She went a little farther, and she met an ox. So she said:—
"Ox, ox, drink water;Water won't quench fire;Fire won't burn stick;Stick won't beat dog;Dog won't bite pig;Piggy won't get over the stile,And I shan't get home to-night!"
But the ox would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a butcher. So she said:—
"Butcher, butcher, kill ox;Ox won't drink water;Water won't quench fire;Fire won't burn stick;Stick won't beat dog;Dog won't bite pig;Piggy won't get over the stile,And I shan't get home to-night!"
But the butcher would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a rope. So she said:—
"Rope, rope, hang butcher;Butcher won't kill ox;Ox won't drink water;Water won't quench fire;Fire won't burn stick;Stick won't beat dog;Dog won't bite pig;Piggy won't get over the stile,And I shan't get home to-night!"
But the rope would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a rat. So she said:—
"Rat, rat, gnaw rope;Rope won't hang butcher;Butcher won't kill ox;Ox won't drink water;Water won't quench fire;Fire won't burn stick;Stick won't beat dog;Dog won't bite pig;Piggy won't get over the stile,And I shan't get home to-night!"
But the rat would not.
She went a little farther, and she met a cat. So she said:—
"Cat, cat, kill rat;Rat won't gnaw rope;Rope won't hang butcher;Butcher won't kill ox;Ox won't drink water;Water won't quench fire;Fire won't burn stick;Stick won't beat dog;Dog won't bite pig;Piggy won't get over the stile,And I shan't get home to-night!"
But the cat said to her, "If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat." So away went the old woman to the cow, and said:—
"Cow, cow, give me a saucer of milk;Cat won't kill rat;Rat won't gnaw rope;Rope won't hang butcher;Butcher won't kill ox;Ox won't drink water;Water won't quench fire;Fire won't burn stick;Stick won't beat dog;Dog won't bite pig;Piggy won't get over the stile,And I shan't get home to-night!"
But the cow said to her, "If you will go to yonder haymakers, and fetch me a wisp of hay, I'll give you the milk." So away went the old woman to the haymakers, and said:—
"Haymakers, give me a wisp of hay;Cow won't give milk;Cat won't kill rat;Rat won't gnaw rope;Rope won't hang butcher;Butcher won't kill ox;Ox won't drink water;Water won't quench fire;Fire won't burn stick;Stick won't beat dog;Dog won't bite pig;Piggy won't get over the stile,And I shan't get home to-night!"
But the haymakers said to her, "If you will go to yonder stream, and fetch us a bucket of water, we'll give you the hay." So away the old woman went. But when she got to the stream, she found the bucket was full of holes. So she covered the bottom with pebbles, and then filled the bucket with water, and she went back with it to the haymakers, and they gave her a wisp of hay.
As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat. As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk—
The cat began to kill the rat;The rat began to gnaw the rope;The rope began to hang the butcher;The butcher began to kill the ox;The ox began to drink the water;The water began to quench the fire;The fire began to burn the stick;The stick began to beat the dog;The dog began to bite the pig;The little pig in a fright jumped over the stile;So the old woman got home that night!
A Frog he would a-wooing go,Heigho, says Roly!Whether his mother would let him or no,With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
So off he set in his coat and hat,Heigho, says Roly!And on the way he met a Rat,With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
"Please, Mr. Rat, will you go with me?"Heigho, says Roly!"Good Mrs. Mousie for to see?"With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
When they came to the door of Mousie's hole,Heigho, says Roly!They gave a loud knock, and they gave a loud call,With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
"Please, Mrs. Mouse, are you within?"Heigho, says Roly!"Oh yes, dear sirs, I am sitting to spin,"With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
"Please, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us some beer?"Heigho, says Roly!"For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer,"With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
"Please, Mr. Frog, will you give us a song?"Heigho, says Roly!"But let it be something that's not very long,"With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
But while they were making a terrible din,Heigho, says Roly!The cat and her kittens came tumbling in,With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
The cat she seized Mr. Rat by the crown,Heigho, says Roly!The kittens they pulled Mrs. Mousie down,With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright,Heigho, says Roly!He took up his hat and he wished them good-night,With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
But as Froggy was crossing over a brook,Heigho, says Roly!A lily-white duck came and swallowed him up,With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,Heigho, says Anthony Roly!
