap of veal-patties, and squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise. v. the frying-pan said, "it's an awful delusion!" the tea-kettle hissed, and grew black in the face; and they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion to see the great nutcracker-sugar-tong race. and out of the stable, with screamings and laughter (their ponies were cream-colored, speckled with brown), the nutcrackers first, and the sugar-tongs after; rode all round the yard, and then all round the town. vi. they rode through the street, and they rode by the station; they galloped away to the beautiful shore; in silence they rode, and "made no observation," save this: "we will never go back any more!" and still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing, the sugar-tongs snap, and the crackers say "crack!" till, far in the distance their forms disappearing, they faded away; and they never came back! calico pie. [illustration] i. calico pie, the little birds fly down to the calico-tree: their wings were blue, and they sang "tilly-loo!" till away they flew; and they never came back to me! they never came back, they never came back, they never came back to me! ii. calico jam, the little fish swam over the syllabub sea. he took off his hat to the sole and the sprat, and the willeby-wat: but he never came back to me; he never came back, he never came back, he never came back to me. [illustration] iii. calico ban, the little mice ran to be ready in time for tea; flippity flup, they drank it all up, and danced in the cup: but they never came back to me; they never came back, they never came back, they never came back to me. [illustration] iv. calico drum, the grasshoppers come, the butterfly, beetle, and bee, over the ground, around and round, with a hop and a bound; but they never came back, they never came back, they never came back. they never came back to me. [illustration] mr. and mrs. spikky sparrow. [illustration] i. on a little piece of wood mr. spikky sparrow stood: mrs. sparrow sate close by, a-making of an insect-pie for her little children five, in the nest and all alive; singing with a cheerful smile, to amuse them all the while, "twikky wikky wikky wee, wikky bikky twikky tee, spikky bikky bee!" ii. mrs. spikky sparrow said, "spikky, darling! in my head many thoughts of trouble come, like to flies upon a plum. all last night, among the trees, i heard you cough, i heard you sneeze; and thought i, 'it's come to that because he does not wear a hat!' chippy wippy sikky tee, bikky wikky tikky mee, spikky chippy wee! iii. "not that you are growing old; but the nights are growing cold. no one stays out all night long without a hat: i'm sure it's wrong!" mr. spikky said, "how kind, dear, you are, to speak your mind! all your life i wish you luck! you are, you are, a lovely duck! witchy witchy witchy wee, twitchy witchy witchy bee, tikky tikky tee! iv. "i was also sad, and thinking, when one day i saw you winking, and i heard you sniffle-snuffle, and i saw your feathers ruffle: to myself i sadly said, 'she's neuralgia in her head! that dear head has nothing on it! ought she not to wear a bonnet?' witchy kitchy kitchy wee, spikky wikky mikky bee, chippy wippy chee! v. "let us both fly up to town: there i'll buy you such a gown! which, completely in the fashion, you shall tie a sky-blue sash on; and a pair of slippers neat to fit your darling little feet, so that you will look and feel quite galloobious and genteel. jikky wikky bikky see, chicky bikky wikky bee, twicky witchy wee!" vi. so they both to london went, alighting on the monument; whence they flew down swiftly--pop! into moses' wholesale shop: there they bought a hat and bonnet, and a gown with spots upon it, a satin sash of cloxam blue, and a pair of slippers too. zikky wikky mikky bee, witchy witchy mitchy kee, sikky tikky wee! vii. then, when so completely dressed, back they flew, and reached their nest. their children cried, "o ma and pa! how truly beautiful you are!" said they, "we trust that cold or pain we shall never feel again; while, perched on tree or house or steeple, we now shall look like other people. witchy witchy witchy wee, twikky mikky bikky bee, zikky sikky tee!" [illustration] the broom, the shovel, the poker, and the tongs. [illustration] i. the broom and the shovel, the poker and tongs, they all took a drive in the park; and they each sang a song, ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! before they went back in the dark. mr. poker he sate quite upright in the coach; mr. tongs made a clatter and clash; miss shovel was dressed all in black (with a brooch); mrs. broom was in blue (with a sash). ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! and they all sang a song. ii. "o shovely so lovely!" the poker he sang, "you have perfectly conquered my heart. ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! if you're pleased with my song, i will feed you with cold apple-tart. when you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound, you enrapture my life with delight, your nose is so shiny, your head is so round, and your shape is so slender and bright! ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! ain't you pleased with my song?" iii. "alas! mrs. broom," sighed the tongs in his song, "oh! is it because i'm so thin, and my legs are so long,--ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong!-- that you don't care about me a pin? ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room, ah! why don't you heed my complaint? must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful broom, because you are covered with paint? ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! you are certainly wrong." iv. mrs. broom and miss shovel together they sang, "what nonsense you're singing to-day!" said the shovel, "i'll certainly hit you a bang!" said the broom, "and i'll sweep you away!" so the coachman drove homeward as fast as he could, perceiving their anger with pain; but they put on the kettle, and little by little they all became happy again. ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! there's an end of my song. the table and the chair. [illustration] i. said the table to the chair, "you can hardly be aware how i suffer from the heat and from chilblains on my feet. if we took a little walk, we might have a little talk; pray let us take the air," said the table to the chair. ii. said the chair unto the table, "now, you _know_ we are not able: how foolishly you talk, when you know we _cannot_ walk!" said the table with a sigh, "it can do no harm to try. i've as many legs as you: why can't we walk on two?" iii. so they both went slowly down, and walked about the town with a cheerful bumpy sound as they toddled round and round; and everybody cried, as they hastened to their side, "see! the table and the chair have come out to take the air!" iv. but in going down an alley, to a castle in a valley, they completely lost their way, and wandered all the day; till, to see them safely back, they paid a ducky-quack, and a beetle, and a mouse, who took them to their house. [illustration] v. then they whispered to each other, "o delightful little brother, what a lovely walk we've taken! let us dine on beans and bacon." so the ducky and the leetle browny-mousy and the beetle dined, and danced upon their heads till they toddled to their beds. [illustration] * * * * * nonsense stories. the story of the four little children who went round the world. once upon a time, a long while ago, there were four little people whose names were [illustration] violet, slingsby, guy, and lionel; and they all thought they should like to see the world. so they bought a large boat to sail quite round the world by sea, and then they were to come back on the other side by land. the boat was painted blue with green spots, and the sail was yellow with red stripes: and, when they set off, they only took a small cat to steer and look after the boat, besides an elderly quangle-wangle, who had to cook the dinner and make the tea; for which purposes they took a large kettle. [illustration] for the first ten days they sailed on beautifully, and found plenty to eat, as there were lots of fish; and they had only to take them out of the sea with a long spoon, when the quangle-wangle instantly cooked them; and the pussy-cat was fed with the bones, with which she expressed herself pleased, on the whole: so that all the party were very happy. during the daytime, violet chiefly occupied herself in putting salt water into a churn; while her three brothers churned it violently, in the hope that it would turn into butter, which it seldom if ever did; and in the evening they all retired into the tea-kettle, where they all managed to sleep very comfortably, while pussy and the quangle-wangle managed the boat. [illustration] after a time, they saw some land at a distance; and, when they came to it, they found it was an island made of water quite surrounded by earth. besides that, it was bordered by evanescent isthmuses, with a great gulf-stream running about all over it; so that it was perfectly beautiful, and contained only a single tree, feet high. when they had landed, they walked about, but found, to their great surprise, that the island was quite full of veal-cutlets and chocolate-drops, and nothing else. so they all climbed up the single high tree to discover, if possible, if there were any people; but having remained on the top of the tree for a week, and not seeing anybody, they naturally concluded that there were no inhabitants; and accordingly, when they came down, they loaded the boat with two thousand veal-cutlets and a million of chocolate-drops; and these afforded them sustenance for more than a month, during which time they pursued their voyage with the utmost delight and apathy. [illustration] after this they came to a shore where there were no less than sixty-five great red parrots with blue tails, sitting on a rail all of a row, and all fast asleep. and i am sorry to say that the pussy-cat and the quangle-wangle crept softly, and bit off the tail-feathers of all the sixty-five parrots; for which violet reproved them both severely. [illustration] notwithstanding which, she proceeded to insert all the feathers--two hundred and sixty in number--in her bonnet; thereby causing it to have a lovely and glittering appearance, highly prepossessing and efficacious. [illustration] the next thing that happened to them was in a narrow part of the sea, which was so entirely full of fishes that the boat could go on no farther: so they remained there about six weeks, till they had eaten nearly all the fishes, which were soles, and all ready-cooked, and covered with shrimp-sauce, so that there was no trouble whatever. and as the few fishes who remained uneaten complained of the cold, as well as of the difficulty they had in getting any sleep on account of the extreme noise made by the arctic bears and the tropical turnspits, which frequented the neighborhood in great numbers, violet most amiably knitted a small woollen frock for several of the fishes, and slingsby administered some opium-drops to them; through which kindness they became quite warm, and slept soundly. [illustration] then they came to a country which was wholly covered with immense orange-trees of a vast size, and quite full of fruit. so they all landed, taking with them the tea-kettle, intending to gather some of the oranges, and place them in it. but, while they were busy about this, a most dreadfully high wind rose, and blew out most of the parrot-tail feathers from violet's bonnet. that, however, was nothing compared with the calamity of the oranges falling down on their heads by millions and millions, which thumped and bumped and bumped and thumped them all so seriously, that they were obliged to run as hard as they could for their lives; besides that the sound of the oranges rattling on the tea-kettle was of the most fearful and amazing nature. [illustration] nevertheless, they got safely to the boat, although considerably vexed and hurt; and the quangle-wangle's right foot was so knocked about, that he had to sit with his head in his slipper for at least a week. [illustration] this event made them all for a time rather melancholy: and perhaps they might never have become less so, had not lionel, with a most praiseworthy devotion and perseverance, continued to stand on one leg, and whistle to them in a loud and lively manner; which diverted the whole party so extremely that they gradually recovered their spirits, and agreed that whenever they should reach home, they would subscribe towards a testimonial to lionel, entirely made of gingerbread and raspberries, as an earnest token of their sincere and grateful infection. [illustration] after sailing on calmly for several more days, they came to another country, where they were much pleased and surprised to see a countless multitude of white mice with red eyes, all sitting in a great circle, slowly eating custard-pudding with the most satisfactory and polite demeanor. [illustration] and as the four travellers were rather hungry, being tired of eating nothing but soles and oranges for so long a period, they held a council as to the propriety of asking the mice for some of their pudding in a humble and affecting manner, by which they could hardly be otherwise than gratified. it was agreed, therefore, that guy should go and ask the mice, which he immediately did; and the result was, that they gave a walnut-shell only half full of custard diluted with water. now, this displeased guy, who said, "out of such a lot of pudding as you have got, i must say, you might have spared a somewhat larger quantity." but no sooner had he finished speaking than the mice turned round at once, and sneezed at him in an appalling and vindictive manner (and it is impossible to imagine a more scroobious and unpleasant sound than that caused by the simultaneous sneezing of many millions of angry mice); so that guy rushed back to the boat, having first shied his cap into the middle of the custard-pudding, by which means he completely spoiled the mice's dinner. [illustration] by and by the four children came to a country where there were no houses, but only an incredibly innumerable number of large bottles without corks, and of a dazzling and sweetly susceptible blue color. each of these blue bottles contained a blue-bottle-fly; and all these interesting animals live continually together in the most copious and rural harmony: nor perhaps in many parts of the world is such perfect and abject happiness to be found. violet and slingsby and guy and lionel were greatly struck with this singular and instructive settlement; and, having previously asked permission of the blue-bottle-flies (which was most courteously granted), the boat was drawn up to the shore, and they proceeded to make tea in front of the bottles: but as they had no tea-leaves, they merely placed some pebbles in the hot water; and the quangle-wangle played some tunes over it on an accordion, by which, of course, tea was made directly, and of the very best quality. the four children then entered into conversation with the blue-bottle-flies, who discoursed in a placid and genteel manner, though with a slightly buzzing accent, chiefly owing to the fact that they each held a small clothes-brush between their teeth, which naturally occasioned a fizzy, extraneous utterance. "why," said violet, "would you kindly inform us, do you reside in bottles; and, if in bottles at all, why not, rather, in green or purple, or, indeed, in yellow bottles?" to which questions a very aged blue-bottle-fly answered, "we found the bottles here all ready to live in; that is to say, our great-great-great- great-great-grandfathers did: so we occupied them at once. and, when the winter comes on, we turn the bottles upside down, and consequently rarely feel the cold at all; and you know very well that this could not be the case with bottles of any other color than blue." "of course it could not," said slingsby. "but, if we may take the liberty of inquiring, on what do you chiefly subsist?" "mainly on oyster-patties," said the blue-bottle-fly; "and, when these are scarce, on raspberry vinegar and russian leather boiled down to a jelly." "how delicious!" said guy. to which lionel added, "huzz!" and all the blue-bottle-flies said, "buzz!" at this time, an elderly fly said it was the hour for the evening-song to be sung; and, on a signal being given, all the blue-bottle-flies began to buzz at once in a sumptuous and sonorous manner, the melodious and mucilaginous sounds echoing all over the waters, and resounding across the tumultuous tops of the transitory titmice upon the intervening and verdant mountains with a serene and sickly suavity only known to the truly virtuous. the moon was shining slobaciously from the star-bespangled sky, while her light irrigated the smooth and shiny sides and wings and backs of the blue-bottle-flies with a peculiar and trivial splendor, while all nature cheerfully responded to the cerulean and conspicuous circumstances. in many long-after years, the four little travellers looked back to that evening as one of the happiest in all their lives; and it was already past midnight when--the sail of the boat having been set up by the quangle-wangle, the tea-kettle and churn placed in their respective positions, and the pussy-cat stationed at the helm--the children each took a last and affectionate farewell of the blue-bottle-flies, who walked down in a body to the water's edge to see the travellers embark. [illustration] as a token of parting respect and esteem, violet made a courtesy quite down to the ground, and stuck one of her few remaining parrot-tail feathers into the back hair of the most pleasing of the blue-bottle-flies; while slingsby, guy, and lionel offered them three small boxes, containing, respectively, black pins, dried figs, and epsom salts; and thus they left that happy shore forever. overcome by their feelings, the four little travellers instantly jumped into the tea-kettle, and fell fast asleep. but all along the shore, for many hours, there was distinctly heard a sound of severely-suppressed sobs, and of a vague multitude of living creatures using their pocket-handkerchiefs in a subdued simultaneous snuffle, lingering sadly along the walloping waves as the boat sailed farther and farther away from the land of the happy blue-bottle-flies. nothing particular occurred for some days after these events, except that, as the travellers were passing a low tract of sand, they perceived an unusual and gratifying spectacle; namely, a large number of crabs and crawfish--perhaps six or seven hundred--sitting by the water-side, and endeavoring to disentangle a vast heap of pale pink worsted, which they moistened at intervals with a fluid composed of lavender-water and white-wine negus. "can we be of any service to you, o crusty crabbies?" said the four children. "thank you kindly," said the crabs consecutively. "we are trying to make some worsted mittens, but do not know how." on which violet, who was perfectly acquainted with the art of mitten-making, said to the crabs, "do your claws unscrew, or are they fixtures?" "they are all made to unscrew," said the crabs; and forthwith they deposited a great pile of claws close to the boat, with which violet uncombed all the pale pink worsted, and then made the loveliest mittens with it you can imagine. these the crabs, having resumed and screwed on their claws, placed cheerfully upon their wrists, and walked away rapidly on their hind-legs, warbling songs with a silvery voice and in a minor key. after this, the four little people sailed on again till they came to a vast and wide plain of astonishing dimensions, on which nothing whatever could be discovered at first; but, as the travellers walked onward, there appeared in the extreme and dim distance a single object, which on a nearer approach, and on an accurately cutaneous inspection, seemed to be somebody in a large white wig, sitting on an arm-chair made of sponge-cakes and oyster-shells. "it does not quite look like a human being," said violet doubtfully; nor could they make out what it really was, till the quangle-wangle (who had previously been round the world) exclaimed softly in a loud voice, "it is the co-operative cauliflower!" [illustration] and so, in truth, it was: and they soon found that what they had taken for an immense wig was in reality the top of the cauliflower; and that he had no feet at all, being able to walk tolerably well with a fluctuating and graceful movement on a single cabbage-stalk,--an accomplishment which naturally saved him the expense of stockings and shoes. presently, while the whole party from the boat was gazing at him with mingled affection and disgust, he suddenly arose, and, in a somewhat plumdomphious manner, hurried off towards the setting sun,--his steps supported by two superincumbent confidential cucumbers, and a large number of waterwagtails proceeding in advance of him by three and three in a row,--till he finally disappeared on the brink of the western sky in a crystal cloud of sudorific sand. [illustration] so remarkable a sight, of course, impressed the four children very deeply; and they returned immediately to their boat with a strong sense of undeveloped asthma and a great appetite. shortly after this, the travellers were obliged to sail directly below some high overhanging rocks, from the top of one of which a particularly odious little boy, dressed in rose-colored knickerbockers, and with a pewter plate upon his head, threw an enormous pumpkin at the boat, by which it was instantly upset. [illustration] but this upsetting was of no consequence, because all the party knew how to swim very well: and, in fact, they preferred swimming about till after the moon rose; when, the water growing chilly, they sponge-taneously entered the boat. meanwhile the quangle-wangle threw back the pumpkin with immense force, so that it hit the rocks where the malicious little boy in rose-colored knickerbockers was sitting; when, being quite full of lucifer-matches, the pumpkin exploded surreptitiously into a thousand bits; whereon the rocks instantly took fire, and the odious little boy became unpleasantly hotter and hotter and hotter, till his knickerbockers were turned quite green, and his nose was burnt off. two or three days after this had happened, they came to another place, where they found nothing at all except some wide and deep pits full of mulberry-jam. this is the property of the tiny, yellow-nosed apes who abound in these districts, and who store up the mulberry-jam for their food in winter, when they mix it with pellucid pale periwinkle-soup, and serve it out in wedgewood china-bowls, which grow freely all over that part of the country. only one of the yellow-nosed apes was on the spot, and he was fast asleep; yet the four travellers and the quangle-wangle and pussy were so terrified by the violence and sanguinary sound of his snoring, that they merely took a small cupful of the jam, and returned to re-embark in their boat without delay. what was their horror on seeing the boat (including the churn and the tea-kettle) in the mouth of an enormous seeze pyder, an aquatic and ferocious creature truly dreadful to behold, and, happily, only met with in those excessive longitudes! in a moment, the beautiful boat was bitten into fifty-five thousand million hundred billion bits; and it instantly became quite clear that violet, slingsby, guy, and lionel could no longer preliminate their voyage by sea. the four travellers were therefore obliged to resolve on pursuing their wanderings by land: and, very fortunately, there happened to pass by at that moment an elderly rhinoceros, on which they seized; and, all four mounting on his back,--the quangle-wangle sitting on his horn, and holding on by his ears, and the pussy-cat swinging at the end of his tail,--they set off, having only four small beans and three pounds of mashed potatoes to last through their whole journey. [illustration] they were, however, able to catch numbers of the chickens and turkeys and other birds who incessantly alighted on the head of the rhinoceros for the purpose of gathering the seeds of the rhododendron-plants which grew there; and these creatures they cooked in the most translucent and satisfactory manner by means of a fire lighted on the end of the rhinoceros's back. a crowd of kangaroos and gigantic cranes accompanied them, from feelings of curiosity and complacency; so that they were never at a loss for company, and went onward, as it were, in a sort of profuse and triumphant procession. thus in less than eighteen weeks they all arrived safely at home, where they were received by their admiring relatives with joy tempered with contempt, and where they finally resolved to carry out the rest of their travelling-plans at some more favorable opportunity. as for the rhinoceros, in token of their grateful adherence, they had him killed and stuffed directly, and then set him up outside the door of their father's house as a diaphanous doorscraper. [illustration] the history of the seven families of the lake pipple-popple. chapter i. introductory. in former days,--that is to say, once upon a time,--there lived in the land of gramble-blamble seven families. they lived by the side of the great lake pipple-popple (one of the seven families, indeed, lived _in_ the lake), and on the outskirts of the city of tosh, which, excepting when it was quite dark, they could see plainly. the names of all these places you have probably heard of; and you have only not to look in your geography-books to find out all about them. now, the seven families who lived on the borders of the great lake pipple-popple were as follows in the next chapter. chapter ii. the seven families. there was a family of two old parrots and seven young parrots. [illustration] there was a family of two old storks and seven young storks. [illustration] there was a family of two old geese and seven young geese. [illustration] there was a family of two old owls and seven young owls. [illustration] there was a family of two old guinea pigs and seven young guinea pigs. [illustration] there was a family of two old cats and seven young cats. [illustration] and there was a family of two old fishes and seven young fishes. [illustration] chapter iii. the habits of the seven families. the parrots lived upon the soffsky-poffsky trees, which were beautiful to behold, and covered with blue leaves; and they fed upon fruit, artichokes, and striped beetles. the storks walked in and out of the lake pipple-popple, and ate frogs for breakfast, and buttered toast for tea; but on account of the extreme length of their legs they could not sit down, and so they walked about continually. the geese, having webs to their feet, caught quantities of flies, which they ate for dinner. the owls anxiously looked after mice, which they caught, and made into sago-puddings. the guinea pigs toddled about the gardens, and ate lettuces and cheshire cheese. the cats sate still in the sunshine, and fed upon sponge biscuits. the fishes lived in the lake, and fed chiefly on boiled periwinkles. and all these seven families lived together in the utmost fun and felicity. chapter iv. the children of the seven families are sent away. one day all the seven fathers and the seven mothers of the seven families agreed that they would send their children out to see the world. so they called them all together, and gave them each eight shillings and some good advice, some chocolate-drops, and a small green morocco pocket-book to set down their expenses in. they then particularly entreated them not to quarrel; and all the parents sent off their children with a parting injunction. "if," said the old parrots, "you find a cherry, do not fight about who should have it." "and," said the old storks, "if you find a frog, divide it carefully into seven bits, but on no account quarrel about it." and the old geese said to the seven young geese, "whatever you do, be sure you do not touch a plum-pudding flea." and the old owls said, "if you find a mouse, tear him up into seven slices, and eat him cheerfully, but without quarrelling." and the old guinea pigs said, "have a care that you eat your lettuces, should you find any, not greedily, but calmly." and the old cats said, "be particularly careful not to meddle with a clangle-wangle if you should see one." and the old fishes said, "above all things, avoid eating a blue boss-woss; for they do not agree with fishes, and give them a pain in their toes." so all the children of each family thanked their parents; and, making in all forty-nine polite bows, they went into the wide world. chapter v. the history of the seven young parrots. the seven young parrots had not gone far, when they saw a tree with a single cherry on it, which the oldest parrot picked instantly; but the other six, being extremely hungry, tried to get it also. on which all the seven began to fight; and they scuffled, and huffled, and ruffled, and shuffled, and puffled, and muffled, and buffled, and duffled, and fluffled, and guffled, and bruffled, and screamed, and shrieked, and squealed, and squeaked, and clawed, and snapped, and bit, and bumped, and thumped, and dumped, and flumped each other, till they were all torn into little bits; and at last there was nothing left to record this painful incident except the cherry and seven small green feathers. and that was the vicious and voluble end of the seven young parrots. [illustration] chapter vi. the history of the seven young storks. when the seven young storks set out, they walked or flew for fourteen weeks in a straight line, and for six weeks more in a crooked one; and after that they ran as hard as they could for one hundred and eight miles; and after that they stood still, and made a himmeltanious chatter-clatter-blattery noise with their bills. about the same time they perceived a large frog, spotted with green, and with a sky-blue stripe under each ear. so, being hungry, they immediately flew at him, and were going to divide him into seven pieces, when they began to quarrel as to which of his legs should be taken off first. one said this, and another said that; and while they were all quarrelling, the frog hopped away. and when they saw that he was gone, they began to chatter-clatter, blatter-platter, patter-blatter, matter-clatter, flatter-quatter, more violently than ever; and after they had fought for a week, they pecked each other all to little pieces, so that at last nothing was left of any of them except their bills. and that was the end of the seven young storks. [illustration] chapter vii. the history of the seven young geese. when the seven young geese began to travel, they went over a large plain, on which there was but one tree, and that was, a very bad one. so four of them went up to the top of it, and looked about them; while the other three waddled up and down, and repeated poetry, and their last six lessons in arithmetic, geography, and cookery. presently they perceived, a long way off, an object of the most interesting and obese appearance, having a perfectly round body exactly resembling a boiled plum-pudding, with two little wings, and a beak, and three feathers growing out of his head, and only one leg. so, after a time, all the seven young geese said to each other, "beyond all doubt this beast must be a plum-pudding flea!" on which they incautiously began to sing aloud, "plum-pudding flea, plum-pudding flea, wherever you be, oh! come to our tree, and listen, oh! listen, oh! listen to me!" and no sooner had they sung this verse than the plum-pudding flea began to hop and skip on his one leg with the most dreadful velocity, and came straight to the tree, where he stopped, and looked about him in a vacant and voluminous manner. on which the seven young geese were greatly alarmed, and all of a tremble-bemble: so one of them put out his long neck, and just touched him with the tip of his bill; but no sooner had he done this than the plum-pudding flea skipped and hopped about more and more, and higher and higher; after which he opened his mouth, and, to the great surprise and indignation of the seven geese, began to bark so loudly and furiously and terribly, that they were totally unable to bear the noise; and by degrees every one of them suddenly tumbled down quite dead. so that was the end of the seven young geese. [illustration] chapter viii. the history of the seven young owls. when the seven young owls set out, they sate every now and then on the branches of old trees, and never went far at one time. and one night, when it was quite dark, they thought they heard a mouse; but, as the gas-lamps were not lighted, they could not see him. so they called out, "is that a mouse?" on which a mouse answered, "squeaky-peeky-weeky! yes, it is!" and immediately all the young owls threw themselves off the tree, meaning to alight on the ground; but they did not perceive that there was a large well below them, into which they all fell superficially, and were every one of them drowned in less than half a minute. so that was the end of the seven young owls. [illustration] chapter ix. the history of the seven young guinea pigs. the seven young guinea pigs went into a garden full of goose-berry-bushes and tiggory-trees, under one of which they fell asleep. when they awoke, they saw a large lettuce, which had grown out of the ground while they had been sleeping, and which had an immense number of green leaves. at which they all exclaimed,-- "lettuce! o lettuce let us, o let us, o lettuce-leaves, o let us leave this tree, and eat lettuce, o let us, lettuce-leaves!" and instantly the seven young guinea pigs rushed with such extreme force against the lettuce-plant, and hit their heads so vividly against its stalk, that the concussion brought on directly an incipient transitional inflammation of their noses, which grew worse and worse and worse and worse, till it incidentally killed them all seven. and that was the end of the seven young guinea pigs. [illustration] chapter x. the history of the seven young cats. the seven young cats set off on their travels with great delight and rapacity. but, on coming to the top of a high hill, they perceived at a long distance off a clangle-wangle (or, as it is more properly written, clangel-wangel); and, in spite of the warning they had had, they ran straight up to it. (now, the clangle-wangle is a most dangerous and delusive beast, and by no means commonly to be met with. they live in the water as well as on land, using their long tail as a sail when in the former element. their speed is extreme; but their habits of life are domestic and superfluous, and their general demeanor pensive and pellucid. on summer evenings, they may sometimes be observed near the lake pipple-popple, standing on their heads, and humming their national melodies. they subsist entirely on vegetables, excepting when they eat veal or mutton or pork or beef or fish or saltpetre.) the moment the clangle-wangle saw the seven young cats approach, he ran away; and as he ran straight on for four months, and the cats, though they continued to run, could never overtake him, they all gradually _died_ of fatigue and exhaustion, and never afterwards recovered. and this was the end of the seven young cats. [illustration] chapter xi. the history of the seven young fishes. the seven young fishes swam across the lake pipple-popple, and into the river, and into the ocean; where, most unhappily for them, they saw, on the fifteenth day of their travels, a bright-blue boss-woss, and instantly swam after him. but the blue boss-woss plunged into a perpendicular, spicular, orbicular, quadrangular, circular depth of soft mud; where, in fact, his house was. and the seven young fishes, swimming with great and uncomfortable velocity, plunged also into the mud quite against their will, and, not being accustomed to it, were all suffocated in a very short period. and that was the end of the seven young fishes. [illustration] chapter xii. of what occurred subsequently. after it was known that the seven young parrots, and the seven young storks, and the seven young geese, and the seven young owls, and the seven young guinea pigs, and the seven young cats, and the seven young fishes, were all dead, then the frog, and the plum-pudding flea, and the mouse, and the clangle-wangle, and the blue boss-woss, all met together to rejoice over their good fortune. and they collected the seven feathers of the seven young parrots, and the seven bills of the seven young storks, and the lettuce, and the cherry; and having placed the latter on the lettuce, and the other objects in a circular arrangement at their base, they danced a hornpipe round all these memorials until they were quite tired; after which they gave a tea-party, and a garden-party, and a ball, and a concert, and then returned to their respective homes full of joy and respect, sympathy, satisfaction, and disgust. [illustration] chapter xiii. of what became of the parents of the forty-nine children. but when the two old parrots, and the two old storks, and the two old geese, and the two old owls, and the two old guinea pigs, and the two old cats, and the two old fishes, became aware, by reading in the newspapers, of the calamitous extinction of the whole of their families, they refused all further sustenance; and, sending out to various shops, they purchased great quantities of cayenne pepper and brandy and vinegar and blue sealing-wax, besides seven immense glass bottles with air-tight stoppers. and, having done this, they ate a light supper of brown-bread and jerusalem artichokes, and took an affecting and formal leave of the whole of their acquaintance, which was very numerous and distinguished and select and responsible and ridiculous. chapter xiv. conclusion. and after this they filled the bottles with the ingredients for pickling, and each couple jumped into a separate bottle; by which effort, of course, they all died immediately, and became thoroughly pickled in a few minutes; having previously made their wills (by the assistance of the most eminent lawyers of the district), in which they left strict orders that the stoppers of the seven bottles should be carefully sealed up with the blue sealing-wax they had purchased; and that they themselves, in the bottles, should be presented to the principal museum of the city of tosh, to be labelled with parchment or any other anti-congenial succedaneum, and to be placed on a marble table with silver-gilt legs, for the daily inspection and contemplation, and for the perpetual benefit, of the pusillanimous public. and if you ever happen to go to gramble-blamble, and visit that museum in the city of tosh, look for them on the ninety-eighth table in the four hundred and twenty-seventh room of the right-hand corridor of the left wing of the central quadrangle of that magnificent building; for, if you do not, you certainly will not see them. [illustration] * * * * * nonsense cookery. extract from "the nonsense gazette," for august, . "our readers will be interested in the following communications from our valued and learned contributor, prof. bosh, whose labors in the fields of culinary and botanical science are so well known to all the world. the first three articles richly merit to be added to the domestic cookery of every family: those which follow claim the attention of all botanists; and we are happy to be able, through dr. bosh's kindness, to present our readers with illustrations of his discoveries. all the new flowers are found in the valley of verrikwier, near the lake of oddgrow, and on the summit of the hill orfeltugg." three receipts for domestic cookery. to make an amblongus pie. take pounds (say - / pounds) of fresh amblongusses, and put them in a small pipkin. cover them with water, and boil them for hours incessantly; after which add pints of new milk, and proceed to boil for hours more. when you have ascertained that the amblongusses are quite soft, take them out, and place them in a wide pan, taking care to shake them well previously. grate some nutmeg over the surface, and cover them carefully with powdered gingerbread, curry-powder, and a sufficient quantity of cayenne pepper. remove the pan into the next room, and place it on the floor. bring it back again, and let it simmer for three-quarters of an hour. shake the pan violently till all the amblongusses have become of a pale purple color. then, having prepared the paste, insert the whole carefully; adding at the same time a small pigeon, slices of beef, cauliflowers, and any number of oysters. watch patiently till the crust begins to rise, and add a pinch of salt from time to time. serve up in a clean dish, and throw the whole out of window as fast as possible. to make crumbobblious cutlets. procure some strips of beef, and, having cut them into the smallest possible slices, proceed to cut them still smaller,--eight, or perhaps nine times. when the whole is thus minced, brush it up hastily with a new clothes-brush, and stir round rapidly and capriciously with a salt-spoon or a soup-ladle. place the whole in a saucepan, and remove it to a sunny place,--say the roof of the house, if free from sparrows or other birds,--and leave it there for about a week. at the end of that time add a little lavender, some oil of almonds, and a few herring-bones; and then cover the whole with gallons of clarified crumbobblious sauce, when it will be ready for use. cut it into the shape of ordinary cutlets, and serve up in a clean table-cloth or dinner-napkin. to make gosky patties. take a pig three or four years of age, and tie him by the off hind-leg to a post. place pounds of currants, of sugar, pecks of peas, roast chestnuts, a candle, and bushels of turnips, within his reach: if he eats these, constantly provide him with more. then procure some cream, some slices of cheshire cheese, quires of foolscap paper, and a packet of black pins. work the whole into a paste, and spread it out to dry on a sheet of clean brown waterproof linen. when the paste is perfectly dry, but not before, proceed to beat the pig violently with the handle of a large broom. if he squeals, beat him again. visit the paste and beat the pig alternately for some days, and ascertain if, at the end of that period, the whole is about to turn into gosky patties. if it does not then, it never will; and in that case the pig may be let loose, and the whole process may be considered as finished. * * * * * nonsense botany. [illustration: baccopipia gracilis.] [illustration: bottlephorkia spoonifolia.] [illustration: cockatooca superba.] [illustration: fishia marina.] [illustration: guittara pensilis.] [illustration: manypeeplia upsidownia.] [illustration: phattfacia stupenda.] [illustration: piggiwiggia pyramidalis.] [illustration: plumbunnia nutritiosa.] [illustration: pollybirdia singularis.] * * * * * nonsense alphabets. a [illustration] a was an ant who seldom stood still, and who made a nice house in the side of a hill. a! nice little ant! b [illustration] b was a book with a binding of blue, and pictures and stories for me and for you. b! nice little book! c [illustration] c was a cat who ran after a rat; but his courage did fail when she seized on his tail. c! crafty old cat! d [illustration] d was a duck with spots on his back, who lived in the water, and always said "quack!" d! dear little duck! e [illustration] e was an elephant, stately and wise: he had tusks and a trunk, and two queer little eyes. e! oh, what funny small eyes! f [illustration] f was a fish who was caught in a net; but he got out again, and is quite alive yet. f! lively young fish! g [illustration] g was a goat who was spotted with brown: when he did not lie still he walked up and down. g! good little goat! h [illustration] h was a hat which was all on one side; its crown was too high, and its brim was too wide. h! oh, what a hat! i [illustration] i was some ice so white and so nice, but which nobody tasted; and so it was wasted. i! all that good ice! j [illustration] j was a jackdaw who hopped up and down in the principal street of a neighboring town. j! all through the town! k [illustration] k was a kite which flew out of sight, above houses so high, quite into the sky. k fly away, kite! l [illustration] l was a light which burned all the night, and lighted the gloom of a very dark room. l! useful nice light! m [illustration] m was a mill which stood on a hill, and turned round and round with a loud hummy sound. m! useful old mill! n [illustration] n was a net which was thrown in the sea to catch fish for dinner for you and for me. n! nice little net! o [illustration] o was an orange so yellow and round: when it fell off the tree, it fell down to the ground. o! down to the ground! p [illustration] p was a pig, who was not very big; but his tail was too curly, and that made him surly. p! cross little pig! q [illustration] q was a quail with a very short tail; and he fed upon corn in the evening and morn. q! quaint little quail! r [illustration] r was a rabbit, who had a bad habit of eating the flowers in gardens and bowers. r! naughty fat rabbit! s [illustration] s was the sugar-tongs, nippity-nee, to take up the sugar to put in our tea. s! nippity-nee! t [illustration] t was a tortoise, all yellow and black: he walked slowly away, and he never came back. t! torty never came back! u [illustration] u was an urn all polished and bright, and full of hot water at noon and at night. u! useful old urn! v [illustration] v was a villa which stood on a hill, by the side of a river, and close to a mill. v! nice little villa! w [illustration] w was a whale with a very long tail, whose movements were frantic across the atlantic. w! monstrous old whale! x [illustration] x was king xerxes, who, more than all turks, is renowned for his fashion of fury and passion. x! angry old xerxes! y [illustration] y was a yew, which flourished and grew by a quiet abode near the side of a road. y! dark little yew! z [illustration] z was some zinc, so shiny and bright, which caused you to wink in the sun's merry light. z! beautiful zinc! a [illustration] a a was once an apple-pie, pidy, widy, tidy, pidy, nice insidy, apple-pie! b [illustration] b b was once a little bear, beary, wary, hairy, beary, taky cary, little bear! c [illustration] c c was once a little cake, caky, baky, maky, caky, taky caky, little cake! d [illustration] d d was once a little doll, dolly, molly, polly, nolly, nursy dolly, little doll! e [illustration] e e was once a little eel, eely, weely, peely, eely, twirly, tweely, little eel! f [illustration] f f was once a little fish, fishy, wishy, squishy, fishy, in a dishy, little fish! g [illustration] g g was once a little goose, goosy, moosy, boosey, goosey, waddly-woosy, little goose! h [illustration] h h was once a little hen, henny, chenny, tenny, henny. eggsy-any, little hen? i [illustration] i i was once a bottle of ink inky, dinky, thinky, inky, blacky minky, bottle of ink! j [illustration] j j was once a jar of jam, jammy, mammy, clammy, jammy, sweety, swammy, jar of jam! k [illustration] k k was once a little kite, kity, whity, flighty, kity, out of sighty, little kite! l [illustration] l l was once a little lark, larky, marky, harky, larky, in the parky, little lark! m [illustration] m m was once a little mouse, mousy, bousy, sousy, mousy, in the housy, little mouse! n [illustration] n n was once a little needle, needly, tweedly, threedly, needly, wisky, wheedly, little needle! o [illustration] o o was once a little owl, owly, prowly, howly, owly, browny fowly, little owl! p [illustration] p p was once a little pump, pumpy, slumpy, flumpy, pumpy, dumpy, thumpy, little pump! q [illustration] q q was once a little quail, quaily, faily, daily, quaily, stumpy-taily, little quail! r [illustration] r r was once a little rose, rosy, posy, nosy, rosy, blows-y, grows-y, little rose! s [illustration] s s was once a little shrimp, shrimpy, nimpy, flimpy, shrimpy. jumpy, jimpy, little shrimp! t [illustration] t t was once a little thrush, thrushy, hushy, bushy, thrushy, flitty, flushy, little thrush! u [illustration] u u was once a little urn, urny, burny, turny, urny, bubbly, burny, little urn! v [illustration] v v was once a little vine, viny, winy, twiny, viny, twisty-twiny, little vine! w [illustration] w w was once a whale, whaly, scaly, shaly, whaly, tumbly-taily, mighty whale! x [illustration] x x was once a great king xerxes, xerxy, perxy, turxy, xerxy, linxy, lurxy, great king xerxes! y [illustration] y y was once a little yew, yewdy, fewdy, crudy, yewdy, growdy, grewdy, little yew! z [illustration] z z was once a piece of zinc, tinky, winky, blinky, tinky, tinkly minky, piece of zinc! a [illustration] a was an ape, who stole some white tape, and tied up his toes in four beautiful bows. a! funny old ape! b [illustration] b was a bat, who slept all the day, and fluttered about when the sun went away. b! brown little bat! c [illustration] c was a camel: you rode on his hump; and if you fell off, you came down such a bump! c! what a high camel! d [illustration] d was a dove, who lived in a wood, with such pretty soft wings, and so gentle and good! d! dear little dove! e [illustration] e was an eagle, who sat on the rocks, and looked down on the fields and the-far-away flocks. e! beautiful eagle! f [illustration] f was a fan made of beautiful stuff; and when it was used, it went puffy-puff-puff! f! nice little fan! g [illustration] g was a gooseberry, perfectly red; to be made into jam, and eaten with bread. g! gooseberry red! h [illustration] h was a heron, who stood in a stream: the length of his neck and his legs was extreme. h! long-legged heron! i [illustration] i was an inkstand, which stood on a table, with a nice pen to write with when we are able. i! neat little inkstand! j [illustration] j was a jug, so pretty and white, with fresh water in it at morning and night. j! nice little jug! k [illustration] k was a kingfisher: quickly he flew, so bright and so pretty!