"'Then haste to your stationsAnd make him the lowest of low salutations'"If you don't wish the gnomes and the kobolds to seize you,When asked whom you obey,Be certain to say,'The Marquis of Carabas, sire, an it please you!'When His Majesty's GraceAppears on the place,You must bow till each one touches earth with his face!"To every wordThat from Pussy they heardThe miners attended—Low bowed and low bended;And when the King came,And asked them the nameOf their master, they answered him all just the same.And I'd just hint to youThat as thus this whole crewOf miners obeyed—minors always should do.But now having passed through this wild tract at last,They came to a plain greenly wooded and vast,And spied out, half hidA thick forest amid,A castle that stood on the crest of a hill,Or the brow of a rock—you may choose which you will;For the hill was so steepThe road had to creepRound and round from the baserTo the gates of the place,Though Pussy went straight up the side at full chase,While slowly aroundThe royal coach wound,The horses got pretty well tired, I 'll be bound,For such roads will e'en puzzle a nag that is sound.Half-way to the top Puss in Boots made a stopNot because he was tired and quite ready to drop,But because he encountered a dame and her goodmanAnd child—by profession the man was a woodman—And wished to inquireEre he went any higherIf this past all doubt was the castle and dwellingOf the wizard of whom I have elsewhere been telling.So, making a bow, he said, "Pray allowMe to ask you one question that struck me just now—That castle that risesTo dazzle our eyes isThe abode, I suppose, of a man of position:
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"The palace," said they, "of a mighty magician,So harsh and severe he's regarded with fearBy all the poor people who dwell about here;The best course, if you asked us, that we'd recommend to you,Is not to go near him—he may put an end to you."Said Puss, "Never fear, for I'll persevereTill the neighbourhood I of this wicked one clear."So he went on once more, till reaching the doorOf the castle, he gave with the knocker a scoreOf such rat-tat-tat-tats, to the blush as would put man--Y thundering knocks by a real London footman.The door was flung wide, and Puss stept inside,But not an attendant there was to be spied—Nought but a handBearing a wand,That pointed the way with a courtesy bland,By corridors gorgeous, up staircases grand,Through halls by arched ceilings, all painted, o'erspanned,Along galleries brilliant with lovely stained windows,Whose curtains were madeOf that Indian brocadeWhich Great Britain, 't is said, to the conquest of Scinde owes;Though the wizard of course got his curtains by witchcraft,Not by merchant-ships, P. and O. steamers, orsichcraft.At length doth Puss enterA hall in whose centreThe Ogre he spies,cui Cyclopius venter.(Which, translated, would mean "as a matter of taste,His figure and form ran a good deal to waist."He has taken his seat,Preparing to eatAn enormous repast of all manner of meat—Beef, mutton, and veal, each in separate bowl—And the different beasts are served up to him whole;And there's one dish, moreover,That Puss can discover,That strikes him with horror and harrows his soul—Babes of quite slender years (that means tender, not thin, age)Piled up on a dish (and no gammon), and spinach.*Puss, nothing daunted(Although 't will be grantedThe sight in some hearts might have terror implanted),Walked straight to the boardWhere the monster abhorredAt the servants attending him bellowed and roared;And servants sure ne'er on their master attendedWith such an unwilling respect as those men did!"Rascals of mine!Bring me some wine,Or I 'll cut you in sunder from head-piece to chine!"* In thus making spinach'To rhyme as with GreenwichI 'm authorised whollyBy Anthony Rowley,Whose edito princeps (of course it's a foli--O) spells the word s.p.i.n.n.a.g.e—And if any should know how to spell it, 't would be he.Alarmed at the speaker,One brought a big beakerOf wine—one-tenth part had floored any one weaker.But the Ogre held up the great glass to his eyeIn a critical way,Smacked his lips, just to say"That 'll do!" and then all at one gulp drained it dry,And set down the goblet. [I cannot see whyIt is called so, and count as a regular puzzle it;For since it's to drink,Not to eat from, you'd thinkThey'd, instead of a "gobble-it," call it a "guzzle-it."]
