ANN TAYLOR
One ugly trick has often spoiledThe sweetest and the best;Matilda, though a pleasant child,One ugly trick possessed,Which, like a cloud before the skies,Hid all her better qualities.Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid,To peep at what was in it;Or tilt the kettle, if you didBut turn your back a minute.In vain you told her not to touch,Her trick of meddling grew so much.Her grandmamma went out one dayAnd by mistake she laidHer spectacles and snuff-box gayToo near the little maid;"Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on,As soon as grandmamma is gone."Forthwith she placed upon her noseThe glasses large and wide;And looking round, as I suppose,The snuff-box too she spied:"Oh! what a pretty box is that;I'll open it," said little Matt."I know that grandmamma would say,'Don't meddle with it, dear,'But then, she's far enough away,And no one else is near:Besides, what can there be amissIn opening such a box as this?"So thumb and finger went to workTo move the stubborn lid,And presently a mighty jerkThe mighty mischief did;For all at once, ah! woeful case,The snuff came puffing in her face.Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth besideA dismal sight presented;In vain, as bitterly she cried,Her folly she repented.In vain she ran about for ease;She could do nothing else but sneeze.She dashed the spectacles away,To wipe her tingling eyes,And as in twenty bits they lay,Her grandmamma she spies."Heyday! and what's the matter now?"Says grandmamma with lifted brow.Matilda, smarting with the pain,And tingling still, and sore,Made many a promise to refrainFrom meddling evermore.And 'tis a fact, as I have heard,She ever since has kept her word.
JANE TAYLOR
I like little Pussy,Her coat is so warm;And if I don't hurt herShe'll do me no harm.So I'll not pull her tail,Nor drive her away,But Pussy and IVery gently will play;She shall sit by my side,And I'll give her some food;And she'll love me becauseI am gentle and good.I'll pat little Pussy,And then she will purr,And thus show her thanksFor my kindness to her;I'll not pinch her ears,Nor tread on her paw,Lest I should provoke herTo use her sharp claw;I never will vex her,Nor make her displeased,For Pussy can't bearTo be worried or teased.
JANE TAYLOR
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,How I wonder what you are.Up above the world so high,Like a diamond in the sky.When the blazing sun is gone,When he nothing shines upon,Then you show your little light,Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.Then the traveler in the darkThanks you for your tiny spark;He could not see which way to go,If you did not twinkle so.In the dark blue sky you keep,And often through my curtains peep,For you never shut your eyeTill the sun is in the sky.As your bright and tiny sparkLights the traveler in the dark,Though I know not what you are,Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Although Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894) is not known primarily as a writer for children, herSing-Song, from which the next seven poems are taken, is a juvenile classic. She ranks very high among the women poets of the nineteenth century, her only equal being Mrs. Browning. Besides the brief poems inSing-Song, Miss Rossetti's "Goblin Market" and "Uphill" please young people of a contemplative mood. While there is an undercurrent of sadness in much of her work, it is a natural accompaniment of her themes and is not unduly emphasized.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Seldom "can't,"Seldom "don't";Never "shan't,"Never "won't."
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
An emerald is as green as grass;A ruby, red as blood;A sapphire shines as blue as heaven;A flint lies in the mud.A diamond is a brilliant stoneTo catch the world's desire;An opal holds a fiery spark;But a flint holds fire.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Boats sail on the rivers,And ships sail on the seas;But clouds that sail across the skyAre prettier far than these.There are bridges on the rivers,As pretty as you please;But the bow that bridges heaven,And overtops the trees,And builds a road from earth to sky,Is prettier far than these.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
A diamond or a coal?A diamond, if you please;Who cares about a clumsy coalBeneath the summer trees?A diamond or a coal?A coal, sir, if you please;One comes to care about the coalAt times when waters freeze.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Fly away, fly away over the sea,Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done;Come again, come again, come back to me,Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Who has seen the wind?Neither I nor you:But when the leaves hang trembling,The wind is passing thro'.Who has seen the wind?Neither you nor I:But when the trees bow down their heads,The wind is passing by.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
When the cows come home the milk is coming;Honey's made while the bees are humming;Duck and drake on the rushy lake,And the deer live safe in the breezy brake;And timid, funny, pert little bunnyWinks his nose, and sits all sunny.
William Brighty Rands (1823-1882), an English author writing under the name of "Matthew Browne," produced in hisLilliput Lyricsa juvenile masterpiece containing much verse worthy to live. The two poems that follow are decidedly successful in catching that elusive something called the child's point of view.