There are various versions of the above narrative of a sadly disastrous expedition, in English and in Scotch alike.The Ballad Book, a curious collection, of which thirty copies only were printed, in 1824, embraces one beginning:—
There lived a Puddy in a well,Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone;There lived a Puddy in a well,Cuddy alone and I.There lived a Puddy in a well,And a Mousie in a mill;Kickmaleerie, cowden down,Cuddy alone and I.
Puddy he'd a-wooin' ride,Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone;Sword and pistol by his side,Cuddy alone and I.Puddy came to the Mousie's home;"Mistress Mouse, are you within?"Kickmaleerie, cowden down,Cuddy alone and I.
And which goes forward narrating the almost identically same story: which story, homely and simple as it appears, is of surprising antiquity. In 1580, the Stationers' Company licensed "a ballad of a most strange wedding of the frogge and the mouse;" and that same ballad Dr. Robert Chambers printed from a small quarto manuscript of poems formerly in the possession of Sir Walter Scott, dated 1630. This very old version begins:—
Itt was ye frog in ye wall,Humble doune, humble doune;And ye mirrie mouse in ye mill,Tweidle, tweidle, twino.
And the closing lines tell that
Quhen ye supper they war at,The frog, mouse, and evin ye ratt.
There com in Gib our cat,And chaught ye mouse evin by ye back.
Then did they all seperat,And ye frog lap on ye floor so flat.
Then in com Dick our drack,And drew ye frog evin to ye lack.
Ye rat ran up ye wall,A goodlie companie, ye devall goe with all.
Of meaner antiquity, perhaps, but no less a favourite with the young, is the amusing ditty of
A Carrion Crow sat on an oak,Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do,Watching a tailor shape his coat;Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow,Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!
Wife, bring me my old bent bow,Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do,That I may shoot yon carrion crow;Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow,Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!
The tailor shot, and missed his mark,Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do,But shot the pig right through the heart;Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow,Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do.
The next, though it has engaged the attention of the adult population, is a prime old-time favourite with the children as well.
"Where are you going to, my pretty maid?""I am going a-milking, sir," she said.
"May I go with you, my pretty maid?""You're kindly welcome, sir," she said.
"What is your father, my pretty maid?""My father's a farmer, sir," she said.
"What is your fortune, my pretty maid?""My face is my fortune, sir," she said.
"Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid.""Nobody asked you, sir," she said.
The original of the following, which has delighted particularly the children of Scotland for many generations, appears with its pleasing air in Johnson'sMusical Museum:—
O can ye sew cushions?Or can ye sew sheets?An' can ye sing ba-la-looWhen the bairnie greets?
An' hee an' ba, birdie,An' hee an' ba, lamb,Ah' hee an' ba, birdie,My bonnie wee man.
Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye?Black is the life that I lead wi' ye;Owre mony o' ye, little to gie ye,Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye?
Now hush-a-ba, lammie,An' hush-a-ba, dear;Now hush-a-ba, lammie,Thy minnie is here,The wild wind is ravin',Thy minnie's heart's sair;The wild wind is ravin',An' ye dinna care.
Hee O, wee O, etc.
Sing ba-la-loo, lammie,Sing bo-la-loo, dear;Does wee lammie kenThat his daddie's no here?Ye're rockin' fu' sweetlyOn mammie's warm knee,But daddie's a-rockin'Upon the saut sea.
Hee O, wee O, etc.
O I hung thy cradleOn yon holly top,An' aye as the wind blewThy cradle did rock.An' hush-a-ba, baby,O ba-lilly-loo;An' hee an' ba, birdie,My bonnie wee doo!
Hee O, wee O, etc.
We see continually how dear to the songs of childlife are the mention of birds and all things sweet in the round of everyday life. Here now—
Hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon,Hush-a-ba birdie, croon;The sheep are gane to the silver wood,And the coos are gane to the broom, broom,And the coos are gane to the broom.
And it's braw milking the kye, kye,It's braw milking the kye;The birds are singing, the bells are ringing,The wild deer come galloping by, by,The wild deer come galloping by.
And hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon,Hush-a-ba birdie, croon;The gaits are gane to the mountain hie,And they'll no be hame till noon,And they'll no be hame till noon.
A prime favourite—none excelling it—has been
Dance to your daddie,My bonnie laddie,Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb;And ye'll get a fishie,In a little dishie,Ye'll get a fishie when the boat comes hame!
