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Down on his knees he. went, if you please,And oblivious of sunshine, and blossoms, and trees,Where the waterfall piped in the shrillest of treblesHop o' my Thumb filled his pocket with pebbles.Then homeward he stole,Returned through the hole,And crept into bed, not disturbing a soul;But feeling the danger completely forestalled.Curled up, and slept soundly until he was called!At eight o' clock the mother rose,And donning mournfully her clothes,Lit up some sticks and put the kettle on,As she and he did last night settle on:—The water boiling, in goes, souse!The one last carrot in the house.The hapless mother can't but feelIn any case it's their last meal;For even if they now gave upThe plan on which they had agreed,There's nothing left,—nor bite nor sup,—Her hungry, starving babes to feed.Less pain 't will be, she feels, poor mother,To lose them one way than another.And so this poor HagarPrepared hersoupe maigre,While grief and perplexity harass and plague her.And soon as their eyesAre open, with criesOf "Oh, we 're so hungry!" the little ones rise.While the father, who's notVery great at a plot,Conceives that his plan some more treachery lacks;So in order to hatch it, goes out with his axe,And makes an attempt at restoring his mind's toneBy setting the edge of the blade to the grindstone.The poor little soulsSit down to their bowls,And eat up their pottage without any rolls.It's not a remarkably nourishing diet,But it eases the pangsOf hunger's sharp fangs,And the wolf in the stomach keeps partially quiet.But the mother's afraidIt's far from well made,For the carrot's fine flavour and strength haven't stopt in it,And it's rather too salt—from the tears that have dropt in it.However, no matter!They clear out each platter:In expecting a share of the soup, dog and cat err;If they want a first course they must e'en lick the dish for it,And as for the second, they 'll have to go fish for it-A third they 'll not meet with, however they wish for it.So the table was cleared;The cloth disappeared:And then came what Hop o' my Thumb had so feared.Said the father, "Come, children, I'm off to the wood,And I 'll take you all with me providing you 're good.There are lots of wild fruits,Not to mention the roots,And the hawthorns are putting forth midsummer shoots.You 'll have plenty to eat-'T will be really a treat;-So run to your mother, and all be made neat!"Off they ran in great gleeTo their mother, and sheDid the best that she could for the boys; but, you see,A respectable look's not the easiest of mattersTo give to clothes made of shreds, patches, and tatters.However, at last, inspected and passed,They set out for the forest so gloomy and vast.The father goes first with his axe on his shoulder,The next place was the mother's,And then all the others;First he of the brothersWho is than the rest of the family older,And so from the tallestRight down to the smallest,On a scale that would greatly amuse a beholder.And, pray, who last of all should comeBut the mite of the family, Hop o' my Thumb rTrudging along,Humming a song,As if he were quite unsuspecting of wrong,But keeping an eyeVery much on the slyOn the various objects the road took them by,And here and there along the trackDropping a pebble to guide him back.