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS
I wish I lived in a caravanWith a horse to drive, like a peddler-man!Where he comes from nobody knows,Or where he goes to, but on he goes!His caravan has windows two,And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through;He has a wife, with a baby brown,And they go riding from town to town.Chairs to mend, and delf to sell!He clashes the basins like a bell;Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order,Plates, with alphabets round the border!The roads are brown, and the sea is green,But his house is like a bathing-machine;The world is round, and he can ride,Rumble and slash, to the other side!With the peddler-man I should like to roam,And write a book when I came home;All the people would read my book,Just like the Travels of Captain Cook!
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,With the wonderful water round you curled,And the wonderful grass upon your breast—World, you are beautifully dressed!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 the 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 to-day,My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,"If the wonderful World is great to you,And great to father and mother, too,You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"
Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton, 1809-1885), an English poet, wrote one poem that has held its own in children's collections. Its quiet mood of industry at one with the gentler influences of nature is especially appealing.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES
A fair little girl sat under a tree,Sewing as long as her eyes could see;Then smoothed her work and folded it rightAnd 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;All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,"Good little girl, good-night, good-night!"She did not say to the sun, "Good-night!"Though she saw him there like a ball of light;For she knew he had God's time to keepAll over the world and never could sleep.The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;The violets curtsied, 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."
It is quite impossible for us to realize why the English reading public should have been so excited over the following poem in the years immediately following its first appearance in 1806. It attracted the attention of royalty, was set to music, had a host of imitators, and established itself as a nursery classic. It was written by William Roscoe (1753-1831), historian, banker, and poet, for his son Robert, and was merely an entertaining skit upon an actual banquet. Probably the fact that the characters at the butterfly's ball were drawn with human faces in the original illustrations to represent the prominent guests at the actual banquet had much to do with the initial success. The impulse which it received a hundred years ago, coupled with its own undoubted power of fancy, has projected it thus far, and children seem inclined to approve and still further insure its already long life.
WILLIAM ROSCOE
"Come, take up your hats, and away let us hasteTo the Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast,The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has summon'd the crew,And the Revels are now only waiting for you."So said little Robert, and pacing along,His merry Companions came forth in a throng,And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood,Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood,Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of AirFor an Evening's Amusement together repair.And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back,And there was the Gnat and the Dragonfly too,With all their Relations, green, orange and blue.And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down,And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown;Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring,But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole,And brought to the Feast his blind Brother, the Mole;And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell,Came from a great distance, the length of an ell.A Mushroom, their Table, and on it was laidA water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made.The Viands were various, to each of their taste,And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast.Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,The Frog from a corner look'd up to the skies;And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversion to see,Mounted high overhead and look'd down from a tree.Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine,To show his dexterity on the tight-line,From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung,Then quick as an arrow he darted along,But just in the middle—oh! shocking to tell,From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell.Yet he touch'd not the ground, but with talons outspread,Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring,Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing;He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,Then chirp'd his own praises the rest of the night.With step so majestic the Snail did advance,And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance;But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head,And went in his own little chamber to bed.Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night,Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light."Then Home let us hasten while yet we can see,For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me."So said little Robert, and pacing along,His merry Companions return'd in a throng.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Can you put the spider's web back in placeThat once has been swept away?Can you put the apple again on the boughWhich fell at our feet to-day?Can you put the lily-cup back on the stemAnd cause it to live and grow?Can you mend the butterfly's broken wingThat you crush with a hasty blow?Can you put the bloom again on the grapeAnd the grape again on the vine?Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowersAnd make them sparkle and shine?Can you put the petals back on the rose?If you could, would it smell as sweet?Can you put the flour again in the husk,And show me the ripened wheat?Can you put the kernel again in the nut,Or the broken egg in the shell?Can you put the honey back in the comb,And cover with wax each cell?Can you put the perfume back in the vaseWhen once it has sped away?Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn,Or down on the catkins, say?You think my questions are trifling, lad,Let me ask you another one:Can a hasty word be ever unsaid,Or a deed unkind, undone?
In 1841 Robert Browning (1812-1889) published a drama in verse entitledPippa Passes. Pippa was a little girl who worked in the silkmills of an Italian city. When her one holiday of the year came, she arose early and went singing out of town to the hills to enjoy the day. Variouspeople who were planning to do evil heard her songs as she passed and did not do the wicked things they had intended to do. The next day Pippa returned to her usual work and never knew that her songs had changed the lives of many people. The following is the first of Pippa's songs.
ROBERT BROWNING
The year's at the spring,And day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hill-side'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!