Dance to your daddie,My bonnie laddie,Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb!And ye'll get a coatie,And a pair o' breekies—Ye'll get a whippie and a supple Tam!
By the bye, as touching the lullaby order of these songs, it is interesting to note that, no matter of what age or nation they may be, they are all but regularly made up on precisely the same plan. There is first the appeal to the child to slumber, or to rest and be happy; then comes the statement that the father is away following some toilsome occupation; and the promise succeeds that he will soon return laden with the fruits of his labour, and all will be well. We have been seeing, and will see again, how the Scottish go. The Norwegian mother sings:—
Row, row to Baltnarock,How many fish caught in the net?One for father and one for mother.One for sister and one for brother.
Even the Hottentot mother promises her child that its "dusky sire" shall bring it "shells from yonder shore," where he has probably been occupied in turning turtles over on their broad backs. The Breton song goes:—
Fais dado, pauvre, p'tit Pierrot.Papa est sur l'eauQui fait des bateauxPour le p'tit Pierrot.
The Swedish cradle song follows the almost universal custom. It runs (in English):—
Hush, hush; baby mine!Pussy climbs the big green pine,Ma turns the mill stone,Pa to kill the pig has gone.
The Danish does not prove an exception:—
Lullaby, sweet baby mine!Mother spins the thread so fine;Father o'er the bridge has gone,Shoes he'll buy for little John.
The North German cradle song is:—
Schlaf Kindchen, schlaf!Dein Vater hut't die schaf;Dein Mutter schuttelts Baumelien,Da fallt herab ein Tramelein,Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf!
Which, being done into English, runs:—
Sleep, baby, sleep!Thy father guards the sheep;The mother shakes the dreamland tree,And from it falls sweet dreams for thee.Sleep, baby, sleep.
The simplest and crudest of these, we may be sure, has lulled millions to sleep, and by virtue of that association is worth more than many quartos of recent verse deliberately composed with the view of engaging the attention of the nursery circle. How many volumes of the newer wares, for instance, might be accepted in exchange for
Katie Beardie had a coo,Black and white about the mou';Wasna that a dentie coo?Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a hen,Cackled but an' cackled ben;Wasna that a dentie hen?Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a cockThat could spin a gude tow rock;Wasna that a dentie cock?Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a grice,It could skate upon the ice;Wasna that a dentie grice?Dance, Katie Beardie!
Katie Beardie had a wean,That was a' her lovin' ain;Wasna that a dentie wean?Dance, Katie Beardie!
Yet, there is tolerable proof extant that the above dates from at least the beginning of the seventeenth century. "Katherine Beardie," anyway, is the name affixed to an air in a manuscript musical collection which belonged to the Scottish poet, Sir William Mure, of Rowallan, written, presumably, between the years 1612 and 1628. The same tune, under the name of"Kette Bairdie," also appears in a similar collection which belonged to Sir John Skene of Hallyards, supposed to have been written about 1629. Further, so well did Sir Walter Scott know that this was a popular dance during the reign of King James VI., as Mr. Dawney points out, that he introduces it in theFortunes of Nigel, with this difference, that it is there called "Chrichty Bairdie," a name not precisely identical with that here given; but as Kit is a diminutive of Christopher, it is not difficult to perceive how the two came to be confounded. Old as it certainly is—and older by a deal it may be than these presents indicate—it maintains yet the charm of youth—delighting all with its lightly tripping numbers. No less does—
There was a miller's dochter,She wadna want a baby, O;She took her father's grey houndAn' row'd it in a plaidie, O.
Singing, Hush-a-ba! hush-a-ba!Hush-a-ba, my baby, O!An 'twere na for you lang beard,I wad kiss your gabbie, O!
While bedding operations have been in progress no song, surely, has been more welcome and effective than
Hap and row, hap and row,Hap and row the feetie o't;I never kent I had a bairnUntil I heard the greetie o't.
The wife put on the wee panTo boil the bairn's meatie, O,When down fell a cinderAnd burn't a' its feetie, O.
Hap and row, hap and row,Hap and row the feetie o't;I never kent I had a bairnUntil I heard the greetie o't.
Sandy's mither she came inAs sune's she heard the greetie o't,She took the mutch frae aff her headAnd rowed it round the feetie o't.