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Drawing near the huge chair with a reverent air,With knee lowly bent, hand on heart, and head bare,"Quite delighted, I'm sure," so Puss courteously spake,"The acquaintance of one so distinguished to make,For skill that's gigantic in arts necromantic,Whose fame—not to speak it in terms sycophantic—Is driving with envy all wizards quite frantic,European, or Asian, or e'en Transatlantic!"Here Puss bowed again with a courtier-like antic.Even wizards, I fear, or so 't would appear,Cannot always, unmoved, artful flattery hear.The Ogre said, "Ugh!Pray who are you?In return for these compliments what can I do?For since I'm not vain, it seems pretty plainYou would not tell me this without some hope of gain."Says Pussy, "Quite right—you 're very polite—Of your magical powers I'd fain have a sight.There's one now report says is yours, the which bordersOn what is impossible." "Pray give your orders,And I 'll open your eyes with a little surprise,And prove that report does not always tell lies.""Well, since you're so kind—what a wonderful dodge I callIs the power of assuming all shapes zoological—Ape, bear, lion, elephant, wolf, hippopotamus(The latter a beastScarcely known in the leastTill the Pacha of Egypt obliging got 'em us),Tiger, peccary, leopard, gnu, paradoxurus;Or e'en if you wishA bird or a fish—The penguin, for instance, or Buckland's silurus."Said the Ogre, "He! he!You quickly shall see—That's only child's-play to a wizard like me!"So without more ado, hands and knees on he sunk,His ears turned to flaps, and his nose to a trunk,And his form all at once took so quickly to swelling,He threatened to knock off the roof of his dwelling."Bravo!" cried the cat; "that's capital, that!You 're almost as big as the Heidelberg vat!But can you now, please, with just as much easeInto smaller dimensions at once yourself squeeze?Say, turn from the elephant, big as the house,Sansany embarrassment, into a mouse?"Bulk, big legs, and trunkImmediately shrunk!In three seconds—no more—Was a mouse on the floorWhere the elephant stood but an instant before.At one bound, quick as thought,That mouse Pussy caught,And before any aid from his charms could be sought,Or help could be had from the spirits who followed him,Had given the magician one grip—and then swallowed him!Then back to the doorPuss hastened once more,Just in time to receive the state carriage and four.He helped to descendHis master and friend,Who was still in bewilderment how it would end,And proceeded to bringThe Princess and the KingThrough all the grand rooms,Where pages and grooms—Who were glad with the Marquis their old situationsTo hold in the castle—made low salutations.To cut my tale short,They returned to the court,And, since nobody wished their attachment to thwart,The young folks were married,And he his bride carriedTo his castle, where happily ever they tarried;And the cat was provided—The King so decided—With a cushion of silkAnd a gallon of milkEvery day of his life till the day that he died-ed.I 've only to addThe fortunate ladSent and fetched his two brothers so cruel and bad,And recalling the pastTo their memory, at' lastTold his present good fortune, which made them aghast;And then, bidding them better in future behave them,To be nobly revenged on them both—he forgave them!
THERE once was a Baron who dwelt at the topOf a rock by the Rhine,Whence, whene'er he'd incline,Upon travellers that way he was ready to drop,And lighten their purses—Which brought many cursesOn the head of the Baron of SnitherumpoppFor a practice, which nowWe shouldn't allow,And, in fact, the police would immediately stop.Hard by where the Bar(i)on *These strange tricks did carry onThere lived a young Prince, who by flourish of clarionProclaimed unto all, both great folks and small,He intended to give a great banquet and ball—Or, to use modern language, a spread and a hop:—'T was good news for the daughters of Snitherumpopp.For the Baron, you see, had daughters three,The two eldest as ugly as ugly can be,And prouder than Lucifer—(no! I must scratchThatthrough. For they'd waited so long for a catch,It's not true that their pride was above any match)—But the youngest was fair, with beautiful hair;Her sisters looked on her with rage and despair;And thatthey'd have no chance they declared past a doubt,If that "forward young minx" was allowed to "come out."