Charles Mackay (1814-1889) was an English journalist, poet, and miscellaneous writer. He was especially popular as a writer of songs, composing both words and music. Other well-known poems of his are "The Miller of Dee" and "Tubal Cain." "Little and Great" presents a familiar idea through a series of illustrations—the idea that great and lasting results may spring from unstudied deeds of helpfulness and love.
CHARLES MACKAY
A traveler on a dusty roadStrewed 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 its 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 wayAmid the grass and fern;A passing stranger scooped a wellWhere weary men might turn;He walled it in, and hung with careA ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did,But judged that Toil might drink.He passed again; and lo! the well,By summer never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parchèd 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 becameA lamp of life, a beacon ray,A monitory flame.The thought was small; its issue great;A watch-fire on the hill,It sheds its radiance far adown,And cheers the valley still.A nameless man, amid the crowdThat 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.
The following poem by Mrs. Hemans (1793-1835), an English poet, is remembered for its historic interest. Louis Casabianca, aFrenchman, served on a war ship that helped convey French troops to America, to aid the colonists during the Revolution. Later, when Napoleon attempted to conquer Egypt, he was captain of the admiral's flagship during the battle of the Nile. When the admiral was killed, he took command of the fleet at the moment of defeat. He blew up his ship, after the crew had been saved, rather than surrender it. His ten-year-old son refused to leave and perished with his father.
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone 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 goWithout 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 be done!"He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious 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,And looked from that lone post of deathIn 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 aroundWith 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.
The five numbers that follow are from the works of the great English poet and mystic William Blake (1757-1827). All except the first are given in their entirety. No.328is made up of three couplets taken from the loosely strung togetherAuguries of Innocence. Nos.329,330, and332are fromSongs of Innocence(1789), where the last was printed as an introduction without any other title. No.331is fromSongs of Experience(1794). Blake labored in obscurity and poverty, though he has now come to be regarded as one of England's most important poets. It is not necessary that children should understand fully all that Blake says, but it is important for teachers to realize that most children are natural mystics and that Blake's poetry, more than any other, is the natural food for them.
WILLIAM BLAKE
A Robin Redbreast in a cage,Puts all heaven in a rage.A skylark wounded on the wingDoth make a cherub cease to sing.He who shall hurt the little wrenShall never be beloved by men.
WILLIAM BLAKE
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee,Gave thee life, and bade thee feedBy 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
How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot;From the morn to the evening he strays;He shall follow his sheep all the day,And his tongue shall be filled with praise.For he hears the lambs' innocent call,And he hears the ewes' tender reply;He is watchful while they are in peace,For they know when their shepherd is nigh.
WILLIAM BLAKE
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize thy fire?And what shoulder and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand formed thy dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And water'd heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?
WILLIAM BLAKE
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 sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear."Piper, sit thee down and writeIn 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 songsEvery child may joy to hear.
Eliza Cook (1818-1889) was an English poet who had quite a vogue in her day, and whose poem "Try Again" deals with one of those incidents held in affectionate remembrance by youth. Bruce and the spider may be less historically true, but it seems destined to eternal life alongside Leonidas and his Spartans. Older readers may remember Miss Cook's "My Old Arm Chair," which is usually given the place of honor as her most popular poem.
ELIZA COOK
King Bruce of Scotland flung himself downIn a lonely mood to think:'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown,But his heart was beginning to sink.For he had been trying to do a great deed,To make his people glad;He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed;And so he became quite sad.He flung himself down in low despair,As grieved as man could be;And after a while as he pondered there,"I'll give it all up," said he.Now, just at the moment, a spider dropped,With its silken, filmy clue;And the King, in the midst of his thinking, stoppedTo see what the spider would do.'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,And it hung by a rope so fine,That how it would get to its cobweb homeKing Bruce could not divine.It soon began to cling and crawlStraight up, with strong endeavor;But down it came with a slippery sprawl,As near to the ground as ever.Up, up it ran, not a second to stay,To utter the least complaint,Till it fell still lower, and there it lay,A little dizzy and faint.Its head grew steady—again it went,And traveled a half yard higher;'Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,And a road where its feet would tire.Again it fell and swung below,But again it quickly mounted;Till up and down, now fast, now slow,Nine brave attempts were counted."Sure," cried the King, "that foolish thingWill strive no more to climb;When it toils so hard to reach and cling,And tumbles every time."But up the insect went once more;Ah me! 'tis an anxious minute;He's only a foot from his cobweb door.Oh, say, will he lose or win it?Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,Higher and higher he got;And a bold little run at the very last pinchPut him into his native cot."Bravo, bravo!" the King cried out;"All honor to those whotry;The spider up there, defied despair;He conquered, and why shouldn't I?"And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,And gossips tell the tale,That he tried once more as he tried before,And that time did not fail.Pay goodly heed, all ye who read,And beware of saying, "Ican't";'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to leadTo idleness, folly, and want.Whenever you find your heart despairOf doing some goodly thing,Con over this strain, try bravely again,And remember the spider and King!