-- green, purple, and blue. k! kingfisher blue! l [illustration] l was a lily, so white and so sweet! to see it and smell it was quite a nice treat. l! beautiful lily! m [illustration] m was a man, who walked round and round; and he wore a long coat that came down to the ground. m! funny old man! n [illustration] n was a nut so smooth and so brown! and when it was ripe, it fell tumble-dum-down. n! nice little nut! o [illustration] o was an oyster, who lived in his shell: if you let him alone, he felt perfectly well. o! open-mouthed oyster! p [illustration] p was a polly, all red, blue, and green,-- the most beautiful polly that ever was seen. p! poor little polly! q [illustration] q was a quill made into a pen; but i do not know where, and i cannot say when. q! nice little quill! r [illustration] r was a rattlesnake, rolled up so tight, those who saw him ran quickly, for fear he should bite. r! rattlesnake bite! s [illustration] s was a screw to screw down a box; and then it was fastened without any locks. s! valuable screw! t [illustration] t was a thimble, of silver so bright! when placed on the finger, it fitted so tight! t! nice little thimble! u [illustration] u was an upper-coat, woolly and warm, to wear over all in the snow or the storm. u! what a nice upper-coat! v [illustration] v was a veil with a border upon it, and a ribbon to tie it all round a pink bonnet. v! pretty green veil! w [illustration] w was a watch, where, in letters of gold, the hour of the day you might always behold. w! beautiful watch! x [illustration] x was king xerxes, who wore on his head a mighty large turban, green, yellow, and red. x! look at king xerxes! y [illustration] y was a yak, from the land of thibet: except his white tail, he was all black as jet. y! look at the yak! z [illustration] z was a zebra, all striped white and black; and if he were tame, you might ride on his back. z! pretty striped zebra! peacock pie a book of rhymes by walter de la mare 'he told me his dreams. . .' isaac watts table of contents up and down the horseman up and down mrs. earth alas, alack tired tim mima the huntsmen the bandog i can't abear the dunce chicken some one bread and cherries old shellover hapless the little bird cake and sack the ship of rio tillie jim jay miss t. the cupboard the barber's hide and seek boys and girls then the window poor henry full moon the bookworm the quartette mistletoe the lost shoe the truants three queer tales berries off the ground the thief at robin's castle places and people a widow's weeds 'sooeep!' mrs. macqueen the little green orchard poor miss sam andy battle the old soldier the picture the little old cupid king david the old house beasts unstooping all but blind nicholas nye the pigs and the charcoal burner five eyes grim tit for tat summer evening earth folk witches and fairies at the keyhole the old stone house the ruin the ride-by-nights peak and puke the changeling the mocking fairy bewitched the honey robbers longlegs melmillo earth and air trees silver nobody knows wanderers many a mickle will ever? songs the song of the secret the song of soldiers the bees' song a song of enchantment dream-song the song of shadows the song of the mad prince the song of finis the horseman i heard a horseman ride over the hill; the moon shone clear, the night was still; his helm was silver, and pale was he; and the horse he rode was of ivory. up and down down the hill of ludgate, up the hill of fleet, to and fro and east and west with people flows the street; even the king of england on temple bar must beat for leave to ride to ludgate down the hill of fleet. mrs. earth mrs. earth makes silver black, mrs. earth makes iron red but mrs. earth can not stain gold, nor ruby red. mrs. earth the slenderest bone whitens in her bosom cold, but mrs. earth can change my dreams no more than ruby or gold. mrs. earth and mr. sun can tan my skin, and tire my toes, but all that i'm thinking of, ever shall think, why, either knows. alas, alack! ann, ann! come! quick as you can! there's a fish that talks in the frying-pan. out of the fat, as clear as glass, he put up his mouth and moaned 'alas!' oh, most mournful, 'alas, alack!' then turned to his sizzling, and sank him back. tired tim poor tired tim! it's sad for him. he lags the long bright morning through, ever so tired of nothing to do; he moons and mopes the livelong day, nothing to think about, nothing to say; up to bed with his candle to creep, too tired to yawn, too tired to sleep: poor tired tim! it's sad for him. mima jemima is my name, but oh, i have another; my father always calls me meg, and so do bob and mother; only my sister, jealous of the strands of my bright hair, 'jemima - mima - mima!' calls, mocking, up the stair. the huntsmen three jolly gentlemen, in coats of red, rode their horses up to bed. three jolly gentlemen snored till morn, their horses champing the golden corn. three jolly gentlemen, at break of day, came clitter-clatter down the stairs and galloped away. the bandog has anybody seen my mopser? -- a comely dog is he, with hair of the colour of a charles the fifth, and teeth like ships at sea, his tail it curls straight upwards, his ears stand two abreast, and he answers to the simple name of mopser when civilly addressed. i can't abear i can't abear a butcher, i can't abide his meat, the ugliest shop of all is his, the ugliest in the street; bakers' are warm, cobblers' dark, chemists' burn watery lights; but oh, the sawdust butcher's shop, that ugliest of sights! the dunce why does he still keep ticking? why does his round white face stare at me over the books and ink, and mock at my disgrace? why does that thrush call, 'dunce, dunce, dunce!'? why does that bluebottle buzz? why does the sun so silent shine? -- and what do i care if it does? chicken clapping her platter stood plump bess, and all across the green came scampering in, on wing and claw, chicken fat and lean: dorking, spaniard, cochin china, bantams sleek and small, like feathers blown in a great wind, they came at bessie's call. some one some one came knocking at my wee, small door; some one came knocking, i'm sure - sure - sure; i listened, i opened, i looked to left and right, but naught there was a-stirring in the still dark night; only the busy beetle tap-tapping in the wall, only from the forest the screech-owl's call, only the cricket whistling while the dewdrops fall, so i know not who came knocking, at all, at all, at all. bread and cherries 'cherries, ripe cherries!' the old woman cried, in her snowy white apron, and basket beside; and the little boys came, eyes shining, cheeks red, to buy a bag of cherries, to eat with their bread. old shellover 'come!' said old shellover. 'what?' says creep. 'the horny old gardener's fast asleep; the fat cock thrush to his nest has gone; and the dew shines bright in the rising moon; old sallie worm from her hole doth peep: come!' said old shellover. 'aye!' said creep. hapless hapless, hapless, i must be all the hours of life i see, since my foolish nurse did once bed me on her leggen bones; since my mother did not weel to snip my nails with blades of steel. had they laid me on a pillow in a cot of water willow, had they bitten finger and thumb, not to such ill hap i had come. the little bird my dear daddie bought a mansion for to bring my mammie to, in a hat with a long feather, and a trailing gown of blue; and a company of fiddlers and a rout of maids and men danced the clock round to the morning, in a gay house-warming then. and when all the guests were gone, and all was still as still can be, in from the dark ivy hopped a wee small bird: and that was me. cake and sack old king caraway supped on cake, and a cup of sack his thirst to slake; bird in arras and hound in hall watched very softly or not at all; fire in the middle, stone all round changed not, heeded not, made no sound; all by himself at the table high he'd nibble and sip while his dreams slipped by; and when he had finished, he'd nod and say, 'cake and sack for king caraway!' the ship of rio there was a ship of rio sailed out into the blue, and nine and ninety monkeys were all her jovial crew. from bo'sun to the cabin boy, from quarter to caboose, there weren't a stitch of calico to breech 'em - tight or loose; from spar to deck, from deck to keel, from barnacle to shroud, there weren't one pair of reach-me-downs to all that jabbering crowd. but wasn't it a gladsome sight, when roared the deep sea gales, to see them reef her fore and aft a-swinging by their tails! oh, wasn't it a gladsome sight, when glassy calm did come, to see them squatting tailor-wise around a keg of rum! oh, wasn't it a gladsome sight, when in she sailed to land, to see them all a-scampering skip for nuts across the sand! tillie old tillie turveycombe sat to sew, just where a patch of fern did grow; there, as she yawned, and yawn wide did she, floated some seed down her gull-e-t; and look you once, and look you twice, poor old tillie was gone in a trice. but oh, when the wind do a-moaning come, 'tis poor old tillie sick for home; and oh, when a voice in the mist do sigh, old tillie turveycombe's floating by. jim jay do diddle di do, poor jim jay got stuck fast in yesterday. squinting he was, on cross-legs bent, never heeding the wind was spent. round veered the weathercock, the sun drew in - and stuck was jim like a rusty pin... we pulled and we pulled from seven till twelve, jim, too frightened to help himself. but all in vain. the clock struck one, and there was jim a little bit gone. at half-past five you scarce could see a glimpse of his flapping handkerchee. and when came noon, and we climbed sky-high, jim was a speck slip - slipping by. come to-morrow, the neighbours say, he'll be past crying for; poor jim jay. miss t. it's a very odd thing ----- as odd as can be --- that whatever miss t. eats turns into miss t.; porridge and apples, mince, muffins and mutton, jam, junket, jumbles ---- not a rap, not a button it matters; the moment they're out of her plate, though shared by miss butcher and sour mr. bate; tiny and cheerful, and neat as can be, whatever miss t. eats turns into miss t. the cupboard i know a little cupboard, with a teeny tiny key, and there's a jar of lollypops for me, me, me. it has a little shelf, my dear, as dark as dark can be, and there's a dish of banbury cakes for me, me, me. i have a small fat grandmamma, with a very slippery knee, and she's the keeper of the cupboard with the key, key, key. and i'm very good, my dear, as good as good can be, there's branbury cakes, and lollypops for me, me, me. the barber's gold locks, and black locks, red locks and brown, topknot to love-curl the hair wisps down; straight above the clear eyes, rounded round the ears, snip-snap and snick-a-snick, clash the barber's shears; us, in the looking-glass, footsteps in the street, over, under, to and fro, the lean blades meet; bay rum or bear's grease, a silver groat to pay - then out a-shin-shan-shining in the bright, blue day. hide and seek hide and seek, says the wind, in the shade of the woods; hide and seek, says the moon, to the hazel buds; hide and seek, says the cloud, star on to star; hide and seek, says the wave, at the harbour bar; hide and seek, say i, to myself, and step out of the dream of wake into the dream of sleep. boys and girls then twenty, forty, sixty, eighty a hundred years ago, all through the night with lantern bright the watch trudged to and fro, and little boys tucked snug abed would wake from dreams to hear - 'two o' the morning by the clock, and the stars a-shining clear!' or, when across the chimney-tops screamed shrill a north-east gale, a faint and shaken voice would shout, 'three! and a storm of hail!' the window behind the blinds i sit and watch the people passing - passing by; and not a single one can see my tiny watching eye. they cannot see my little room, all yellowed with the shaded sun; they do not even know i'm here; nor'll guess when i am gone. poor henry thick in its glass the physic stands, poor henry lifts distracted hands; his round cheek wans in the candlelight, to smell that smell! to see that sight! finger and thumb clinch his small nose, a gurgle, a gasp, and down it goes; scowls henry now; but mark that cheek, sleek with the bloom of health next week! full moon one night as dick lay half asleep, into his drowsy eyes a great still light begins to creep from out the silent skies. it was lovely moon's, for when he raised his dreamy head, her surge of silver filled the pane and streamed across his bed. so, for a while, each gazed at each - dick and the solemn moon - till, climbing slowly on her way, she vanished, and was gone. the bookworm 'i'm tired - oh, tired of books,' said jack, 'i long for meadows green, and woods, where shadowy violets nod their cool leaves between; i long to see the ploughman stride his darkening acres o'er, to hear the hoarse sea-waters drive their billows 'gainst the shore; i long to watch the sea-mew wheel back to her rock-perched mate; or, where the breathing cows are housed, lean dreaming o'er the gate. something has gone, and ink and print will never bring it back; i long for the green fields again, i'm tired of books,' said jack. the quartette tom sang for joy and ned sang for joy and old sam sang for joy; all we four boys piped up loud, just like one boy; and the ladies that sate with the squire - their cheeks were all wet, for the noise of the voice of us boys, when we sang our quartette. tom he piped low and ned he piped low and old sam he piped low; into a sorrowful fall did our music flow; and the ladies that sate with the squire vowed they'd never forget how the eyes of them cried for delight, when we sang our quartette. mistletoe sitting under the mistletoe (pale-green, fairy mistletoe), one last candle burning low, all the sleepy dancers gone, just one candle burning on, shadows lurking everywhere: some one came, and kissed me there. tired i was; my head would go nodding under the mistletoe (pale-green, fairy mistletoe), no footsteps came, no voice, but only, just as i sat there, sleepy, lonely, stooped in the still and shadowy air lips unseen - and kissed me there. the lost shoe poor little lucy by some mischance, lost her shoe as she did dance - 'twas not on the stairs, not in the hall; not where they sat at supper at all. she looked in the garden, but there it was not; henhouse, or kennel, or high dovecote. dairy and meadow, and wild woods through showed not a trace of lucy's shoe. bird nor bunny nor glimmering moon breathed a whisper of where 'twas gone. it was cried and cried, oyez and oyez! in french, dutch, latin, and portuguese. ships the dark seas went plunging through, but none brought news of lucy's shoe; and still she patters in silk and leather, o'er snow, sand, shingle, in every weather; spain, and africa, hindustan, java, china, and lamped japan; plain and desert, she hops-hops through, pernambuco to gold peru; mountain and forest, and river too, all the world over for her lost shoe. the truants ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly to remember sad things, yet be gay, i would sing a brief song of the world's little children magic hath stolen away. the primroses scattered by april, the stars of the wide milky way, cannot outnumber the hosts of the children magic hath stolen away. the buttercup green of the meadows, the snow of the blossoming may, lovelier are not than the legions of children magic hath stolen away. the waves tossing surf in the moonbeam, the albatross lone on the spray, alone know the tears wept in vain for the children magic hath stolen away. in vain: for at hush of the evening, when the stars twinkle into the grey, seems to echo the far-away calling of children magic hath stolen away. three queer tales berries there was an old woman went blackberry picking along the hedges from weep to wicking. - half a pottle- no more she had got, when out steps a fairy from her green grot; and says, 'well, jill, would 'ee pick ee mo?' and jill, she curtseys, and looks just so. be off,' says the fairy, 'as quick as you can, over the meadows to the little green lane that dips to the hayfields of farmer grimes: i've berried those hedges a score of times; bushel on bushel i'll promise'ee, jill, this side of supper if'ee pick with a will.' she glints very bright, and speaks her fair; then lo, and behold! she had faded in air. be sure old goodie she trots betimes over the meadows to farmer grimes. and never was queen with jewelry rich as those same hedges from twig to ditch; like dutchmen's coffers, fruit, thorn, and flower - they shone like william and mary's bower. and be sure old goodie went back to weep, so tired with her basket she scarce could creep. when she comes in the dusk to her cottage door, there's towser wagging as never before, to see his missus so glad to be come from her fruit-picking back to he. as soon as next morning dawn was grey, the pot on the hob was simmering away; and all in a stew and a hugger-mugger towser and jill a-boiling of sugar, and the dark clear fruit that from faerie came, for syrup and jelly and blackberry jam. twelve jolly gallipots jill put by; and one little teeny one, one inch high; and that she's hidden a good thumb deep, half way over from wicking to weep. off the ground three jolly farmers once bet a pound each dance the others would off the ground. out of their coats they slipped right soon, and neat and nicesome, put each his shoon. one - two - three! - and away they go, not too fast, and not too slow; out from the elm-tree's noonday shadow, into the sun and across the meadow. past the schoolroom, with knees well bent fingers a-flicking, they dancing went. up sides and over, and round and round, they crossed click-clacking, the parish bound, by tupman's meadow they did their mile, tee-t-tum on a three-barred stile. then straight through whipham, downhill to week, footing it lightsome, but not too quick, up fields to watchet, and on through wye, till seven fine churches they'd seen skip by - seven fine churches, and five old mills, farms in the valley, and sheep on the hills; old man's acre and dead man's pool all left behind, as they danced through wool. and wool gone by, like tops that seem to spin in sleep they danced in dream; withy - wellover - wassop-wo- like an old clock their heels did go. a league and a league and a league they went, and not one weary, and not one spent. and io, and behold! past willow-cum-leigh stretched with its waters the great green sea. says farmer bates, i puffs and i blows, what's under the water, why, no man knows!' says farmer giles, 'my wind comes weak, and a good man drownded is far to seek.' but farmer turvey, on twirling toes up's with his gaiters, and in he goes: down where the mermaids pluck and play on their twangling harps in a sea-green day; down where the mermaids, finned and fair, sleek with their combs their yellow hair.... bates and giles- on the shingle sat, gazing at turvey's floating hat. but never a ripple nor bubble told where he was supping off plates of gold. never an echo rilled through the sea of the feasting and dancing and minstrelsy. they called-called-called: came no reply: nought but the ripples' sandy sigh. then glum and silent they sat instead, vacantly brooding on home and bed, till both together stood up and said.- 'us knows not, dreams not, where you be, turvey, unless in the deep blue sea; but axcusing silver- and it comes most willing - here's us two paying our forty shilling; for it's sartin sure, turvey, safe and sound, you danced us square, turvey, off the ground!' the thief at robin's castle there came a thief one night to robin's castle, he climbed up into a tree; and sitting with his head among the branches, a wondrous sight did see. for there was robin supping at his table, with candles of pure wax, his dame and his two beauteous little children, with velvet on their backs. platters for each there were shin-shining, of silver many a pound, and all of beaten gold, three brimming goblets, standing the table round. the smell that rose up richly from the baked meats came thinning amid the boughs, and much that greedy thief who snuffed the night air- his hunger did arouse. he watched them eating, drinking, laughing, talking, busy with finger and spoon, while three most cunning fiddlers, clad in crimson, played them a supper-tune. and he waited in the tree-top like a starling, till the moon was gotten low; when all the windows in the walls were darkened, he softly in did go. there robin and his dame in bed were sleeping, and his children young and fair; only robin's hounds from their warm kennels yelped as he climbed the stair. all, all were sleeping, page and fiddler, cook, scullion, free from care; only robin's stallions from their stables neighed as he climbed the stair. a wee wan light the moon did shed him, hanging above the sea, and he counted into his bag (of beaten silver) platters thirty-three. of spoons three score; of jolly golden goblets he stowed in four save one, and six fine three-branched cupid candlesticks, before his work was done. nine bulging bags of money in a cupboard, two snuffers, and a dish he found, the last all studded with great garnets and shapen like a fish. then tiptoe up he stole into a chamber, where on tasselled pillows lay robin and his daule in dreaming slumbers tired with the summer's day. that thief he mimbled round him in the gloaming, their treasure for to spy, combs, brooches, chains, and, rings, and pins and buckles all higgledy, piggle-dy. a watch shaped in the shape of a flat apple in purest crystal set he lifted from the hook where it was ticking and crammed in his pochette. he heaped the pretty baubles on the table, trinketsi knick-knackerie, pearls, diamonds, sapphires, topazes, and opals- all in his bag put he. and there in night's pale gloom was robin dreaming he was hunting the mountain bear, while his dame in peaceful slumber in no wise heeded a greedy thief was there. and that ravenous thief he climbed up even higher, till into a chamber small he crept where lay poor robin's beauteous children, lovelier in sleep withal. oh, fairer was their hair than gold of goblet, 'yond silver their cheeks did shine, and their little hands that lay upon the linen made that thief's hard heart to pine. but though a moment there his hard heart faltered, eftsoones be took them twain, and slipped them into his bag with all his plunder, and soft stole down again. spoon, platter, goblet, ducats, dishes, trinkets, and those two children dear, a-quaking in the clinking and the clanking, and half bemused with fear, he carried down the stairs into the courtyard, but there he made no stay, he just tied up his garters, took a deep breath, and ran like the wind away. past forest, river, mountain, river, forest- he coursed the whole night through, till morning found him come into a country, where none his bad face knew. past mountain, river, forest, river, mountain- that thief's lean shanks sped on, till evening found him knocking at a dark house, his breath now well-nigh gone. there came a little maid and asked his business; a cobbler dwelt within; and though she much misliked the bag he carried, she led the bad man in. he bargained with the cobbler for a lodging and soft laid down his sack- in the dead of night, with none to spy or listen- from off his weary back. and he taught the little chicks to call him father, and he sold his stolen pelf, and bought a palace, horses, slaves, and peacocks to ease his wicked self. and though the children never really loved him, he was rich past all belief; while robin and his dame o'er delf and pewter spent all their days in grief. places and people a widow's weeds a poor old widow in her weeds sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds; not too shallow, and not too deep, and down came april -- drip -- drip -- drip. up shone may, like gold, and soon green as an arbour grew leafy june. and now all summer she sits and sews where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows, teasle and pansy, meadowsweet, campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit; brown bee orchis, and peals of bells; clover, burnet, and thyme she smells; like oberon's meadows her garden is drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees. weeps she never, but sometimes sighs, and peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes; and all she has is all she needs -- a poor old widow in her weeds. 'sooeep!' black as a chimney is his face, and ivory white his teeth, and in his brass-bound cart he rides, the chestnut blooms beneath. 'sooeep, sooeep!' he cries, and brightly peers this way and that, to see with his two light-blue shining eyes what custom there may be. and once inside the house, he'll squat, and drive his rods on high, till twirls his sudden sooty brush against the morning sky. then, 'mid his bulging bags of soot, with half the world asleep, his small cart wheels him off again, still hoarsely bawling, 'sooeep!' mrs. macqueen (or the lollie-shop) with glass like a bull's-eye, and shutters of green, down on the cobbles lives mrs. macqueen, at six she rises; at nine you see her candle shine out in the linden tree: and at half-past nine not a sound is nigh but the bright moon's creeping across the sky; or a far dog baying; or a twittering bird in its drowsy nest, in the darkness stirred; or like the roar of a distant sea a long-drawn s-s-sh in the linden tree. the little green orchard some one is always sitting there, in the little green orchard; even when the sun is high in noon's unclouded sky, and faintly droning goes the bee from rose to rose, some one in shadow is sitting there in the little green orchard. yes, when the twilight's falling softly in the little green orchard; when the grey dew distills and every flower-cup fills; when the last blackbird says, 'what - what!' and goes her way - ssh! i have heard voices calling softly in the little green orchard not that i am afraid of being there, in the little green orchard; why, when the moon's been bright, shedding her lonesome light, and moths like ghosties come, and the horned snail leaves home: i've sat there, whispering and listening there, in the little green orchard. only it's strange to be feeling there, in the little green orchard; whether you paint or draw, dig, hammer, chop or saw; when you are most alone, all but the silence gone... some one is watching and waiting there, in the little green orchard. poor 'miss ' lone and alone she lies, poor miss , five steep flights from the earth, and one from heaven; dark hair and dark brown eyes, - not to be sad she tries, still - still it's lonely lies poor miss . one day-long watch hath she, poor miss , not in some orchard sweet in april devon - just four blank walls to see, and dark come shadowily, no moon, no stars, ah me! poor miss . and then to wake again, poor miss , to the cold night, to have sour physic given; out of some dream of pain, then strive long hours in vain deep dreamless sleep to gain: poor miss . yet memory softly sings poor miss songs full of love and peace and gladness even; clear flowers and tiny wings, all tender, lovely things, hope to her bosom brings - happy miss . sam when sam goes back in memory, it is to where the sea breaks on the shingle, emerald-green, in white foam, endlessly; he says - with small brown eye on mine- 'i used to keep awake, and lean from my window in the moon, watching those billows break. and half a million tiny hands, and eyes, like sparks of frost, would dance and come tumbling into the moon, on every breaker tossed. and all across from star to star, i've seen the watery sea, with not a single ship in sight, just ocean there, and me; and heard my father snore. and once, as sure as i'm alive, out of those wallowing, moon-flecked waves i saw a mermaid dive; head and shoulders above the wave, plain as i now see you, combing her hair, now back, now front, her two eyes peeping through; calling me, 'sam!' -quietlike- 'sam!'... but me .... i never went, making believe i kind of thought 'twas some one else she meant.... wonderful lovely there she sat, singing the night away, all in the solitudinous sea of that there lonely bay. p'raps,' and he'd smooth his hairless mouth, 'p'raps, if 'twere now, my son, praps, if i heard a voice say, 'sam!'... morning would find we gone.' andy battle once and there was a young sailor, yeo ho! and he sailed out over the say for the isles where pink coral and palm branches blow, and the fire-flies turn night into day, yeo ho! and the fire-flies turn night into day. but the dolphin went down in a tempest, yeo ho! and with three forsook sailors ashore, the portingales took him wh'ere sugar-canes grow, their slave for to be evermore, yeo ho! their slave for to be evermore. with his musket for mother and brother, yeo ho! he warred with the cannibals drear, in forests where panthers pad soft to and fro, and the pongo shakes noonday with fear, yeo ho! and the pongo shakes noonday with fear. now lean with long travail, all wasted with woe, with a monkey for messmate and friend, he sits 'neath the cross in the cankering snow, and waites for his sorrowful end, yeo ho! and waits for his sorrowful end. the old soldier there came an old soldier to my door, asked a crust, and asked no more; the wars had thinned him very bare, fighting and marching everywhere, with a fol rol dol rol di do. with nose stuck out, and cheek sunk in, a bristling beard upon his chin - powder and bullets and wounds and drums had come to that soldier as suchlike comes - with a fol rol dol rol di do. 'twas sweet and fresh with buds of may, flowers springing from every spray; and when he had supped the old soldier trolled the song of youth that never grows old, called fol rol dol rol di do. most of him rags, and all of him lean, and the belt round his belly drawn tightsome in he lifted his peaked old grizzled head, and these were the very same words he said- a fol-rol-dol-rol-di-do. the picture here is a sea-legged sailor, come to this tottering inn, just when the bronze on its signboard is fading, and the black shades of evening begin. with his head on thick paws sleeps a sheep-dog, there stoops the shepherd, and see, all follow-my-leader the ducks waddle homeward, under the sycamore tree. very brown is the face of the sailor, his bundle is crimson, and green are the thick leafy boughs that hang dense o'er the tavern, and blue the far meadows between. but the crust, ale and cheese of the sailor, his mug and his platter of delf, and the crescent to light home the shepherd and sheep-dog the painter has kept to himself. the little old cupid 'twas a very small garden; the paths were of stone, scattered with leaves, with moss overgrown; and a little old cupid stood under a tree, with a small broken bow he stood aiming at me. the dog-rose in briars hung over the weeds, the air was aflock with the floating of seed, and a little old cupid stood under a tree, with a small broken bow he stood aiming at me. the dovecote was tumbling, the fountain dry, a wind in the orchard went whispering by; and a little old cupid stood under a tree, with a small broken bow he stood aiming at me. king david king david was a sorrowful man: no cause for his sorrow had he; and he called for the music of a hundred harps, to ease his melancholy. they played till they all fell silent: played-and play sweet did they; but the sorrow that haunted the heart of king david they could not charm away. he rose; and in his garden walked by the moon alone, a nightingale hidden in a cypress-tree jargoned on and on. king david lifted his sad eyes into the dark-boughed tree- ''tell me, thou little bird that singest, who taught my grief to thee?' but the bird in no wise heeded and the king in the cool of the moon hearkened to the nightingale's sorrowfulness, till all his own was gone. the old house a very, very old house i know- and ever so many people go, past the small lodge, forlorn and still, under the heavy branches, till comes the blank wall, and there's the door. go in they do; come out no more. no voice says aught; no spark of light across that threshold cheers the sight; only the evening star on high less lonely makes a lonely sky, as, one by one, the people go into that very old house i know. beasts unstooping low on his fours the lion treads with the surly bear', but men straight upward from the dust walk with their heads in air; the free sweet winds of heaven, the sunlight from on high beat on their clear bright cheeks and brows as they go striding by; the doors of all their houses they arch so they may go, uplifted o'er the four-foot beasts, unstooping, to and fro. all but blind all but blind in his cambered hole gropes for worms the four-clawed mole. all but blind in the evening sky the hooded bat twirls softly by. all but blind in the burning day the barn-owl blunders on her way. and blind as are these three to me, so blind to someone i must be. nicholas nye thistle and darnell and dock grew there, and a bush, in the corner, of may, on the orchard wall i used to sprawl in the blazing heat of the day; half asleep and half awake, while the birds went twittering by, and nobody there my lone to share but nicholas nye. nicholas nye was lean and gray, lame of leg and old, more than a score of donkey's years he had been since he was foaled; he munched the thistles, purple and spiked, would sometimes stoop and sigh, and turn to his head, as if he said, "poor nicholas nye!" alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow, lazily swinging his tail, at break of day he used to bray,-- not much too hearty and hale; but a wonderful gumption was under his skin, and a clean calm light in his eye, and once in a while; he'd smile:-- would nicholas nye. seem to be smiling at me, he would, from his bush in the corner, of may,-- bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, knobble-kneed, lonely and gray; and over the grass would seem to pass 'neath the deep dark blue of the sky, something much better than words between me and nicholas nye. but dusk would come in the apple boughs, the green of the glow-worm shine, the birds in nest would crouch to rest, and home i'd trudge to mine; and there, in the moonlight, dark with dew, asking not wherefore nor why, would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post, old nicholas nye. the pigs and the charcoal - burner the old pig said to the little pigs, 'in the forest is truffles and mast, follow me then, all ye little pigs, follow me fast!' the charcoal-burner sat in the shade with his chin on his thumb, and saw the big pig and the little pigs, chuffling come. he watched 'neath a green and giant bough, and the pigs in the ground made a wonderful grizzling and gruzzling and a greedy sound. and when, full-fed they were gone, and night walked her starry ways, he stared with his cheeks in his hands at his sullen blaze. five eyes in hans' old mill his three black cats watch the bins for the thieving rats. whisker and claw, they crouch in the night, their five eyes smouldering green and bright: squeaks from the flour sacks, squeaks from where the cold wind stirs on the empty stair, squeaking and scampering, everywhere. then down they pounce, now in, now out, at whisking tail, and sniffing snout; while lean old hans he snores away till peep of light at break of day; then up he climbs to his creaking mill, out come his cats all grey with meal -- jekkel, and jessup, and one-eyed jill. grim beside the blaze of forty fires giant grim doth sit, roasting a thick-woolled mountain sheep upon an iron spit. above him wheels the winter sky, beneath him, fathoms deep, lies hidden in the valley mists a village fast asleep --- save for one restive hungry dog that, snuffing towards the height, smells grim's broiled supper-meat, and spies his watch-fire twinkling bright. tit for tat have you been catching of fish, tom noddy? have you snared a weeping hare? have you whistled, 'no nunny,'and gunned a poor bunny, or a blinded bird of the air? have you trod like a murderer through the green woods, through the dewy deep dingles and glooms, while every small creature screamed shrill to dame nature, 'he comes --and he comes!'? wonder i very much do, tom noddy, if ever, when you are a-roam, an ogre from space will stoop a lean face and lug you home: lug you home over his fence, tom noddy, of thorn-sticks nine yards high, with your bent knees strung round his old iron gun and your head dan-dangling by: and hang you up stiff on a hook, tom noddy, from a stone-cold pantry shelf, whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare, till you're cooked yourself! summer evening the sandy cat by the farmer's chair mews at his knee for dainty fare; old rover in his moss-greened house mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse in the dewy fields the cattle lie chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky dobbin at manger pulls his hay: gone is another summer's day. earth folk the cat she walks on padded claws, the wolf on the hills lays stealthy paws, feathered birds in the rain-sweet sky at their ease in the air, flit low, flit high. the oak's blind, tender roots pierce deep, his green crest towers, dimmed in sleep, under the stars whose thrones are set where never prince hath journeyed yet. witches and fairies at the keyhole 'grill me some bones,' said the cobbler, 'some bones, my pretty sue; i'm tired of my lonesome with heels and soles, springsides and uppers too; a mouse in the wainscot is nibbling; a wind in the keyhole drones; and a sheet webbed over my candle, susie, --- grill me some bones!' 'grill me some bones,' said the cobbler, i sat at my tic-tac-to; and a footstep came to my door and stopped, and a hand groped to and fro; and i peered up over my boot and last; and my feet went cold as stones: i saw an eye at the keyhole, susie! --- grill me some bones!' the old stone house nothing on the grey roof, nothing on the brown, only a little greening where the rain drips down; nobody at the window, nobody at the door, only a little hollow which a foot once wore; but still i tread on tiptoe, still tiptoe on i go, past nettles, porch, and weedy well, for oh, i know a friendless face is peering, and a still clear eye peeps closely through the casement as my step goes by. the ruin when the last colours of the day have from their burning ebbed away, about that ruin, cold and lone, the cricket shrills from stone to stone; and scattering o'er its darkened green, bands of the fairies may be seen, chattering like grasshoppers, their feet dancing a thistledown dance round it: while the great gold of the mild moon tinges their tiny acorn shoon. the ride-by-nights up on their brooms the witches stream, crooked and black in the crescent's gleam; one foot high, and one foot low, bearded, cloaked, and cowled, they go, 'neath charlie's wain they twitter and tweet, and away they swarm 'neath the dragon's feet, with a whoop and a flutter they swing and sway, and surge pell-mell down the milky way. betwixt the legs of the glittering chair they hover and squeak in the empty air. then round they swoop past the glimmering lion to where sirius barks behind huge orion; up, then, and over to wheel amain, under the silver, and home again. peak and puke from his cradle in the glamourie they have stolen my wee brother, housed a changeling in his swaddlings for to fret my own poor mother. pules it in the candle light wi' a cheek so lean and white, chinkling up its eyne so wee wailing shrill at her an' me. it we'll neither rock nor tend till the silent silent send, lapping in their awesome arms him they stole with spells and charms, till they take this changeling creature back to its own fairy nature -- cry! cry! as long as may be, ye shall ne'er be woman's baby! the changeling 'ahoy, and ahoy!' 'twixt mocking and merry -- 'ahoy and ahoy, there, young man of the ferry!' she stood on the steps in the watery gloom --- that changeling --'ahoy, there!' she called him to come. he came on the green wave, he came on the grey, where stooped that sweet lady that still summer's day. he fell in a dream of her beautiful face, as she sat on the thwart and smiled in her place. no echo his oar woke, float silent did they, past low-grazing cattle in the sweet of the hay. and still in a dream at her beauty sat he, drifting stern foremost down -- down to the sea. come you, then: call, when the twilight apace brings shadow to brood on the loveliest face; you shall hear o'er the water ring faint in the grey --- 'ahoy, and ahoy, there!' and tremble away; 'ahoy, and ahoy!...' and tremble away. the mocking fairy 'won't you look out of your window, mrs. gill?' quoth the fairy, niddling, nodding in the garden; 'can't you look out of your window, mrs. gill?' quoth the fairy, laughing softly in the garden; but the air was still, the cherry boughs were still, and the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill, and never from her window looked out mrs. gill on the fairy shrilly mocking in the garden. 