Hap and row, hap and row, etc.
In about equal favour stands
How dan, dilly dow,Hey dow, dan,Weel were ye're minnie.An' ye were a man.
Ye wad hunt an' hawk,An' hand her o' game,An' water your daddie's horseWhen he cam' hame.
How dan, dilly dow,Hey dan, floors,Ye'se lie i' your bedTill eleven hours.
If at eleven hoursYou list to rise,Ye'se hae your dinner dightIn a new guise.
Laverocks' legs,And titlins' taes,And a' sic daintiesMy mannie shall hae.
A cheery and comforting lilt, indeed, with its promise of plenty. Much superior to the next, which bears in its bosom the hollow and unwelcome ring of a "toom girnal"—a sound no child should ever know. It is yet a lilt familiar to the nursery:—
Oh, that I had ne'er been married,I wad never had nae care;Now I've gotten wife and bairns,They cry Crowdie! ever mair.
Crowdie ance, crowdie twice,Three times crowdie in a day;Gin ye crowdie ony mair,Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.
Quoting the stanzas as an old ballad in a letter to his friend, Mrs. Dunlop, in December, 1795, the poet Burns wrote:—"There had much need to be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helplesslittle folks; me and my exertions all their stay; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of Fate, even in all the vigour of manhood, as I am—such things happen every day—Gracious God! what would become of my little flock? 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on his death-bed, taking an ever-lasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I—but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!" So might we all. Then, away with it, and let us have a more lightsome spring.
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife.An' ye'se get a hen.""I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,"Though ye wad gi'e me ten."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,An' ye'se get a cock.""I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,"Though ye'd gi'e me a flock."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,And ye'se get a goun.""I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,"For the best ane i' the toun."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,An' ye'se get a coo.""I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,"Though ye wad gi'e me two."
"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,An' ye'se get a man.""Wheeple-whauple" quo' the wife,"I'll whistle as I can."
Sung with vocal mimicry, the above makes a strikingly effective entertainment.
The song of "The Three Little Pigs" embraces a palpable moral, which not children alone would be the better for taking to heart. I wish I could sing it for you, my reader, as I have heard Mr. Tom Hunt, the well-known animal painter, sing it in social circles in Glasgow:—
A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,And three little piggies had she;And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!"While the little ones said "wee! wee!"
And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!"While the little ones said "wee! wee!"
"My dear little piggies," said one of the brats,"My dear little brothers," said he,"Let us all for the future say, 'grumph! grumph! grumph!''Tis so childish to say, 'wee! wee!'"
Let us all, etc.
These three little piggies grew skinny and lean,And lean they might very well be,For somehow they couldn't say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"And they wouldn't say "wee! wee!"
For somehow, etc.
So after a time these little pigs died,They all died of fe-lo-de-see,From trying too hard to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"When they only could say "wee! wee!"
From trying, etc.
A moral there is to this little song,A moral that's easy to see:Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"When you only can say "wee! wee!"Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"When you only can say "wee! wee!"
Another delectable song for children—also of a subtly didactic character—is
Gin ye be for lang kail,Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle:Gin ye be for lang kail,Cowe the nettle early.
Cowe it laich, cowe it sune,Cowe it in the month o' June;Stoo it ere it's in the bloom,Cowe the nettle early.
Cowe it by the old wa's,Cowe it where the sun ne'er fa's,Stoo it when the day daws,Cowe the nettle early.
Auld heuk wi' no ae tooth,Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle;Auld gluive wi' leather loof,Cowe the nettle early.
The following curious song, which Mrs. Burns, the wife of the poet, was fond of crooning to her children, is not yet without some vogue outwith the printed page—though mainly in this verse, the place of which, by the bye, would be difficult to fix in the song as printed by Herd:—
The robin cam' to the wren's door,And keekit in, and keekit in:O, blessings on your bonnie pow,Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?I wadna let you lie thereout,And I within, and I within,As lang's I hae a warm clout,To row ye in, to row ye in.
To students of Burns it will ever be of prime interest from the fact that its air, as played by Miss Jessie Lewars to the poet only a few days before his death, supplied the hint for his most tender and touchinglyric, "O Wert them in the Cauld Blast." Herd prints it thus:—
The wren scho lyes in care's bed,In care's bed, in care's bed;The wren scho lyes in care's bed,Wi' meikle dule and pyne, O.