Nonsense verse seems to have its special place in the economy of life as a sort of balance to the over-serious tendency. One of the two great masters of verse of this sort was the English author Edward Lear (1812-1888). He was also a famous illustrator of books and magazines. Among his juvenile books, illustrated by himself, wereNonsense SongsandMore Nonsense Songs. All his verse is now generally published under the first title. Good nonsense verse precludes explanation, the mind of the hearer being too busy with the delightfully odd combinations to figure on how they happened.
EDWARD LEAR
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to seaIn a beautiful pea-green boat:They took some honey, and plenty of moneyWrapped 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!"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."Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shillingYour ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next dayBy 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.
EDWARD LEAR
Said the Table to the Chair,"You can hardly be awareHow I suffer from the heatAnd 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.Said the Chair unto the Table,"Now, youknowwe are not able:How foolishly you talk,When you know wecannotwalk!"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?"So they both went slowly down,And walked about the townWith a cheerful bumpy soundAs they toddled round and round;And everybody cried,As they hastened to their side,"See! the Table and the ChairHave come out to take the air!"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.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 leetleBrowny-mousy and the BeetleDined, and danced upon their headsTill they toddled to their beds.
EDWARD LEAR
The Pobble who has no toesHad once as many as we;When they said, "Some day you may lose them all";He replied—"Fish fiddle-de-dee!"And his Aunt Jobiska made him drinkLavender water tinged with pink,For she said, "The world in general knowsThere's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"The Pobble who has no toesSwam across the Bristol Channel;But before he set out he wrapped his noseIn a piece of scarlet flannel.For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harmCan come to his toes if his nose is warm;And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toesAre safe—provided he minds his nose."The Pobble swam fast and well,And when boats or ships came near himHe tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell,So that all the world could hear him.And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,When they saw him nearing the farther side,—"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska'sRuncible Cat with crimson whiskers!"But before he touched the shore,The shore of the Bristol Channel,A sea-green Porpoise carried awayHis wrapper of scarlet flannel.And when he came to observe his feet,Formerly garnished with toes so neat,His face at once became forlornOn perceiving that all his toes were gone!And nobody ever knew,From that dark day to the present,Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,In a manner so far from pleasant.Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,Or crafty Mermaids stole them away—Nobody knew; and nobody knowsHow the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!The Pobble who has no toesWas placed in a friendly Bark,And they rowed him back, and carried him upTo his Aunt Jobiska's Park.And she made him a feast at his earnest wishOf eggs and buttercups fried with fish;—And she said,—"It's a fact the whole world knows,That Pobbles are happier without their toes."
The two great classics among modern nonsense books are Lewis Carroll'sAlice in WonderlandandThrough the Looking Glass. They are in prose with poems interspersed. "The Walrus and the Carpenter," is fromThrough the Looking Glass, while "A Strange Wild Song," is fromSylvie and Bruno. This latter book never achieved the success of its forerunners, though it has some delightful passages, as in the case of the poem given. Lewis Carroll was the pseudonym of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832-1898), an English mathematician at Oxford University.
"LEWIS CARROLL"
The sun was shining on the sea,Shining with all his might:He did his very best to makeThe billows smooth and bright—And this was odd, because it wasThe middle of the night.The moon was shining sulkily,Because she thought the sunHad got no business to be thereAfter 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, becauseNo cloud was in the sky;No birds were flying overhead—There were no birds to fly.The Walrus and the CarpenterWere walking close at hand;They wept like anything to seeSuch quantities of sand:"If this were only cleared away,"They said, "it would be grand!""If seven maids with seven mopsSwept 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 chooseTo 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 CarpenterWalked on a mile or so,And then they rested on a rockConveniently low:And all the little Oysters stoodAnd waited in a row."The time has come," the Walrus said,"To talk of many things:Of shoes—and ships—and sealing waxOf 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 besidesAre 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 beA 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 me 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 outThose of the largest size,Holding his pocket handkerchiefBefore his streaming eyes."O Oysters," cried the Carpenter,"You've had a pleasant run!Shall we be trotting home again?"But answer came there none—And this was scarcely odd, becauseThey'd eaten every one.