'what have they done with you, you poor mrs. gill?' quoth the fairy brightly glancing in the garden; 'where have they hidden you, you poor old mrs. gill?' quoth the fairy dancing lightly in the garden; but night's faint veil now wrapped the hill, stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still mill, and out of her cold cottage never answered mrs. gill the fairy mimbling, mambling in the garden. bewitched i have heard a lady this night, lissom and jimp and slim, calling me -- calling me over the heather, 'neath the beech boughs dusk and dim. i have followed a lady this night, followed her far and lone, fox and adder and weasel know the ways that we have gone. i sit at my supper 'mid honest faces, and crumble my crust and say naught in the long-drawn drawl of the voices talking the hours away. i'll go to my chamber under the gable, and the moon will lift her light in at my lattice from over the moorland hollow and still and bright. and i know she will shine on a lady of witchcraft, gladness and grief to see, who has taken my heart with her nimble fingers, calls in my dreams to me; who has led me a dance by dell and dingle my human soul to win, made me a changeling to my own, own mother, a stranger to my kin. the honey robbers there were two fairies, gimmul and mel, loved earth man's honey passing well; oft at the hives of his tame bees they would their sugary thirst appease. when dusk began to darken to night, they would hie along in the fading light, with elf-locked hair and scarlet lips, and small stone knives to slit the skeps, so softly not a bee inside should hear the woven straw divide: and then with sly and greedy thumbs would rifle the sweet honeycombs. and drowsily drone to drone would say, 'a cold, cold wind blows in this way'; and the great queen would turn her head from face to face, astonished, and, though her maids with comb and brush would comb and soothe and whisper, 'hush!' about the hive would shrilly go a keening -- keening, to and fro; at which those robbers 'neath the trees would taunt and mock the honey-bees, and through their sticky teeth would buzz just as an angry hornet does. and when this gimmul and this mel had munched and sucked and swilled their fill, or ever man's first cock could crow back to their faerie mounds they'd go; edging across the twilight air, thieves of a guise remotely fair. longlegs longlegs -- he yelled 'coo-ee!' and all across the combe shrill and shrill it rang -- rang through the clear green gloom. fairies there were a-spinning, and a white tree-maid lifted her eyes, and listened in her rain-sweet glade. bunnie to bunnie stamped; old wat chin-deep in bracken sate; a throstle piped, 'i'm by, i'm by!' clear to his timid mate. and there was longlegs, straddling, and hearkening was he, to distant echo thrilling back a thin 'coo-ee!' melmillo three and thirty birds there stood in an elder in a wood; called melmillo -- flew off three, leaving thirty in the tree; called melmillo -- nine now gone, and the boughs held twenty-one; called melmillo -- and eighteen left but three to nod and preen; called melmillo -- three -- two -- one now of birds were feathers none. then stole melmillo in to that wood all dusk and green, and with lean long palms outspread softly a strange dance did tread; not a note of music she had for echoing company; all the birds were flown to rest in the hollow of her breast; in the wood -- thorn, elder, willow -- danced alone -- lone danced melmillo. earth and air trees of all the trees in england, her sweet three corners in, only the ash, the bonnie ash burns fierce while it is green. of all the trees in england, from sea to sea again, the willow loveliest stoops her boughs beneath the driving rain. of all the trees in england, past frankincense and myrrh, there's none for smell, of bloom and smoke, like lime and juniper. of all the trees in england, oak, elder, elm and thorn, the yew alone burns lamps of peace for them that lie forlorn. silver slowly, silently, now the moon walks the night in her silver shoon: this way, and that, she peers and sees silver fruit upon silver trees; one by one the casements catch her beams beneath the silvery thatch; couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog from their shadowy cote the white breasts peep of doves in a silver-feathered sleep; a harvest mouse goes scampering by, with silver claws and silver eye; and moveless fish in the water gleam by silver reeds in a silver stream. nobody knows often i've heard the wind sigh by the ivied orchard wall, over the leaves in the dark night, breathe a sighing call, and faint away in the silence while i, in my bed, wondered, 'twixt dreaming and waking, what it said. nobody knows what the wind is, under the height of the sky, where the hosts of the stars keep far away house and its wave sweeps by -- just a great wave of the air, tossing the leaves in its sea, and foaming under the eaves of the roof that covers me. and so we live under deep water, all of us, beasts and men, and our bodies are buried down under the sand, when we go again; and leave, like the fishes, our shells, and float on the wind and away, to where, o'er the marvellous tides of the air, burns day. wanderers wide are the meadows of night, and daisies are shining there, tossing their lovely dews, lustrous and fair; and through these sweet fields go, wanderers amid the stars -- venus, mercury, uranus, neptune, saturn, jupiter, mars. 'tired in their silver, they move, and circling, whisper and say, fair are the blossoming meads of delight through which we stray. many a mickle a little sound --- only a little, a little --- the breath in a reed, a trembling fiddle; a trumpet's ring, the shuddering drum; so all the glory, bravery, hush of music come. a little sound --- only a stir and a sigh of each green leaf its fluttering neighbor by; oak on to oak, the wide dark forest through --- so o'er the watery wheeling world the night winds go. a little sound, only a little, a little --- the thin high drone of the simmering kettle, the gathering frost, the click of needle and thread; mother, the fading wall, the dream, the drowsy bed. will ever? will he ever be weary of wandering, the flaming sun? ever weary of waning in lovelight, the white still moon? will ever a shepherd come with a crook of simple gold, and lead all the little stars like lambs to the fold? will ever the wanderer sail from over the sea, up the river of water, to the stones to me? will he take us all into his ship, dreaming, and waft us far, to where in the clouds of the west the islands are? songs the song of the secret where is beauty? gone, gone: the cold winds have taken it with their faint moan; the white stars have shaken it, trembling down, into the pathless deeps of the sea. gone, gone is beauty from me. the clear naked flower is faded and dead; the green-leafed willow, drooping her head, whispers low to the shade of her boughs in the stream, sighing a beauty, secret as dream. the song of the soldiers as i sat musing by the frozen dyke, there was a man marching with a bright steel pike, marching in the dayshine like a ghost came he, and behind me was the moaning and the murmur of the sea. as i sat musing, 'twas not one but ten --- rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen, marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me, and behind me was the shouting and the shattering of the sea. as i sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array, with their horses and their cannon wheeling onward to the fray, moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree, and behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets of the sea. the bees' song thousandz of thornz there be on the rozez where gozez the zebra of zee: sleek, striped, and hairy, the steed of the fairy princess of zee. heavy with blossomz be the rozez that growzez in the thickets of zee. where grazez the zebra, marked abracadeeebra, of the princess of zee. and he nozez that poziez of the rozez that grozez so luvez'm and free, with an eye, dark and wary, in search of a fairy, whose rozez he knowzez were not honeyed for he, but to breathe a sweet incense to solace the princess of far-away zee. song of enchantment a song of enchantment i sang me there, in a green --green wood, by waters fair, just as the words came up to me i sang it under the wildwood tree. widdershins turned i, singing it low, watching the wild birds come and go; no cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen under the thick-thatched branches green. twilight came; silence came; the planet of evening's silver flame; by darkening paths i wandered through thickets trembling with drops of dew. but the music is lost and the words are gone of the song i sang as i sat alone, ages and ages have fallen on me-- on the wood and the pool and the elder tree. dream song sunlight, moonlight, twilight, starlight- gloaming at the close of day, and an owl calling, cool dews falling in a wood of oak and may. lantern-light, taper-light, torchlight, no-light: darkness at the shut of day, and lions roaring, their wrath pouring in wild waste places far away. elf-light, bat-light, touchwood-light and toad-light, and the sea a shimmering gloom of grey, and a small face smiling in a dream's beguiling in a world of wonders far away. the song of shadows sweep thy faint strings, musician, with thy long lean hand; downward the starry tapers burn, sinks soft the waning sand; the old hound whimpers couched in sleep, the embers smoulder low; across the walls the shadows come, and go. sweep softly thy strings, musician, the minutes mount to hours; frost on the windless casement weaves a labyrinth of flowers; ghosts linger in the darkening air, hearken at the open door; music hath called them, dreaming, home once more. the song of the mad prince who said, 'peacock pie?' the old king to the sparrow: who said, 'crops are ripe?' rust to the harrow: who said, 'where sleeps she now?' where rests she now her head, bathed in eve's loveliness'? --- that's what i said. who said, 'ay, mum's the word'? sexton to willow: who said, 'green duck for dreams, moss for a pillow'? who said, 'all time's delight hath she for narrow bed; life's troubled bubble broken'? --- that's what i said. the song of finis at the edge of all the ages a knight sate on his steed, his armor red and thin with rust his soul from sorrow freed; and he lifted up his visor from a face of skin and bone, and his horse turned head and whinnied as the twain stood there alone. no bird above that steep of time sang of a livelong quest; no wind breathed, rest: "lone for an end!" cried knight to steed, loosed an eager rein-- charged with his challenge into space: and quiet did quiet remain. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) a book of nonsense by edward lear with all the original pictures and verses [illustration] there was an old derry down derry, who loved to see little folks merry; so he made them a book, and with laughter they shook at the fun of that derry down derry. original dedication. to the great-grandchildren, grand-nephews, and grand-nieces of edward, th earl of derby, this book of drawings and verses (the greater part of which were originally made and composed for their parents.) is dedicated by the author, edward lear. london, . [illustration] there was an old man with a nose, who said, "if you choose to suppose that my nose is too long, you are certainly wrong!" that remarkable man with a nose. [illustration] there was a young person of smyrna, whose grandmother threatened to burn her; but she seized on the cat, and said, "granny, burn that! you incongruous old woman of smyrna!" [illustration] there was an old man on a hill, who seldom, if ever, stood still; he ran up and down in his grandmother's gown, which adorned that old man on a hill. [illustration] there was an old person of chili, whose conduct was painful and silly; he sate on the stairs, eating apples and pears, that imprudent old person of chili. [illustration] there was an old man with a gong, who bumped at it all the day long; but they called out, "oh, law! you're a horrid old bore!" so they smashed that old man with a gong. [illustration] there was an old man of kilkenny, who never had more than a penny; he spent all that money in onions and honey, that wayward old man of kilkenny. [illustration] there was an old man of columbia, who was thirsty, and called out for some beer; but they brought it quite hot, in a small copper pot, which disgusted that man of columbia. [illustration] there was an old man in a tree, who was horribly bored by a bee; when they said, "does it buzz?" he replied, "yes, it does! it's a regular brute of a bee." [illustration] there was an old lady of chertsey, who made a remarkable curtsey; she twirled round and round, till she sank underground, which distressed all the people of chertsey. [illustration] there was a young lady whose chin resembled the point of a pin; so she had it made sharp, and purchased a harp, and played several tunes with her chin. [illustration] there was an old man with a flute,-- a "sarpint" ran into his boot! but he played day and night, till the "sarpint" took flight, and avoided that man with a flute. [illustration] there was a young lady of portugal, whose ideas were excessively nautical; she climbed up a tree to examine the sea, but declared she would never leave portugal. [illustration] there was an old person of ischia, whose conduct grew friskier and friskier; he danced hornpipes and jigs, and ate thousands of figs, that lively old person of ischia [illustration] there was an old man of vienna, who lived upon tincture of senna; when that did not agree, he took camomile tea, that nasty old man of vienna. [illustraion] there was an old man in a boat, who said, "i'm afloat! i'm afloat!" when they said, "no, you ain't!" he was ready to faint, that unhappy old man in a boat. [illustration] there was an old person of buda, whose conduct grew ruder and ruder, till at last with a hammer they silenced his clamor. by smashing that person of buda. [illustration] there was an old man of moldavia, who had the most curious behavior; for while he was able, he slept on a table, that funny old man of moldavia. [illustration] there was an old person of hurst, who drank when he was not athirst; when they said, "you'll grow fatter!" he answered "what matter?" that globular person of hurst. [illustration] there was an old man of madras, who rode on a cream-colored ass; but the length of its ears so promoted his fears, that it killed that old man of madras. [illustration] there was an old person of dover, who rushed through a field of blue clover; but some very large bees stung his nose and his knees, so he very soon went back to dover. [illustration] there was an old person of leeds, whose head was infested with beads; she sat on a stool and ate gooseberry-fool, which agreed with that person of leeds. [illustration] there was an old person of cadiz, who was always polite to all ladies; but in handing his daughter, he fell into the water, which drowned that old person of cadiz. [illustration] there was an old man of the isles, whose face was pervaded with smiles; he sang "high dum diddle," and played on the fiddle, that amiable man of the isles. [illustration] there was an old person of basing, whose presence of mind was amazing; he purchased a steed, which he rode at full speed, and escaped from the people of basing. [illustration] there was an old man who supposed that the street door was partially closed; but some very large rats ate his coats and his hats, while that futile old gentleman dozed. [illustration] there was an old person whose habits induced him to feed upon rabbits; when he'd eaten eighteen, he turned perfectly green, upon which he relinquished those habits. [illustration] there was an old man of the west, who wore a pale plum-colored vest; when they said, "does it fit?" he replied, "not a bit!" that uneasy old man of the west. [illustration] there was an old man of marseilles, whose daughters wore bottle-green veils: they caught several fish, which they put in a dish, and sent to their pa at marseilles. [illustration] there was an old man of the wrekin, whose shoes made a horrible creaking; but they said, "tell us whether your shoes are of leather, or of what, you old man of the wrekin?" [illustration] there was a young lady whose nose was so long that it reached to her toes; so she hired an old lady, whose conduct was steady, to carry that wonderful nose. [illustration] there was a young lady of norway, who casually sat in a doorway; when the door squeezed her flat, she exclaimed, "what of that?" this courageous young lady of norway. [illustration] there was an old man of apulia, whose conduct was very peculiar; he fed twenty sons upon nothing but buns, that whimsical man of apulia. [illustration] there was an old man of quebec,-- a beetle ran over his neck; but he cried, "with a needle i'll slay you, o beadle!" that angry old man of quebec. [illustration] there was a young lady of bute, who played on a silver-gilt flute; she played several jigs to her uncle's white pigs: that amusing young lady of bute. [illustration] there was an old person of philoe, whose conduct was scroobious and wily; he rushed up a palm when the weather was calm, and observed all the ruins of philoe. [illustration] there was an old man with a poker, who painted his face with red ochre. when they said, "you 're a guy!" he made no reply, but knocked them all down with his poker. [illustration] there was an old person of prague, who was suddenly seized with the plague; but they gave him some butter, which caused him to mutter, and cured that old person of prague. [illustration] there was an old man of peru, who watched his wife making a stew; but once, by mistake, in a stove she did bake that unfortunate man of peru. [illustration] there was an old man of the north, who fell into a basin of broth; but a laudable cook fished him out with a hook, which saved that old man of the north. [illustration] there was an old person of troy, whose drink was warm brandy and soy, which he took with a spoon, by the light of the moon, in sight of the city of troy. [illustration] there was an old person of mold, who shrank from sensations of cold; so he purchased some muffs, some furs, and some fluffs, and wrapped himself well from the cold. [illustration] there was an old person of tring, who embellished his nose with a ring; he gazed at the moon every evening in june, that ecstatic old person of tring. [illustration] there was an old man of nepaul, from his horse had a terrible fall; but, though split quite in two, with some very strong glue they mended that man of nepaul. [illustration] there was an old man of the nile, who sharpened his nails with a file, till he cut off his thumbs, and said calmly, "this comes of sharpening one's nails with a file!" [illustration] there was an old man of th' abruzzi, so blind that he couldn't his foot see; when they said, "that's your toe," he replied, "is it so?" that doubtful old man of th' abruzzi. [illustration] there was an old man of calcutta, who perpetually ate bread and butter; till a great bit of muffin, on which he was stuffing, choked that horrid old man of calcutta. [illustration] there was an old person of rhodes, who strongly objected to toads; he paid several cousins to catch them by dozens, that futile old person of rhodes. [illustration] there was an old man of the south, who had an immoderate mouth; but in swallowing a dish that was quite full of fish, he was choked, that old man of the south. [illustration] there was an old man of melrose, who walked on the tips of his toes; but they said, "it ain't pleasant to see you at present, you stupid old man of melrose." [illustration] there was an old man of the dee, who was sadly annoyed by a flea; when he said, "i will scratch it!" they gave him a hatchet, which grieved that old man of the dee. [illustration] there was a young lady of lucca, whose lovers completely forsook her; she ran up a tree, and said "fiddle-de-dee!" which embarrassed the people of lucca. [illustration] there was an old man of coblenz, the length of whose legs was immense; he went with one prance from turkey to france, that surprising old man of coblenz. [illustration] there was an old man of bohemia, whose daughter was christened euphemia; but one day, to his grief, she married a thief, which grieved that old man of bohemia. [illustration] there was an old man of corfu, who never knew what he should do; so he rushed up and down, till the sun made him brown, that bewildered old man of corfu. [illustration] there was an old man of vesuvius, who studied the works of vitruvius; when the flames burnt his book, to drinking he took, that morbid old man of vesuvius. [illustration] there was an old man of dundee, who frequented the top of a tree; when disturbed by the crows, he abruptly arose, and exclaimed, "i'll return to dundee!" [illustration] there was an old lady whose folly induced her to sit in a holly; whereon, by a thorn her dress being torn, she quickly became melancholy. [illustration] there was an old man on some rocks, who shut his wife up in a box: when she said, "let me out," he exclaimed, "without doubt you will pass all your life in that box." [illustration] there was an old person of rheims, who was troubled with horrible dreams; so to keep him awake they fed him with cake, which amused that old person of rheims. [illustration] there was an old man of leghorn, the smallest that ever was born; but quickly snapt up he was once by a puppy, who devoured that old man of leghorn. [illustration] there was an old man in a pew, whose waistcoat was spotted with blue; but he tore it in pieces, to give to his nieces, that cheerful old man in a pew. [illustration] there was an old man of jamaica, who suddenly married a quaker; but she cried out, "oh, lack! i have married a black!" which distressed that old man of jamaica. [illustration] there was an old man who said, "how shall i flee from this horrible cow? i will sit on this stile, and continue to smile, which may soften the heart of that cow." [illustration] there was a young lady of troy, whom several large flies did annoy; some she killed with a thump, some she drowned at the pump, and some she took with her to troy. [illustration] there was a young lady of hull, who was chased by a virulent bull; but she seized on a spade, and called out, "who's afraid?" which distracted that virulent bull. [illustration] there was an old person of dutton, whose head was as small as a button; so to make it look big he purchased a wig, and rapidly rushed about dutton. [illustration] there was an old man who said, "hush! i perceive a young bird in this bush!" when they said, "is it small?" he replied, "not at all; it is four times as big as the bush!" [illustration] there was a young lady of russia, who screamed so that no one could hush her; her screams were extreme,--no one heard such a scream as was screamed by that lady of russia. [illustration] there was a young lady of tyre, who swept the loud chords of a lyre; at the sound of each sweep she enraptured the deep, and enchanted the city of tyre. [illustration] there was an old person of bangor, whose face was distorted with anger; he tore off his boots, and subsisted on roots, that borascible person of bangor. [illustration] there was an old man of the east, who gave all his children a feast; but they all ate so much, and their conduct was such, that it killed that old man of the east. [illustration] there was an old man of the coast, who placidly sat on a post; but when it was cold he relinquished his hold, and called for some hot buttered toast. [illustration] there was an old man of kamschatka, who possessed a remarkably fat cur; his gait and his waddle were held as a model to all the fat dogs in kamschatka. [illustration] there was an old person of gretna, who rushed down the crater of etna; when they said, "is it hot?" he replied, "no, it's not!" that mendacious old person of gretna. [illustration] there was an old man with a beard, who sat on a horse when he reared; but they said, "never mind! you will fall off behind, you propitious old man with a beard!" [illustration] there was an old man of berlin, whose form was uncommonly thin; till he once, by mistake, was mixed up in a cake, so they baked that old man of berlin. [illustration] there was an old man of the west, who never could get any rest; so they set him to spin on his nose and his chin, which cured that old man of the west. [illustration] there was an old person of cheadle was put in the stocks by the beadle for stealing some pigs, some coats, and some wigs, that horrible person of cheadle. [illustration] there was an old person of anerley, whose conduct was strange and unmannerly; he rushed down the strand with a pig in each hand, but returned in the evening to anerley. [illustration] there was a young lady of wales, who caught a large fish without scales; when she lifted her hook, she exclaimed, "only look!" that ecstatic young lady of wales. [illustration] there was a young lady of welling, whose praise all the world was a-telling; she played on the harp, and caught several carp, that accomplished young lady of welling. [illustration] there was an old person of tartary, who divided his jugular artery; but he screeched to his wife, and she said, "oh, my life! your death will be felt by all tartary!" [illustration] there was an old man of whitehaven, who danced a quadrille with a raven; but they said, "it's absurd to encourage this bird!" so they smashed that old man of whitehaven. [illustration] there was a young lady of sweden, who went by the slow train to weedon; when they cried, "weedon station!" she made no observation, but thought she should go back to sweden. [illustration] there was an old person of chester, whom several small children did pester; they threw some large stones, which broke most of his bones, and displeased that old person of chester. [illustration] there was an old man of the cape, who possessed a large barbary ape; till the ape, one dark night, set the house all alight, which burned that old man of the cape. [illustration] there was an old person of burton, whose answers were rather uncertain; when they said, "how d' ye do?" he replied, "who are you?" that distressing old person of burton. [illustration] there was an old person of ems who casually fell in the thames; and when he was found, they said he was drowned, that unlucky old person of ems. [illustration] there was a young girl of majorca, whose aunt was a very fast walker; she walked seventy miles, and leaped fifteen stiles, which astonished that girl of majorca. [illustration] there was a young lady of poole, whose soup was excessively cool; so she put it to boil by the aid of some oil, that ingenious young lady of poole. [illustration] there was an old lady of prague, whose language was horribly vague; when they said, "are these caps?" she answered, "perhaps!" that oracular lady of prague. [illustration] there was a young lady of parma, whose conduct grew calmer and calmer: when they said, "are you dumb?" she merely said, "hum!" that provoking young lady of parma. [illustration] there was an old person of sparta, who had twenty-five sons and one "darter;" he fed them on snails, and weighed them in scales, that wonderful person of sparta. [illustration] there was an old man on whose nose most birds of the air could repose; but they all flew away at the closing of day, which relieved that old man and his nose. [illustration] there was a young lady of turkey, who wept when the weather was murky; when the day turned out fine, she ceased to repine, that capricious young lady of turkey. [illustration] there was an old man of aôsta who possessed a large cow, but he lost her; but they said, "don't you see she has run up a tree, you invidious old man of aôsta?" [illustration] there was a young person of crete, whose toilette was far from complete; she dressed in a sack spickle-speckled with black, that ombliferous person of crete. [illustration] there was a young lady of clare, who was madly pursued by a bear; when she found she was tired, she abruptly expired, that unfortunate lady of clare. [illustration] there was a young lady of dorking, who bought a large bonnet for walking; but its color and size so bedazzled her eyes, that she very soon went back to dorking. [illustration] there was an old man of cape horn, who wished he had never been born; so he sat on a chair till he died of despair, that dolorous man of cape horn. [illustration] there was an old person of cromer, who stood on one leg to read homer; when he found he grew stiff, he jumped over the cliff, which concluded that person of cromer. [illustration] there was an old man of the hague, whose ideas were excessively vague; he built a balloon to examine the moon, that deluded old man of the hague. [illustration] there was an old person of spain, who hated all trouble and pain; so he sate on a chair with his feet in the air, that umbrageous old person of spain. [illustration] there was an old man who said, "well! will _nobody_ answer this bell? i have pulled day and night, till my hair has grown white, but nobody answers this bell!" [illustration] there was an old man with an owl, who continued to bother and howl; he sat on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale, which refreshed that old man and his owl. [illustration] there was an old man in a casement, who held up his hands in amazement; when they said, "sir, you'll fall!" he replied, "not at all!" that incipient old man in a casement. [illustration] there was an old person of ewell, who chiefly subsisted on gruel; but to make it more nice, he inserted some mice, which refreshed that old person of ewell. [illustration] there was an old man of peru. who never knew what he should do; so he tore off his hair, and behaved like a bear, that intrinsic old man of peru. [illustration] there was an old man with a beard, who said, "it is just as i feared!-- two owls and a hen, four larks and a wren, have all built their nests in my beard." [illustration] there was a young lady whose eyes were unique as to color and size; when she opened them wide, people all turned aside, and started away in surprise. [illustration] there was a young lady of ryde, whose shoe-strings were seldom untied; she purchased some clogs, and some small spotty dogs, and frequently walked about ryde. [illustration] there was a young lady whose bonnet came untied when the birds sate upon it; but she said, "i don't care! all the birds in the air are welcome to sit on my bonnet!" the house that jack built one of r. caldecott's picture books [illustration] frederick warne & co. ltd. the house that jack built [illustration] this is the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this is the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] this is the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this is the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this is the dog, that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this is the cow with the crumpled horn, that tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this is the maiden all forlorn, that milked the cow with the crumpled horn, that tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] this is the man all tattered and torn, that kissed the maiden all forlorn, that milked the cow with the crumpled horn, that tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this is the priest, all shaven and shorn, that married the man all tattered and torn, that kissed the maiden all forlorn, that milked the cow with the crumpled horn, that tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] this is the cock that crowed in the morn that waked the priest all shaven and shorn, that married the man all tattered and torn, that kissed the maiden all forlorn, that milked the cow with the crumpled horn, that tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this is the farmer who sowed the corn, that fed the cock that crowed in the morn, that waked the priest all shaven and shorn, that married the man all tattered and torn, that kissed the maiden all forlorn, that milked the cow with the crumpled horn, that tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that ate the malt, that lay in the house that jack built. [illustration] [illustration] randolph caldecott's picture books "the humour of randolph caldecott's drawings is simply irresistible, no healthy-minded man, woman, or child could look at them without laughing." _in square crown to, picture covers, with numerous coloured plates._ john gilpin the milkmaid the house that jack built hey-diddle-diddle and baby bunting the babes in the wood a frog he would a-wooing go the mad dog the fox jumps over the parson's gate three jovial huntsmen come lasses and lads sing a song for sixpence ride a cock horse to banbury cross, &c. the queen of hearts mrs. mary blaize the farmer's boy the great panjandrum himself _the above selections are also issued in four volumes, square crown to, attractive binding, red edges. each containing four different books, with their coloured pictures and innumerable outline sketches._ r. caldecott's picture book no. hey-diddle-diddle picture book r. caldecott's picture book no. the panjandrum picture book _and also_ _in two volumes, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, each containing eight different books, with their coloured pictures and numerous outline sketches._ r. caldecott's r. caldecott's collection of collection of pictures and songs no. pictures and songs no. miniature editions. _nine - / by - / art boards, flat back._ four volumes entitled r. caldecott's picture books nos. , , , and . _each containing coloured plates and numerous outline sketches in the text._ [illustration] _crown to, picture covers._ randolph caldecott's painting books. three volumes _each with outline pictures to paint, and coloured examples._ _oblong to, cloth._ a sketch book of r. caldecott's. _containing numerous sketches in colour and black and white._ london. frederick warne & co. & new york. _the published prices of the above picture books can be obtained of all booksellers or from the illustrated catalogue of the publishers._ produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) mrs. turner's cautionary stories [illustration] the dumpy books for children selected by e. v. lucas i. the flamp, the ameliorator, and the schoolboy's apprentice. _written by e. v. lucas._ ii. mrs. turner's cautionary stories _other volumes in the series are in preparation_ s. d. each mrs. turner's cautionary stories london: grant richards _contents_ page introduction xiii bad boys and good-- _the window-breaker_ _a gunpowder plot_ _peter imitates the clown_ _ben's heavy punishment_ _the chimney-sweeper_ _the fighting wicket-keeper_ _the good scholar_ _the good scholar fights_ _the death of the good scholar's foe_ _robert's thoughtless brothers_ _joe's light punishment_ _falsehood "corrected"_ _the superior boys_ _george's curious taste_ _thomas brown's disappointment_ _considerate philip_ _the models_ _politeness_ _richard's reformation_ _james's sacrifice_ _the excellent lord mayor_ _clever little thomas_ _william's escape_ good girls and bad-- _rebecca's afterthought_ _a hint to mary anne_ _how to write a letter_ _news for papa_ _maria's charity_ _the neglected turk_ _pride and priggishness_ _how to look when speaking_ _isabella's parachute_ _maria snubbed_ _matilda's extravagance_ _papa's watchfulness_ _isabella's defeat_ _the two patients_ _fanny's bad habit_ _sarah's danger_ _the hoyden_ _the giddy girl_ _a warning to frances_ _playing with fire_ _how to heal a burn_ _mary anne's kindness_ _ambitious sophy_ _dressed or undressed_ _mrs. birch's influence_ _rebellious frances_ kindness and cruelty-- _the harmless cow_ _the harmless worm_ _the bad donkey-boy's good fortune_ _grateful carlo_ _grateful lucy_ _grateful trusty_ _something in store for richard_ _the result of cruelty_ things to eat-- _what is best for children_ _billy gill's good fortune_ _civil speech_ _the cook's rebuke_ _the lost pudding_ _sammy smith's sad fate_ _stupid william_ _poisonous fruit_ _harry's cake_ _peter's cake_ _william's cake_ _how to make a christmas pudding_ introduction the sixty-nine cautionary stories that follow have been chosen from five books by mrs. elizabeth turner, written for the pleasure and instruction of our little grandparents and great-grandparents. the books are _the daisy_, _the cowslip_, _the crocus_, _the pink_ and _short poems_. between the years and they were on the shelves of most nurseries, although now they are rarely to be met with. there was also _the rose_, but from that nothing has been taken for these pages, nor are the original pictures again offered. except for these pictures, a frequent change of title, and a few trifling alterations for grammar's sake, the pieces selected are now printed exactly as at first. mrs. turner's belief, as stated by master robert in the verses called "books better than toys" in _the pink_, was that the children of her day, when they had money to spend and wanted a real treat, could not choose anything more suitable than her cautionary stories. the piece runs: 'my dear, as robert is so good, i'll give him what i said i would, two shillings for himself to spend; he knows the shop of our good friend.' 'yes, i know well the pretty shop where folks, you know, so often stop to view the prints. the windows--look!-- are filled with toys and many a book. 'they have a thousand books and toys for little girls and little boys; at toys, indeed, i love to _look_, but i prefer to _buy_ a book. 'these two bright shillings, i suppose will buy _the cowslip_ and _the rose_; and when two more i get, i think i'll buy _the daisy_ and _the pink_.' in our own time robert's opinion is not very widely shared: most of us would not care to give up a cannon or a doll in order that we might be cautioned; but mrs. turner is not the less an entertaining author because her volumes have fewer attractions for us than some of the things in a christmas bazaar. she told her tales with such spirit: her verses are so straightforward, the rhymes come so pat at the end of the lines, and you may beat time with your foot and never be put out. in another piece, "kitty's favourites," mrs. turner wrote: the stories kitty likes so well, and often asks her aunt to tell are all about good girls and boys. kitty's taste, like robert's, is no longer general. the common view is that stories about bad children are more fun; and therefore i think you will be amused by these pages. whether or not punishment always did follow the offences as surely and swiftly as mrs. turner declares, i am not prepared to say. if you are in any doubt you had better ask your parents. e. v. lucas. _november ._ bad boys and good the window-breaker little tom jones would often throw stones, and often he had a good warning; and now i will tell what tommy befell, from his rudeness, one fine summer's morning. he was taking the air upon trinity square, and, as usual, large stones he was jerking; till at length a hard cinder went plump through a window where a party of ladies were working. tom's aunt, when in town, had left half a crown for her nephew (her name was miss frazier), which he thought to have spent, but now it all went (and it served him quite right) to the glazier. _note._--the foregoing story is stated to be "founded on fact." a gunpowder plot "i have got a sad story to tell," said betty one day to mamma: "'twill be long, ma'am, before john is well, on his eye is so dreadful a scar. "master wilful enticed him away, to join with some more little boys; they went in the garden to play, and i soon heard a terrible noise. "master wilful had laid a long train of gunpowder, ma'am, on the wall; it has put them to infinite pain, for it blew up, and injured them all. "john's eyebrow is totally bare; tom's nose is bent out of its place; sam bushy has lost all his hair; and dick white is quite black in the face." _note._--as a matter of fact, a train of gunpowder does not make a terrible noise; it makes hardly any noise at all--a mere _pfff!