* At this new mode of spelling the word don't feel shy—I have seen a Baron with more than one eye!So for fear of her beauty their lovers bewitching,They compelled her to stopIn that wretched cook's-shopWhich is—by its own denizens—christened the "kitching."In clothes very mean they compelled her to cleanPots, kettles, and pans—implements de cuisine.In her pa's worn-out glovesShe polished the stoves,Poker, shovel, and tongs, and whatever belongsTo theroleof what Stubbs * calls "say po-vers onfongs,"The General Servants—or Maids-of-All-Work,Though this last is a name they seem anxious to shirk,Or at least as a rule in advertisements burke.Though far from robust, she'd to sweep and to dust,And to see dinner cooked, when skewered rightly or trussed,(Though dining herself off a scrap and a crust,While if aught turned out wrong by her pa she was cussed)Not to mention,en passant, the fact that she mustChairs and tables adjust; and, from last unto fust,See that all things were clean from dirt, mildew, or rust.(For this last she used paper, which is, unless memoryDeserts this poor brain altogether, called Emery.)[N.B. Any doubt on the point to enlighten,I don't mean the actor, although he's a bright 'un.]When the ball was announced, off the two sisters bouncedTo send their best dresses to have them re-flounced,And soon became clawers from various drawersOf fans, flowers, gloves (by the shopman styled "strawers"),Trimmings, ribbons, and laces, to add to the gracesOf their very poor forms and their very poor faces.* Of scenes continental Poor Stubbs has been viewerBut once, though he speaks of his trip as "mong two-er."I must own that they were (since plain speakingde rigueur's)What tradesmen denominate "marked in plain figures!"One routs out a scarf, one contrives to unearth aCompound oftulleAnd ribbons which you 'llHear described by your sister or wife as a Bertha.The eldest's inclined to declare for a tarlatane,Either an emerald green or a scarlet 'un,With a silk under-petticoat known as a slip;While the second decides double skirts are "the tip."(What "the tip" means you know, though one can't see the point of it.I'd not use the slang, save that rhyme makes a joint of it.)At last draws near the festal day!The ball's to last three nights, they say.What a hustle and bustle—oh, dear! what a fuss 'llBe made when the ball-dresses whisper and rustle,I 'll warrant that scuffleAnd noise quite enough 'llBe made when along the oak floors their feet shuffle,While the band are all playing as hard as they 're ableThe popular waltz of the season—the "Mabel."While her unprepossessingTwo sisters are dressing,Cinderella to do all the work, I'm afraid, is made,Not only of general servant, but lady's maid.She lays out the robes by which each so much store sets,Takes things down to air,Cleans their shoes, curls their hair,Pins their sleeves, hooks their dresses, and laces their corsets.And now they're both drest,—each, looking her best,Is prepared to become at the Prince's a guest.They 're gone! And yet neither her thanks has conveyedTo poor Cinderella for lending her aid;They 've not wished her good-night—they have not even kist her,Though for once they 've allowed her to act as assister.She could not but feel it, her heart being tender,So she sat down and had a good cry on the fender;When—as good Mrs. Brown,Of world-wide renown,Whose figures of speech may, without any bosh,Be described as "the things thatcome homefrom the wash,"Says—"All of a suddin"The room was a flood inOf light! Cinderella, surprised, said, "Oh, Jim'ni!The soot must have caught and set fire to the chimney!But no! t' was not so!The beautiful glowWas not due to an accident—quite the contrairy—Altogether another affair,—and a fairy!Cinderella had got what now-a-day notVery often has fallen to any one's lot,As I fancy you can't but instantly grantWhen you learn it's a fairy by way of an aunt.This benevolent fay has called in, in this wayTo hear what her favourite niece has to say,And to send her, if any desire she evincesTo share in the fun, to the ball at the Prince's.When she said, "Will you go?" she didn't say, "No!"But answered, "Just shouldn't I, aunt!" adding, "Oh!How I wish I'd a ball-dress—one fit for a belle—aWhite muslin with tucks!" "So you shall, Cinderella.But first we must get you an equipage