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On they went still, mounting a hillIn the sort of locality papers call "ill"-That retired kind of spotYou would look on as notAn unsuitable place for the scene of a murther-Up the steep gloomy slopeThey stumble and grope;They'd come to a fir wood, but still they went further.At last the old woodcutter cried out a halt,Set the children to play,And then stole awayWith his wife when he fancied they'd all be at fault.And so they were ratherWhen, weary of playingAnd running and straying,They hunted in vain for their mother and father.Oh, where could they be?In bush, thicket, and treeThey searched, but their parents they nowhere could see.And some of them cried,"Oh, where do you hide?"As young Lovell remarked to his beautiful bride,Who got in "thewrongbox," while the key was outside,And suffered such pains in the chest that she died.They ran to and fro,And searched high and low,And exerted themselves till near ready to drop,Whereupon little Hopmy Thumb, who till then held his tongue, called out "StopThis was done to deceive us:They meant thus leave us;But I, if you 'll just let me manage the job, 'llSoon help you all out of this queer-looking hobble."That night the sad sireSat down by the fire,And the mother sat near him in agony dire,And, though they'd not dined,Felt far from inclinedTo eat of the loaf they'd the good luck to findWhere some gay picnic party had left it behind,Just as they-Well-a-day!(As the madrigals say)-Had left their poor children behind in dismay."Rat-tat-tat!""What is that?"Said the sire as he satOn the desolate hearth 'twixt the dog and the cat."A knock at the door."And without any moreAdo, it was opened—and, lo! on the floorStood those desolate ones,His seven little sons,With Hop o' my Thumb walking coolly before!There was nought to be said:They put them to bed;-You can't solve a riddle by scratching your head,Or that father distrestWould have certainly guessedAll the "Family Herald's" most puzzling and best.But he said to his wife, "Though it's much to our sorrow,We 'll lose the young rascals once more, dear, to-morrow.But for fear that again of our scheme nought should come,Just keep a sharp eye on that Hop o' my Thumb."The very next dayHe led them away,In a different part of the forest to stray-Where the foliage was thicker, and darker, and denser,And—if I'm permitted the term—much immenser!Any chance, to provideFrom the rivulet's sideAny pebbles, to Hop o' my Thumb was denied;But the youngster was oneNot easily done-Said he, "I 'll contrive it, as sure as a gun!"So into his pocket, unnoticed, the crustHe had given him for breakfast he quietly thrust,And when onward they strodeBy this different road,He dropt crumbs all along, that had certainly showedVery well the way back, as had been his intention,But for one little fact I am going to mention:-That the thrush and the blackbird, the woodlark and linnetDiscovered this strewing of bread in a minute,And alighting at once, ate up all of the crumbs,And ruined this plan of poor Hop o' my Thumb's!Now the boys didn't mindIf theywereleft behind,Thinking Hop o' my Thumb would the road for them find.But, alas! when they thoughtIt was late, and they oughtTo get home, and he failed to find out what he sought,A pretty to-doAnd a frightened "bohoo!"Was set up all at once by the terrified crew.T was useless to search;They were left in the lurch,They were lost in the forest as safe as the church.What a terrible plight!It was getting t'wards night,And although there mightnotbe (so whispered their fright)Wild beasts in the forest about,—yet there might!The sun adown the western sky in dying glory rolled,And turned the forest's topmost leaves to fluttering flecks of gold;The twilight shadows deepened roundAnd filled the violet sky,Till, springing out of depths profound,The stars were in the sky.A purple pallFell over all;The last ray faded soon.And, like a galley far and smallAppeared the thread of moon.All noises diedSave winds that sighedAmong the sombre trees.And nightingale's sad song, alliedIn melody to these!Huddling shoulder to shoulder,And not growing bolder.As the breezes moaned louder, the moon shone out colder,Those poor little brothers in terrors the sorest,Went wandering on through the gloom of the forest.Free from dismay,Gallant and gay,Hop o' my Thumb, marching first, led the way;Buttheyhadn't got the same spirit—not they!At last he espiesA trunk of huge size;Said he, "In the world this will give me a rise-I can see by ascending it how the land lies."So without wasting timeHe hastes to the climb. 'His own elbows and knees,With some limbs of the trees,Assisting him up to the top by degrees,He contrives on a bough very lofty to sit him,And views all the darkness of night will permit him,While his brothers conjure him to tell what he sees.
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"Far awayShines a single ray,But what it may be I can't venture to say;It looks rather far,But since here we areWithout any voiceIn the matter or choice,Whatever the distance we ought to rejoice-For whether the night be a melterOr pelter-If it's muggy as beer or it rains helter-skelter-We mustn't make light of a light that means shelter!"On went the children, still shoulder to shoulder,As frightened as bricks, and-than stones vastly colder,And much more alarmed, for a stone is oft bowlder!Arm-in-arm,In alarm,Expecting some harm,In a terror no words of their brother's could charm,They walked t'wards the lightGleaming out through the night,And as fearful to turn as if playing at Fright.Through brake and through mire,Beginning to tire,Trudged the sorrowful sons of a sorrowful sire.On wandered theyIn pursuit of a ray(Though girls more than boys think of dress, so they say);Till at length at the greatFront-door, postern-gate(Or whatever 't was called at that very vague date),Of a castle, or mansion, a building gigantic,Designed on the model of dwellings romantic-You queer little crewGothic, solid, and strong,That lasts ever so long-Not sham Gothic run up on that very bad plan, tick!'T was terribly high;It wearied the eyeTo follow its turrets up into the sky,How many feet.I don't care to repeat,-I 'm a bad hand at figures, of which to be sparing,T was as high as the Grosvenor, or Langham, or Charing. *They none of them knew what course to pursue,Till Hop o' my Thumb found a horn—which he blew;Whereon some one the bolts, bars, and fastenings withdrew,And came out with a lightVery vivid and bright,On the top of the steps at the head of the flight,And they saw, to their joy,Not a man—nor a boy-But one of a sex for which terms we employOf a tenderer sort;In short, one to court-"In short"? Not at all—but a tall one, in short!For she was a giantess, being in figureThan Chang the tremendous,An-actually bigger.