When in cam' Robin Redbreist,Redbreist, Redbreist;When in cam' Robin Redbreist,Wi' succar-saps and wine, O.
Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,Taste o' this, taste o' this;Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,It's succar saps and wine, O?
Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,Robin, Robin:Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,Though it were ne'er sae fine, O.
And where's the ring that I gied ye,That I gied ye, that I gied ye:And where's the ring that I gied ye,Ye little cutty-quean, O?
I gied it till an ox-ee,An ox-ee, an ox-ee;I gied it till an ox-ee,A true sweetheart o' mine, O.
We began with the robin in this, I hope, not wearisome but entertainingMelangeof child-songs. We have never, indeed, got at any time far away from the lively and interesting little fellow; and, that being so, perhaps no item could more fittingly close the series than the very old song of
Gude-day now, bonnie Robin,How long have you been here?I've been bird about this bushThis mair than twenty year!
But now I am the sickest birdThat ever sat on brier;And I wad mak' my testament,Gudeman, if ye wad hear.
Gae tak' this bonnie neb o' mine,That picks upon the corn;And gie't to the Duke o' HamiltonTo be a hunting-horn.
Gae tak' these bonnie feathers o' mine,The feathers o' my neb;And gi'e to the Lady o' HamiltonTo fill a feather-bed.
Gae tak' this gude richt leg o' mine,And mend the brig o' Tay;It will be a post and pillar gude—Will neither bow nor gae.
And tak' this other leg o' mine,And mend the brig o' Weir;It will be a post and pillar gude—Will neither bow nor steer.
Gae tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine,The feathers o' my tail:And gie to the lads o' HamiltonTo be a barn-flail.
And tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine,The feathers o' my breast:And gie to ony bonnie ladWill bring to me a priest.
Now in there came my Lady WrenWi' mony a sigh and groan:O what care I for a' the ladsIf my ain lad be gone!
Then Robin turned him roundabout,E'en like a little king;Go; pack ye out o' my chamber-door,Ye little cutty quean!
Robin made his testamentUpon a coll of hay;And by cam' a greedy gledAnd snapt him a' away.
The humours of little folks, fresh and original, and invariably of the unconscious variety, and their quaint sayings, unrehearsed and uttered regularly without regard to effect—though with merciless honesty often—form a never-palling treat; and every man and woman who has reared a family, or has had joy in the society of other people's children, has his and her own budget, comprising tit-bits at once interesting, startling, and amusing. When occasion has saved us from the foolishly doting parent who is everlastingly prosing about the very clever things his own little Johnnie has said or done, I have seldom found greater enjoyment of a mixed company than when the queer sayings of children went round the board, and we had "recollections," by suggestion, of things which perhaps had been better left unsaid, as also of things which had been more agreeably expressed if differently worded; yet all so honestly set forth that even the "victims" could not help but enjoy them in some measure. Children accept all statements so implicitly, and, with their quick-working wits, they reason so straight-forwardly, that the application when voiced comes at times with a bang sufficient to take one's breath away.Given this and that, however, an application is unavoidable. As lief set fire behind powder in a gun and expect there will be no report. A mite of five, thus, will on occasion utter a syllogism that would not discredit a professor of logic, or will put a question to which a whole college of theologians might not venture an answer. A little lady of my acquaintance who had not yet seen her fourth birthday, was one morning told by her mother that she could not get out to play—the frost was too severe. "Who makes the frost, ma?" was asked. "God, dear." "What does He make frost for?" "To kill the worms." "And why does He make worms, and has to make frost to kill them?" This was a sufficient poser, but the mother continued, "The worms have to be killed, else they would eat the roots of all the plants and flowers." The little lady reflected, then gravely asked, "But does God kill the wee chicky worms that never eated any roots?" The mother did not answer, but looked now even more grave than the child. The same little miss was listening one evening to a newspaper report being read, which told how a man in a storm of wind had been blown with a ladder from a house-top in Glasgow, and was killed. "Who makes the wind?" she asked sharply. She was told. "And does God make the bad winds that kills the mans?" was demanded. There was no reply; but she read the silence as meaning "yes," and turning to leave the room she muttered more to herself than otherwise, "When I die and go to Heaven I'll not sit beside God." When repeating thePater-nosterone evening she stuck at the first sentence, and wanted to know "If God is our Father in Heaven who is our Mother in Heaven?" But the mother was saved this time by the interpositionof the little one's elder brother, who, with