proper.You'll find some black-beetles down there by the copper;There's a rat in the trap, and some mice, too, mayhap,And there's also a lizard, a little green chap,On the grass-plot before the scullery door.Bring them here, there's a dear. Stay, I want one thing more—A pumpkin! And yonder I see, if my eyesDon't deceive me, a pumpkin exactly the size!"Cinderella soon sought the things out, and broughtTo her aunt, who, by magic as rapid as thought,Turned the beetles to pages, and made of the ratA coachman, all powder, bouquet, and laced hat.As for the mice, they became in a triceEight cream-coloured galloways, worth any price;And the lizard—she made that most active of friskersA footman!—with livery, calves, and big whiskers."And now, dear," said she,"For a coach we must see!Now pumpkins—some fry 'em, some boil 'em, some stew 'em,But no one before ever made one a brougham." *
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At once—although strange you may fancy the change,And think I am drawing a bow at long range-The pumpkin (of that as cock-sure as a bantam I'm)Turned to a coach like a trick in a pantomime.Then the worthy old fay touched her niece's array—Rags and tatters all vanished at once quite away,And, lo! in their lieu, she appeared to the viewIn a ball-dress of fashion the newest of new!She'd such lovely jewels-The thought of them cruel's!-Not at Hancock's, or Ryder's, or H. Emmanuel's,Or the shops of some forty more-(Say Storr and Mortimore,Hunt and Roskell, or any besides of the manyWhere on things of the sort you may spend a nice penny)-* No! But at the Adelphi some folks "I 've heard tell on"Are often quite carried away by a Mellon.Could you ever procure such pearls, diamonds, and top az:I very much doubt if their equal the Pope has;Though there are (so I've read in a newspaper par.) aGood many gems in the papal tiara!But what sort of shoes had the sweet Cinderella-Polished leather, white satin, French kid, or prunella?No! not one of those hid her dear little toes.She wore—can't you guess?—now whatdoyou suppose?—She wore—come, you know what she hadpour ses souliers?—She wore—as A. Ward would remark, 't was "pekoolier"—She wore, to be brief, then, a pair of glass slippers,And what vulgar rapture calls "regular clippers!""And now," said her aunt, "your sisters may flaunt,And fancy they 'll catch the young Prince—but they shan't!There's one thing, however, I'm anxious to mention-And I beg you will give to my words your attention:If you stop at the ball till the hours that are small,Your jewels and finery'll vanish—that's all!So when twelve's drawing near be careful, my dear,And to get away safely take five minutes clear.Yes; at five minutes to, pray take your adieu,Or something may happen you 'll long have to rue!"Cinderella, quite charmed with her gorgeous array,Scarce had patience to hear what her aunt had to say,But the moment she seemed to be making an end to it,Kissed her, and promised she'd strictly attend to it!Cinderella steps into her carriage and eight,Tantara-tantara-ta!With coachman, and footmen, and pages of state,She is driven away to the Prince's grand gate.Tantara-tantara-ta!Oh, didn't they think she was somebody great!Tantara-tantara-ta!The Prince's Lord Chamberlain rushed to the door,Tantara-tantara-ta!And bowed very low that fair lady before,While retainers and guards crowded round by the score,Tantara-tantara-ta!And even the solemn old porter said, "Lor!"Tantara-tantara-ta!The Prince, when he heard all the hubbub and din,Tantara-tantara-ta!Came down the grand staircase, and held out his finTo the fair Cinderella, and welcomed her in,Tantara-tantara-ta!And a very sweet smile was so blest as to win.Tantara-tantara-ta!He leads her to the ball-room. As they enter,At once all eyes on Cinderella centre.Each noble of the land, well-born or grand,Desires the honour of her tiny hand.The women all are on the hooks styled tenterTo learn who she can be,Though "really they can't see"-Like female jealousy there's no fermenterFor turning tempers naturally placidInto a bitterly corrosive acid-"What all the men could find in her to praise-They'd ne'er met one more plain in all their days.Her clothes were fine,And did with jewels shine,But then, you know, they'd probably been lent her."What need to enlarge?—It appears woman's dutyTo differ from us upon questions of beauty.