_ and though john, sam bushy, and dick white are shown to have been hurt as they might have been, a train of gunpowder could not bend tom's nose, it could only burn it. probably mrs. turner did not often play with explosives herself, and therefore did not know. master wilful seems to have escaped altogether. peter imitates the clown poor peter was burnt by the poker one day, when he made it look pretty and red; for the beautiful sparks made him think it fine play, to lift it as high as his head. but somehow it happen'd his finger and thumb were terribly scorched by the heat; and he scream'd out aloud for his mother to come, and stamp'd on the floor with his feet. now if peter had minded his mother's command, his fingers would not have been sore; and he promised again, as she bound up his hand, to play with hot pokers no more. ben's heavy punishment 'tis sad when boys are disinclin'd to benefit by kind advice; no little child of virtuous mind should need receive a caution twice. the baker on a pony came (oft us'd by them, and butchers too), and little ben was much to blame for doing what he should not do. they told him _not_ to mount the horse; alas! he did; away they flew; in vain he pull'd with all his force, the pony ran a mile or two. at length poor little ben was thrown; ah! who will pity? who's to blame? alas! the fault is all his own-- poor little ben for life is lame! the chimney-sweeper "sweep! sweep! sweep! sweep!" cries little jack, with brush and bag upon his back, and black from head to foot; while daily, as he goes along, "sweep! sweep! sweep! sweep!" is all his song, beneath his load of soot. but then he was not always black. oh no! he once was pretty jack, and had a kind papa; but, silly child! he ran to play too far from home, a long, long way, and did not ask mamma. so he was lost, and now must creep up chimneys, crying, "sweep! sweep! sweep!" _note._--this was written in the days when little boys, like tom in _water babies_, were sent actually up the chimneys to clean them out. the fighting wicket-keeper in the schoolroom the boys all heard a great noise. charles moore had just finish'd his writing, so ran out to play, and saw a sad fray:-- tom bell and john wilson were fighting. he cried, "let's be gone, oh, come away, john, we want you to stand at the wicket; and you, master bell, we want you as well, for we're all of us going to cricket. "our playmates, no doubt, will shortly be out, for you know that at twelve study ceases; and you'll find better fun in play, ten to one, than in knocking each other to pieces." the good scholar joseph west had been told, that if, when he grew old, he had not learned rightly to spell, though his writing were good, 'twould not be understood: and joe said, "i will learn my task well." and he made it a rule to be silent at school, and what do you think came to pass? why, he learnt it so fast, that from being the last, he soon was the first in the class. the good scholar fights one afternoon as joseph west, the boy who learnt his lesson best, was trying how his whip would crack, by chance he hit sam headstrong's back. enraged, he flew, and gave poor joe, with all his might, a sudden blow: nor would he listen to one word, when joe endeavoured to be heard. joe, finding him resolved to fight, for what was accidental quite, although he never fought before, beat headstrong till he'd have no more. the death of the good scholar's foe "my dear little ned," his grandmamma said, "i think i have caution'd you twice; i hope you'll take heed, i do, love, indeed, and i beg you'll not venture on ice. "good skaters, i know, on the ice often go, and also will others entice, when there has not been frost two days at the most, and when very thin is the ice." he went to the brook, resolv'd but to look, and though he could slide very nice, and the slides were _so long_, he knew 'twould be wrong, so he did not then go on the ice. he wisely behav'd, and his life thus he sav'd; for sam headstrong (who ne'er took advice) went where it was thin-- alas! he fell in: he sank, and went under the ice. robert's thoughtless brothers robert, when an infant, heard now and then a naughty word, spoken in a random way by his brothers when at play. was the baby then to blame when he tried to lisp the same? no! he could not, whilst so young, know what words were right or wrong, but for boys who better knew, punishment was justly due, which the thoughtless brothers met in a way they won't forget. joe's light punishment as joe was at play, near the cupboard one day, when he thought no one saw but himself, how sorry i am, he ate raspberry jam, and currants that stood on the shelf. his mother and john to the garden had gone, to gather ripe pears and ripe plums; what joe was about his mother found out, when she look'd at his fingers and thumbs. and when they had dined, said to joe, "you will find, it is better to let things alone; these plums and these pears no naughty boy shares, who meddles with fruit not his own." falsehood "corrected" when jacky drown'd our poor cat tib, he told a very naughty fib, and said he had not drown'd her; but truth is always soon found out-- no one but jack had been about the place where thomas found her. and thomas saw him with the cat (though jacky did not know of that), and told papa the trick; he saw him take a slender string and round poor pussy's neck then swing a very heavy brick. his parents being very sad to find they had a boy so bad, to say what was not true, determined to correct him then; and never was he known again such naughty things to do. the superior boys tom and charles once took a walk, to see a pretty lamb; and, as they went, began to talk of little naughty sam; who beat his younger brother, bill, and threw him in the dirt; and when his poor mamma was ill, he teased her for a squirt. "and i," said tom, "won't play with sam, although he has a top": but here the pretty little lamb to talking put a stop. george's curious taste on george's birthday was such a display! he was dress'd in a new suit of clothes; and look'd so genteel, with his buttons of steel, and felt quite like a man, i suppose. now at tea, with much care, he partakes of his share, nor spills it, as careless boys do; he is always so clean, and so fit to be seen, that his clothes, you would think, were just new. yet george loves to play, and is lively and gay, but is careful of spoiling his dress; so a pinafore wears, which he likes, he declares; and i think he is right, i confess. thomas brown's disappointment young alfred with a pack of cards could make a pancake, build a house, would make a regiment of guards, and sit as quiet as a mouse. a silly boy, one thomas brown, who came to dine and spend the day, took great delight to throw it down, then, rudely laughing, ran away. and what did little alfred do? he knew lamenting was in vain, so patiently, and wisely too, he, smiling, built it up again. considerate philip when philip's good mamma was ill, the servant begg'd he would be still; because the doctor and the nurse had said that noise would make her worse. at night, when philip went to bed, he kiss'd mamma, and whisp'ring said, "my dear mamma, i never will make any noise when you are ill." the models as dick and bryan were at play at trap, it came to pass dick struck the ball, and far away, he broke a pane of glass. though much alarmed, they did not run, but walk'd up to the spot; and offer'd for the damage done what money they had got. when accidents like this arise, dear children! this rely on: all honest, honourable boys will act like dick and bryan. politeness good little boys should never say, "i will," and "give me these"; oh no! that never is the way, but, "mother, if you please." and, "if you please," to sister anne, good boys to say are ready; and, "yes, sir," to a gentleman, and, "yes, ma'am," to a lady. richard's reformation miss lucy was a charming child, she never said, "i wont"; if little dick her playthings spoil'd she said, "pray, dicky, don't." he took her waxen doll one day, and bang'd it round and round; then tore its legs and arms away, and threw them on the ground. his good mamma was angry quite, and lucy's tears ran down; but dick went supperless that night, and since has better grown. james's sacrifice little james, full of play, went shooting one day, not thinking his sister was nigh; the arrow was low, but the wind raised it so, that it hit her just over the eye. this good little lad was exceedingly sad at the pain he had given his sister; he look'd at her eye, and said, "emma, don't cry," and then, too, he tenderly kiss'd her. she could not then speak, and it cost her a week before she recover'd her sight; and james burn'd his bow and his arrows, and so i think little james acted right. the excellent lord mayor "oh dear papa!" cried little joe, "how beautiful the lord mayor's show! in that gold coach the lord mayor see-- how _very_ happy he must be!" "my dear," the careful parent said, "let not strange notions fill your head: 'tis not the gold that we possess that constitutes our happiness. "the lord mayor, when a little boy, his time did properly employ; and, as he grew from youth to man, to follow goodness was his plan. "and that's the cause they love him so, and cheer him all the way they go; they love him for his smiling face more than for all his gold and lace." clever little thomas when thomas poole first went to school, he was but scarcely seven, yet knew as well to read and spell as most boys of eleven. he took his seat, and wrote quite neat, and never idly acted; and then beside he multiplied, divided, and subtracted. his master said, and stroked his head, "if thus you persevere, my little friend, you may depend upon a prize next year." william's escape 'tis winter, cold winter, and william has been to look at the place on the pool where henry was drown'd by the ice breaking in, about half a mile from the school. and henry was told on that very same day he must not go into that field, but then, as he thought, if he did disobey, the fault might for once be conceal'd. a lesson for william, who hangs down his head, without any spirits for play; his favourite friend and companion is dead because _he would have his own way_. good girls and bad rebecca's afterthought yesterday rebecca mason, in the parlour by herself, broke a handsome china basin, plac'd upon the mantel-shelf. quite alarm'd, she thought of going very quietly away, not a single person knowing of her being there that day. but rebecca recollected she was taught deceit to shun; and the moment she reflected, told her mother what was done; who commended her behaviour, lov'd her better, and forgave her. a hint to mary anne "mamma, dear mamma," cried in haste mary anne, as into the parlour she eagerly ran, "i hear that a giant is just come to town, so tall, he is often obliged to stoop down; oh, pray let us see him, oh, do let us go; indeed, dear mamma, he's a wonderful show." "you are earnest, my love, and shall not be denied," her truly affectionate mother replied. "a lady this morning has also arrived who of arms and of legs from her birth was deprived, yet is in a number of ways as expert as if she were able these limbs to exert. "we'll visit miss beffin to-morrow, and then i'll speak of the giant and lady again; you are not mistaken, his overgrown size we cannot behold without feeling surprise, whilst beffin's example most forcibly stands a silent rebuke to all--_indolent hands_." how to write a letter maria intended a letter to write, but could not begin (as she thought) to indite, so went to her mother with pencil and slate, containing "dear sister," and also a date. "with nothing to say, my dear girl, do not think of wasting your time over paper and ink; but certainly this is an excellent way, to try with your slate to find something to say. "i will give you a rule," said her mother, "my dear, just think for a moment your sister is here: and what would you tell her? consider, and then, though silent your tongue, you can speak with your pen." news for papa when sarah's papa was from home a great way, she attempted to write him a letter one day. first ruling the paper, an excellent plan, in all proper order miss sarah began. she said she lamented sincerely to tell that her dearest mamma had been very unwell; that the story was long, but that when he came back, he would hear of the shocking behaviour of jack. though an error or two we by chance may detect, it was better than treating papa with neglect; and sarah, when older, we know will learn better, and write single "i" with a capital letter. maria's charity maria's aunt, who lived in town, once wrote a letter to her niece, and sent, wrapp'd up, a new half-crown, besides a pretty pocket-piece. maria jump'd with joy and ran to tell her sister the good news; she said, "i mean to buy a fan, come, come along with me to choose." they quickly tied their hats, and talk'd of yellow, lilac, pink, and green; but far the sisters had not walk'd, before the saddest sight was seen. upon the ground a poor lame man, helpless and old, had tumbled down; she thought no more about the fan, but gave to him her new half-crown. the neglected turk miss alice was quietly seated at work when susan, her cousin, came quite in a hurry, exclaiming, "come, alice, and look at a turk, oh, if you don't see him, i shall be so sorry. "his dress is so grand, but you don't seem to stir." "i cannot," said alice, "mamma has requir'd me to stop in this room; i am waiting for her, and hope i shall finish the work she desir'd me." "all nonsense," said susan, "i beg you will come"; but alice resolv'd on obedient behaviour, for which she felt glad, when her mother came home, and gave her a smile of approval and favour. pride and priggishness "see, fanny," said miss charlotte pride, "how fine i am to-day: a new silk hat, a sash beside; am i not very gay? "look at my necklace--real pearls! my ear-rings, how they shine; i think i know some little girls would like to be as fine." said fanny, "your papa, 'tis true, your dress can well afford; but if you think i envy you, i don't--upon my word. "my father loves to see me dress quite modest, neat, and clean; in plain white muslin, i confess, i'm happy as a queen. "_your_ parents after pleasures roam, not like papa, for he delights to stay with me at home-- _now_ don't you envy me?" how to look when speaking "louisa, my love," mrs. manners began, "i fear you are learning to stare, to avoid looking bold, i must give you a plan, quite easy to practise with care. "it is not a lady's or gentleman's eyes you should look at, whenever address'd, whilst hearing them speak, or in making replies, to look at the _mouth_ is the best. "this method is modest and easy to learn, when children are glad to be taught; and ah! what a pleasure it is in return, to speak and to look as you ought!" isabella's parachute once as little isabella ventured, with a large umbrella, out upon a rainy day, she was nearly blown away. sadly frighten'd then was she, for 'twas very near the sea, and the wind was very high, but, alas! no friend was nigh. luckily, her good mamma saw her trouble from afar; running just in time, she caught her pretty little flying daughter. _note._--this story recalls the adventures of robert at the end of _struwwelpeter_. robert, however, was not caught. maria snubbed maria had an aunt at leeds, for whom she made a purse of beads; 'twas neatly done, by all allow'd, and praise soon made her vain and proud. her mother, willing to repress this strong conceit of cleverness, said, "i will show you, if you please, a honeycomb, the work of bees! "yes, look within their hive, and then examine well your purse again; compare your merits, and you will admit the insects' greater skill!" matilda's extravagance that beautiful cottage not far from the road in holiday time was matilda's abode, who, taken one day by her aunt to the town, had put in her purse rather more than a crown: 'twas either to keep, or to give, or to spend in what she lik'd best, for herself or a friend: soon trinkets and ribbons in turn made her stop to purchase a trifle at every shop, before she remember'd the canvas and wool she intended to buy when her purse appear'd full; then wanted to borrow, a favour her aunt refus'd, because very improper to grant. young ladies' extravagance ought to be met by teaching them--_never to run into debt_. papa's watchfulness mamma had ordered ann, the maid, miss caroline to wash; and put on with her clean white frock a handsome muslin sash. but caroline began to cry, for what you cannot think: she said, "oh, that's an ugly sash; i'll have my pretty pink." papa, who in the parlour heard her make the noise and rout, that instant went to caroline, to whip her, there's no doubt. isabella's defeat "mamma, i quite dislike these shoes, i hope you'll send them back; they are so ugly! i should choose much prettier than black! "i thought you mention'd blue or buff when ordering a pair, or green i should like well enough, but black i cannot bear!" young isabella's prattle o'er, her mother soon express'd a wish that she would say no more, since _black_ ones suited best. which, when the little lady heard, she did not say another word. the two patients miss lucy wright, though not so tall, was just the age of sophy ball, but i have always understood miss sophy was not half so good: for as they both had faded teeth, their teacher sent for doctor heath, but sophy made a dreadful rout, and would not have hers taken out; but lucy wright endured the pain, nor did she ever once complain. her teeth return'd quite sound and white, while sophy's ached both day and night. fanny's bad habit fanny fletcher is forgetful, never wilful in her life, neither obstinate nor fretful, loving truth and shunning strife. from a girl of so much merit, may we not in time expect she will show a proper spirit _one_ wrong habit to correct? friends will say it is a pity if her resolution fails-- fanny looks both good and pretty when she does not bite her nails! sarah's danger those who saw miss sarah gaping in the middle of the day, this remark were often making on this dull and drowsy way: "half asleep, and yet she's waken! if, poor child, she is not sick, some good method must be taken to correct this idle trick." the hoyden miss agnes had two or three dolls and a box to hold all her bonnets and tippets and frocks; in a red leather thread-case that snapp'd when it shut, she had needles to sew with and scissors to cut; but agnes liked better to play with rude boys than work with her needle, or play with her toys. young ladies should always appear neat and clean, yet agnes was seldom dress'd fit to be seen. i saw her one morning attempting to throw a very large stone, when it fell on her toe: the boys, who were present and saw what was done, set up a loud laugh, and they call'd it fine fun. but i took her home, and the doctor soon came, and agnes, i fear, will a long time be lame: as from morning till night she laments very much, that now when she walks she must lean on a crutch; and she told her dear father, a thousand times o'er, that she never will play with rude boys any more. _note._--"hoyden" is not used now. we say "tomboy." the giddy girl miss helen was always too giddy to heed what her mother had told her to shun, for frequently over the street in full speed she would cross where the carriages run. and out she would go to a very deep well, to look at the water below; how naughty! to run to a dangerous well, where her mother forbade her to go! one morning, intending to take but one peep, her foot slipp'd away from the ground: unhappy misfortune! the water was deep, and giddy miss helen was drown'd. a warning to frances as frances was playing and turning around, her head grew so giddy she fell to the ground; 'twas well that she was not much hurt; but, o what a pity! her frock was so soil'd that had you beheld the unfortunate child, you had seen her all cover'd with dirt. her mother was sorry, and said, "do not cry, and mary shall wash you, and make you quite dry, if you'll promise to turn round no more." "what, not in the parlour?" the little girl said. "no, not in the parlour; for lately i read of a girl who was hurt with the door. "she was playing and turning, until her poor head fell against the hard door, and it very much bled; and i heard dr. camomile tell that he put on a plaster and cover'd it up, then he gave her some tea that was bitter to sup, or perhaps it had never been well." playing with fire the friends of little mary green are now in deep distress, the family will soon be seen to wear a mournful dress. it seems, from litter on the floor, she had been lighting straws, which caught the muslin frock she wore, a sad event to cause. her screams were loud and quickly heard, and remedies applied, but all in vain, she scarcely stirr'd again, before she died! how to heal a burn o, we have had a sad mishap! as clara lay in nurse's lap, too near the fire the chair did stand-- a coal flew out and burnt her hand. it must have flown above the guard, it came so quick and hit so hard; and, would you think it? raised a blister. o, how she cried! poor little sister! poor thing! i grieved to see it swell. "what will you put to make it well?" "why," said mamma, "i really think some scraped potato, or some ink, "a little vinegar, or brandy, whichever nurse can find most handy: all these are good, my little daughter, but nothing's better than cold water." mary anne's kindness how mischievous it was, when will push'd his young sister down the hill, then ran away, a naughty boy, although he heard her sadly cry! their mother, who was walking out, saw the rude trick, and heard him shout; with gentle voice, but angry nod, she threaten'd willy with the rod. but mary anne, afraid of this, begg'd they might now be friends and kiss: she said, "mamma, i feel no pain, and willy won't do so again." then willy call'd his sister "good," and said he "never, never would." ambitious sophy miss sophy, one fine sunny day, left her work and ran away. when she reach'd the garden-gate, she found it lock'd, but would not wait, so tried to climb and scramble o'er a gate as high as any door. but little girls should never climb, and sophy won't another time; for when upon the highest rail, her frock was caught upon a nail: she lost her hold, and, sad to tell, was hurt and bruised--for down she fell. dressed or undressed when children are naughty and will not be dress'd, pray, what do you think is the way? why, often i really believe it is best to keep them in night-clothes all day! but then they can have no good breakfast to eat, nor walk with their mother or aunt; at dinner they'll have neither pudding nor meat, nor anything else that they want. then who would be naughty, and sit all the day in night-clothes unfit to be seen? and pray, who would lose all their pudding and play, for not being dress'd neat and clean? mrs. birch's influence "indeed you are troublesome, anne," said her aunt, "you begg'd me to bring you abroad, and now you are cross and pretend that you want to be carried the rest of the road. "i hope you know better than cry in the street: the people will think it so odd, and if mrs. birch we should happen to meet, she will ask if we want a new rod. "then dry up your tears; with a smile on your face you will speak in a different tune. and now you have cleverly mended your pace, we shall both be at home very soon." rebellious frances the babe was in the cradle laid, and tom had said his prayers, when frances told the nursery-maid she would not go upstairs. she cried so loud her mother came to ask the reason why, and said, "oh, frances, fie for shame! oh fie! oh fie! oh fie!" but frances was more naughty still, and betty sadly nipp'd: until her mother said, "i will-- i must have frances whipp'd. "for, oh! how naughty 'tis to cry, but worse, much worse to fight, instead of running readily and calling out, 'good-night!'" kindness and cruelty the harmless cow a very young lady, and susan the maid, who carried the baby, were one day afraid. they saw a cow feeding, quite harmless and still: yet scream'd, without heeding the man at the mill, who, seeing their flutter, said, "cows do no harm; but send you good butter and milk from the farm." the harmless worm as sally sat upon the ground, a little crawling worm she found among the garden dirt; and when she saw the worm she scream'd, and ran away and cried, and seem'd as if she had been hurt. mamma, afraid some serious harm made sally scream, was in alarm, and left the parlour then; but when the cause she came to learn, she bade her daughter back return, to see the worm again. the worm they found kept writhing round, until it sank beneath the ground; and sally learned that day that worms are very harmless things, with neither teeth, nor claws, nor stings to frighten her away. the bad donkey-boy's good fortune "how can you bear to use him so, you cruel little monkey? oh give him not another blow, but spare the patient donkey." "i own," his mother said, "dear james, you please me by your feeling; but you do wrong to call him names, your anger too revealing." "well then," said james, "if what i say, poor donkey, won't relieve you-- here, boy, don't beat him all to-day, and sixpence i will give you." "you now behave," said she, "my dear, like many much above you; in these kind actions persevere, and all your friends will love you." grateful carlo "oh, do not drown that pretty thing," one morn i heard matilda say-- "do, now, untie that cruel string, and do not drown him, robert, pray. "his feet, how drolly mark'd they are; and feel his coat, as soft as silk; oh, let me have him, dear mamma, and let him share my bread and milk." now little carlo wagg'd his tail, and, looking up, he seem'd to say, "my gratitude shall never fail to you for saving me to-day." and some months after, so it proved, carlo, the grateful, strong, and brave, his mistress (whom he dearly loved) deliver'd from a watery grave. grateful lucy as lucy with her mother walk'd, she play'd and gambol'd, laugh'd and talk'd till, coming to the river side, she slipp'd, and floated down the tide. her faithful carlo being near, jump'd in to save his mistress dear; he drew her carefully to shore, and lucy lives and laughs once more. "dear gen'rous carlo," lucy said, "you ne'er shall want for meat and bread; for every day, before i dine, good carlo shall have some of mine." grateful trusty philip's playful dog was willing always to be set on watch; when a whelp, by daily drilling, trusty seldom found his match! philip bought him very early from a beggar going round, who, from being poor or surly, said he should be "sold or drown'd." trusty well repaid his master for the care of rearing him, for he sav'd from like disaster philip, when he learn'd to swim! something in store for richard richard is a cruel boy, the people call him "dick," for every day he seems to try some new improper trick! he takes delight in whipping cats and pulling off their fur; although at first he gently pats, and listens to their purr! a naughty boy! unless he mends, he will be told to strip, and learn how such amusement ends by feeling his own whip. the result of cruelty jack parker was a cruel boy, for mischief was his sole employ; and much it grieved his friends to find his thoughts so wickedly inclined. he thought it clever to deceive, and often ramble without leave; and ev'ry animal he met he dearly loved to plague and fret. but all such boys, unless they mend, may come to an unhappy end, like jack, who got a fractured skull whilst bellowing at a furious bull. things to eat what is best for children "mamma, why mayn't i, when we dine, eat ham and goose, and drink white wine? and pray, why may not i, like you, have soup and fish, and mutton too?" "because, my dear, it is not right to spoil a youthful appetite; by things unwholesome, though enjoy'd, the infant appetite is cloy'd. "a slice of mutton, roast or boil'd, or good roast beef, best suits a child; a bread, or ground-rice, pudding too is food adapted well for you. "from eating highly flavour'd things illness or inconvenience springs; you lose the love of common food, nor relish what will do you good." billy gill's good fortune "come, let us play," said tommy gay; "well then, what at?" said simon pratt; "at trap and ball," said neddy hall; "well, so we will," said billy gill. "what a hot day!" said tommy gay; "then let us chat," said simon pratt; "on yonder hill," said billy gill. "ay, one and all," said neddy hall. "for cakes i'll pay," said tommy gay; "i'm one for that," said simon pratt; "i'll bring them all," said neddy hall; "and i'll sit still," said billy gill. "come with me, pray," said tommy gay; "trust me for that," said simon pratt; they ate them all, gay, pratt, and hall; and all were ill but billy gill. civil speech "give me some beer!" cried little jane, at dinner-table as she sat. her mother said, "pray ask again, and in a prettier way than that. "for 'give me that,' and 'give me this,' is not the best way to be heard: to make ann hear, a little miss must add another little word." "pray, give me, ann, a glass of beer," jane blushing said--her mother smiled: "now ann will quickly bring it here, for you ask properly, my child." you little misses, masters too, who wish to have a share of praise, pray copy jane, and always do directly what your mother says. the cook's rebuke james went to the door of the kitchen and said, "cook, give me this moment, some honey and bread; then fetch me a glass or a cup of good beer. why, cook, you don't stir, and i'm sure you must hear!" "indeed, master james," was the cook's right reply, "to answer such language i feel rather shy; i hear you quite plainly, but wait till you choose to civilly ask, when i shall not refuse." what a pity young boys should indulge in this way, whilst knowing so well what is proper to say; as if civil words, in a well-manner'd tone, were learn'd to be us'd in the parlour alone! the lost pudding miss kitty was rude at the table one day, and would not sit still on her seat; regardless of all that her mother could say, from her chair little kitty kept running away all the time they were eating their meat. as soon as she saw that the beef was remov'd, she ran to her chair in great haste; but her mother such giddy behaviour reprov'd by sending away the sweet pudding she lov'd, without giving kitty one taste. sammy smith's sad fate sammy smith would drink and eat, from morning until night; he filled his mouth so full of meat, it was a shameful sight. sometimes he gave a book or toy for apple, cake, or plum; and grudged if any other boy should taste a single crumb. indeed he ate and drank so fast, and used to stuff and cram, the name they call'd him by at last was often greedy sam. stupid william william has a silly trick-- on everything his hand he lays; he made himself extremely sick, one morning, by his greedy ways. i promised him i'd write it here (although he owns he's much to blame), that all may read it far and near, lest other boys should do the same. no scatter'd bits his eye can pass, he tastes and sips where'er he comes, he empties everybody's glass, and picks up everybody's crumbs. he'll not do so again, i hope: he has been warn'd enough, i think; for once he ate a piece of soap, and sipp'd for wine a glass of ink. poisonous fruit as tommy and his sister jane were walking down a shady lane, they saw some berries, bright and red, that hung around and overhead; and soon the bough they bended down, to make the scarlet fruit their own; and part they ate, and part, in play, they threw about, and flung away. but long they had not been at home before poor jane and little tom were taken sick, and ill, to bed, and since, i've heard, they both are dead. alas! had tommy understood that fruit in lanes is seldom good, he might have walked with little jane again along the shady lane. harry's cake "betty, attend to what i say, this is my little boy's birth-day; some sugar-plums and citron take, and send to school a large plum-cake." "that, madam, i will gladly do; harry's so good and clever too: so let me have some wine and spice. for i would make it very nice." when it arriv'd, the little boy laugh'd, sang, and jump'd about for joy; but, ah! how griev'd i am to say, he did not give a bit away. he _ate_, and _ate_, and _ate_ his fill, no wonder that it made him ill; pain in his stomach and his head oblig'd him soon to go to bed. oh! long he lay, and griev'd the while, order'd by dr. camomile such physic, and so much to take, he now can't bear the name of cake. peter's cake peter careful had a cake which his kind mamma did bake; of butter, eggs, and currants made, and sent to peter--_carriage paid_. "now," said peter, "they shall see, wiser than harry i will be; for i will keep my cake in store, and that will make it last the more." he, like harry (sad to say), did not give a bit away, but, miser-like, the cake he locks with all his playthings in his box. and sometimes silently he'd go, when all he thought engag'd below, to eat a _very little_ piece, for fear his treasure should decrease. when next he went (it makes me laugh) he found the mice had eaten half, and what remain'd, though once a treat, so mouldy, 'twas not fit to eat. william's cake young william goodchild was a boy who lov'd to give his playmates joy; and when his mother sent _his_ cake, rejoic'd for his companions' sake. "come round," he cried, "each take a slice, each have his proper share of ice; we'll eat it up among us, here: my birth-day comes but once a year." a poor blind man, who came that way, his violin began to play; but though he play'd, he did not speak, and tears ran slowly down his cheek. "what makes you weep?" young william cried. "i'm poor and hungry," he replied, "for food and home i'm forced to play, but i have eaten nought to-day." "poor man!" said william, "half my share remains, which i will gladly spare; i wish 'twas larger for your sake, so take this penny and the cake." i need not ask each youthful breast which of these boys you like the best; let goodness, then, incitement prove, and imitate the boy you love. how to make a christmas pudding now, little sophy, come with me, to make a pudding you shall see; now sit quite still, and see me do it; see, here's the flour and the suet. the suet must be chopped quite small, for it should scarce be seen at all; a pound of each will nicely suit, to which i put two pounds of fruit. one is of currants, one of plums (you'll find it good when boiled it comes); then almonds, sugar, citron, spice, and peel, will make it very nice. now see me stir and mix it well, and then we'll leave the rest to nell; now see, the pudding-cloth she flours, ties it, and boils it full five hours. the end _printed by_ r. & r. clark, ltd., _edinburgh_ _for a list of children's books and others see the next pages._ "the dumpy books for children" no. i. the flamp, the ameliorator, and the schoolboy's apprentice by edward verrall lucas _ mo. cloth. s. d._ _the westminster gazette._--"very delightful stories they are. the great difficulty with books for children is that they are often so large, a difficulty which in the case of the bound annual really assumes formidable proportions--especially to the uncle or aunt who is seized by the juvenile press-gang and coerced into reading aloud. but this 'dumpy book' is quite perfect from that point of view, for it is no bigger than a prayer-book. all three tales are capital fun, and admirably suited to children.... we have unreserved praise for this child's book, dainty and attractive in what it contains and in the way in which it is produced." tom, unlimited _a story for children_ by martin leach warborough _globe vo. cloth. s._ [illustration: little caius.] _with over fifty illustrations by gertrude bradley_ a child's anthology * * * * * a book of verses for children compiled by edward verrall lucas _with cover, title-page, and end paper designed in colours by f. d. bedford_ crown vo. cloth gilt. s. * * * * * _the globe._--"is, we think, the best of its kind--partly because it is so comprehensive and so catholic, partly because it consists so largely of matter not too hackneyed, partly because that matter is so pleasantly arranged. the verse here brought together is full of agreeable variety, it is from many sources, some hitherto not drawn upon; and it has been grouped in sections with a happy sense of congruity and freshness." a book of verses-- (_continued_) preface (addressed to children) unless you are very keenly set upon reading to yourself, i think i should advise you to ask some one to read these pieces aloud, not too many at a time. and i want you to understand that there is a kind of poetry that is finer far than anything here: poetry to which this book is, in the old-fashioned phrase, simply a "stepping-stone." when you feel, as i hope some day you will feel, that these pages no longer satisfy, then you must turn to the better thing. e. v. l. the following are the various headings under which the contents are grouped:-- two thoughts--the open air--the year--christmas--the country life--blossoms from herrick and blake--birds--dogs and horses--compressed natural history--unnatural history--poets at play--counsel--old-fashioned girls--marjorie fleming, poetess--old-fashioned boys--looking forward--from "hiawatha"--good fellows--the sea and the island--a bundle of stories--bedtime--a few remarks. other of mr. grant richards's publications. the flower of the mind: a choice among the best poems. by alice meynell. with cover designed by laurence housman. crown vo. buckram, s. realms of unknown kings: poems. by laurence alma-tadema. fcap. vo. paper covers, s. net. buckram, s. net. poems by a. and l. by arabella and louisa shore. crown vo. cloth. s. net. rubaiyat of omar khayyam. a paraphrase from several literal translations. by richard le gallienne. long fcap. vo. parchment cover. s. * * * * * grant richards henrietta street, covent garden, w.c. [illustration] [illustration] a moral alphabet. * * * * * by the same authors. more beasts (for worse children). demy to. s. d. the modern traveller. fcap. to. s. d. edward arnold, london. * * * * * a moral alphabet by h. b. with illustrations by b. b. authors of "the bad child's book of beasts" "more beasts for worse children" "the modern traveller" etc. london edward arnold bedford street _dedication._ to the gentleman on page . a stands for [illustration] archibald who told no lies, and got this lovely volume for a prize. [illustration] the upper school had combed and oiled their hair, and all the parents of the boys were there. in words that ring like thunder through the hall, draw tears from some and loud applause from all,-- the pedagogue, with pardonable joy, bestows the gift upon the radiant boy:-- [illustration] "accept the noblest work produced as yet" (says he) "upon the english alphabet; "next term i shall examine you, to find "if you have read it thoroughly. so mind!" and while the boys and parents cheered so loud, that out of doors [illustration] a large and anxious crowd had gathered and was blocking up the street, the admirable child resumed his seat. moral. learn from this justly irritating youth, to brush your hair and teeth and tell the truth. b stands for bear. [illustration] when bears are seen approaching in the distance, make up your mind at once between retreat and armed resistance. [illustration] a gentleman remained to fight-- with what result for him? the bear, with ill-concealed delight, devoured him, limb by limb. [illustration] another person turned and ran; he ran extremely hard: the bear was faster than the man, and beat him by a yard. moral. decisive action in the hour of need denotes the hero, but does not succeed. c stands for cobra; when the cobra [illustration] bites an indian judge, the judge spends restless nights. moral. this creature, though disgusting and appalling, conveys no kind of moral worth recalling. d the dreadful [illustration] dinotherium he will have to do his best for d. the early world observed with awe his back, indented like a saw. his look was gay, his voice was strong; his tail was neither short nor long; his trunk, or elongated nose, was not so large as some suppose; his teeth, as all the world allows, were graminivorous, like a cow's. he therefore should have wished to pass long peaceful nights upon the grass, but being mad the brute preferred to roost in branches, like a bird.[a] a creature heavier than a whale, you see at once, could hardly fail to suffer badly when he slid and tumbled [illustration] (as he always did). his fossil, therefore, comes to light all broken up: and serve him right. moral. if you were born to walk the ground, remain there; do not fool around. [a] we have good reason to suppose he did so, from his claw-like toes. e stands for [illustration] egg. moral. the moral of this verse is applicable to the young. be terse. f for a [illustration] family taking a walk in arcadia terrace, no doubt: the parents indulge in intelligent talk, while the children they gambol about. at a quarter-past six they return to their tea, of a kind that would hardly be tempting to me, though my appetite passes belief. there is jam, ginger beer, buttered toast, marmalade, with a cold leg of mutton and warm lemonade, and a large pigeon pie very skilfully made to consist almost wholly of beef. moral. a respectable family taking the air is a subject on which i could dwell; it contains all the morals that ever there were, and it sets an example as well. g stands for gnu, whose weapons of defence are long, sharp, curling horns, and common-sense. to these he adds a name so short and strong, [illustration] that even hardy boers pronounce it wrong. how often on a bright autumnal day the pious people of pretoria say, "come, let us hunt the----" then no more is heard but sounds of strong men struggling with a word. meanwhile, the distant gnu with grateful eyes observes his opportunity, and flies. moral. child, if you have a rummy kind of name, remember to be thankful for the same. h was a [illustration] horseman who rode to the meet, and talked of the pads of the fox as his "feet"-- an error which furnished subscribers with grounds for refusing to make him a master of hounds. he gave way thereupon to so fearful a rage, that he sold up his stable and went on the stage, and had all the success that a man could desire in creating the part of [illustration] "the old english squire." moral. in the learned professions, a person should know the advantage of having two strings to his bow. i the poor indian, justly called "the poor," [illustration] he has to eat his dinner off the floor. moral. the moral these delightful lines afford is: "living cheaply is its own reward." j stands for james, who thought it immaterial to pay his taxes, local or imperial. in vain the mother wept, the wife implored, james only yawned as though a trifle bored. [illustration] the tax collector called again, but he was met with persiflage and repartee. when james was hauled before the learned judge, who lectured him, he loudly whispered, "fudge!" the judge was startled from his usual calm, he [illustration] struck the desk before him with his palm, and roared in tones to make the boldest quail, "_j stands for james_, it also stands for jail." and therefore, on a dark and dreadful day, policemen came and took him all away. moral. the fate of james is typical, and shows how little mercy people can expect who will not pay their taxes; (saving those to which they conscientiously object.) k for the klondyke, a country of gold, where the winters are often excessively cold; where the lawn every morning is covered with rime, and skating continues for years at a time. do you think that a climate can conquer the grit of the sons of the west? not a bit! not a bit! when the weather looks nippy, the bold pioneers put on two pairs of stockings and cover their ears, and roam through the drear hyperborean dales with a vast apparatus of buckets and pails; [illustration] or wander through wild hyperborean glades with hoes, hammers, pickaxes, matlocks and spades. there are some who give rise to exuberant mirth by turning up nothing but bushels of earth, while those who have little cause excellent fun by attempting to pilfer from those who have none. at times the reward they will get for their pains is to strike very tempting auriferous veins; or, a shaft being sunk for some miles in the ground, not infrequently nuggets of value are found. they bring us the gold when their labours are ended, and we--after thanking them prettily--spend it. moral. just you work for humanity, never you mind if humanity seems to have left you behind. l was a lady, advancing in age, who drove in her carriage and six, with a couple of footmen a coachman and page, who were all of them regular bricks. [illustration] if the coach ran away, or was smashed by a dray, or got into collisions and blocks, the page, with a courtesy rare for his years, would leap to the ground with inspiriting cheers, while the footman allayed her legitimate fears, and the coachman sat tight on his box. at night as they met round an excellent meal, they would take it in turn to observe: "what a lady indeed! . . . what a presence to feel! . . ." "what a woman to worship and serve! . . ." [illustration] but, perhaps, the most poignant of all their delights was to stand in a rapturous dream when she spoke to them kindly on saturday nights, and said "they deserved her esteem." moral. now observe the reward of these dutiful lives: at the end of their loyal career they each had a lodge at the end of the drives, and she left them a hundred a year. remember from this to be properly vexed when the newspaper editors say, that "the type of society shown in the text "is rapidly passing away." m was a millionaire who sat at table, and ate like this-- [illustration] as long as he was able; at half-past twelve the waiters turned him out: he lived impoverished and died of gout. moral. disgusting exhibition! have a care when, later on, you are a millionaire, to rise from table feeling you could still take something more, and not be really ill. n stands for ned, maria's younger brother, [illustration] who, walking one way, chose to gaze the other. in blandford square--a crowded part of town-- two people on a tandem knocked him down; whereat [illustration] a motor car, with warning shout, ran right on top and turned him inside out: the damages that he obtained from these maintained him all his life in cultured ease. moral. the law protects you. go your gentle way: the other man has always got to pay. o stands for oxford. hail! salubrious seat of learning! academical retreat! home of my middle age! malarial spot which people call medeeval (though it's not). the marshes in the neighbourhood can vie with cambridge, but the town itself is dry, and serves to make a kind of fold or pen [illustration] wherein to herd a lot of learned men. were i to write but half of what they know, it would exhaust the space reserved for "o"; and, as my book must not be over big, i turn at once to "p," which stands for pig. moral. be taught by this to speak with moderation of places where, with decent application, one gets a good, sound, middle-class education. p stands for pig, as i remarked before, a second cousin to the huge wild boar. but pigs are civilized, while huge wild boars [illustration] live savagely, at random, out of doors, and, in their coarse contempt for dainty foods, subsist on truffles, which they find in woods. not so the cultivated pig, who feels the need of several courses at his meals, but wrongly thinks it does not matter whether he takes them one by one [illustration] or all together. hence, pigs devour, from lack of self-respect, what epicures would certainly reject. moral. learn from the pig to take whatever fate or elder persons heap upon your plate. q for quinine, which children take [illustration] with jam and little bits of cake. moral. how idiotic! can quinine replace cold baths and sound hygiene? r the reviewer, [illustration] reviewing my book, at which he had barely intended to look; but the very first lines upon "a" were enough to convince him the _verses_ were excellent stuff. so he wrote, without stopping, for several days in terms of extreme, but well-merited praise. to quote but one passage: "no person" (says he), "will be really content without purchasing three, "while a parent will send for a dozen or more, "and strew them about on the nursery floor. "the versification might call for some strictures "were it not for its singular wit; while the pictures, "tho' the handling of line is a little defective, "make up amply in _verve_ what they lack in perspective." moral. the habit of constantly telling the truth will lend an additional lustre to youth. s stands for snail, who, though he be the least, is not an uninstructive hornèd beast. [illustration] his eyes are on his horns, and when you shout or tickle them, the horns go in and out. had providence seen proper to endow the furious unicorn or sober cow with such a gift the one would never now appear so commonplace on coats of arms. and what a fortune for our failing farms if circus managers, with wealth untold, would take the cows for half their weight in gold! moral. learn from the snail to take reproof with patience, and not put out your horns on all occasions. t [illustration] for the genial tourist, who resides in peckham, where he writes italian guides. moral. learn from this information not to cavil at slight mistakes in books on foreign travel. u for the upas tree, [illustration] that casts a blight on those that pull their sisters' hair, and fight. [illustration] but oh! the good! they wander undismayed, and (as the subtle artist has portrayed) dispend the golden hours at play beneath its shade.