stern emphasis, exclaimed, "Stupid! God's wife, of course." A little boy-relative of that girl returned from school one day, while he was but a pupil in the infant department, and stepping proudly up to where his father was seated, "Pa," he exclaimed, "I am the cleverest boy in the class." "Indeed," returned the parent, "I am proud to hear that; but who said it?" "The teacher." "If the teacher said so, it surely must be true. What did she say, though?" "She said, 'Stand up the cleverest boy in the class,' and I stood up." The same little fellow was on the way to school with a friend one morning, towards the end of December, when the two were attracted by the appearance of a sweep on the chimney of a neighbouring building. "I ken what that man's doin' up there," he asserted; "he's sweepin' the lums for Santa Claus to get doon." And that recalls the story I once heard of a little man in the Carse of Gowrie. It happened on an evening towards the close of the year, as he was preparing for bed, and was sitting by the fire with his first liberated stocking in his hand, that he looked over to his mother, and "Mither," he asked, "will I get a pair o' new stockin's before Christmas?" "Maybe, laddie; but what gars ye speir?" "Because"—and he spoke mournfully, as he stuck his fingers through a large hole in the toe—"if Santa Claus puts onything intil thir anes, it'll fa' oot." How cleverly they reason, you see! "Bring me a drink o' water, Johnnie," was the order delivered by a Perthshire farmer to his little son one day a good many years ago. The boy went to do as he was asked, but the water-stoup had been nearly empty, and, as he was approaching his parent with the liquid, he paused and peered doubtfully intothe hand-vessel, then, as if suddenly inspired by a happy thought, "Will I put meal in't, father?" he asked. "No." "Oh, weel, then"—and he turned to go back—"ye'll need to wait till somebody gangs to the well." But to return to children I have known for yet one or two more illustrations. I was at a tea-table one afternoon where the company was mostly composed of the smaller fry, and an incident, important to all, was mentioned, which had happened some seven or eight years before. Several of the older children declared, truthfully, that they remembered it quite well. "So do I mind o' it," asserted a little fellow about five. "How could you mind o' it?" questioned scornfully an older brother; "you wasna born at the time." "I ken," as scornfully returned the younger theologian; "I was dust at the time; but I mind o' it weel enough." Here is the verbatim copy of a letter written since by the hand of that same boy—in a country village in Perthshire—where he has been staying continuously for several years, and addressed to his father in Glasgow:—"Dear Pa, The Rabbits is all dead. Worried with dogs. The gold fishes is dead. Died with the cold. The cat has had kittens, four of them, and the rest of us is all well." The remark of a prominent Scottish novelist who recently passed the epistle through his hands was—"That's style, the most crisp and picturesque. And then—'the rest of us'—how beautifully innocent!"
The little girl of a friend of mind—while still of very tender years—was first taken to church by her aunt. On the way home, and soon after leaving the portals of the sacred edifice, she looked up solemnly in her guardian's face, and, "Auntie," she asked, "was yon God on the mantel-piece?" She referred doubtless tothe minister in the pulpit. Don't think of irreverence, my reader! The child, in its atmosphere of perfect innocence, knows not the word. And bear that in mind further when I tell you of a little boy and girl—both of whom I know well—who were having a walk with me one Sunday in early Autumn, when suddenly a railway train appeared in view. A train on Sunday! They were staggered by the sight; and the boy demanded to know why it should be there. "Oh, I know," exclaimed the girl, after some reflection; "it'll be God coming back from his holidays." The question, "Can prayer be answered?" may be often discussed by grown-up minds. It is never raised by the children. No doubts trouble them in that relation. They are quite certain they will get what they ask for. Perfect confidence in that alone could have made it possible for a certain little miss, who, when being put to bed in a tired condition, and asked to say her prayer, began:—
"This night I lay me down to sleep,I pray the Lord——"
then gave a long, loud yawn, and added, "Oh God, I am awfully sleepy—you know the rest"—making thus, in her rude simplicity, a finely trustful and beautiful prayer. "Give us each day our daily bread," was the honest petition of a little fellow—who, however, recalling probably some recent violent experiences, immediately added—"but dinna let our Lizzie bake it." An elaborately-trained little fellow who had nightly to pray for blessings on "mamma, and papa, grandpapa, and grandmamma," and all his uncles, his aunts, and his cousins, committing each by name, after exhausting the catalogue one evening, heaved a heavy sigh and exclaimed wearily, "Oh, dear, I wishthese people would pray for themselves, for I am so tired of praying for them all!"