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The men were enchanted. The ladies said, "Well, aMore brazen-faced thing—!" meaning poor Cinderella.(The dissension of belles,As experience tells,Is one of the oldest ofhorrida bella.)The Prince claimed her hand for the very next dance;Cinderella consented, but gave him a glanceThat set his heart dancing with passion and pleasureMuch faster by far than his feet danced the measure."Now 's your chance,Miss, to dance.Hark! they play the 'Mabel.'Who'd be falseTo such a waltz,If to spin he's able?"Faster theyOught to play-Can't they do it quicker?No, that assThe double-bass,He's far gone in liquor."O'er the floorOne round moreWill not tire, I trust, you.""Only one—And now it's doneI'll sit down." "Oh, must you:"For dance after dance his delight to enhanceThe Prince asks her hand; no one else has a chance!While young ladies and old, "left out in the cold,"Shake their heads at such doings, and say that it's "bold!But the Prince doesn't care for any one thereBut his own darling partner, so gentle and fair(Which is more than his conduct is—so they declare).At last Cinderella looked up at the clock,One minute to twelve! What a terrible shock!In two seconds more she is out at the door,-She has no time to wait, but runs to the gate-It's well no one sees her, because she's too late:The clock has struck twelve. The enchantment is o'erThe guards who were stationed each side of the portal,When questioned, said theyHad seen none pass that wayExcept—yes! one scullery-maid, a poor mortal,All rag, patch, and tatter, but didn't look at her.The porter declared he knew nought of the matter;At the door as he sat he'd seen nothing thereatBut a pumpkin, a lizard, some mice, and a rat.The Prince, who'd rushed out to look after his partnerAnd hand her downstairsTo her carriage, declaresHe can't make it out—"It is quite a disheart'ner!"However, next night he feels it's all rightWhen he sees her again at his palace alight.Once more by his side through the hall she will glide—And if he's a chance,In the midst of the danceHe '11 ask her permission to make her his bride.Cinderella, taught wisdom by yesterday's scrape,Though enjoying the ball,Watched the clock on the wall,And in plenty of time from the room made escape.But the Prince, looking out very sharply, no doubt,Saw what his mysterious guest was about-So sent for a follower trusty and tried,And said he was yearning the name to be learningOf the lady just gone to her carriage outside;And so he must rideA little way on—say just down the next turning-And follow the coach, let whatever betide!The Prince then conducted the fair to her coach-But in vain did his vassal await its approachTo ride in its track, so at last he came back.At the news of his failure his master looked black,And instead of a money-bag gave him the sack.The next night came round—once more the Prince foundHis love at the ball—and his heart gave a bound!In the midst of the hop the question to popHe determined—and nought his intention should stop.How sweet are first love's tender wordsAs on the ear they fall!More musical than song of birds-More sweet than whey, more soft than curds,So welcome to us all.And, ah! to Cinderella's ear,Who'd heard so little love,How were the Prince's accents dear,Which her fond heart could plainly hearAll other sounds above!Her aunt's directions to her nieceYoung Cupid makes her shelve;When suddenly her joy must cease-The clock upon the mantelpieceIs on the stroke of twelve.One! run-Two! through-Three! the-Four! door.Five! look alive!—If you do not contriveTo be out of the place ere the clock strikes twice six,I guess, Miss, you 'll be in a tall sort of a fix.She is off and away without any delay,Ere the Prince can get rid of his fear and. dismay:Off down the stairsLike a mad thing she tears-When one of her slippers, small blame for that same,Slipt off altogether, quite true to its name;So the Prince when he cameTo the top of the staircase his love to pursue,Found thatshewas a slipper—but left him a shoe.What was he to do? He put two and twoTogether at once, "calculating" like Babbage;And as Taylor would sayIn adapting a play,Remarked, "If that'schoux, I will make itmycabbage;The guards were all questioned, but nought could he glean;They had carefully watched, but had nobody seenExcept one poor beggar girl, ragged and mean.£; Who," so one observed, "from her beautiful colour, heThought had been scrubbing the pans in the scullery."The very next day, in the usual way,His nobles he sent, with a herald, to say,That the fortunate fairWho could easily wearThe slipper which they on a cushion then carriedWould be by the Prince instantaneously married."Pooh!" say the ladies, as each trial made is,"Only fit for Chang's lady, that shoe, we 're afraid, is.You'd better convince that foolish young Prince,If he waits till it's fitted—the fact not to mince-He 'll finish at last by not marrying at all;The slipper is really too foolishly small!"But in spite of their sneers, they were all half in tears,And to get on the slipper bad given their ears;Indeed, there were those who cut off their toesTo try and contrive it—or so the tale goes.Cinderella's two sisters were fiery as blisters,And abused the young Prince and his learned ministers,Altogether, as Toole would observe, "just a-goin' it!"Because, if you please,When each tried to squeezeThe shoe on, she scarcely could get her big toe in it.When they 'd done, Cinderella sat down in the chair:Oh, didn't they stare with contemptuous air!While each to the other said, "Well, I declare!"But when the lords putThe shoe on her foot,Without any ado it slipt into the shoe—
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Said the Prince in a trice, "I 'll wed none, love, but you!"What more? The good fairy returned on the scene,And, instead of the garb which was really not clean,At a touch of her wand, in a dress of rare sheenPresented her niece to the Prince who had beenSo faithful and fond, and who made her his Queen.[From the "Post" you will all the particulars gleanOf the marriage performed the two parties betweenBy a Bishop, assisted by Canon and Dean.]Her sisters were very near dying of spleen,And thought their aunt's conduct remarkably mean,But lived as neglected old maids, spare and lean(Though they'd never acknowledge to more than nineteen).So there's no more to tell a--Bout sweet Cinderella,Whose life was quite happy—in fact, "all serene!"