[b] moral. dear reader, if you chance to catch a sight of upas trees, betake yourself to flight. [b] a friend of mine, a botanist, believes that good can even browse upon its leaves. i doubt it.... v for [illustration] the unobtrusive volunteer, who fills the armies of the world with fear. moral. seek with the volunteer to put aside the empty pomp of military pride. w my little victim, let me trouble you to fix your active mind on w. [illustration] the waterbeetle here shall teach a sermon far beyond your reach: he flabbergasts the human race by gliding on the water's face with ease, celerity, and grace; _but if he ever stopped to think of how he did it, he would sink._ moral. don't ask questions! x [illustration] no reasonable little child expects a grown-up man to make a rhyme on x. moral. these verses teach a clever child to find excuse for doing all that he's inclined. y [illustration] stands for youth (it would have stood for yak, but that i wrote about him two years back). youth is the pleasant springtime of our days, as dante so mellifluously says (who always speaks of youth with proper praise). you have not got to youth, but when you do you'll find what he and i have said is true. moral. youth's excellence should teach the modern wit first to be young, and then to boast of it. z [illustration] for this zébu, who (like all zebús)[c] is held divine by scrupulous hindoos. [c] von kettner writes it "_zé_bu"; wurst "ze_bu_": i split the difference and use the two. moral. idolatry, as you are well aware, is highly reprehensible. but there, we needn't bother,--when we get to z our interest in the alphabet is dead. illustrated humorous books _published by mr. edward arnold._ really and truly! or, the century for babes. written by ernest ames, and illustrated by mrs. ernest ames, authors of "an a b c for baby patriots." fully and brilliantly coloured. price s. d. ruthless rhymes for heartless homes. the verses by colonel d. streamer; the pictures by g---- h----. crown to. s. d. tails with a twist. an animal picture-book by e. t. reed, author of "pre-historic peeps," &c. with verses by "a belgian hare." oblong demy to. s. d. the frank lockwood sketch-book. being a selection of sketches by the late sir frank lockwood, q.c., m.p. third edition. oblong royal to. s. d. more beasts (for worse children). verses by h. b. pictures by b. b. demy to. s. d. the modern traveller. by h. b. and b. b. fcap. to. s. d. a moral alphabet. by h. b. and b. b. fcap. to. s. d. edward arnold, , bedford street, london. * * * * * transcriber's note: page , "o" changed to "to" (i to write) the internet archive. kensington rhymes [illustration: the punch and judy show] kensington rhymes by compton mackenzie illustrated by j. r. monsell london: martin secker number five john street adelphi first published printed by ballantyne & company ltd at the ballantyne press tavistock street covent garden london to ethel long contents page our house our square the dancing class my sister at a party kissing games a ballad of the round pond town and country poor lavender girls summer holidays the unpleasant moon suggestions about sleep the rare burglar the german band the deceitful rat-tat the cage in the pillar box the fortunate coalmen the pavement artist sweeps greengrocers christmas not far off the disappointment treasure trove a visit to my aunt don quixote the wet day last words kensington rhymes [illustration: our house] our house is very high and red, the steps are very white, the balcony is full of flowers, the knocker's very bright. the hall has got a coloured lamp, a rack for father's hat, and pegs for coats: a curious word[a] is printed on the mat. the kitchen ticks too loud at night, it is a horrid place; black-beetles run about the floor at a most dreadful pace. the cellar is quite black with coal, the cat goes scratching there; people go tramping past above, but nobody knows where. the dining-room has rosy walls, and silver knives and forks, and when i listen at the door, i hear the popping corks. the library smells like new boots, it is a woolly room; the housemaid comes at eight o'clock and sweeps it with a broom. the staircase has a thousand rods that rattle if you kick, and when the twilight makes it blue i rush up very quick. the landing is a dismal place, the bannisters creak so, the door-knobs twinkle horribly, the gas is always low. the drawing-room is cold and white, the chairs have crooked legs; silk ladies rustle in and out while fido sits and begs. the bathroom is a trickling room, and always smells of paint, the cupboard's full of medicine for fever, cold or faint. my bedroom is a brassy room with pictures on the wall: it's rather full of nurse's clothes but then my own are small. our house is very high and red, the steps are very white, the balcony is full of flowers, the knocker's very bright. [a] nobody knows what salve means [illustration: our square] our square is really most select, infectious children, dogs and cats are not allowed to come inside, nor any people from the flats. i have a sweetheart in the square, i bring her pebbles that i find, and curious shapes in mould, and sticks, and kiss her when she does not mind. she wears a dress of crackling white, a shiny sash of pink or blue, and over these a pinafore, and she comes out at half-past two. her legs are tall and thin and black, her eyes are very large and brown, and as she walks along the paths, her frock moves slowly up and down. we all have sweethearts in our square, and when the winter comes again, we shall go to the dancing-class and watch them walking through the rain. [illustration: the dancing class] [illustration: the dancing class] each week on friday night at six our dancing-class begins: two ladies dressed in white appear and play two violins. it's really meant for boys at school, but girls can also come, and when you walk inside the room you hear a pleasant hum. the older boys wear eton suits, the younger boys white tops; we stand together in a row and practise curious hops. the dancing-master shows the step with many a puff and grunt; he has a red silk handkerchief stuck grandly in his front. he's awfully excitable, his wrists are very strong, he drags you up and down the room whenever you go wrong. and when you're going very wrong, the girls begin to laugh; and when you're pushed back in your place, the boys turn round and chaff. we've learnt the polka and the waltz, we've _got_ the ladies' chain; although he says our final bows give him enormous pain. the floor is very slippery, it's difficult to walk from one end to the other end unless you sort of stalk. and when the steps have all been done, he takes you by the arm to choose a partner for the dance-- it makes you get quite warm. you have to bow and look polite, and ask with a grimace the pleasure of the next quadrille, and slouch into your place. he always picks out girls you hate, i really don't know why, and when you look across the room it almost makes you cry to see the girl you would have picked dance with another boy without a single smile for you, determined to annoy. your heart beats very loud and quick, your breath comes very fast, you pinch your partner in the chain-- but dances end at last. you think you will not look at her, you look the other way; yet when she beckons with her fan, you instantly obey. how quick the evening gallops by and eight o'clock comes soon, but not till you've arranged to meet to-morrow afternoon. [illustration: my sister at a party] i hear the piano, the party's begun; hurry up! hurry up! there is going to be fun. leave your wrap in the hall and tie up your shoes, there isn't a moment, a moment to lose. take a peep at the dining-room as you go by, lemonade, claret cup, orange wine you will spy: and they're going to have two sorts of ices this year, both strawberry-cream and vanilla, i hear. twelve dances are down on the programme, i see. oh, do up your gloves, she is waiting for me! i hear the piano, the polka's begun! oh, why does your beastly old sash come undone! that's right, are your ready? now don't you forget to say how d'ye do and express your regret that miss perkins[b] is laid up in bed with a cold-- it isn't my place--just you do as you're told. i say, look at frank,[c] he's behaving as though he was playing with cads in a field full of snow; he's sliding about on the slippery floor all over the room with the kid from next door. it's a jolly good thing that miss perkins' in bed, they'll probably send old eliza[d] instead. when we hear that she's come, we'll just not attend, or tell her we never go home till the end. they give all the maids when they come, orange wine-- i say, do you think i might ask her for nine. all right, only don't say i danced more than twice; if you do, i'll say you have had more than one ice. mother said that you could? she said one of each? you'd better look out or i'll jolly well peach. you don't care if i do? all right, just you wait! you'll tell mrs. jones we were not to be late? i'm not pinching at all, you beastly young sneak! you _won't_ follow me round when we play hide and seek! there's dorothy![e] pax! you can eat what you like, and to-morrow i'll give you a ride on my bike. [b] miss perkins is our governess] [c] he's my brother [d] eliza is our housemaid [e] she's an awfully decent girl i know. [illustration: kissing games] postman's knock! postman's knock! a letter for the girl next door, and two pence, please, to pay. kiss in the ring! kiss in the ring! she's fallen down upon the floor, i don't know what to say. postman's knock! postman's knock! i wish that i had asked for more; at games you must obey. kiss in the ring! kiss in the ring! when running after her i tore her frock the other day. postman's knock! postman's knock! a letter for the girl next door, and a shilling she must pay.[f] [f] but she didn't [illustration: ballad of the round pond] the round pond is a fine pond with fine ships sailing there, cutters, yachts and men-o'-war, and sailor-boys everywhere. paper boats they hug the shore, and row-boats move with string but cutters, yachts and larger ships sail on like anything. [illustration: the round pond] it was the schooner _kensington_, set out one saturday: the wind was blowing from the east, the sky was cold and grey. her crew stood on the quarter-deck and stared across the sea, with two brass cannon in the stern for the royal artillery. the royal tin artillery had faced the sea before, they had fallen in the bath one night and heard the waste-plug roar. they were rescued by the nursery maid and put on the ledge to dry; and they looked more like the volunteers than the royal artillery. for the blue had all come off their clothes, and they afterwards wore grey; but they stood by the cannon like marines that famous saturday. the crew of the schooner _kensington_ were dutchmen to a man, with wooden legs and painted eyes; but the captain he was bran. his blood was of the brownest bran and his clothes were full of tucks; but he fell in the sea half-way across, and was eaten up by ducks. we launched the boat at half-past three, and stood on the bank to watch, and some friends of mine who were fishing there had a wonderful minnow-catch. fifteen minnows were caught at once in an ancient ginger jar, when a shout went up that the _kensington_ was heeling over too far. too far for a five-and-sixpenny ship that was warranted not to upset; but she righted herself in half a tick though the crew got very wet. the crew got very wet indeed; the artillery all fell down, and lay on their backs for the rest of the voyage for fear they were going to drown. the schooner _kensington_ sailed on across the wild round pond, and we ran along the gravel-bank with a hook stuck into a wand. a hook stuck into a wand to guide the schooner safe ashore to incandescent harbour lights and a dock on the school-room floor. but suddenly the wind dropped dead. and a calm came over the sea, and a terrible rumour got abroad it was time to go home to tea. we whistled loud, we whistled long, the whole of that afternoon; but there wasn't wind enough to float a twopenny pink balloon. and the other chaps upon the bank looked anxiously out to sea; for their sweethearts and sisters were going home, and they feared for the cake at tea. * * * * * it was the schooner _kensington_ came in at dead of night with many another gallant ship and one unlucky kite. the keeper found them at break of day, and locked them up quite dry in his little green hut, with a notice that on monday we must apply. so on sunday after church we went to stare at them through the door; and we saw the schooner _kensington_ keel upwards on the floor. but though we stood on the tips of our toes, and craned our necks to see, we could not spot the wooden-legged crew or the royal artillery. [illustration: town and country] they say that country children have most fierce adventures every night, with owls and bats and giant moths that flutter to the candle-light. they say that country children search for earwigs underneath the sheets, that creeping animals abound upon the wooden window-seats. they say that country children wash their hands in water full of things, tadpoles and newts and wriggling eels, until their hands are pink with stings. but this i know, that if they slept far, far away from owls and bats, their hearts would thump tremendously to hear outside two fighting cats. two cats that surely must come through the inky window-pane and jump, with gleaming eyes, upon my bed-- ah, then indeed their hearts would thump. [illustration: poor lavender girls] lavender, lavender! summer's in town! blue skies and marguerites, mother's new gown! lavender, lavender! summer's in town! blue seas and yellow sands, children have flown. lavender, lavender! bunchy and sweet! no one wants lavender all down our street. lavender girls in london never learn to play, give them a penny, a penny before you go away. [illustration: good-night] [illustration: summer holidays] when i was small and went to bed before the sun went down, my cot was woven out of gold like a princess's gown. and in the garden every night, i used to hear the birds, and from the people on the lawn a pleasant sound of words. the garden was quite full of pinks whose smell came blowing in through windows open very wide where gnats would dance and spin. and as i lay in my cool cot, i'd think of daylight hours, poppies and ox-eyed daisies white, and all the roadside flowers now lifting up their drooping heads in the long-shadow time; i'd listen for my mother's step the narrow stairs to climb. and as she bent to say good-night and heard me say my prayer, she seemed a bit of mignonette, she was so sweet and fair. and just as i was dozing off, i'd hear some jolly talk of aunts and uncles setting out to take their supper-walk. i'd hear their voices die away in the green curly lane; but i was always fast asleep when they came back again. [illustration: the unpleasant moon] the moon is not much use to me, she rises far too late: i'm fonder of the friendly fire that crackles in the grate. but when i wake up in the night and find the fire asleep, his ashes make a horrid noise and mice begin to creep. and then the moon crawls in between the curtains and the floor, and when i turn my face away, she's crawling round the door. oh, then i wish she was the fire, i like his light the most; he does not give the furniture a sort of shaking ghost. i hide my head beneath the clothes and shut my eyes up tight, and then i see queer dancing wheels and spots of coloured light. they do not comfort me at all, but pass the time away until i hear the milkman's can and know that it is day. [illustration: suggestions about sleep] i've heard it said that the dustman is responsible for our sleep, that he puts a pinch of dust in our eyes when the stars begin to peep. if this is true it would quite explain the horrible dreams that come, for the dustman looks a rough sort of chap, and his cart smells awfully rum. [illustration: the dustman] i've tried to talk to the dustman, but his voice is fearfully hoarse; and once i put a penny in the bin-- it was taken out of course. but for all the good it did my dreams, i need not have put it in; perhaps he thought that the penny had slipped by accident into the bin. it seems absurd in this civilised age[g] that our dreams should still be bad; if the dustman _is_ responsible i think he must be mad. it's horrid enough to lie awake, and count the knobs on the bed; but it's horrider far to go to sleep, in fact i'd sooner be dead. i expect that then if one had bad dreams and woke up in a fright, there would be an angel somewhere about to strike a cheerful light. and your governess is not always glad, if you wake her up to say that a witch has been chasing you down a street where the people have gone away. [g] father said this about something. [illustration: the rare burglar] it's extremely unusual, my mother declares, for a burglar to sleep at the top of the stairs: the policemen, she says, are so terribly sure that daily the number of burglars gets fewer. they are caught by the dozen as morning comes round and dragged off to cells very deep underground: and there they repent of their wicked bad lives, with occasional visits from children and wives. so every night when i lie in my bed, i listen to hear the policeman's deep tread. i've a whistle that hangs on a piece of white cord, and it's much more consoling than any tin sword: for i know, if i blow, the policeman will come and make the old burglar look awfully glum. [illustration: the german band] i love to lie in bed and hear the jolly german band. why people do not care for it i cannot understand. they do not mind the orchestra. and that makes far more noise; they quite forget that music is a thing that one enjoys. when grown-up people come and call, i have to play for them; and once a deaf old lady said my playing was a gem. but it's not true for them to say the carnival de venise[h] with three wrong notes is better than a band that plays with ease. it comes each week at eight o'clock, and when i hear it play, i am a knight upon a horse and riding far away. the lines upon the blanket are six armies marching past, six armies marching on a plain, six armies marching fast. of course i am the general, i'm riding at the head; but suddenly the music stops and then i'm back in bed. each time it plays brings different thoughts, exciting, sad and good. i'm sailing in a sailing ship, i'm walking in a wood. i'm going to the pantomime, i'm at the hippodrome. but when the music stops, why then i always am at home. in winter when it's dark at eight, the jolly german band drives all unpleasant thoughts away just like a fairy-wand. in summer when it's light at eight, the german band still plays; it makes me think of pleasant things and seaside holidays. i've heard that it plays out of tune, and upsets talking, and i've heard it called a nuisance, but i love the german band. [h] this is beastly difficult, and almost so decent as _rosalie the prairie flower_. [illustration: the deceitful rat-tat] the postman has given a loud rat-tat, perhaps it's a parcel for me: elizabeth does go slowly to open the door and see. oh dear, it's only a telegram, to wait on the stand in the hall till father comes home in the evening or mother comes back from a call. [illustration: the cage in the pillar-box] i wonder if an animal lives in the pillar-box, for when the postman opens it you see a cage with locks. and surely letters do not want a cage with bars and clamps; they have no wings, they could not fly, they're held by sticky stamps. perhaps the postman keeps a pet, a savage beast of prey; for lions, seals and diving-birds are fed three times a day. and all those figures on the plate are meant perhaps for you to learn what time the beast is fed like others at the zoo. and now i come to think of it, the postman's coat and hat is not unlike a keeper's who feeds animals with fat. besides, he always shuts the door with a tremendous bang, as if he feared to see stick out an irritable fang. but then again i never heard the faintest roar or squeak, i never saw a sniffing nose or spied a hooky beak. so after all perhaps there's not a bird, a beast or snake. and yet to-morrow i shall post a slice of cherry-cake. [illustration: the fortunate coalmen] it is a pleasant thing to watch the coalmen at their work; they do not seem to mind the dark where many dangers lurk. the braver of them goes below into the cellar black, and calls out in a cheerful voice to bring another sack. the other grunts and groans a lot beneath his load of coal, and down the ladder goes with care until he gains the hole. he turns his burden upside down, the inside rattles out, and a delicious smell of coal gets everywhere about. the braver one takes up his spade and shovels it away; the other wipes his shiny face, and asks the time of day. but it is very strange to me that neither seems to want to put the ladder down the hole and climb down where i can't. a man, they say, once broke his leg by falling down a grating, and nearly died for want of food, because they kept him waiting a week before they pulled him out and took him to his home, from which he never more went forth the london streets to roam. but coalmen do not run these risks, they have no nurse to frown, so they might spend the whole long day in climbing up and down.[i] [i] they are silly not to. [illustration: the pavement artist] i think that i should like to be a pavement artist best, for he has every kind of chalk spread in a cosy nest. i have ten pieces in a box, black, yellow, white and blue, pink, red, brown, orange, grey and green, but these are far too few. [illustration: the pavement artist] he has a hundred different shades, and most uncommon sorts; he can draw salmon, queens and chops, wrecks, mutinies and forts. his cannon have enormous puffs of the most curly smoke, because he has so many 'greys,' far more than other folk. his girls are a delicious pink, and mine are rather pale; but then i have to be more strict for fear my pink should fail. his fields have got a splendid green; they're full of flowers bright; but mine are covered up with snow because my paper's white. and yet with all these jolly chalks, the artist seems in pain; perhaps because his pictures get rubbed out by showers of rain. but what i cannot understand is why each paving-stone has not a drawing on its face, why such a few are done. our walks would be much pleasanter, if all the dullest streets were illustrated like a book and gay as flags or sweets. of course a lot would get all smudged by careless people's tracks, but some would tread as i do now only upon the cracks. [illustration: sweeps] my nurse declares that sweeps are kind, without the slightest inclination to steal away a well-dressed child except by nurse's invitation. nurse says that children do not climb the tall black chimneys any more; she even says (this must be wrong) sweeps enter by the area door. but i have seen a chimney-sweep go whooping up and down our street; and on his back he had a sack-- i bet with something good to eat. [illustration: greengrocers] greengrocers, greengrocers, in your green shops, with cabbages and cauliflowers and tough turnip-tops. mother buys daffodils, and apples for me: but nurse she buys radishes to eat with her tea. [illustration: christmas not far off] november fogs, november fogs, a month to christmas day. the world is cold and dirty, but the muffin man is gay. he rings his bell, he rings his bell all through the afternoon: he rings his bell to let us know that christmas will come soon. [illustration: the disappointment] the punch and judy man's in sight, he's coming down our street, he's stopping just before our house-- shut up! i bagged that seat. i say, the colonel opposite[j] is sending him away, because he says his wife is ill and can't bear noise to-day. [j] he bagged our ball the other day [illustration: treasure trove] after a winter walk, it's nice to see the baked-potato man poking his stove and picking out the best potatoes from his pan. a baked potato on a spike is very like a pirate's head; i always think of them again long after when i've gone to bed. i bought one coming home from school, and as i turned into our street, the lamp-posts in the yellow fog sailed like a wicked pirate fleet. and all the people in the fog were sailor-men upon a quay; the pavement smelt of tar and salt: i thought i heard quite close the sea. i heard a whisper as i went, 'the jolly roger's at the peak'; a bullfinch in a lighted room was a parrot in a far-off creek. the parlour-maid at twenty-two was black-eyed susan, and beyond, the plane-tree was a cocoa-palm; the crossing-sweeper was marooned. and as i got close to our house, i was an english midshipman; my satchel was an old sea-chest, my copy-book a treasure-plan. and then a wondrous thing occurred, the strangest thing i ever knew: i found a shining sixpence, though i don't suppose you'll think it true. i hardly dared to look at it, afraid that it would only prove a bit of tin, a bovril coin, and not a proper treasure-trove. i told my brother and he thought we'd better hide it out of sight, in case the pirates should attack our bedroom on that foggy night. the baked potato in my coat was just exactly captain kidd; so both of us declared at once that there the sixpence must be hid. we took our sister's sailor-doll and put his clothes upon a stick, and spent the evening doing this instead of my arithmetic. we made a glorious cocked-hat of paper-painted prussian blue, we put the pirate on the stick, and stuck the sixpence first with glue. deep in my mother's window-box next day we buried captain kidd; my sister never could find out where all her sailor-clothes were hid. we made a map to show the place and wrote directions in red ink; but when we dug the treasure up, i dropped it down the kitchen sink. [illustration: a visit to my aunt] aunt jane with whom i sometimes stay has a very curious house, as quiet as aunt jane herself, as quiet as a mouse. it's always autumn when i go and raining every day: the garden's full of shrubs and paths i'm sent out there to play. the paths are green and full of moss, the shrubs are wet and dark: it's like a secret corner in a sort of nightmare park. i walk about the paths alone and look at roots and leaves, and once behind a laurel bush i saw a pierrot's[k] sleeves. i thought of him that night in bed, i was afraid he'd climb and peep against the window-pane and say a horrid rhyme. and when i heard the rain outside dripping upon the sill, i thought i heard his footsteps too, and oh, i did lie still. [k] like one in my aunt's french picture-book i saw his shadow dance about like a shadow on a sheet; i saw his eyes, like currants black, and his white velvet feet. my aunt's house is a quiet house, the servants never speak: she goes to sleep each afternoon: i stay there for a week. the rooms have got a woolly smell, they're full of little things-- tall clocks and fat blue china bowls and birds with coloured wings. i tinkle all the candlesticks upon the mantelpiece: they wave long after i have gone, and never seem to cease. the drawing-room is full of shawls, with footstools everywhere, and prickly cushions stuck upright upon each bristly chair. i'm glad when i go home again into the shining lamps and comfortable sound of streets, and see my book of stamps. [illustration: don quixote] [illustration: don quixote] the clock is striking four o'clock, it is not time for tea. although the night is marching up and i can hardly see. i'm reading in the library in a most enormous chair; the fire is just the very kind that makes you want to stare. i'm looking at the largest book that ever yet was seen; they say i shall not understand this tale till i'm fourteen. don quixote is the name of it with pictures on each page; the way that he was treated puts me in a fearful rage. don quixote was a tall thin man whose thoughts were just like mine, he saw queer things, he heard queer sounds though he was more than nine. he used to lie in bed and watch the hilly counterpane. and see strange little knights-at-arms go riding down a plain. his room was simply crowded with enchanters, dwarfs and elves, and dragons used to go to sleep upon the darkest shelves. he used to think that common things were really very strange, like me who saw a goblin once upon our kitchen-range. he saw big giants in the clouds marching and fighting there: he used to listen to the leaves and think it was a bear. he found some armour that belonged to people long ago, and rode away to fight and save princesses from the foe. but every one behaved to him as if they were his nurse: they said he was old-fashioned and they said he was a curse. he used to play at 'let's pretend' and charge a flock of sheep; he used to read in bed at night instead of going to sleep. there was not anything of which he could not make a game; he must have been a jolly chap-- don quixote was his name. he had adventures every day, he simply made them come; but all his family shook their heads and said that he was rum. they burnt his books, they shut him up, they threw enormous stones. some beastly fellows beat him too and almost broke his bones. it makes me simply furious, it _nearly_ makes me cry to see him lying in the road-- i hope he will not die. he did not mean to misbehave, he wanted just to play; some people think my games are bad-- they did the other day. a cousin came to stay with us to see the lord mayor's show, and we were playing 'ancient greeks,' a game you all must know. andromeda we gave to her, perseus was given to me; my kiddy brother was the beast, the nursery floor the sea. we tied her to the rock with string, the rock was nurse's bed, medusa's head was nurse's hat-- we ruined it, she said. and as the floor was rather dry, we got the water-jug, and slooshed it all about the room and simply sopped the rug. my kiddy brother was the beast, i killed him with the poker; my kiddy cousin screamed and yelled as if we _meant_ to soak her. so we were punished just because we played at 'let's pretend.' don quixote would have understood, he would have been our friend. hullo! there goes the bell for tea; they've lighted up the hall, and i must go and wash my hands and fetch miss perkins' shawl. [illustration: the wet day] the wettest days in london are quite a jolly spree: our house is like an island, the wet street like a sea. the rain beats on our windows and splashes on the sill; but the dining-room's a jungle, the staircase is a hill. our camping-ground's the nursery, the hall's a coral-reef; my sister's cot's a schooner, and nurse an indian chief. miss perkins is a pirate, the maids are cannibals; they have orgies in the pantry unless a person calls. we've guns and swords and pistols, we've several sorts of flags; by shooting on the hillside we've got some splendid bags. we found a grand volcano close to the servants' room, it really was the cistern, but it made a fearful boom. in all our expeditions my brother is the crew, i'm midshipman and captain-- of course it's rather few, but then my kiddie sister has _got_ to be the beasts which we go out a-hunting in order to have feasts. our feasts are bread and butter, and sometimes bread and jam-- that is, if when we're shooting no doors are made to slam. the wettest days in london are quite a jolly spree; and sometimes, though not often, our friends come in to tea. [illustration: last words] if, percy, you have money in your pocket, for algernon i hope you'll buy this book, but when you've bought it, do let algy read it, and let your kiddy sister have a look. this good advice applies to you, young godfrey, to wilfred and to michael and to claude, to james, guy, basil, archibald and eustace, and also to diana, joan and maud. philip, to you the last must be spoken; tell people of this book round kensington; mention with kind encouragement the author, and get the money from your uncle john. the end [illustration] if this is borrowed by a friend right welcome shall he be to read, to study, _not_ to _lend_ but to return to me. not that imparted knowledge doth diminish learning's store but books i find if often lent return to me no more. every boy's library for little boys new edition, = the man without a country= by rev. e. e. hale = the bicycle highwaymen= by frank m. bicknell = the railroad cut= by w. o. stoddard = j. cole= by emma gellibrand = laddie= by evelyn whitaker = miss toosey= by evelyn whitaker = elder leland's ghost= by hezekiah butterworth = wonder book stories= by nathaniel hawthorne = the prince of the pin elves= by charles lee sleight = the little lame prince= by miss mulock = one thousand men for a christmas present= by mary b. sheldon = the little earl= by ouida = the double prince= by frank m. bicknell = the young archer= by charles e. brimblecom = little peterkin vandike= by charles stuart pratt = christmas carol= by charles dickens = a great emergency= by juliana horatia ewing = the rose and the ring= by william m. thackeray = lazy lawrence and other stories= by maria edgeworth = forgive and forget and other stories= by maria edgeworth = the false key and other stories= by maria edgeworth = a boy's battle= by will allen dromgoole = the gold bug= by edgar allan poe = the pineboro quartette= by willis boyd allen = his majesty the king and wee willie winkie= by rudyard kipling = the old monday farm= by louise r. baker = daddy darwin's dovecote= by juliana h. ewing = little dick's christmas= by etheldred b. barry = what paul did= by etheldred b. barry = harum scarum joe= by will allen dromgoole = the drums of the fore and aft= by rudyard kipling = the child of urbino and moufflou= by ouida = hero-chums= by will allen dromgoole = little tong's mission= by etheldred b. barry h. m. caldwell company publishers new york and boston [illustration: the pied piper of hamelin] every boy's library the pied piper of hamelin and other poems by robert browning [illustration] illustrated h. m. caldwell co. publishers new york & boston _copyright, _ by dana estes & company contents. page the pied piper of hamelin hervÉ riel cavalier tunes "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix" through the metidja to abd-el-kadr incident of the french camp clive mulÉykeh tray a tale gold hair donald the glove list of illustrations. page the pied piper of hamelin _frontispiece_ "'leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore'" "i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three" "a rider bound on bound full galloping, nor bridle drew until he reached the mound" "hair, such a wonder of flix and floss" "and full in the face of its owner flung the glove" the boys' browning. the pied piper of hamelin. a child's story. i. hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, washes its wall on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, was a pity. ii. rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. iii. at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking: "'tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's a noddy; and as for our corporation--shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease? rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. iv. an hour they sat in council; at length the mayor broke silence: "for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell, i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain. oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "bless us," cried the mayor, "what's that?" (with the corporation as he sat, looking little though wondrous fat; nor brighter was his eye, nor moister than a too-long-opened oyster, save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "only a scraping of shoes on the mat? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" v. "come in!"--the mayor cried, looking bigger: and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red, and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, and light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, no tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, but lips where smiles went out and in; there was no guessing his kith and kin: and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. quoth one: "it's as my great-grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" vi. he advanced to the council-table: and, "please your honours," said he, "i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole and toad and newt and viper; and people call me the pied piper." (and here they noticed round his neck a scarf of red and yellow stripe, to match with his coat of the self-same cheque; and at the scarf's end hung a pipe; and his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying as if impatient to be playing upon this pipe, as low it dangled over his vesture so old-fangled.) "yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham, last june, from his huge swarms of gnats; i eased in asia the nizam of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?" "one? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. vii. into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; then, like a musical adept, to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, you heard as if an army muttered; and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling. great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser, wherein all plunged and perished! --save one who, stout as julius cæsar, swam across and lived to carry (as he, the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary: which was, "at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples, wondrous ripe, into a cider-press's gripe: and a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, 'oh, rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' and just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, all ready staved, like a great sun shone glorious scarce an inch before me, just as methought it said, 'come, bore me!' --i found the weser rolling o'er me." viii. you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "go," cried the mayor, "and get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders!" ix. a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue; so did the corporation, too. for council dinners made rare havoc with claret, moselle, vin-de-grave, hock; and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish. to pay this sum to a wandering fellow with a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "beside," quoth the mayor with a knowing wink, "our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something for drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke. beside, our losses have made us thrifty. a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" x. the piper's face fell, and he cried, "no trifling! i can't wait, beside! i've promised to visit by dinner-time bagdat, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left, in the caliph's kitchen, of a nest of scorpions no survivor: with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe after another fashion." xi. "how?" cried the mayor, "d'ye think i brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst, blow your pipe there till you burst!" xii. once more he stept into the street, and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air) there was a rustling that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, and, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, out came the children running. all the little boys and girls, with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, tripping and skipping, ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. xiii. the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood, unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by, --could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. but how the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosoms beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters right in the way of their sons and daughters! however, he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed; great was the joy in every breast. "he never can cross that mighty top! he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop!" when, lo, as they reached the mountainside, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced and the children followed, and when all were in to the very last, the door in the mountainside shut fast. did i say, all? no! one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say,-- "it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me. for he led us, he said, to a joyous land, joining the town and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new; the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow deer, and honey-bees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings: and just as i became assured my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before, and never hear of that country more!" xiv. alas, alas for hamelin! there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opes to the rich at as easy rate as the needle's eye takes a camel in! the mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the piper, by word of mouth, wherever it was men's lot to find him, silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, and piper and dancers were gone for ever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly if, after the day of the month and year, these words did not as well appear, "and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july, thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it, the pied piper's street-- where any one playing on pipe or tabour was sure for the future to lose his labour. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church-window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away, and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people who ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long time ago in a mighty band out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. xv. so, willy, let me and you be wipers of scores out with all men--especially pipers! and, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! hervÉ riel. i. on the sea and at the hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, did the english fight the french,--woe to france! and, the thirty-first of may, helter-skelter through the blue, like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, came crowding ship on ship to saint malo on the rance, with the english fleet in view. ii. 'twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; first and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, damfreville; close on him fled, great and small, twenty-two good ships in all; and they signalled to the place "help the winners of a race! get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, here's the english can and will!" iii. then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, shall the _formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full beside? now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. reach the mooring? rather say, while rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay!" iv. then was called a council straight. brief and bitter the debate: "here's the english at our heels; would you have them take in tow all that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, for a prize to plymouth sound? better run the ships aground!" (ended damfreville his speech.) "not a minute more to wait! let the captains all and each shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! france must undergo her fate. v. "give the word!" but no such word was ever spoke or heard; for up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --a captain? a lieutenant? a mate--first, second, third? no such man of mark, and meet with his betters to compete! but a simple breton sailor pressed by tourville for the fleet, a poor coasting-pilot he, hervé riel the croisickese. vi. and "what mockery or malice have we here?" cries hervé riel: "are you mad, you malouins? are you cowards, fools, or rogues? talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell on my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'twixt the offing here and grève where the river disembogues? are you bought by english gold? is it love the lying's for? morn and eve, night and day, have i piloted your bay, entered free and anchored fast at the foot of solidor. burn the fleet and ruin france? that were worse than fifty hogues! sirs, they know i speak the truth! sirs, believe me there's a way! only let me lead the line, have the biggest ship to steer, get this _formidable_ clear, make the others follow mine, and i lead them, most and least, by a passage i know well, right to solidor past grève, and there lay them safe and sound; and if one ship misbehave, --keel so much as grate the ground, why, i've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries hervé riel. vii. not a minute more to wait. "steer us in, then, small and great! take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. captains, give the sailor place! he is admiral, in brief. still the north wind, by god's grace! see the noble fellow's face as the big ship, with a bound, clears the entry like a hound, keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! see, safe through shoal and rock, how they follow in a flock, not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, not a spar that comes to grief! the peril, see, is past, all are harboured to the last, and just as hervé riel hollas "anchor!"--sure as fate, up the english come--too late! viii. so, the storm subsides to calm: they see the green trees wave on the heights o'erlooking grève. hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "just our rapture to enhance, let the english rake the bay, gnash their teeth and glare askance as they cannonade away! 