A little girl, whose baby brother had died, was told that he had gone to Heaven, and that night she refused to pray—"Take me to Heaven for Jesus' sake"—because, as she said; "I don't want to go to Heaven, I want to stay here, with ma, and pa, and dolly." Were all prayers as honest, many of them, I suspect, would be much shorter than they are.
I have heard of a little boy who was continually being told that he should be good.
"And if I am gooder, and gooder," he asked, "what will I be?"
"Oh, you will be a little angel."
"But I don't want to be an angel," he retorted; "I want to be an engine-driver." They are never else than frank in their statements. A mother who suffers from severe headaches, said to her little girl about eight, one day not long ago, "What would you do, Lottie dear, if your darling mother was taken away from you—if she died?" "Well, mother," was the little one's startling answer, "I suppose we would cry at first—then we would bury you, and then we would come home and take all the money out of your pocket." Now, while it is possible that something else might also be done, it is almost certain—yea, it is certain, without doubt—that all these ceremonials, however reluctantly, would, in turn, be duly performed.
From a story bearing on death to one relating to birth is a transition not so unnatural as may at the first blush appear. And births are affairs ever of prime interest to children. Not many years ago it happened in a village in Perthshire that twins arrived in a family, and next day one of the little misses of thehouse was out on the street playing, when a neighbouring lady came up to where she was, and, "So you've got two little babies at home, Bizzie," she remarked. "Yes," responded the little one, very solemnly; "and do you know, my father was away at Edinburgh when the doctor brought them. But it was a good thing my mother was in; for if she hadna, there would have been naebody in the house but me, and I wadna have kent what to do wi' them." They tell this delightful story of the little daughter of Professor Van Dyke, of the Philadelphia University:—
"Papa, where were you born?"
"In Boston, my dear."
"Where was mamma born?"
"In San Francisco."
"And where was I born?"
"In Philadelphia."
"Well, pap, isn't it funny how we three people got together?"
And that now recalls another which Mrs. Keeley, the actress, tells of a tradesman's little boy who was often taken to stay with his grandmother and grandfather—the latter a very feeble old man, bald and toothless. This little fellow was told that his father and mother had "bought" a nice new baby brother for him. The little man was much interested by the news, and was taken to see the new arrival. He looked at it with astonishment for a few seconds, then remarked—"Why, he's got no hair, father!" This was at once admitted. "And he's got no teeth," observed the boy again, touching another fact which could not be denied. Then a long and thoughtful pause ensued, after which the little critic (who had probably been comparing the baby with his grandfather), observed confidentially—"I'lltell you what, father; if they called him a new baby, they've taken you in—he's an old 'un!" You cannot easily get round children. And it is almost impossible to suppress them. As touching this fact an excellent story is told of our present King and his sister, the late Empress of Germany, when they were boy and girl. Lord——, who had a deformed foot, was invited to Osborne; and before his arrival the Queen and Prince Albert debated whether it would be better to warn the Prince of Wales and the Princess Royal of his physical calamity, so as to avoid embarrassing remarks, or to leave the matter to their own good feeling. The latter course was adopted. Lord ---- duly arrived. The foot elicited no remark from the Royal children, and the visit passed off with perfect success. But next day the Princess Royal asked the Queen, "Where is Lord——?" "He has gone back to London, dear." "Oh, what a pity! He had promised to show Berty and me his foot!" Theenfants terriblehad wilily caught his lordship in the corridor, and made their own terms.