UPON a forest thick and gloomyA cottage, the reverse of roomy-To put it plainly, just a hutAnd nothing better—did abut.'T was built of clay and roofed with straw;The walls had many a gap and flaw;The chimney wouldn't always draw;The floor was damp, the ceiling leaky;With stains of rains the walls were streaky.Around the hearth, where seldom smiledA blazing fire, were faggots piledAs if for fuel-Oh, mockery cruel!For they were heaped from floor to raft--Ers as a check upon the draught.The fires that used that draught to flicker toConsisted only of a stick or two,Enough to warm a mess of pottage.Pshaw! why waste timeIn spinning rhyme,When one can easily contriveTo picture it with words just five?-The usual "English labourer's cottage."There dwelt a goodwife, and her goodman,Who by profession was a woodman,But was so poor and so prolific(A family of seven's terrificTo one whose trade is notfirstchop),That oft when trees he'd limb and lopHe wished—his lot did him appal so-That he could cut his own stick also.But while he in the woods was hewing,What, think you, the poor wife was doing,Who had to sit at home, and seeHer children gather round her kneeWith looks that, plain as words could utter,Said, "Please, we want some bread and butter" rWhat could she do but sit and sigh,.While bitter tears bedewed her eye?-His was the "hew," but hers the "cry."Her household duties were but few:When she had clothed the infant crew,The toils that as a rule belongTo cooking, did not take her long;They never tasted meat, to vary anEternal diet vegetarian.And well we know, to rear a troopOn turnip broth and carrot soup,And ne'er taste "pieces of resistance,"Is vegetation, not existence!Said the husband one nightAs they sat by the lightOf a fire that for them was uncommonly bright, *"My dear, we have gotOne carrot—and notA single scrap more to put into the pot.* How it flickered and flared has been drawn con amoreBy that notable artist of artists, G. Dore.We 're as poor as church mice, and there's nothing much surerThan that we every day shall grow poorer and poorer.And what for our bratsCan we do, my love? That'sThe question that gnaws at my heart 'like green rats!'It's long since we had any victuals to carve,But now we 've no soupTo spoon out for the group-Whatisto be done? for we can't see them starve."The wife shook her head,And mournfully said,"If we have not the food, why, they cannot be fed;Unless we find heart to entrust them all seven.To the Power that feedsAnd attends to the needsOf the wild things of earth and the winged things of heaven."Said the father, "That's true!It's what we must do-We 'll take to the forest the poor little crewBy roundabout ways, all the more to confuse them;And then, when we find they 're not looking, we 'll lose them."Here the reader polite 'llAllow the recitalTo pause while they 're settling a question so vital;And I, in requital,To make it all right, 'llExplain how my story has come by its title.The last child that was bornTo this couple forlornWas tiny in figure;Not very much biggerThan the wee dancing dolls that one sees in an organ;Or rather, so smallThat no figure at allHe'd, I think, have been called by Professor de Morgan,But—devoted to fractions most infinitesimal-That diminutive point which is known as a decimal.So, though he was a boy,And we do not employ-Says the grammar that Eton lads always enjoy-For the masculineomne quod exit in um,They christened the little one Hop o' my Thumb.The father regarded the child with surprise;And his mother, poor woman, shed tears for his size,For she felt as she looked at her babe the misgivingThat so little a boy could but make a small living.And as he grew olderStill every beholderThat he didn't grow bigger at all always told her;But then as some comfort they all of them found himPossessed of greatnous,Though the size of a mouse-For though he was little, they couldn't get round him.Now it chanced on the night that begins my narration,When his parents were holding this grave consultation,Sleep would not comeTo Hop o' my Thumb-He was on the alert "a remarkable some;"So he sat up in bed,And there by the redAnd flickering light that around it was shed,By the glare of the logSaw the cat and the dog-She was poor as a rat;—he'd a waist like a frog,Or a greyhound—but due to the absence of prog,Not the presence of breed,-He resembled, indeed,He saw on her cheek a tear-drop glisten,So he hid himself under her chair to listenThe nags that you see in a cab-driver's stud,Whose "points" are all owing to bone, not to blood.There his father and motherToo sat by each other,Conversing in tones they seemed anxious to smother,And he saw on her cheek a tear-drop glisten,So he hid himself under her chair to listen.