'neath rampired solidor pleasant riding on the rance!" how hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! out burst all with one accord, "this is paradise for hell! let france, let france's king thank the man that did the thing!" what a shout, and all one word, "hervé riel!" as he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue breton eyes, just the same man as before. ix. then said damfreville, "my friend, i must speak out at the end, though i find the speaking hard. praise is deeper than the lips: you have saved the king his ships, you must name your own reward. 'faith, our sun was near eclipse! demand whate'er you will, france remains your debtor still. ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not damfreville." x. then a beam of fun outbroke on the bearded mouth that spoke, as the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of breton blue: "since i needs must say my say, since on board the duty's done, and from malo roads to croisic point, what is it but a run?-- since 'tis ask and have, i may-- since the others go ashore-- come! a good whole holiday! leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore!" that he asked and that he got,--nothing more. xi. name and deed alike are lost: not a pillar nor a post in his croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; not a head in white and black on a single fishing-smack, in memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack all that france saved from the fight whence england bore the bell. go to paris: rank on rank search the heroes flung pell-mell on the louvre, face and flank! you shall look long enough ere you come to hervé riel. so, for better and for worse, hervé riel, accept my verse! in my verse, hervé riel, do thou once more save the squadron, honour france, love thy wife the belle aurore! [illustration: "'leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore.'"] cavalier tunes. i. marching along. kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing: and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you're-- chorus.--marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell. serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, cho.--marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight, cho.--march we along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! ii. give a rouse. king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! who gave me the goods that went since? who raised me the house that sank once? who helped me to gold i spent since? who found me in wine you drank once? cho.--king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! to whom used my boy george quaff else, by the old fool's side that begot him? for whom did he cheer and laugh else, while noll's damned troopers shot him? cho.--king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! iii. boot and saddle. boot, saddle, to horse, and away! rescue my castle before the hot day brightens to blue from its silvery gray. cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; many's the friend there, will listen and pray "god's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, flouts castle brancepeth the roundheads' array: who laughs, "good fellows ere this, by my fay, cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" who? my wife gertrude; that, honest and gay, laughs when you talk of surrendering, "nay! i've better counsellors; what counsel they? cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse and away!" [illustration: "i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three."] "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix." i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear: at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, so joris broke silence with, "yet there is time!" at aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, "stay spur! your roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so, we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and "gallop," gasped joris, "for aix is in sight!" "how they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to hear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. then i cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is--friends flocking round as i sat with his head, 'twixt my knees on the ground; and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. through the metidja to abd-el-kadr. as i ride, as i ride, with a full heart for my guide, so its tide rocks my side, as i ride, as i ride, that, as i were double-eyed, he, in whom our tribes confide, is descried, ways untried, as i ride, as i ride. as i ride, as i ride to our chief and his allied, who dares chide my heart's pride as i ride, as i ride? or are witnesses denied-- through the desert waste and wide do i glide unespied as i ride, as i ride? as i ride, as i ride, when an inner voice has cried, the sands slide, nor abide (as i ride, as i ride) o'er each visioned homicide that came vaunting (has he lied?) to reside--where he died, as i ride, as i ride. as i ride, as i ride, ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, yet his hide, streaked and pied, as i ride, as i ride, shows where sweat has sprung and dried, --zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed-- how has vied stride with stride as i ride, as i ride! as i ride, as i ride, could i loose what fate has tied, ere i pried, she should hide (as i ride, as i ride) all that's meant me--satisfied when the prophet and the bride stop veins i'd have subside as i ride, as i ride! [illustration: "a rider bound on bound full galloping, nor bridle drew until he reached the mound."] incident of the french camp. you know, we french stormed ratisbon: a mile or so away, on a little mound, napoleon stood on our storming-day; with neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone brow, oppressive with its mind. just as perhaps he mused "my plans that soar, to earth may fall, let once my army-leader, lannes, waver at yonder wall,--" out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound. then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect by just his horse's mane, a boy: you hardly could suspect-- (so tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through) you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two. "well," cried he, "emperor, by god's grace we've got you ratisbon! the marshal's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon to see your flag-bird flap his vans where i, to heart's desire, perched him!" the chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire. the chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself, as sheathes a film the mother-eagle's eye when her bruised eaglet breathes; "you're wounded!" "nay," the soldier's pride touched to the quick, he said: "i'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside, smiling the boy fell dead. clive. i and clive were friends--and why not? friends! i think you laugh, my lad. clive it was gave england india, while your father gives--egad, england nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak-- "well, sir, you and clive were comrades--" with a tongue thrust in your cheek! very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, clive was man, i was, am, and ever shall be--mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; while the man clive--he fought plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, conquered and annexed and englished! never mind! as o'er my punch (you away) i sit of evenings,--silence, save for biscuit crunch, black, unbroken,--thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, notes this forthright, that meander, till the long past life appears like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, once, and well remembered still,--i'm startled in my solitude ever and anon by--what's the sudden mocking light that breaks on me as i slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes while i ask--aloud, i do believe, god help me!--"was it thus? can it be that so i faltered, stopped when just one step for us--" (us,--you were not born, i grant, but surely some day born would be) "--one bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see) "got no end of wealth and honour,--yet i stood stock-still no less?" --"for i was not clive," you comment: but it needs no clive to guess wealth were handy, honour ticklish, did no writing on the wall warn me "trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" him who braves that notice--call hero! none of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, doff my hat, and leap no barrier. scripture says, the land's the lord's: louts then--what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring, all-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be clive their king? higher warrant must you show me ere i set one foot before t'other in that dark direction, though i stand for evermore poor as job and meek as moses. evermore? no! by and by job grows rich and moses valiant, clive turns out less wise than i. don't object "why call him friend, then?" power is power, my boy, and still marks a man,--god's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill. you've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin; rarely such a royal monster as i lodged the bullet in! true, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass; still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage--ah, the brute he was! why, that clive,--that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,-- he sustained a siege in arcot ... but the world knows! pass the wine. where did i break off at? how bring clive in? oh, you mentioned "fear!" just so: and, said i, that minds me of a story you shall hear. we were friends then, clive and i: so, when the clouds, about the orb late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely threaten to absorb ray by ray its noontide brilliance,--friendship might, with steadier eye drawing near, hear what had burned else, now no blaze--all majesty. too much bee's-wing floats my figure? well, suppose a castle's new: none presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe 'twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile as his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile. reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? from without scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about towers--the heap he kicks now! turrets--just the measure of his cane! will that do? observe moreover--(same similitude again)-- such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade: 'tis when foes are foiled, and fighting's finished that vile rains invade, grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes fit to build like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles. so clive crumbled slow in london, crashed at last. a week before, dining with him,--after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,-- both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head-piece, foot-piece, when they lean each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined past between. as i saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment by the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,--"one more throw try for clive!" thought i: "let's venture some good rattling question!" so-- "come clive, tell us"--out i blurted--"what to tell in turn, years hence, when my boy--suppose i have one--asks me on what evidence i maintain my friend of plassy proved a warrior every whit worth your alexanders, cæsars, marlboroughs, and--what said pitt?-- frederick the fierce himself! clive told me once"--i want to say-- "which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away --in his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess-- which stood foremost as evincing what clive called courageousness! come! what moment of the minute, what speck-centre in the wide circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified? (let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome port!) if a friend has leave to question,--when were you most brave, in short?" up he arched his brows o' the instant--formidably clive again. "when was i most brave? i'd answer, were the instance half as plain as another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal--curse it!--here freezing when my memory touches--ugh!--the time i felt most fear. ugh! i cannot say for certain if i showed fear--anyhow, fear i felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since i shiver now." "fear!" smiled i. "well, that's the rarer: that's a specimen to seek, ticket up in one's museum, _mind-freaks_, _lord clive's fear_, _unique_!" down his brows dropped. on the table painfully he pored as though tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago. when he spoke 'twas like a lawyer reading word by word some will, some blind jungle of a statement,--beating on and on until out there leaps fierce life to fight with. "this fell in my factor-days. desk-drudge, slaving at saint david's, one must game, or drink, or craze. i chose gaming: and,--because your high-flown gamesters hardly take umbrage at a factor's elbow, if the factor pays his stake,-- i was winked at in a circle where the company was choice, captain this and major that, men high of colour, loud of voice, yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile who not merely risked, but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile. "down i sat to cards, one evening,--had for my antagonist homebody whose name's a secret--you'll know why--so, if you list, call him cock o' the walk, my scarlet son of mars from head to heel! play commenced: and, whether cocky fancied that a clerk must feel quite sufficient honour came of bending over one green baize, i the scribe with him the warrior, guessed no penman dared to raise shadow of objection should the honour stay but playing end more or less abruptly,--whether disinclined he grew to spend practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare at--not ask of--lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,-- anyhow, i marked a movement when he bade me 'cut!' "i rose. 'such the new manoeuvre, captain? i'm a novice: knowledge grows. what, you force a card, you cheat, sir?' "never did a thunder-clap cause emotion, startle thyrsis locked with chloe in his lap, as my word and gesture (down i flung my cards to join the pack) fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black. "when he found his voice, he stammered 'that expression once again!' "'well, you forced a card and cheated!' "'possibly a factor's brain, busied with his all important balance of accounts, may deem weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see! when a gentleman is joked with,--if he's good at repartee, he rejoins, as do i--sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full! beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull lets in light and teaches manner to what brain it finds! choose quick-- have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!' "'well, you cheated!' "then outbroke a howl from all the friends around. to his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground. 'end it! no time like the present! captain, yours were our disgrace! no delay, begin and finish! stand back, leave the pair a space! let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen, fly the sword! this clerk's no swordsman? suit him with a pistol, then! even odds! a dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert, likelier hits the broader target!' "up we stood accordingly. as they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out every spark of his existence, that,--crept close to, curled about by that toying, tempting, teasing, fool-forefinger's middle joint,-- don't you guess?--the trigger yielded. gone my chance! and at the point of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head went my ball to hit the wainscot. he was living, i was dead. "up he marched in flaming triumph--'twas his right, mind!--up, within just an arm's length. 'now, my clerkling,' chuckled cocky, with a grin as the levelled piece quite touched me, 'now, sir counting-house, repeat that expression which i told you proved bad manners! did i cheat?' "'cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well. as for me, my homely breeding bids you--fire and go to hell!' "twice the muzzle touched my forehead. heavy barrel, flurried wrist. either spoils a steady lifting. thrice: then, 'laugh at hell who list, i can't! god's no fable either. did this boy's eye wink once? no! there's no standing him and hell and god all three against me,--so, i did cheat!' "and down he threw the pistol, out rushed--by the door possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor, he effected disappearance--i'll engage no glance was sent that way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment swallowed up their senses: as for speaking--mute they stood as mice. "mute not long, though! such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice! 'rogue and rascal! who'd have thought it? what's to be expected next, when his majesty's commission serves a sharper as pretext for ... but where's the need of wasting time now? naught requires delay: punishment the service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away publicly, in good broad daylight! resignation? no, indeed! drum and fife must play the rogue's-march, rank and file be free to speed tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear --kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,--never fear, mister clive, for--though a clerk--you bore yourself--suppose we say-- just as would beseem a soldier? "'gentlemen, attention--pray! first, one word!' "i passed each speaker severally in review. when i had precise their number, names, and styles, and fully knew over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,--why, then-- "some five minutes since, my life lay--as you all saw, gentlemen-- at the mercy of your friend there. not a single voice was raised in arrest of judgment, not one tongue--before my powder blazed-- ventured "can it be the youngster plundered, really seemed to mark some irregular proceeding? we conjecture in the dark, guess at random,--still, for sake of fair play--what if for a freak, in a fit of absence,--such things have been!--if our friend proved weak --what's the phrase?--corrected fortune! look into the case, at least!" who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest? yet he spared me! you eleven! whosoever, all or each, to the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech --to his face, behind his back,--that speaker has to do with me: me who promise, if positions change, and mine the chance should be, not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!' "twenty-five years ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added clive, "never, to my knowledge, did sir cocky have a single breath breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death, for if he be dead or living i can tell no more than you. all i know is--cocky had one chance more; how he used it,--grew out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,-- that's for you to judge. reprieval i procured, at any rate. ugh--the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! why prate longer? you've my story, there's your instance: fear i did, you see!" "well"--i hardly kept from laughing--"if i see it, thanks must be wholly to your lordship's candour. not that--in a common case-- when a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face, i should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve! 'tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve. fear i naturally look for--unless, of all men alive, i am forced to make exception when i come to robert clive. since at arcot, plassy, elsewhere, he and death--the whole world knows-- came to somewhat closer quarters." quarters? had we come to blows, clive and i, you had not wondered--up he sprang so, out he rapped such a round of oaths--no matter! i'll endeavour to adapt to our modern usage words he--well, 'twas friendly license--flung at me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue. "you--a soldier? you--at plassy? yours the faculty to nick instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick, --at his mercy, at his malice,--has you, through some stupid inch undefended in your bulwark? thus laid open,--not to flinch --that needs courage, you'll concede me. then, look here! suppose the man, checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span distant from my temple,--curse him!--quietly had bade me, 'there! keep your life, calumniator!--worthless life i freely spare: mine you freely would have taken--murdered me and my good fame both at once--and all the better! go, and thank your own bad aim which permits me to forgive you!' what if, with such words as these, he had cast away his weapon? how should i have borne me, please? nay, i'll spare you pains and tell you. this, and only this, remained-- pick his weapon up and use it on myself. if so had gained sleep the earlier, leaving england probably to pay on still rent and taxes for half india, tenant at the frenchman's will." "such the turn," said i, "the matter takes with you? then i abate --no, by not one jot nor tittle,--of your act my estimate. fear--i wish i could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough-- call it desperation, madness--never mind! for here's in rough why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace. true, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against god's face --none of that for me, lord plassy, since i go to church at times, say the creed my mother taught me! many years in foreign climes rub some marks away--not all, though! we poor sinners reach life's brink, overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think there's advantage in what's left us--ground to stand on, time to call 'lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over--do not leap, that's all!" oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. i caught something like "yes--courage; only fools will call it fear." if aught comfort you, my great unhappy hero clive, in that i heard, next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word "fearfully courageous!"--this, be sure, and nothing else i groaned. i'm no clive, nor parson either: clive's worst deed--we'll hope condoned. mulÉykeh. if a stranger passed the tent of hóseyn, he cried "a churl's!" or haply "god help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" --"nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn more than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, --holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead on his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn. "what if no flocks and herds enrich the son of sinán? they went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 'god gave them, let them go! but never since time began, muléykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, and you are my prize, my pearl: i laugh at men's land and gold!' "so in the pride of his soul laughs hóseyn--and right, i say. do the ten steeds run a race of glory? outstripping all, ever muléykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'silence,' or, last but one, is 'the cuffed,' as we used to call whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. right, hóseyn, i say, to laugh!" "boasts he muléykeh the pearl?" the stranger replies: "be sure on him i waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both on duhl the son of sheybán, who withers away in heart for envy of hóseyn's luck. such sickness admits no cure. a certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 'for the vulgar--flocks and herds! the pearl is a prize apart.'" lo, duhl the son of sheybán comes riding to hóseyn's tent, and he casts his saddle down, and enters and "peace!" bids he. "you are poor, i know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 'tis said of your pearl--the price of a hundred camels spent in her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from me who proffer a thousand. speak! long parley may last too long." said hóseyn, "you feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of múzennem: there stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill. but i love muléykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. your camels--go gaze on them! her fetlock is foam-splashed too. myself am the richer still." a year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides duhl. "you are open-hearted, ay--moist-handed, a very prince. why should i speak of sale? be the mare your simple gift! my son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'fool, beg for his sake the pearl! be god the rewarder, since god pays debts seven for one: who squanders on him shows thrift.'" said hóseyn, "god gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives that lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? the oil of your lamp is your son: i shine while muléykeh lives. would i beg your son to cheer my dark if muléykeh died? it is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" another year, and--hist! what craft is it duhl designs? he alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, but, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines with the robber--and such is he: duhl, covetous up to crime, must wring from hóseyn's grasp the pearl, by whatever the wrench. "he was hunger-bitten, i heard: i tempted with half my store, and a gibe was all my thanks. is he generous like spring dew? account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! he has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more-- for a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: i will beg! yet i nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. "i swear by the holy house, my head will i never wash till i filch his pearl away. fair dealing i tried, then guile, and now i resort to force. he said we must live or die: let him die, then,--let me live! be bold--but not too rash! i have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while i explore for myself! now, breathe! he deceived me not, the spy! "as he said--there lies in peace hóseyn--how happy! beside stands tethered the pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his wrist: 'tis therefore he sleeps so sound--the moon through the roof reveals. and, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, buhéyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed the winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels. "no less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief should enter and seize and fly with the first, as i mean to do. what then? the pearl is the pearl: once mount her we both escape." through the skirt-fold in glides duhl,--so a serpent disturbs no leaf in a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, he is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape. he has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped the headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, he springs on the pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow. up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the heart be ripped, yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, he is out and off and away on buhéyseh, whose worth we know! and hóseyn--his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, and buhéyseh does her part,--they gain--they are gaining fast on the fugitive pair, and duhl has ed-dárraj to cross and quit, and to reach the ridge el-sabán,--no safety till that he spied! and buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, for the pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. she shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: buhéyseh is mad with hope--beat sister she shall and must, though duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. she is near now, nose by tail--they are neck by croup--joy! fear! what folly makes hóseyn shout "dog duhl, damned son of the dust, touch the right ear and press with your foot my pearl's left flank!" and duhl was wise at the word, and muléykeh as prompt perceived who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey, and a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore. and hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: then he turned buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. and, lo, in the sunrise, still sat hóseyn upon the ground weeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of bénu-asád in the vale of green er-rass, and they questioned him of his grief; and he told from first to last how, serpent-like, duhl had wound his way to the nest, and how duhl rode like an ape, so bad! and how buhéyseh did wonders, yet pearl remained with the thief. and they jeered him, one and all: "poor hóseyn is crazed past hope! how else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? to have simply held the tongue were a task for boy or girl, and here were muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, the child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!"-- "and the beaten in speed!" wept hóseyn. "you never have loved my pearl." tray. sing me a hero! quench my thirst of soul, ye bards! quoth bard the first: "sir olaf, the good knight, did don his helm and eke his habergeon"... sir olaf and his bard--! "that sin-scathed brow" (quoth bard the second), "that eye wide ope as though fate beckoned my hero to some steep, beneath which precipice smiled tempting death"... you too without your host have reckoned! "a beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) "sat on a quay's edge: like a bird sang to herself at careless play, and fell into the stream. 'dismay! help, you the standers-by!' none stirred. "bystanders reason, think of wives and children ere they risk their lives. over the balustrade has bounced a mere instinctive dog, and pounced plumb on the prize. 'how well he dives! "'up he comes with the child, see, tight in mouth, alive too, clutched from quite a depth of ten feet--twelve, i bet! good dog! what, off again? there's yet another child to save? all right! "'how strange we saw no other fall! it's instinct in the animal. good dog! but he's a long while under: if he got drowned i should not wonder-- strong current, that against the wall! "'here he comes, holds in mouth this time --what may the thing be? well, that's prime! now, did you ever? reason reigns in man alone, since all tray's pains have fished--the child's doll from the slime!' "and so, amid the laughter gay, trotted my hero off,--old tray,-- till somebody, prerogatived with reason, reasoned: 'why he dived, his brain would show us, i should say. "'john, go and catch--or, if needs be, purchase--that animal for me! by vivisection, at expense of half-an-hour and eighteenpence, how brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" a tale. what a pretty tale you told me once upon a time --said you found it somewhere (scold me!) was it prose or was it rhyme, greek or latin? greek, you said, while your shoulder propped my head. anyhow there's no forgetting this much if no more, that a poet (pray, no petting!) yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, went where suchlike used to go, singing for a prize, you know. well, he had to sing, nor merely sing but play the lyre; playing was important clearly quite as singing: i desire, sir, you keep the fact in mind for a purpose that's behind. there stood he, while deep attention held the judges round, --judges able, i should mention, to detect the slightest sound sung or played amiss: such ears had old judges, it appears! none the less he sang out boldly, played in time and tune, till the judges, weighing coldly each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, sure to smile "in vain one tries picking faults out: take the prize!" when, a mischief! were they seven strings the lyre possessed? oh, and afterwards eleven, thank you! well, sir,--who had guessed such ill luck in store?--it happed one of those same seven strings snapped. all was lost, then! no! a cricket (what "cicada?" pooh!) --some mad thing that left its thicket for mere love of music--flew with its little heart on fire, lighted on the crippled lyre. so that when (ah, joy!) our singer for his truant string feels with disconcerted finger, what does cricket else but fling fiery heart forth, sound the note wanted by the throbbing throat? ay, and ever to the ending, cricket chirps at need, executes the hand's intending, promptly, perfectly,--indeed saves the singer from defeat with her chirrup low and sweet. till, at ending, all the judges cry with one assent "take the prize--a prize who grudges such a voice and instrument? why, we took your lyre for harp, so it shrilled us forth f sharp!" did the conqueror spurn the creature, once its service done? that's no such uncommon feature in the case when music's son finds his lotte's power too spent for aiding soul-development. no! this other, on returning homeward, prize in hand, satisfied his bosom's yearning: (sir, i hope you understand!) --said "some record there must be of this cricket's help to me!" so, he made himself a statue: marble stood, life-size; on the lyre, he pointed at you, perched his partner in the prize; never more apart you found her, he throned, from him, she crowned. that's the tale: its application? somebody i know hopes one day for reputation through his poetry that's--oh, all so learned and so wise and deserving of a prize! if he gains one, will some ticket, when his statue's built, tell the gazer "'twas a cricket helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt sweet and low, when strength usurped softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "for as victory was nighest, while i sang and played,-- with my lyre at lowest, highest, right alike,--one string that made 'love' sound soft was snapt in twain, never to be heard again,-- "had not a kind cricket fluttered, perched upon the place vacant left, and duly uttered 'love, love, love,' whene'er the bass asked the treble to atone for its somewhat sombre drone." but you don't know music! wherefore keep on casting pearls to a--poet? all i care for is--to tell him that a girl's "love" comes aptly in when gruff grows his singing. (there, enough!) [illustration: "hair, such a wonder of flix and floss."] gold hair. oh, the beautiful girl, too white, who lived at pornic, down by the sea, just where the sea and the loire unite! and a boasted name in brittany she bore, which i will not write. too white, for the flower of life is red: her flesh was the soft seraphic screen of a soul that is meant (her parents said) to just see earth, and hardly be seen, and blossom in heaven instead. yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! one grace that grew to its full on earth: smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, and her waist want half a girdle's girth, but she had her great gold hair. hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, freshness and fragrance--floods of it, too! gold, did i say? nay, gold's mere dross: here, life smiled, "think what i meant to do!" and love sighed, "fancy my loss!" so, when she died, it was scarce more strange than that, when delicate evening dies, and you follow its spent sun's pallid range, there's a shoot of colour startles the skies with sudden, violent change,-- that, while the breath was nearly to seek, as they put the little cross to her lips, she changed; a spot came out on her cheek, a spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, and she broke forth, "i must speak!" "not my hair!" made the girl her moan-- "all the rest is gone or to go; but the last, last grace, my all, my own, let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! leave my poor gold hair alone!" the passion thus vented, dead lay she; her parents sobbed their worst on that; all friends joined in, nor observed degree: for indeed the hair was to wonder at, as it spread--not flowing free, but curled around her brow, like a crown, and coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, and calmed about her neck--ay, down to her breast, pressed flat, without a gap i' the gold, it reached her gown. all kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair: e'en the priest allowed death's privilege, as he planted the crucifix with care on her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. and thus was she buried, inviolate of body and soul, in the very space by the altar; keeping saintly state in pornic church, for her pride of race, pure life and piteous fate. and in after-time would your fresh tear fall, though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, as they told you of gold, both robe and pall, how she prayed them leave it alone awhile, so it never was touched at all. years flew; this legend grew at last the life of the lady; all she had done, all been, in the memories fading fast of lover and friend, was summed in one sentence survivors passed: to wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; had turned an angel before the time: yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth of frailty, all you could count a crime was--she knew her gold hair's worth. * * * * * at little pleasant pornic church, it chanced, the pavement wanted repair, was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, a certain sacred space lay bare, and the boys began research. 'twas the space where our sires would lay a saint, a benefactor,--a bishop, suppose, a baron with armour-adornments quaint, dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, things sanctity saves from taint; so we come to find them in after-days when the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds of use to the living, in many ways: for the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, and the church deserves the praise. they grubbed with a will: and at length--_o cor humanum, pectora cæca_, and the rest!-- they found--no gaud they were prying for, no ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?-- a double louis-d'or! here was a case for the priest: he heard, marked, inwardly digested, laid finger on nose, smiled, "there's a bird chirps in my ear:" then, "bring a spade, dig deeper!"--he gave the word. and lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, or rotten planks which composed it once, why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid a mint of money, it served for the nonce to hold in its hair-heaps hid! hid there? why? could the girl be wont (she the stainless soul) to treasure up money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? had a spider found out the communion-cup, was a toad in the christening-font? truth is truth: too true it was. gold! she hoarded and hugged it first, longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it--alas-- till the humour grew to a head and burst, and she cried, at the final pass,-- "talk not of god, my heart is stone! nor lover nor friend--be gold for both! gold i lack; and, my all, my own, it shall hide in my hair. i scarce die loth if they let my hair alone!" louis-d'or, some six times five, and duly double, every piece. now, do you see? with the priest to shrive, with parents preventing her soul's release by kisses that kept alive,-- with heaven's gold gates about to ope, with friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still, an instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope for gold, the true sort--"gold in heaven, if you will; but i keep earth's too, i hope." enough! the priest took the grave's grim yield: the parents, they eyed that price of sin as if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed on the place _to bury strangers in_, the hideous potter's field. but the priest bethought him: "'milk that's spilt' --you know the adage! watch and pray! saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! it would build a new altar; that, we may!" and the altar therewith was built. why i deliver this horrible verse? as the text of a sermon, which now i preach: evil or good may be better or worse in the human heart, but the mixture of each is a marvel and a curse. the candid incline to surmise of late that the christian faith proves false, i find; for our essays-and-reviews' debate begins to tell on the public mind, and colenso's words have weight: i still, to suppose it true, for my part, see reasons and reasons; this, to begin: 'tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart at the head of a lie--taught original sin, the corruption of man's heart. donald. do you happen to know in ross-shire mount ben ... but the name scarce matters: of the naked fact i am sure enough, though i clothe it in rags and tatters. you may recognise ben by description; behind him--a moor's immenseness: up goes the middle mount of a range, fringed with its firs in denseness. rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind! for an edge there is, though narrow; from end to end of the range, a strip of path runs straight as an arrow. and the mountaineer who takes that path saves himself miles of journey he has to plod if he crosses the moor through heather, peat, and burnie. but a mountaineer he needs must be, for, look you, right in the middle projects bluff ben--with an end in _ich_-- why planted there, is a riddle: since all ben's brothers little and big keep rank, set shoulder to shoulder, and only this burliest out must bulge till it seems--to the beholder from down in the gully,--as if ben's breast, to a sudden spike diminished, would signify to the boldest foot "all further passage finished!" yet the mountaineer who sidles on and on to the very bending, discovers, if heart and brain be proof, no necessary ending. foot up, foot down, to the turn abrupt having trod, he, there arriving, finds--what he took for a point was breadth a mercy of nature's contriving. so, he rounds what, when 'tis reached, proves straight, from one side gains the other: the wee path widens--resume the march, and he foils you, ben my brother! but donald--(that name, i hope, will do)-- i wrong him if i call "foiling" the tramp of the callant, whistling the while as blithe as our kettle's boiling. he had dared the danger from boyhood up, and now,--when perchance was waiting a lass at the brig below,--'twixt mount and moor would he standing debating? moreover this donald was twenty-five, a glory of bone and muscle: did a fiend dispute the right of way, donald would try a tussle. lightsomely marched he out of the broad on to the narrow and narrow; a step more, rounding the angular rock, reached the front straight as an arrow. he stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood, when--whom found he full-facing? what fellow in courage and wariness too, had scouted ignoble pacing, and left low safety to timid mates, and made for the dread dear danger, and gained the height where--who could guess he would meet with a rival ranger? 'twas a gold-red stag that stood and stared, gigantic and magnific, by the wonder--ay, and the peril--struck intelligent and pacific: for a red deer is no fallow deer grown cowardly through park-feeding; he batters you like a thunderbolt if you brave his haunts unheeding. i doubt he could hardly perform _volte-face_ had valour advised discretion: you may walk on a rope, but to turn on a rope no blondin makes profession. yet donald must turn, would pride permit, though pride ill brooks retiring: each eyed each--mute man, motionless beast-- less fearing than admiring. these are the moments when quite new sense, to meet some need as novel, springs up in the brain: it inspired resource: --"nor advance nor retreat but--grovel!" and slowly, surely, never a whit relaxing the steady tension of eye-stare which binds man to beast,-- by an inch and inch declension, sank donald sidewise down and down: till flat, breast upwards, lying at his six-foot length, no corpse more still, --"if he cross me! the trick's worth trying." minutes were an eternity; but a new sense was created in the stag's brain too; he resolves! slow, sure, with eye-stare unabated, feelingly he extends a foot which tastes the way ere it touches earth's solid and just escapes man's soft, nor hold of the same unclutches till its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk, lands itself no less finely: so a mother removes a fly from the face of her babe asleep supinely. and now 'tis the haunch and hind-foot's turn --that's hard: can the beast quite raise it? yes, traversing half the prostrate length, his hoof-tip does not graze it. just one more lift! but donald, you see, was sportsman first, man after: a fancy lightened his caution through, --he wellnigh broke into laughter: "it were nothing short of a miracle! unrivalled, unexampled-- all sporting feats with this feat matched were down and dead and trampled!" the last of the legs as tenderly follows the rest: or never or now is the time! his knife in reach, and his right hand loose--how clever! for this can stab up the stomach's soft, while the left hand grasps the pastern. a rise on the elbow, and--now's the time or never: this turn's the last turn! i shall dare to place myself by god who scanned--for he does--each feature of the face thrown up in appeal to him by the agonising creature. nay, i hear plain words: "thy gift brings this!" up he sprang, back he staggered, over he fell, and with him our friend --at following game no laggard. yet he was not dead when they picked next day from the gully's depth the wreck of him; his fall had been stayed by the stag beneath who cushioned and saved the neck of him. but the rest of his body--why, doctors said, whatever could break was broken; legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toast in a tumbler of port wine soaken. "that your life is left you, thank the stag!" said they when--the slow cure ended-- they opened the hospital door, and thence --strapped, spliced, main fractures mended, and minor damage left wisely alone,-- like an old shoe clouted and cobbled, out--what went in a goliath wellnigh,-- some half of a david hobbled. "you must ask an alms from house to house: sell the stag's head for a bracket, with its grand twelve tines--i'd buy it myself-- and use the skin for a jacket!" he was wiser, made both head and hide his win-penny: hands and knees on, would manage to crawl--poor crab--by the roads in the misty stalking season. and if he discovered a bothy like this, why, harvest was sure: folk listened. he told his tale to the lovers of sport: lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened. and when he had come to the close, and spread his spoils for the gazers' wonder, with "gentlemen, here's the skull of the stag i was over, thank god, not under!"