There is pleasure in telling that story were it but for the revelation it affords of how the children of Kings and Queens are animated by the same curiosities, and may act at times so like the children of the commonality. That Royalty again may be moved by the action or word of a child of common birth we have many pleasing proofs. One is pat. A late King of Prussia, while visiting in one of the villages of his dominion, was welcomed by the school children. Their sponsor made a speech for them. The King thanked them. Then, taking an orange from a plate, he asked—"To what kingdom does this belong?" "The vegetable kingdom, sire," replied a little girl.The King next took a gold coin from his pocket, and, holding it up, asked—"And to what kingdom does this belong?" "To the mineral kingdom," was the reply. "And to what kingdom do I belong then?" asked the King. The little girl coloured deeply; for she did not like to say the "animal kingdom," as he thought she would, lest His Majesty should be offended. But just then it flashed upon her mind that "God made man in His own image," and looking up with brightening eye, she said—"To God's Kingdom, sire." The King was moved. A tear stood in his eye. He placed his hand on the child's head, and said, most devoutly—"God grant that I may be accounted worthy of that Kingdom." Thus did the words of a common child, you see, move the heart of a King. But, oh, we are all the same. It is only the environment that is different. And the distinction there even is not so great as one, not knowing, may be disposed to imagine. In high and low life alike, anyway, the children, we know, are free; and all alike are susceptible of eccentricity. What a fine confession of this the Princess of Wales made not long ago when, as Duchess of York, she was addressing a Girls' Society in London. As a school-girl, she said, she disliked geography; of which, she added, she was very ignorant. Once she was set to draw an outline map of the world from memory. "On showing it to my governess," said the Princess, "she said in quite an alarmed manner—'Why, you have left out China! Don't you know where it is?' 'Yes,' I replied, very stubbornly, but very loyally, 'I know where it should be, but I am not going to put it in my map. The Queen is angry with China now, so it has no right to have a place in the world at all.'" The spirit of exclusiveness manifested by the littlelady might readily be quarrelled with in some quarters; but surely the act gives promise of a Queen who, like her to whom she was loyal, will, when her glory cometh—though, may it be far distant—prove the pride of every loyal Briton!
The somersaultic cleverness by which a child will get out of an awkward situation has been often revealed, but seldom with more humour than in the two succeeding illustrations. A minister returning from church towards the manse on a Sunday, came suddenly on a boy leaning earnestly over the parapet of a bridge with a short rod and a long string having a baited hook on the far end, by which he was trying his luck in the burn beneath. "Boy," he exclaimed severely, "is this a day on which you should be catching fish?" "Wha's catchin' fish?" drawled the budding Isaac Walton; "I'm juist tryin' to droon this worm." The next boy was yet cleverer—alike in fishing and in speech. He had several trout dangling from his hand by a string when he met the minister abruptly in a quick bend of the road. There was no chance of escape; but his ready wit saved him. He walked boldly forward, and taking the first word as the two were about to meet, he dangled the trout-hand high, looked the minister square in the face, and exclaimed, "That sorts them for snappin' at flees on the Sabbath!" and passed hence, leaving his anticipated accuser flabbergasted.
Ruskin says of children: "They are forced by nature to develop their powers of invention, as a bird its feathers of flight;" and we might add, remarks another writer, "that the inventive faculty, like a bird, is apt, when fully grown, to fly away. Then, when their own imaginative resources begin to fail them, oneobserves children begin to read books of adventure with avidity—at the age, say, of ten or twelve years. Before that, no Rover of the Andes or Erling the Bold can equal the heroic achievements they evolve from their inner consciousness." Who, for instance, could hope to "put a patch" on the experience of those two little boys who spent a snowy day during the Christmas holidays tiger-shooting in their father's dining-room; and as one, making his cautious way among the legs of the dinner-table, for the nonce a pathless jungle, was hailed by the other with, "Any tigers there, Bill?" he answered gloriously: "Tigers? I'm knee-deep in them!"
That excellent story recalls to me another, not unlike it. Also of a Christmas time. The children had asked permission to get up a play, and it had been granted on the condition that they did it all themselves without help or hint. As the eldest was only ten they accepted the condition with alacrity, for young children hate to be interfered with and hampered by their elders. When the evening came and the family and audience had collected, the curtain was drawn back and revealed the heroine (aged nine), who stated with impassioned sobs that her husband had been in South Africa for the past three years, but that she was expecting his return. Truly enough the hero (aged ten) entered, and proceeded, after affectionate but hasty greetings, to give his wife an eloquent account of his doings, the battles he had fought, the Boers he had killed, and the honours he had won.
When he at last paused for breath, his wife rose, and taking his hand led him to the back, where a short curtain covered a recess.