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What did he hear?-He regarded with fearBeing left in the forest so dismal and drear!And all for no good,For 'twas likely he shouldGet wholly mislaid, like the Babes in the Wood,Whom (see story) with leaves the kind robin, alack! buries,When they eat, by mistake, deadly nightshade for blackberries!In a state of despair,Hidden under the chair,Poor Hop o' my Thumb heard his parents declareThat the first thing next day they would make the excursionWhich, so they determined, should end in desertion."What's to be done?This is really no fun:I 'm the wretchedest mortal that's under the sun.To bed I must creep—But awake I will keep,For what I've to do is to think, not to-sleep,"Said Hop o' my Thumb,When his father said, "Mum!"-To his mother, intending that she should be dumbOn the subject that lateHad formed their debate-"I think you had better get breakfast at eight."The boy stole to bed,To turn o'er in his headThe things which his father and mother had said,And discover, if possible, 'cute little chap!As well as he can,Some snug little planTo guard him and brothers against a mishap.One thing was clear:When they started from hereHe some landmarks must leave by which homeward to steer;For if he'd the means to discover the track again,Go where they would, he could find his way back again!But in vain to deviseSome guide-post he tries,Till he's quite wearied out, and sleep closes his eyes.But while he still sleeps,On a moonbeam down sweepsA fairy: beneath his closed eyelids she peeps,And finding him busy on all sorts of schemes,To aid his escapeFrom the morrow's sad scrape,She a cunning suggestion slips into his dreams.Where lofty oaks deep shadows make,And ceaselessly the aspens quake,Where ancient elms their branches spread,And ashes whisper overhead;Within the forest's darkest gladesThere flows a stream among the shades,Above its wave a hoary groupOf melancholy willows droop.The kingfisher its waters loves;'T is haunted by the startled doves;And, free of fear, beside its brinkThe dappled fawn oft stops to drink.'T is fed by twenty tinkling rills,And here and there—where sunlight spillsThrough openings in the boughs o'erheadA halo, yellow, azure, red-A tiny rainbow bright and smallHangs o'er the mimic waterfall;Where through the overarching greenBright glimpses of the sky are seen,The dancing waters as they goMirror the snatch of blue below.Long mosses wave within its stream,And silvery fishes glance and gleam,And water-lilies float and sail.But these do not concern my tale.My point, the mystery to unravel,Is, that the bed of it is gravel,And that its bays and banks aboundIn pebbles small, and smooth, and round.By the side of this stream,As he walked in his dream,It appeared that the pebbles all set up a scream,"Hop o' my Thumb!Come hither, boy, come;Ifwecannot show you the way it is rum!" *At the first streak of dayHe is up and away!He creeps out of the house through a crack in the* At the slang the stones speak don't, I pray, be offended:How their schooling's neglectedMust be recollected—Just remember how often roads have to be mended!Off like a rocketTo fill every pocketWith stones—precious stones, though not fit for a locketBrooch, bracelet, or ring,Or any such thing-But precious to him for the help they will bring.Away must he goLike arrow from bow,Yet all in a quiver,And reaches the river.The scene is a taking one, though this is a giverOf peaceful delight,Full of charm for the sightThat reads all the beauty of Nature aright.On the bank of the streamRests one fleeting gleam,Where the bluebells and dainty anemones teem,And there rises o'er themThe grey hollow stemOf an old pollard willow; while many a gemFrom the waters is hungLeaf and blossom among,For 't is here that the stream's sweetest madrigal's sung.But what does he care for song, bluebell, or pollard?—There are the jockeys that have to be collared.