-- the company broke out in applause; "by jingo, a lucky cripple! have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread, and a tug, besides, at our tipple!" and "there's my pay for your pluck!" cried this, "and mine for your jolly story!" cried that, while t'other--but he was drunk-- hiccupped "a trump, a tory!" i hope i gave twice as much as the rest; for, as homer would say, "within grate though teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled, "rightly rewarded,--ingrate!" [illustration: "and full in the face of its owner flung the glove."] the glove. (peter ronsard _loipuitur_.) "heigho," yawned one day king francis, "distance all value enhances! when a man's busy, why, leisure strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'faith, and at leisure once is he? straightway he wants to be busy. here we've got peace; and aghast i'm caught thinking war the true pastime. is there a reason in metre? give us your speech, master peter!" i who, if mortal dare say so, ne'er am at a loss with my naso, "sire," i replied, "joys prove cloudlets: men are the merest ixions"-- here the king whistled aloud, "let's --heigho--go look at our lions!" such are the sorrowful chances if you talk fine to king francis. and so, to the courtyard proceeding our company, francis was leading, increased by new followers tenfold before he arrived at the penfold; lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen at sunset the western horizon. and sir de lorge pressed 'mid the foremost with the dame he professed to adore most. oh, what a face! one by fits eyed her, and the horrible pitside; for the penfold surrounded a hollow which led where the eye scarce dared follow, and shelved to the chamber secluded where bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. the king hailed his keeper, an arab as glossy and black as a scarab, and bade him make sport and at once stir up and out of his den the old monster. they opened a hole in the wire-work across it, and dropped there a firework, and fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; a pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, the blackness and silence so utter, by the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; then earth in a sudden contortion gave out to our gaze her abortion. such a brute! were i friend clement marot (whose experience of nature's but narrow, and whose faculties move in no small mist when he versifies david the psalmist) i should study that brute to describe you _illum juda leonem de tribu_. one's whole blood grew curdling and creepy to see the black mane, vast and heapy, the tail in the air stiff and straining, the wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, as over the barrier which bounded his platform, and us who surrounded the barrier, they reached and they rested on space that might stand him in best stead: for who knew, he thought, what the amazement, the eruption of clatter and blaze meant, and if, in this minute of wonder, no outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, the lion at last was delivered? ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! and you saw by the flash on his forehead, by the hope in those eyes wide and steady. he was leagues in the desert already, driving the flocks up the mountain, or catlike couched hard by the fountain to waylay the date-gathering negress: so guarded he entrance or egress. "how he stands!" quoth the king: "we may well swear, (no novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere and so can afford the confession,) we exercise wholesome discretion in keeping aloof from his threshold, once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, their first would too pleasantly purloin the visitor's brisket or sirloin: but who's he would prove so foolhardy? not the best man of marignan, pardie!" the sentence no sooner was uttered, than over the rails a glove fluttered, fell close to the lion, and rested: the dame 'twas, who flung it and jested with life so, de lorge had been wooing for months past; he sat there pursuing his suit, weighing out with nonchalance fine speeches like gold from a balance. sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! de lorge made one leap at the barrier, walked straight to the glove,--while the lion ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on the palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, and the musky oiled skin of the kaffir,-- picked it up, and as calmly retreated, leaped back where the lady was seated, and full in the face of its owner flung the glove. "your heart's queen, you dethrone her? so should i!"--cried the king--"'twas mere vanity, not love, set that task to humanity!" lords and ladies alike turned with loathing from such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. not so, i; for i caught an expression in her brow's undisturbed self-possession amid the court's scoffing and merriment,-- as if from no pleasing experiment she rose, yet of pain not much heedful so long as the process was needful,-- as if she had tried in a crucible, to what "speeches like gold" were reducible, and, finding the finest prove copper, felt the smoke in her face was but proper; to know what she had _not_ to trust to, was worth all the ashes and dust too. she went out 'mid hooting and laughter; clement marot stayed; i followed after, and asked, as a grace, what it all meant? if she wished not the rash deed's recallment? "for i"--so i spoke--"am a poet: human nature,--behooves that i know it!" she told me, "too long had i heard of the deed proved alone by the word: for my love--what de lorge would not dare! with my scorn--what de lorge could compare! and the endless descriptions of death he would brave when my lip formed a breath, i must reckon as braved, or, of course, doubt his word--and moreover, perforce, for such gifts as no lady could spurn, must offer my love in return. when i looked on your lion, it brought all the dangers at once to my thought, encountered by all sorts of men, before he was lodged in his den,-- from the poor slave whose club or bare hands dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, with no king and no court to applaud, by no shame, should he shrink, overawed, yet to capture the creature made shift, that his rude boys might laugh at the gift, --to the page who last leaped o'er the fence of the pit, on no greater pretence than to get back the bonnet he dropped, lest his pay for a week should be stopped. so, wiser i judged it to make one trial what 'death for my sake' really meant, while the power was yet mine, than to wait until time should define such a phrase not so simply as i, who took it to mean just 'to die.' the blow a glove gives is but weak: does the mark yet discolour my cheek? but when the heart suffers a blow, will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" i looked, as away she was sweeping, and saw a youth eagerly keeping as close as he dared to the doorway. no doubt that a noble should more weigh his life than befits a plebeian; and yet, had our brute been nemean-- (i judge by a certain calm fervour the youth stepped with, forward to serve her) --he'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn if you whispered, "friend, what you'd get, first earn!" and when, shortly after, she carried her shame from the court, and they married, to that marriage some happiness, maugre the voice of the court, i dared augur. the end. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. there is no number in the list of books in "every boy's library". illustrations have been moved. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. oe ligatures have been expanded. the daisy, or _cautionary stories_, in verse. the daisy; or, _cautionary stories in verse._ adapted to the ideas of children from _four to eight years old._ illustrated with thirty engravings. london: printed for j. harris, successor to e. newbery, corner of st. paul's church yard; and crosby and co., stationers' court. . [illustration] i. _pretty puss._ come pretty cat! come here to me! i want to pat you on my knee. go, naughty tray! by barking thus you'll drive away my pretty puss. [illustration] ii. _the fairing._ o dear! what a beautiful doll my sister has bought at the fair! she says i must call it "miss poll," and make it a bonnet to wear. o, pretty new doll! it looks fine; its cheeks are all covered with red but, pray, will it always be mine? and, pray, may i take it to bed? how kind was my sister to buy this dolly with hair that will curl perhaps if you want to know why, she'll tell you, i've been a good girl. [illustration] iii. _the good boy._ when philip's good mamma was ill, the servant begg'd he would be still, because the doctor and the nurse had said, that noise would make her worse. at night, when philip went to bed, he kiss'd mamma, and whisp'ring said, "my dear mamma, i never will make any noise when you are ill." [illustration] iv. _frances and henry._ sister frances is sad, because henry is ill; and she lets the dear lad do whatever he will. left her own little chair, and got up in a minute, when she heard him declare that he wish'd to sit in it. now, from this we can tell, he will never more tease her; but, when he is well, he will study to please her. [illustration] v. _the giddy girl._ miss helen was always too giddy to heed what her mother had told her to shun; for frequently, over the street in full speed, she would cross where the carriages run. and out she would go, to a very deep well, to look at the water below; how naughty! to run to a dangerous well, where her mother forbade her to go! one morning, intending to take but a peep, her foot slipt away from the ground; unhappy misfortune! the water was deep and giddy miss helen was drown'd. [illustration] vi. _the good scholar._ joseph west had been told, that if, when he grew old, he had not learnt rightly to spell, though his writing were good, 'twould not be understood, and joe said, "i will learn my task well." and he made it a rule to be silent at school, and what do you think came to pass? why, he learnt it so fast, that, from being the last, he soon was the first in the class. [illustration] vii. _dressed or undressed._ when children are naughty, and will not be drest, pray, what do you think is the way? why, often i really believe it is best to keep them in night-clothes all day! but then they can have no good breakfast to eat, nor walk with their mother and aunt; at dinner they'll have neither pudding nor meat, nor any thing else that they want. then who would be naughty and sit all the day in night-clothes unfit to be seen! and pray who would lose all their pudding and play for not being dress'd neat and clean? [illustration] viii. _miss peggy._ as peggy was crying aloud for a cake. which her mother had said she should fetch from the wake, a gentleman knock'd at the door; he entered the parlour, and show'd much surprise, that it really was peggy who made all the noise, for he never had heard her before. miss peggy, asham'd, and to hide her disgrace, took hold of her frock, and quite covered her face, for she knew she was naughty just then; and, instantly wiping the tears from her eyes, she promis'd her mother to make no more noise, and kiss'd her again and again. [illustration] ix. _the idle boy._ get up, little boy! you are sleeping too long, your brother is dress'd, he is singing a song, and tom must be waken'd, o fie come, open the curtains, and let in the light, for children should only be sleepy at night, when stars may be seen in the sky. [illustration] x. _playful pompey._ come hither, little dog, to play, and do not go so far away, but stand and beg for food; and if your tail i chance to touch, you must not snarl so very much, pray, pompey, be not rude. the dog can eat, and drink, and sleep, and help to fetch the cows and sheep: o, see how pompey begs; hark! hark! he says, bow wow! bow wow! but run away, good pompey, now, you'll tire your little legs. [illustration] xi. _politeness._ good little boys should never say "i will," and "give me these;" o, no! that never is the way, but, "mother, if you please." and, "if you please," to sister ann, good boys to say are ready; and, "yes, sir," to a gentleman, and "yes, ma'am," to a lady. [illustration] xii. _come when you are called._ where's susan, and kitty, and jane? where's billy, and sammy, and jack? o! there they are, down in the lane, go, betty, and bring them all back. but billy is rude and won't come, and sammy is running too fast; come, dear little children, come home, oh billy is coming at last. i'm glad he remembers what's right, for though he likes sliding on ice, he should not be long out of sight, and never want sending for twice. [illustration] xiii. _the new dolls._ miss jenny and polly had each a new dolly, with rosy-red cheeks and blue eyes; dress'd in ribbons and gauze: and they quarrel'd because the dolls were not both of a size! o silly miss jenny! to be such a ninny, to quarrel and make such a noise! for the very same day their mamma sent away their dolls with red cheeks and blue eyes. [illustration] xiv. _naughty sam._ tom and charles once took a walk, to see a pretty lamb; and as they went, began to talk of little naughty sam, who beat his younger brother, bill, and threw him in the dirt; and when his poor mamma was ill, he teased her for a squirt. and "i," said tom, "wont play with sam, although he has a top;" but here the pretty little lamb to talking put a stop. [illustration] xv. _the dizzy girl._ as frances was playing, and turning around, her head grew so giddy, she fell to the ground; 'twas well that she was not much hurt: but o, what a pity! her frock was so soil'd! that had you beheld the unfortunate child, you had seen her all covered with dirt. her mother was sorry, and said, "do not cry, and mary shall wash you, and make you quite dry, if you'll promise to turn round no more." "what, not in the parlour?" the little girl said, "no, not in the parlour; for lately i read of a girl who was hurt with the door. "she was playing and turning, until her poor head fell against the hard door, and it very much bled, and i heard dr. camomile tell, that he put on a plaister, and covered it up, then he gave her some tea, that was bitter to sup, or perhaps it had never been well." [illustration] xvi. _charity._ do you see that old beggar who stands at the door? do not send him away,--we must pity the poor; oh! see how he shivers!--he's hungry and cold! for people can't work when they grow very old. go, set near the fire a table and seat; and betty shall bring him some bread and some meat. i hope my dear children will always be kind whenever they meet with the aged or blind. [illustration] xvii. _careless maria._ maria was a careless child, and griev'd her friends by this: where'er she went, her clothes were rent, her hat and bonnet spoil'd, a careless little miss. her gloves and mits were often lost, her tippet sadly soil'd; you might have seen where she had been, for toys all round were toss'd, o, what a careless child. one day her uncle bought a toy, that round and round would twirl, but when he found the litter'd ground, he said, "i don't tee-totums buy for such a careless girl." [illustration] xviii. _frighted by a cow._ a very young lady, with susan the maid, who carried the baby, were one day afraid. they saw a cow feeding, quite harmless and still; yet scream'd without heeding the man at the mill, who, seeing the flutter, said, "cows do no harm; but give you good butter and milk from the farm." [illustration] xix. _miss sophia._ miss sophy, one fine sunny day, left her work and ran away; when soon she reach'd the garden gate, which finding barr'd, she would not wait, but tried to climb and scramble o'er a gate as high as any door! but little girls should never climb, and sophy wont another time, for, when upon the highest rail, her frock was caught upon a nail. she lost her hold, and, sad to tell, was hurt and bruis'd--for down she fell! [illustration] xx. _the new penny._ miss ann saw a man, quite poor, at a door, and ann had a pretty new penny; now this the kind miss threw pat in his hat, although she was left without any. she meant, as she went, to stop at a shop, where cakes she had seen a great many; and buy a fruit-pie, or take home a cake, by spending her pretty new penny. but well i can tell, when ann gave the man her money, she wish'd not for any: he said, "i've no bread," she heard, and preferr'd to give him her pretty new penny. [illustration] xxi. _the canary._ mary had a little bird, with feathers bright and yellow, slender legs,--upon my word, he was a pretty fellow! sweetest notes he always sung, which much delighted mary; often where his cage was hung, she sat to hear canary. crumbs of bread and dainty seeds she carried to him daily, seeking for the early weeds, she deck'd his palace gaily. this, my little readers, learn, and ever practice duly; songs and smiles of love return to friends who love you truly. [illustration] xxii. _lucy and dicky._ miss lucy was a charming child, she never said, "i wont!" if little dick her playthings spoil'd, she said, "pray, dicky don't." he took her waxen doll one day, and bang'd it round and round, then tore its legs and arms away, and threw them on the ground. his good mamma was angry quite, and lucy's tears ran down; but dick went supperless that night, and since has better grown. [illustration] xxiii. _falsehood corrected._ when jacky drown'd our poor cat tib, he told a very naughty fib; and said he had not drown'd her; but truth is always soon found out; no one but jack had been about the place where thomas found her. and thomas saw him with the cat, (though jacky did not know of that) and told papa the trick; he saw him take a slender string, and round poor pussy's neck then swing a very heavy brick. his parents being very sad to find they had a boy so bad, to say what was not true; determin'd to correct him then, and never was he known again, such naughty things to do. [illustration] xxiv. _going to bed._ the babe was in the cradle laid, and tom had said his prayers; when frances told the nursery maid she would not go up stairs, she cried so loud her mother came to ask the reason why; and said, "o frances, fie for shame! o fie! o fie! o fie!" but frances was more naughty still, and betty sadly nipp'd; until her mother said, "i will, i must have frances whipp'd." for, o how naughty 'tis to cry, but worse, much worse to fight! instead of running readily, and calling out good night. [illustration] xxv. _the fan._ maria's aunt, who liv'd in town, once wrote a letter to her niece; and sent, wrapp'd up, a new half-crown, besides a pretty pocket-piece. maria jump'd with joy, and ran to tell her sister the good news; she said, "i mean to buy a fan, come, come along with me to chuse." they quickly tied their hats, and talk'd of yellow, lilac, pink, and green; but far the sisters had not walk'd before the saddest sight was seen! upon the ground a poor lame man, helpless and old, had tumbled down! she thought no more about the fan, but gave to him her new half-crown. xxvi. _dinner._ miss kitty was rude at the table one day, and would not sit still on her seat; regardless of all that her mother could say, from her chair little kitty kept running away, all the time they were eating the meat. as soon as she saw that the beef was remov'd, she ran to her chair in great haste; but her mother such giddy behaviour reprov'd, by sending away the sweet pudding she lov'd, without giving kitty one taste. xxvii. _the chimney sweeper._ sweep, sweep! sweep, sweep! cries little jack, with brush and bag upon his back, and black from head to foot; while daily as he goes along, sweep, sweep! sweep, sweep! is all his song beneath his load of soot. but then he was not always black: o no; he once was pretty jack, and had a kind papa: but, silly child! he ran to play, too far from home, a long, long way, and did not ask mamma. so he was lost, and now must creep up chimneys, crying sweep! sweep! sweep! [illustration] xxviii. _the rose._ "dear mother," said a little boy, "this rose is sweet and red; then tell me, pray, the reason why i heard you call it dead? "i did not think it was alive, i never heard it talk, nor did i ever see it strive, to run about or walk!" "my dearest boy," the mother said, "this rose grew on a tree: but now its leaves begin to fade, and all fall off, you see. "before, when growing on the bough, so beautiful and red, we say it liv'd; but, with'ring now, we say the rose is dead." [illustration] xxix. _poisonous fruit._ as tommy and his sister jane were walking down a shady lane, they saw some berries, bright and red, that hung around and over head; and soon the bough they bended down, to make the scarlet fruit their own; and part they ate, and part, in play, they threw about, and flung away. but long they had not been at home before poor jane and little tom were taken, sick and ill, to bed, and since, i've heard, they both are dead. alas! had tommy understood that fruit in lanes is seldom good, he might have walk'd with little jane again along the shady lane. [illustration] xxx. _dangerous sport._ poor peter was burnt by the poker one day, when he made it look pretty and red! for the beautiful sparks made him think it fine play, to lift it as high as his head. but, somehow it happen'd, his finger and thumb were terribly scorch'd by the heat; and he scream'd out aloud for his mother to come, and stamp'd on the floor with his feet! now if peter had minded his mother's command, his fingers would not have been sore; and he promis'd again, as she bound up his hand, to play with hot pokers no more. [illustration] xxxi. _the stranger._ who knocks so loudly at the gate? the night is dark, the hour is late, and rain comes pelting down! o, 'tis a stranger gone astray! that calls to ask the nearest way to yonder little town. why, tis a long and dreary mile for one o'ercome with cold and toil; go to him, charles, and say, "good stranger! here repose to-night, and with the morning's earliest light, we'll guide you on your way." [illustration] xxxii. hymn. o lord! my infant voice i raise, thy holy name to bless! in daily songs of thanks and praise, for mercies numberless. for parents, who have taught me right, that thou art good and true; and though unseen by my weak sight, thou seest all i do. let all my thoughts and actions rise from innocence and truth; and thou, o lord! wilt not despise the prayer of early youth. as through thy power i live and move, and say, "thy will be done;" o keep, in mercy and in love, the work thou hast begun. illustrated shilling series of forgotten children's books. publishers' note. the little books printed about a hundred years ago "for the amusement of little masters and misses" must now be looked for in the cabinets of the curious. the type is quaint, the illustrations quainter and the grayish tinted paper abounds in obtrusive specks of embedded dirt. for the covers, gaudy dutch gilt paper was used, or paper with patchy blobs of startlingly contrasted colours laid on with a brush by young people. the text, always amusing, is of course redolent of earlier days. - . london: published by the leadenhall prefs, ltd: , leadenhall street, e.c. _simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd:_ _new york: charles scribner's sons, - fifth avenue._ . the daisy; or, cautionary stories in verse, adapted to ideas of children from four to eight years old. . re-prints of this laughter-laden little book, written by mrs. elizabeth turner, followed each other right up to about : in the illustrated edition before the reader, nothing is omitted and nothing is added. with a view to greater profit, the publisher discarded the pretty copperplates which adorned the first edition (now a thing of price) substituting roughly cut wooden blocks. . the cowslip; or, more cautionary stories in verse. by the author of that much-admired little work, entitled the daisy. . under this title in mrs. turner wrote some more cautionary stories which became almost as popular as _the daisy_. she also wrote other books of poetry for children, including _the crocus_, _the pink_, and _short poems_; but none had the charm or vogue of _the daisy_ and _the cowslip_. . new riddle-book. by john-the-giant-killer, esquire. . this covetable little book, published by f(rancis) newbery, jun. and t(homas) carnan, the son and stepson of john newbery, had been issued by their father at least twenty years earlier than the date on the title-page. the opening note concerning francis, the nephew of john newbery, relates to family differences which need not here be referred to. there would seem to be no copyright in riddles, at any rate one finds the same hoary-heads in other collections. the destructive fingers of little riddle-readers have been the means of causing thousands of copies of this amusing book to disappear, and to obtain an original copy is now almost impossible. the quaintness of the wood-cut pictorial answers should appeal to the modern reader. _it is intended to continue this illustrated shilling series of_ forgotten children's books. _other volumes are in preparation._ _smiles and laughter in every page._ pages and pictures from forgotten children's books. brought together and introduced to the reader by andrew w. tuer, f.s.a. four hundred illustrations; five hundred pages, handsomely bound, top edge gilt, silk book-marker. london: the leadenhall press, ltd: , leadenhall-street, e.c. [six shillings. one hundred large paper copies at a guinea, net. _smiles and laughter in every page._ stories from old-fashioned children's books brought together and introduced to the reader by andrew w. tuer, f.s.a. adorned with amusing cuts. nearly pages: handsomely and attractively bound. london: the leadenhall press, ltd: , leadenhall-street, e.c. [six shillings. these are quite independent volumes. transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. provided by the internet archive the placid pug and other rhymes by (the belgian hare) lord alfred douglas author of "tails with a twist" and "the duke of berwick" illustrated by p. p. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the placid pug |the placid pug that paces in the park, `harnessed in silk and led by leathern lead, lives his dull life, and recks not of the shark `in distant waters. lapped in sloth and greed, he fails in strenuous life to make a mark, the placid pug that paces in the park.= round the slow circle of his nights and days `his life revolves in calm monotony. not unsusceptible to casual praise, `and mildly moved by the approach of "tea," no forked and jagged lightning leaps and plays round the slow circle of his nights and days.= he scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes, `to mark the mood of animals or men. his joy is limited to mild surmise `when a new biscuit swims into his ken. and when athwart his gaze a rabbit flies, he scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes.= and all the while the shark in southern seas [illustration: ] `pursues the paths of his pulsating quest, though the thermometer at fierce degrees `might well admonish him to take a rest, the pug at home snores in ignoble ease. (and all the while the shark in southern seas!)= if pugs like sharks were brought up in the sea `and forced to swim long miles to find their food, tutored to front the hake's hostility, `and beard the lobster in his dangerous mood, would not their lives more sane, more useful be, if pugs like sharks were brought up in the sea?= the placid pug still paces in the park, `untouched by thoughts of all that might have been. undreaming that he might have "steered his bark" `through many a stirring sight and stormy scene. but being born a pug and not a shark the placid pug still paces in the park.= ballad for bishops |bishops and others who inhabit the mansions of the blest on earth, [illustration: ] grieved by decline of infant birth, have drawn attention to the rabbit. not by design these good men work to raise that beast to heights contested, but by comparison, suggested, with those who procreation shirk.= for if a nation's moral status be measured by prolific habit, between man and the meanest rabbit there is an evident hiatus.= each year, by lowest computations, six times the rabbit rears her young, and frequent marriages among the very closest blood relations in very tender years ensure a constant stream of "little strangers," who, quickly grown to gallant rangers, see that their families endure.= not theirs to shirk paternal cares, moved by considerations sordid, a child can always "be afforded"; the same applies to belgian hares.= these noble brutes, pure duty's pendants, may live to see their blood vermilion coursing through something like a billion wholly legitimate descendants.= knowledge's path is hard and stony, and some may read who unaware are that rabbit brown and belgian hare are both members of the genus coney.= the common hare, who lives in fields and never goes into a hole, (in this inferior to the mole) in all things to the belgian yields.= he will, immoral brute, decline to multiply domestic "pledges," the family he rears in hedges is often limited to nine.= such shocking want of _savoir faire_, (surely a symptom of insanity) might goad a bishop to profanity were it not for the belgian hare.= song for vintners |the lion laps the limpid lake, `the pard refuses wine, the sinuous lizard and the snake, `the petulant porcupine, agree in this, their thirst to quench only with nature's natural "drench."= in vain with beer you tempt the deer, `or lure the marmozet; the early morning chanticleer, `the painted parroquet, alike, on claret and champagne gaze with unfaltering disdain.= no ale or spirit tempts the ferret, `no juice of grape the toad. [illustration: ] in vain towards the "harp and merit" `the patient ox you goad; not his in rapture to extol the praises of the flowing bowl.= the silent spider laughs at cider, `the horse despises port; the crocodile (whose mouth is wider `than any other sort) prefers the waters of the nile to any of a stronger style.= the rabbit knows no "private bar," `the pelican will wander through arid plains of kandahar, `nor ever pause to ponder whether in that infernal clime the clocks converge to "closing time."= true "bona-fide traveller" `urging no sophist plea, how terrible must seem to her `man's inebriety; she who in thirsty moments places her simple trust in green oases.= with what calm scorn the unicorn, `in his remote retreat, must contemplate the fervour born `of old "château lafitte." conceive the feelings of the sphinx confronted with columbian drinks!= and oh! if all this solemn truth `were dinned into its mind from earliest years, might not our youth `regenerate mankind, aspire to climb the heights, and dare to emulate the belgian hare?= hymn for humble people |the staunch and strenuous serpent spends his time `in the safe field of serpentine pursuits, rightly considering it a social crime `to parody the ways of other brutes.= scorning the fraud of alien aspirations, `the snobbishness that apes another class, proud, and yet conscious of his limitations, `he bites the dust and grovels in the grass.= the moral food that keeps him down is force, `force to confine his fancies to their beds. [illustration: ] makes him the laughing-stock of quadrupeds.= no weak attempt to carol like the lark, `fore-doomed to failure and to ridicule, troubles his life; he does not wish to bark, `has no desire to amble like a mule.= having no legs he does not try to walk, `but keeps contentedly his native crawl; having no voice he does not strive to talk, `much less to bellow or to caterwaul.= mark the inevitably reached result: `to balance the advantages he missed, in three departments he may yet exult `to be the only perfect specialist.= three arts are his: to writhe, to hiss, to creep. `the toad's tenacity, the wombat's wiles, or the keen cunning of the crafty sheep `(and all are artists in their various styles),= would vainly challenge them. he reigns supreme `in these the fields of his activity, and reigning so defies the envious bream, `who sneers and shrugs and sniggers in the sea.= type of the wise, who roar but never foam `(if they can help it) at the mouth, except when night and morn they brush their teeth at home `with pallid powder for that purpose kept.= versicles for vegetarians |since dr. watts in frenzy fine `extolled the "busy bee," the patience of the porcupine, `the newt's fidelity, the calm contentment of the pike, have stirred our hearts and brain alike.= lives there a man so lost, so low, `that he has never found some lesson in the buffalo, `some precept in the hound? few who have won victoria's cross owe _nothing_ to the albatross.= these pleasant thoughts must turn our minds, `in meditation quiet, towards the moral law that binds `the principles of diet. since 'tis a maxim none disputes, that we should imitate the brutes.= as has been shown in former verse, `the animal creation does not in its own nature nurse `inebriate inclination; nor is it formed by heaven to pant for alcoholic stimulant.= that being so, our path is plain, `we must eschew all drinks; if we are anxious to attain `to the celestial brinks, the meanest hippopotamus will make our duty clear to us.= but in the search for natural guides `to moral food-restrictions, we are assaulted on all sides `by patent contradictions. thus, while the lion lives on meat, the pheasant is content with wheat.= who then, when beasts do not agree, `shall venture to decide? [illustration: ] some will adopt the chimpanzee [illustration: ] `and some the fox as guide, others the bear or antelope, nature allows the fullest scope.= hymn for howlers |who that has sailed upon the ocean's face, `or walked beside the sea along the sand, has not felt envy for the piscine race, comparing its domain, where noise is banned, to the infernal racket that takes place on land?= while up above the billows rage and roar and make a most unnecessary noise, and shallow shrimps, who live too near the shore, are harassed by the shouts of girls and boys, who find the beach a place convenient for their toys,= the happy members of the fishy clan pursue in peace their various pursuits, all undisturbed by bell of muffin-man, or bellow of purveyor of fresh fruits, who at each "pub" his voice republican recruits.= the harmless herring gambols with his young, and heeds but hears not their impulsive play. (his heart is with their mother who was flung, kippered to feed a clerk's bank-holiday, into the salting-tub and passed unsung away.)= now, had this herring been of human breed, and lived in london or some other town, fate would have made him _hear_ as well as heed his offspring as it gambolled up and down, [illustration: ] making a noise that's very hard indeed to drown.= moreover, organ-grinders would have ground, and yowls from both "employed" and "unemployed"; hoarse howls from those who had "salvation" found, and bawls from those whose faith had been destroyed, would have combined to keep his sense of sound annoyed.= who would not therefore rather be a whale, a hake, a haddock, or a mackerel, than linger in this sad uncertain vale (here where men sit and hear each other yell)? better to go, if other places fail, to ------ dirge for defeated candidates |the dreadful dragon and the unicorn, `accustomed to be treated with respect, `and much annoyed by present-day neglect, have sometimes wished they never had been born, `at least in any world so "unselect."= their non-existence being now a "fact" `accepted by mankind's majority, `they naturally feel quite "up a tree." they don't know what to do to counteract `these damned delusions of democracy.= although they often walk out in the sun, `and show themselves in all important streets, `although in fact they have their "regular beats," they're hardly ever seen by any one, `and get no notice in the "daily sheets."= although as signs they hang on various inns, `they find themselves irrevocably "out."= [illustration: ] in vain they prance and caracole about, even the tribute of "derisive grins" `is now denied them in their final rout.= mere non-belief in his existence may `seem, to one emptying a festive flagon `in the interior of the "wasp and wagon," a very trifling matter any way. `but it is most annoying to the dragon.= the subject may appear beneath contempt `to one who holds the world's applause in scorn, `preferring in a cloister to adorn "illumined scrolls in heavenly colours dreamt," `but it is galling to the unicorn. poem for the proud |seen in the mirror of the poet's dream, (exclusively reserved for the "elect"), each animal supplies us with a theme for wondering-admiration and respect. thus, to those men who truly modest seem compare the hare.= the bee performs all sorts of useful things when she is gathering honey for the hive, she fertilises flowers and plants, and brings food to keep necessary drones alive. unless annoyed she very seldom stings, dear me! the bee.= the dove extols and cherishes his mate, and coos and woos all through the summer day. h is life is blamelessly immaculate, and though his wings enable him to stray, he seldom does. he never comes home late. by jove! the dove.= the crow displays a splendid scorn of pelf, backed by invulnerable self-restraint. all specious arts he lays upon the shelf, and, being free from every primal taint, he keeps himself entirely to himself. [illustration: ] bravo the crow!= the stork _compels_ our admiration, he will stand for several hours in the same place and on one leg, instead of two (or three), thus practising economy of space. a grand example of stability! oh lork! the stork.= the self-repressive cod, on his own beat, swims in elaborately-studied curves. he keeps below, not wishing to compete with surface-swimming fishes, though his nerves are sometimes tried by lack of air, and heat. good god! the cod.= song for sidlers |the crab walks sideways, not because his build `precludes the possibility of walking straight, and not (as some have thought) that he is filled `with strange and lawless theories on gait; still less that he is foolishly self-willed `and prone to show off or exaggerate.= no serious student of his life and ways `will venture to impugn his common sense; his tact and moderation win high praise `even from those whose faculties are dense and blind to the false issues which they raise `when they accuse him of malevolence.= "but, ah!" these shallow hide-bound pedants cry, `"if to the crab all virtues you concede, if his intentions are not evil, why `this sidelong walk, [illustration: ] `these flanking steps that lead to no advancement of humanity, `no exaltation of the mortal breed?= "why not go forward as the sword-fish goes? `or move straight backward, like the jibbing horse why this absurd and pitiable pose `that takes delight in any devious course? why this dislike to 'following the nose' `which all the best authorities endorse?"= insensate fools. swims not the cod in curves? `does not the running roebuck leap and bound if in his flight the capercailzie swerves, `shall he be mocked by every basset-hound who, having neither feathers, wings, nor nerves, `has not the pluck to rise up from the ground?= peace, peace, the crab adopts a side-long walk, `for reasons still impossible to see. and if his pride permitted him to talk `to any one who did not do as he, his instinct would be, probably, to balk `the hopes of vulgar curiosity.= and while the schoolmen argue and discuss, `and fill the air with "whats," and "whens," and "whys," and demonstrate as: thus, and thus, and thus, `the crab will pulverise their theories, and put an end to all this foolish fuss `by walking sideways into paradise. fragment for philosophers |in the abysses of the ocean deeps, `fathoms removed from men and mortal strife, [illustration: ] the unexpectant oyster smiles and sleeps `through the calm cycle of his peaceful life.= what though above his head the steamboat plies, `and close at hand he hears the fume and fuss of the impetuous halibut that flies `the mad embraces of the octopus.= though the fierce tails of whales like flails descend `upon the water lashed to furious foam, and the sea-serpents writhe and twist and bend `all round the purlieus of his ocean home,= he still preserves his philosophic calm, `his high detachment from material things, and lays to his untroubled soul the balm `of that contentment oft denied to kings.= not far off, on the shore, men fume and fret, `and prowl and howl and postulate and preach, the baby bellows in the bassinet, `and the salvation army on the beach.= the unsuccessful "artist" of the "halls" `has blacked his face with cork, and now he sings of moons and coons and comic funerals [illustration: ] `and the enchantment that the cake-walk brings.= and on the pier the "milingtary band" `poisons the air with beastly brazen sound, while cockney couples wander hand in hand, [illustration: ] `and dismal tourists tour, [illustration: ] and bounders bound.= and donkey-boys allure to donkey rides `the sitters on the sand beside the sea, and touts sell "guides" to all the town provides, `from theatres to "painless dentistry."= to all this noise the oyster lends no ear, `partly because he has no ear to lend, partly because he hates to interfere, `chiefly because these rhymes must have an end.= [illustration: ] [illustration: portrait of mother hubbard. _from an original painting._] the comic adventures of old mother hubbard, and _her dog_: in which is shewn the wonderful powers that good old lady possessed in the education of her favourite animal. [illustration] london: printed for j. harris and son, corner of st. paul's church-yard. . [illustration] old mother hubbard went to the cupboard, to give the poor dog a bone. when she came there, the cupboard was bare, and so the poor dog had none. [illustration] she went to the baker's to buy him some bread; when she came back the dog was dead! [illustration] she went to the undertaker's to buy him a coffin; when she came back the dog was laughing. [illustration] she took a clean dish to get him some tripe; when she came back he was smoking his pipe. [illustration] she went to the alehouse to get him some beer; when she came back the dog sat in a chair. [illustration] she went to the tavern for white wine and red; when she came back the dog stood on his head. [illustration] she went to the fruiterer's to buy him some fruit; when she came back he was playing the flute. [illustration] she went to the taylor's to buy him a coat; when she came back he was riding a goat. [illustration] she went to the hatter's to buy him a hat; when she came back he was feeding her cat. [illustration] she went to the barber's to buy him a wig; when she came back he was dancing a jig. [illustration] she went to the cobbler's to buy him some shoes; when she came back he was reading the news. [illustration] she went to the sempstress to buy him some linen; when she came back the dog was spinning. [illustration] she went to the hosier's to buy him some hose; when she came back he was drest in his clothes. [illustration] the dame made a courtesy, the dog made a bow; the dame said, your servant, the dog said, bow-wow. [illustration] this wonderful dog was dame hubbard's delight, he could read, he could dance, he could sing, he could write; she gave him rich dainties whenever he fed, and erected this monument when he was dead. transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. by the same author fairies and chimneys the fairy flute the rainbow cat, and other stories the fairy green by rose fyleman author of "fairies and chimneys" seventh edition methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london first published ... october rd second edition ... december third edition ... november fourth edition ... may fifth (school) edition ... october sixth edition ... december seventh edition ... october to all teachers of little children in general and one in particular contents fairies vision please the daphne bush alms in autumn fairy music the hayfield this island smith square, westminster the enchanted princess the goblin to the fairy queen the fairy queen to the goblin fairies in autumn trees and fairies fairies in the malverns the fairies send messengers dunsley glen bird-lore peacocks the cuckoo the rooks the robin the cock the grouse a little girl before singing-time there are no wolves in england now mrs. brown the spring cousin gwen the butcher the pillar-box the dentist joys my policeman the porridge plate the fairy green the visit envoi to the fairies the fairy green fairies vision i've seen her, i've seen her beneath an apple-tree; the minute that i saw her there with stars and dewdrops in her hair i knew it must be she. she's sitting on a dragon-fly all shining green and gold; the dragon-fly goes circling round a little way above the ground-- she isn't taking hold. i've seen her, i've seen her, i never, never knew that anything could be so sweet; she has the tiniest hands and feet, her wings are very blue. she holds her little head like _this_ because she is a queen; (i can't describe it all in words) she's throwing kisses to the birds and laughing in between. i've seen her, i've seen her-- i simply ran and ran; put down your sewing quickly, please, let's hurry to the orchard trees as softly as we can. i had to go and leave her there, i felt i couldn't stay, i wanted you to see her too-- but oh, whatever shall we do if she has flown away? please please be careful where you tread, the fairies are about; last night, when i had gone to bed, i heard them creeping out. and wouldn't it be a dreadful thing to do a fairy harm? to crush a little delicate wing or bruise a tiny arm? they're all about the place, i know, so do be careful where you go. please be careful what you say, they're often very near, and though they turn their heads away they cannot help but hear. and think how terribly you would mind if, even for a joke, you said a thing that seemed unkind to the dear little fairy folk. i'm sure they're simply everywhere, so _promise_ me that you'll take care. the daphne bush all about the daphne bush the happy fairies went, and spread abroad their silken hair to catch its magic scent; they chanted little silver tunes, they danced the whole day long; the rosy bush was ringed around with chains of coloured song. they danced, they sang, they flung about their tiny fairy names, till swiftly over all the sky there ran the sunset flames; then high into the glowing air they leapt with joyful shout, and with the ruddy shreds of mist they wrapped themselves about. into my quiet garden close they swiftly dropped again (the music of their merriment tinkled like falling rain); laughing they swayed, while from their hair they shook the warm perfume, till all the place seemed filled with clouds of drifting daphne bloom. alms in autumn spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, a little flaming lantern to guide me on my way? the fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen and i would fain go seeking till i find them once again. lend me now a lantern that i may bear a light to find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night. ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please, throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys. i fear the gates of fairyland may all be shut so fast that nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past. i'll tie them to my girdle, and as i go along my heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song. holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, a pocketful of berries is all the alms i ask: a pocketful of berries to thread in glowing strands (i would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands) so fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright they'll set the realms of fairyland all dancing with delight. fairy music when the fiddlers play their tunes you may sometimes hear, very softly chiming in, magically clear, magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notes of fairy voices bubbling free from tiny fairy throats. when the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers, or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs, comes an added rush of sound to the silver din-- songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in. when athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls, through the tranquil air there float elfin madrigals and in wild november nights, on the winds astride, fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride. every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake, every lovely fragile hope--these the fairies take, delicately fashion them and give them back again in tender, limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men. the hayfield over the field the fairies went singing and dancing and well content; over the field of sweet warm grass i saw their shimmering cohorts pass. the clover flamed to a ruddier glow, the slender buttercups curtseyed low, the wondering daisies, innocent-eyed, bowed their heads to the radiant tide. and flirting butterflies, pearly white, left the flowers for a new delight, left their loves for the fairies' sake, and fluttered dizzily in their wake. over the swaying grass they swept, over the hedgerow soared and leapt, broke and scattered in golden spray, gleamed and glittered--and melted away. the island i know an island in a lake, green upon waters grey; it has a strange enchanted air; i hear the fairies singing there when i go by that way. they guard their hidden dwelling-place with bands of stalwart reeds, but sometimes, by a happy chance, i see them all come out and dance upon the water-weeds. one night, one summer night, i know suddenly i shall wake, and very softly hasten down and out beyond the sleeping town to find my fairy lake. i shall not need to seek a boat, it will be moored, i think, within a tiny pebbled bay where meadow-sweet and mallow sway close to the water's brink. the moon from shore to shadowy shore will make a shining trail, and i shall sing their fairy song as joyfully i float along-- i shall not need a sail. and peering through a starlit haze i presently shall see, where swift the waiting reeds unclose, the fairies all in rows and rows waiting to welcome me. smith square, westminster in smith square, westminster, the houses stand so prim, with slender railings at their feet and windows straight and slim; and all day long they staidly stare with gentle placid gaze, and dream of joyous happenings in splendid bygone days. in smith square, westminster, you must not make a noise, no shrill-voiced vendors harbour there, no shouting errand-boys; but very busy gentlemen step swiftly out and in with little leather cases and umbrellas neatly thin. yet sometimes when the summer night her starry curtain spreads, and all the busy gentlemen are sleeping in their beds, you hear a gentle humming like the humming of a hive, and smith square, westminster, begins to come alive. for all the houses start to sing, honey-sweet and low, the tender little lovely songs of long and long ago, and all the fairies round about come hastening up in crowds, until the quiet air is filled with rainbow-coloured clouds. on roof and rail and chimney-pot they delicately perch, they hang like jewelled fringes on the ledges of the church; they dance about the roadway upon nimble, noiseless feet, while the houses keep on chanting with a soft enticing beat. and still they weave their sparkling webs and still they leap and whirl until the far horizon's edge is faintly rimmed with pearl, and the morning breeze blows out the stars discreetly, one by one, and the sentries on the abbey signal down--"the sun--the sun!" and long before the butlers stumble drowsily downstairs, and long before their masters have begun to say their prayers, the fairies all have pranced away upon the morning beams, and smith square, westminster, is wrapped once more in dreams. the enchanted princess she wanders in the forest with wide and solemn eyes; a little shade of wilderment across her forehead lies. no timid woodland creature her footfall need affright, the shadow of her floating hair is not more soft and light. she hears the gentle cadence of bird and wind and stream, they make a little song for her, like singing in a dream. across the distant valley the pleasant sunbeams fall; the children in the cowslip field merrily laugh and call. she does not hear their laughter, she does not feel the sun, she cannot leave the shadowed wood until the spell is done. the goblin to the fairy queen what do you lack, queen, queen, that is precious and fine and rare? a jewelled snood that shall lie between the delicate waves of your hair? i will ride through the sky on the evening wind with a golden needle and thread, and string up the tiniest stars i can find, to glitter about your head. what can i do, queen, queen, to hasten the hours along when you grow weary of woodland green, weary of woodland song? a cage of gossamer gold i will tie on to a skylark's wing, and there you shall hang in the midst of the sky and tremble to hear him sing. grant me a boon, queen, queen; this is the boon that i ask-- let me do service, mighty or mean, give me a task, a task. are there no jackanapes giants to slay? are there no dragons to fight? nothing shall daunt me by dark or by day; make me your goblin knight! the fairy queen to the goblin last night i heard a singing--a singing in my dreams, it wandered through my land of sleep like little silver streams; like little purling silver streams that gently laugh and coo-- goblin with the shining eyes, goblin, was it you? softer than the tender croon of my happy doves, sweeter than my nightingales pouring forth their loves, clearer than my valiant lark triumphant in the blue; goblin with the whimsic smile, goblin, was it you? all night long the singer stayed close beside my bower, weaving his enchanted songs, till that magic hour when the early morning light creeps across the dew; goblin with the steadfast heart, goblin, was it you? fairies in autumn you perch upon the leaves where the trees are very high, and you all shout together as the wind goes by; the merry mad wind sets the leaves all afloat, and off you go a-sailing in an airy wee boat. you fly to the edges of a grim grey cloud, and you all start a-dancing and a-singing very loud; the cloud melts away in a shower of peevish rain and you slide down from heaven on a slim silver chain. trees and fairies the larch-tree gives them needles to stitch their gossamer things; carefully, cunningly toils the oak to shape the cups of the fairy folk; the sycamore gives them wings. the lordly fir-tree rocks them high on his swinging sails; the hawthorn fashions their tiny spears; the whispering alder charms their ears with soft, mysterious tales. the chestnut gives them candles to make their ballroom fine; and the elder-bush and the hazel tree assist their delicate revelry with nuts and fragrant wine. fairies in the malverns as i walked over hollybush hill the sun was low and the winds were still, and never a whispering branch i heard nor ever the tiniest call of a bird. and when i came to the topmost height oh, but i saw such a wonderful sight: all about on the hill-crest there the fairies danced in the golden air. danced and frolicked with never a sound in and out in a magical round; wide and wider the circle grew then suddenly melted into the blue. * * * * * * * as i walked down into eastnor vale the stars already were twinkling pale, and over the spaces of dew-white grass i saw a marvellous pageant pass. tiny riders on tiny steeds, decked with blossoms and armed with reeds, with gossamer banners floating far and a radiant queen in an ivory car. the beeches spread their petticoats wide and curtseyed low upon either side; the rabbits scurried across the glade to peep at the glittering cavalcade. far and farther i saw them go and vanish into the woods below; then over the shadowy woodland ways i wandered home in a sweet amaze. * * * * * * * but malvern people need fear no ill since fairies bide in their country still. the fairies send messengers they sent a stout little red-breast bird; he sang from the garden wall; surely, oh, surely the children heard, but never they came to his call. they sent a capering, glad young breeze; he shouted, he rattled about; but the children sat with their books on their knees and gave no heed to his shout. they sent a bee in a velvet coat, busily, busily gay; he hummed his tale on a spirited note but the children chased him away. they sent a brave little fairy sprite; she peeped round the window frame; the children looked, and their eyes grew bright, and they came! dunsley glen there is no road to dunsley glen, i should not know the way again because the fairies took me there, down by a little rocky stair-- a little stair all twists and turns, half hidden by the spreading ferns. high overhead the trees were green, with little bits of blue between, so high that they could see, i'm sure, beyond the wood, beyond the moor, the water many miles away mistily shining in the bay. deep in the glen a streamlet cool ran down into a magic pool, with mossy caverns all about where fairies fluttered in and out; their sparkling wings and golden hair made dancing twinkles here and there. i stood and watched them at their play until i dared no longer stay; i knew that i might seek and seek on every day of every week ere i should find the place again-- there is no road to dunsley glen. bird-lore peacocks peacocks sweep the fairies' rooms; they use their folded tails for brooms; but fairy dust is brighter far than any mortal colours are, and all about their tails it clings in strange designs of rounds and rings: and that is why they strut about and proudly spread their feathers out. the cuckoo the cuckoo is a tell-tale, a mischief-making bird; he flies to east, he flies to west and whispers into every nest the wicked things he's heard; he loves to spread his naughty lies, he laughs about it as he flies: "cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo, it's true, it's true." and when the fairies catch him his busy wings they dock, they shut him up for evermore (he may not go beyond the door) inside a wooden clock; inside a wooden clock he cowers and has to tell the proper hours-- "cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo, it's true, it's true." the rooks high in the elm-trees sit the rooks, or flit about with busy looks and solemn, ceaseless caws. small wonder they are so intent, they are the fairies' parliament-- they make the fairy laws. they never seem to stop all day, and you can hear from far away their busy chatter-chat. they work so very hard indeed you'd wonder that the fairies need so many laws as that. the robin the robin is the fairies' page; they keep him neatly dressed for country service or for town in dapper livery of brown and little scarlet vest. on busy errands all day long he hurries to and fro with watchful eyes and nimble wings-- there are not very many things the robin doesn't know. and he can tell you, if he will, the latest fairy news: the quaint adventures of the king, and whom the queen is visiting, and where she gets her shoes. and lately, when the fairy court invited me to tea, he stood behind the royal chair; and here i solemnly declare, when he discovered i was there. that robin _winked_ at me. the cock the kindly cock is the fairies' friend, he warns them when their revels must end; he never forgets to give the word, for the cock is a thoroughly punctual bird. and since he grieves that he never can fly. like all the other birds, up in the sky, the fairies put him now and again high on a church for a weather-vane. little for sun or for rain he cares; he turns about with the proudest airs and chuckles with joy as the clouds go past to think he is up in the sky at last. the grouse the grouse that lives on the moorland wide is filled with a most ridiculous pride; he thinks that it all belongs to him, and every one else must obey his whim. when the queer wee folk who live on the moors come joyfully leaping out of their doors to frisk about on the warm sweet heather laughing and chattering all together, he looks askance at their rollicking play and calls to them in the angriest way: "you're a feather-brained, foolish, frivolous pack, go back, you rascally imps, go back!" but little enough they heed his shout, over the rocks they tumble about; they chase each other over the ling; they kick their heels in the heather and sing: "oho, mr. grouse, you'd best beware, or some fine day, if you don't take care, the witch who lives in the big brown bog with a wise old weasel, a rat and a frog, will come a-capering over the fell and put you under a horrible spell; your feathers will moult and your voice will crack-- go back, you silly old bird, go back!" a little girl before before i was a little girl i was a little bird, i could not laugh, i could not dance, i could not speak a word; but all about the woods i went and up into the sky-- and isn't it a pity i've forgotten how to fly? i often came to visit you. i used to sit and sing upon our purple lilac-bush that smells so sweet in spring; but when you thanked me for my song of course you never knew i soon should be a little girl and come to live with you. singing-time i wake in the morning early and always, the very first thing, i poke out my head and i sit up in bed and i sing and i sing and i sing. there are no wolves in england now there are no wolves in england now, nor any grizzly bears; you could not meet them after dark upon the attic stairs. when nanna goes to fetch the tea there is no need at all to leave the nursery door ajar in case you want to call. and mother says, in fairy tales, those bits are never true that tell you all the dreadful deeds that wicked fairies do. and wouldn't it be silly for a great big girl like me to be the leastest bit afraid of things that couldn't be? mrs. brown as soon as i'm in bed at night and snugly settled down, the little girl i am by day goes very suddenly away, and then i'm mrs. brown. i have a family of six, and all of them have names, the girls are joyce and nancy maud, the boys are marmaduke and claude and percival and james. we have a house with twenty rooms a mile away from town; i think it's good for girls and boys to be allowed to make a noise-- and so does mr. brown. we do the most exciting things, enough to make you creep; and on and on and on we go-- i sometimes wonder if i know when i have gone to sleep. the spring a little mountain spring i found that fell into a pool; i made my hands into a cup and caught the sparkling water up-- it tasted fresh and cool. a solemn little frog i spied upon the rocky brim; he looked so boldly in my face, i'm certain that he thought the place belonged by rights to him. cousin gwen i like my cousin very much because of course one should; she comes to spend the day with me and stays to dinner and to tea, and she is very good. her shining hair is smooth and neat, she always wears a plait, and french translation she can do and algebra and science too, and clever things like that. my nanna thinks i ought to try and copy cousin gwen; but i could never be like her, indeed, indeed, i wish i were-- excepting now and then. the butcher the butcher's shop is open wide and everyone can see inside; he stands behind the rows of meat and gazes out into the street. he always wears a coat of blue, he has a linen apron too, and with his knife he rather looks like ogres in the story-books. he smiles and nods and says "good-day" if nurse and i go by that way when we are shopping in the town-- i've never seen him sitting down. the pillar-box the pillar-box is fat and red, it's mouth is very wide, it wears a tammy on its head-- it must be dark inside. and really it's the greatest fun when mother lets me stop and post the letters one by one-- i like to hear them drop. the dentist i'd like to be a dentist with a plate upon the door and a little bubbling fountain in the middle of the floor; with lots of tiny bottles all arranged in coloured rows and a page-boy with a line of silver buttons down his clothes. i'd love to polish up the things and put them every day inside the darling chests of drawers all tidily away; and every sunday afternoon when nobody was there i should go riding up and down upon the velvet chair. joys i'm rather fond of medicine, especially if it's pink, or else the fizzy-wizzy kind that makes you want to blink; and eucalyptus lozenges are very nice i think. i like it when i'm really ill and have to stay in bed with mother's grown-up pillows all frilly round my head; but measles is the funniest, because you get so red. my policeman he is always standing there at the corner of the square; he is very big and fine and his silver buttons shine. all the carts and taxis do everything he tells them to, and the little errand-boys when they pass him make no noise. though i seem so very small i am not afraid at all; he and i are friends, you see, and he always smiles at me. once i wasn't very good rather near to where he stood, but he never said a word though i'm sure he must have heard. nurse has a policeman too (hers has brown eyes, mine has blue), hers is sometimes on a horse, but i like mine best of course. the porridge plate my porridge plate at grannie's house is white and misty blue, and as i eat the porridge up the picture all comes through; there is a castle on a lake, a tall tall lady too. the castle has a flight of steps and lots of pointed towers, a garden and a summer-house a little bit like ours, and trees with leaves like feathers and the most enormous flowers. i don't care much for porridge in an ordinary way (though it's jolly when there's treacle and your nanna lets you play), but when i stop at grannie's house i like it every day. the fairy green upon the magic green i stood within the fairy ling, close to the little rustling wood where fairies always sing. i was a little bit afraid, i kept my eyes shut tight, while all around they danced and played-- i felt the shining light. nearer and nearer still they came, they touched my dress, my hair; they called me softly by my name; i heard them everywhere. i never moved, i never spoke (oh, but my heart beat fast), and so the little fairy folk all went away at last, to-morrow i shall go again and seek the magic place, i shall not be so foolish then, i shall not hide my face. but i shall stay for hours and hours until the daylight ends, and we shall dance among the flowers and be the greatest friends. and i shall learn their fairy song; and when i come away shall dream of it the whole night long and sing it every day. the visit when i went to fairyland, visiting the queen, i rode upon a peacock, blue and gold and green; silver was the harness, crimson were the reins, all hung about with little bells that swung on silken chains. when i went to fairyland, indeed you cannot think what pretty things i had to eat, what pretty things to drink. and did you know that butterflies could sing like little birds? and did you guess that fairy-talk is not a bit like words? when i went to fairyland--of all the lovely things!-- they really taught me how to fly, they gave me fairy wings; and every night i listen for a tapping on the pane-- i want so very much to go to fairyland again. envoi to the fairies kindly little fairy friends, here i fain would make amends; for i seek my verses through, find no word of thanks to you. many, oh, so many times you have helped me with my rhymes; when my tiny songs were dumb oft and often have you come; oft and often have i heard, sweeter than the song of bird, fairy voices, crystal-clear, very softly at my ear (while you poised on fluttering wings) telling me enchanting things. often at the fall of night, in the gentle, dusky light through my garden as i went, to my joy and wonderment suddenly the air around blossomed into lovely sound, and i knew that you were there all about me everywhere. could i tell what i have heard, magic sound and magic word, there would be a book indeed fit for all the world to read. but alas!--for all my pains, of those sweet mysterious strains i can only hope to catch here an echo, there a snatch. yours is any happy line, all that's done amiss is mine. the author's best thanks are due to the editor and proprietors of _punch_, through whose courtesy she is able to include in this collection a number of verses which have already appeared in that paper. printed by morrison and gibb ltd., edinburgh. generously made available by the internet archive.) child whispers by enid blyton london j. saville & co. limited educational publishers, , gower street, w.c.i dedicated to four little brothers david, brian, peter and john contents preface rosamunda disappointment on strike fairy sight a fairy necklace paying a call before breakfast goblins the fairy's bedtime poppies a queer butterfly lovely frocks the jolly wind the witch's balloons fairy music the little folk on the hill the moon at tea-time april the silent pool this afternoon the "feeling" the naughty gnome six o'clock the imp's mistake put to bed the merry breeze an accident a happy ending preface the children of nowadays are different in many of their likes and dislikes, from the children of ten years ago. this change of attitude is noticeable as much in the world of children's poetry as it is in other things. in my experience of teaching i have found the children delight in two distinct types of verses. these are the humorous type and the imaginative poetical type--but the humour must be from the child's point of view and not from the "grown-up's"--a very different thing. and the imagination in the second type of poem must be clear and whimsical, otherwise the appeal fails and the child does not respond. as i found a lack of suitable poems of the types i wanted, i began to write them myself for the children under my supervision, taking, in many cases, the ideas, humorous or whimsical, of the children themselves, as the theme of the poems. finding them to be successful, i continued, until the suggestion was made to me that many children, other than those in my own school, might enjoy hearing and learning the poems. accordingly this collection of verses is put forward in the hope that it will be a source of sincere enjoyment to the little people of the world. enid blyton. rosamunda in the garden very early rosamunda's walking, and to her surprise she hears lots of fairies talking. she looks around but cannot see where they can be hiding; not on any butterfly nor bee, are they a-riding. she goes to where the tulips grow and finds a sight of wonder, for out pop fairy elves and say, "good-morning, rosamunda!" disappointment once i found a fairy in my cup of tea. she was nearly drowned and wet as wet could be. i picked her out and dried her and asked her if she'd stay; "oh, no," she said, "_i mustn't_," and off she flew away. on strike my dollies are so naughty, i'm afraid they've gone on strike; they won't let me undress them, but just do what they like. they say they want a penny to spend on saturday, and 'less i let them have it, they'll not join in my play. i can't let them behave so, they'll never grow up right-- but i know they will be sorry when i don't kiss them good-night. fairy sight if you want to see a fairy, in the middle of the night, wrap the blanket round you, and shut your eyes up tight. say "akral dafarray!" and open your right eye, and (if you've been a good child) a fairy flutters by! a fairy necklace the rain had rained all morning, and then the sun shone fair, and all the garden glittered with raindrops everywhere! there were raindrops on the grasses, and raindrops on the trees, and how they shook and shivered, like diamonds, in the breeze! and oh, i saw a fairy come flying right by me; she shook a score of raindrops, from off the hazel tree. she slung them on a spider's thread, a necklace made of rain! she clasped them round her little neck, and off she flew again! paying a call i put on my hat with the band of blue, and my frock with the frilly lace, i took my sunshade, and held it up, to keep the sun off my face. i thought i'd go calling like mother does, and have pretty cakes for tea, and sit on the edge of a chair and talk with a tea-cup on my knee. i walked all along the sunny road, till i came to mrs. leroy's. i climbed the steps, and i rang the bell-- it made such a jangley noise. and then i suddenly felt afraid, and couldn't think what i would say when they opened the door--so i jumped the steps, and i ran back home all the way. nurse saw me coining in my best frock, and oh, how she scolded me! and that's why i'm wearing an overall now, and not having jam for tea. before breakfast i go round the garden early, when the grass is bright with dew, and i have to put goloshes on my feet. i'll tell you all i do there, right away from people's view, when the world is half-awake and very sweet. i shake the lady hollyhocks to make the bees fly out, and i see how much they've grown since yesterday. i pop the fattest fuchsia buds, if gardener's not about, and i blow the dandelion clocks away. i smell the honeysuckle and the lavender as well, i take the rose-leaves fallen down beyond; they're pink and white and beautiful, just like a fairy shell, and i save them up for sailing on the pond. i stand upon the mossy wall, and smell the new mown hay, and i feel the wind that blows the clouds along; i think there never, _never_ could be such a lovely day-- and then, i hear that horrid breakfast gong! goblins when i am cross as i can be, and nothing's ever right, then mummy says there's naughty goblins, hiding out of sight, who try to make me do what's wrong, and try to make me bad, they like me to forget things, and make other people sad. i've never found them anywhere, i don't know where to look, i've only seen them in the pages of my picture-book, but oh, i'm _sure_ they're all about in everybody's house, little creepy-crawley things, as quiet as a mouse. when cook forgets to put the sugar in the sunday cake, and gardener breaks the barrow-wheel, and loses daddie's rake, and nurse is very cross indeed, and won't let me go out, i always know those nasty little goblins are about. i play next-door with peter, and there's goblins even there, altho' it's such a lovely house, i can't think how they dare, but often peter's daddie is as grumpy as can be, all over nothing, so the goblins must be there, you see. whenever things go very wrong, i hide myself away, to try and see those goblins, and i'm sure i shall some day. and if they bother you at all, you try and catch them, too, and _will_ you save them up for me to look at, if you do? the fairy's bedtime just before they go to bed, the fairy babes are told to sit upon their toadstools, and to be as good as gold. so down they sit, all in a ring, it's supper-time, they know, for look, their little acorn cups are standing in a row. a fairy fills the little cups, with dew and honey sweet and gives one to each little babe with something nice to eat. then off into the trees they fly and curl themselves up tight inside a leaf that's soft and warm, and there they sleep all night. poppies up the lane behind our house a little hill you climb, and at the top on either side there is in summer time-- a cornfield waving in the wind, where poppies shake their head and peep at you between the corn, a glowing dancing red-- i'll tell you what i did one day when nurse was cross with me, and pulled my hair back in a plait, as tight as tight could be-- i crept up to the swaying corn and in the poppies there i sat down by myself, and then i undid all my hair! i picked some gleaming poppies red, the biggest i could find, i wound them tightly in my curls, and some hung down behind. i walked about so very grand till it began to rain, when one by one the poppies fell, and i went home again. a queer butterfly i caught a lovely butterfly, in marianna's net. it was the sweetest blue and gold, the prettiest i'd seen yet. but marianna came and said the butterfly should be not mine, but _hers_, because the net belonged to her, not me. we quarrelled hard, and didn't stop, until my frock was torn, and then she pointed down to where the net lay, on the lawn. the butterfly was creeping out and spread its wings of blue, and then _stood up_, just fancy that! you'd hardly think it true! we saw then what it really was, a fairy, come to play, and all because we quarrelled so, she fluttered right away. lovely frocks in my mummy's wardrobe, there are lots of lovely frocks, i know because i've seen them hanging there; there's purple, and there's orange, and a frilly one of blue, and a yellow that is shiny like her hair. the satin frocks make mummy look just like a fairy queen-- but she can't cuddle me at all in those-- and when she wears a silken frock, it rustles like the trees-- but i can't kiss her 'cos i spoils the bows. and tho' i love her pretty dresses, 'cos she looks so grand, what i like really best of all to see, is when she's in the garden, wearing _just_ an overall-- and comes to romp and play about with me. the jolly wind "hurrah!" says the wind, as he sweeps along, "three cheers for the sun to-day, just look at him shining away in the sky! do come along, children, and play! i'll fly your kites on the top of the hill, and i'll spin the old weather-cock round! i'll send your boats sailing away down the stream, till bump! they have all come aground! come along while i turn the old windmill about, and hear how it groans and it creaks; just see how i tweak off your bonnets and caps, and hear all the laughter and shrieks! i'll make you run faster than ever before, i'll spin you around and about! oh, hurry up, children, and come out of school, "hurrah!" says the wind, with a shout! the witch's balloons opposite the nursery sat a woman old and brown, i should think she was the very oldest person in the town, she sold balloons to children as they passed her corner there, she was very cross and horrid and she had a nasty stare. i looked at her one morning, on a very windy day, and she saw me and she stared at me in such a nasty way, i felt afraid, and certain sure that she must be a witch, and keep all sorts of stolen treasures hidden in a ditch. and as i looked at her, and she was staring up at me, i saw a fairy flying low from out the chestnut tree, she held a little knife, and oh, she cut the strings right through, that held the big balloons together, then away she flew! and off went all the purple ones and off went all the pink, a-flying in the air as high as ever you could think, around the chimney pots, and right away up in the sky, until they bumped into the clouds, a-sailing slowly by. and then i looked to see what that old woman had to say, but there wasn't any sign of her, she'd vanished right away, she _must_ have been a wicked witch, and by the fairies slain, for tho' i've looked each morning, she has _never_ come again. fairy music i found a little fairy flute beneath a harebell blue; i sat me down upon the moss and blew a note or two. and as i blew the rabbits came around me in the sun, and little mice and velvet moles came creeping, one by one. a swallow perched upon my head, a robin on my thumb, the thrushes sang in tune with me, the bees began to hum. i loved to see them all around and wished they'd always stay, when down a little fairy flew and _snatched_ my flute away! and then the swallow fluttered off, and gone were all the bees, the rabbits ran, and i was left alone among the trees! the little folk on the hill right on the top of the feraling hill there's a queer little seat made of stone, and sometimes i climb up the heathery slope. and sit in the wind all alone. nobody knows why the little seat's there, (it's almost too tiny for me) but i love to squeeze into it on a clear day, and look over the hills to the sea. sometimes i've sat there and heard funny sounds and voices, and tho' i've kept still, i've only seen one of the queer little folk that i _know_ live inside of the hill. for once i came quietly up to the stone-- and on it sat one of the folk! he was looking across all the hills to the sea, but he vanished away when i spoke. and that's how _i_ know why the little seat's there, and why it's small even for me; the folk put it there in the wind, for _they love_ to look over the hills to the sea. the moon at tea-time i was playing in the meadow, where there's not a single tree, i was throwing bits of sorrel at a fat old bumble-bee, and then--i just looked up to see the clouds go sailing by-- and oh, i saw the _moon_, in daytime! and i _can't_ think why! such funny things keep happ'ning, and they've happened all to-day, first, i found a weeny mouse, all cuddled in the hay, then at home we've got a baby, from _i_ don't know where! and now i find the moon at _tea-time_, sitting in the air! i'm sure it's wrong, because the bible says it's meant for night, and look, it hides behind the clouds--it knows it isn't right. now there it comes! oh, silly moon, you make the sun look fine, 'cos bumping up against the clouds has rubbed off all _your_ shine! april oh, april brings the cuckoo-bird, and april brings the rain, april hangs a hundred sunny raindrops in the lane, she can wash the sky with woolly clouds of purest white, and gaily dress it up in rainbows, curving out of sight. oh, april hangs the chestnut trees with spires of white and pink, and kisses all the primroses along the river's brink, she peeps into the tiny nests where eggs are hidden well, and searches out the purple violets growing in the dell. oh, april swings the apple blossom, sweet against the sky and chases all the bob-tail rabbits scuttling gaily by, she dances with the meadow cowslips, drooping heads of gold, oh, april is the sweetest month that any year can hold! the silent pool away in the wood where it's dark, there's a pool that is purplish green, with whispering rushes around, that murmur of things they have seen. i once lay and listened all night, and heard why the pool lies alone; not even a fairy goes near and only the sad rushes moan. i heard how there once lived a witch, who weaved wicked spells night and day, and used the pool's purplish deeps for things which i wouldn't dare say. then one day she vanished and went, and never was seen any more, but silent and still lay the pool, and darker than ever before. no fairy knows what the pool holds, and none guesses what secrets lie hid safely away in its deeps, but shuddering, all pass it by. take heed when you go through the wood, and pass where the pool lies alone-- not even a fairy goes near, and only the sad rushes moan! this afternoon this afternoon is very hot, and all the sky is blue, the busy bees are humming loud, they have a lot to do. i want to go out in the fields where all the daisies grow, and watch the little breezes bend the grasses to and fro. i want to watch the butterflies, and hear the cuckoo call, i'd cuckoo back to see if he would answer me at all. the buttercups are shaking gold upon the dry brown earth, and shiny beetles race along the ground, for all they're worth. i want to lie down on the grass and look up at the sky, it looks so queer and far away and wonderfully high. it's such a lovely afternoon, with lovely things to see; oh, _why_ must i in my best frock be taken out to tea? the "feeling" inside of me there's a feeling lives, that wakes when i see a rose, or the snow, or sunshine, or daisy fields; it wakes for a time--and then goes. when i suddenly see the rainbow shine right over the sky so wide, and the sunshine gleams thro' the pouring rain, i get that "feeling" inside. when i get out of bed on a winter's mom, and look thro' my window pane, and find the snow on the trees and fields, i get the feeling again. when a great big wave comes sweeping up on a stormy and windy tide, and crashes against the rocks in spray, i get the feeling inside. i once told nannie just how i felt, but i'm not going to tell her again. _she_ didn't know at all what i meant, she called my feeling a _pain!_ the naughty gnome a little gnome in fairyland once found a pot of glue, and he of course began to think what mischief he could do! he smeared the toadstools, one and all, whereon the fairies sat, and oh, how cross they were to find a naughty trick like that! he dropped some glue upon the grass, to catch the fairies' feet, when there came by the fairy king and queen with all their suite. the king walked straight upon the glue and found he couldn't stir! then came the frightened gnome, and cried, "oh, please have mercy, sir! i didn't mean to catch _your_ feet within my sticky glue, but please forgive me and i'll find some better thing to do!" "i'll pardon you," the king replied, "but harken what i say, go, use your glue on _chestnut_ buds, to keep the frost away." so in the chestnuts every spring the gnome works all day long, and if you touch a bud, you'll find his glue is _very_ strong! six o'clock we always wake at six o'clock, when nurse is still asleep; she's hidden under all the clothes, her breathes are loud and deep. we mustn't talk till seven strikes, and so we just turn round and hear the milk-carts going by, they have a tinny sound. i look up at the ceiling, and i count the cracks i see, and all the flies upon the wall; once there were _twenty-three!_ teddie pulls out feathers from the eiderdown, and blows with all his might, to make them drop on top of nurse's nose. i breathe on all the brassy nobs that feel so very cold; they go quite dull till teddie rubs, and makes them shine like gold. and now i've told you all these things, if you wake early, too, and mustn't talk till seven strikes, _you'll_ know just what to do. the imp's mistake as anna slept beside the fire an imp as black as soot came down the chimney in a bound, and landed by her foot! he looked at her black shining shoe, a frown came on his face, he thought it was a piece of coal a-tumbled from its place! and so he started tugging hard to put it back again upon the fire, when anna woke and gave a cry of pain! "you naughty little imp," she cried, "just leave my foot alone!" and in a trice the imp had jumped and up the chimney flown! so when you're sitting by the fire, it's better, on the whole, to keep awake, in case that imp should think _your_ shoes are coal! put to bed the sun is shining hot and bright, the gardener's mowing grass, he's doing it with all his might, i hear his footsteps pass. nurse put me here in bed alone because i've not been good; i think her heart is hard as stone-- i didn't think she would. i haven't been so very bad, i'll tell you what i've done. i took a pencil that i had, a lovely orange one. i drew a splendid pattern round the dining room and hall, and trees that grew up from the ground, right up the nursery wall. i'd started on a giant's head, i know just how they're made, when nurse came in, so cross and red, it made me feel afraid. i never had behaved, she said, so wickedly before; she made me go upstairs to bed, and then she banged the door. she took my toys and books and ball, and all the bricks i'd built; there's nothing here that's nice at all, 'cept grannie's patchwork quilt! the merry breeze round about the orchard went the merry little breeze, playing with the butterflies and teasing all the bees, sending showers of apple-blossom down upon the ground, and spilling half the dew-drops from the grasses all around. he ruffled up the feathers of the ducks a-sailing by, and hustled all the lazy clods that floated in the sky, he swung the beeches to and fro, then darted off again to dry the shiny puddles scattered down along the lane. the chimney smoke he twisted in the queerest kind of way, until at last the little breeze was weary of his play; he crept back to the orchard, where the daffodillies peep, and there it was i found him lying, curled up fast asleep! an accident we've a little summer house with a pointed top, and on it, watching us at play, the fairies often stop. but now we've done a dreadful thing, and frightened them away, because, by accident, our ball struck two of them to-day. it bounced upon the summer house, and hurt the fairies there; they flew away with cries of pain, and said it wasn't fair. each day we watch our summer house and watch the pointed top. but now, tho' fairies fly around, they _never_ come to stop. a happy ending i found a ship upon the sea, all ready waiting there for me, so in i jumped and off we sped, to gleaming waters far ahead. but soon a wind came moaning by and clouds filled all the sunny sky, the sea was speckled with the rain, and my ship rolled and rolled again. the waves crashed grandly on the deck. the sails dripped rain-drops down my neck, then straight ahead, i spied a rock, and braced myself to meet the shock-- crash! we struck, and there we stayed, while rain and storm around us played; the ship at once began to fill, and down and down we sank--until i yelled in fear and clutched the side, half-drowning in the racing tide. and just as mast and rigging broke, i found myself in bed--and woke! printed by garden city press, letch worth, england.