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"Who are you, you queer little crew?"Said Hop o' my Thumb, "Madam, pray how d' ye do?* The poet who sighed (he's depicted as thin)The warmest of welcomes to find at an innMight equal in pantingThe sighs of a BantingTo learn that these inns are prepared, in kind thrift,To give to those guests who are poorest—a lift!We people so smallHave come for a call:We want a night's lodging and supper, that's all!""Alas!" said the dame,"I can't promise that same,Though your lonely condition to pity lays claim.But to grant your entreaty were really a sin-In receiving you here, I should take you all in!""Please, madam, do!"Said the terrified crew,Who fancied each moment much darker it grew,And gazing with awe,Believed that they sawWild beasts coming after with ravenous maw(Not to mention such trifles as jaw, paw, or claw),And spectres enough all their marrow to thaw;So closer and closer together they drew,Repeating the chorus of "Please, madam, do!""My poor children!" said she,"I've a husband, and heIs an Ogre as savage as savage can be;His appetite's great, and when hungry he's sweet on boys;So board, lodging, and clothingHe 'll give you for no-thing, *Besides education—because you 'll be Eton, boys!"These words they don't like,But the terror they strikeNot being so nearAs the darkness they fear,They beg her once more to their prayer to give ear.* Pray pardon the rhyme, which, it's terribly clear,Is a rhyme to the eye, not a rhyme to the ear.If in thus fitting clothing you fancy I fail, orAm making a botch—say 't was done by a tailor."By arm, leg, or head,He dragged all the urchins from under the bed""Please, madam, do!"Said the terrified crew;"We're prepared to be eaten, we're in such a stew!Besides, ma'am, you mightPut us out of his sight;We only want shelter and food for the night.Let our prayers, and our tears, and our woes your heart soften;Some supper provide us,And hide us—please hide us,-We 're quite used to it, father has done it so often.''Moved by their tears, she flung open the door,And gave them some food; but in five minutes more,Ere they'd finished their breadAnd Gloster, she said,"Here's the Ogre approaching—get under the bed!Unless you feel gridiron-like or stewpan-ish,Or would like to be fried with the onions called Spanish!They were off in a jiffy,As promptly as if heWere Colonel Stodare and had said to them, "Vanish!"But scarce were they hidden away, I declare,Than the giant came in with a curious air.All his wife's kind precautions were very well meant,But he, like a JewWho is going to doA bill, was not easily sent off the scent."Fee, faw, fum!"Said he, "there are someLittle children about—yes, I nose there are, mum!"No sooner said,Than by arm, leg, or head,He dragged all the urchins from under the bed.
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Each began to entreat himTo please not to eat him,But the Ogre replied he'd be happy to meat him;So he sharpened his knifeTo take every life-As he would have done had it not been for his wife,Who showed him the supper she'd got—"Wasn'tthatenoughIf so, she was willingTo feed up for killingThe children, who now he could see were not fat enough.Said the Ogre, "That's true-The supper will do.We 'll fatten the brats for a week—or p'rhaps two.Meanwhile, since late hours make them tasteless and flabby,Let them all go to bed—without waking the babby! 'Away they all spedAnd hurried to bed,For fear his opinion should change on that head.But Hop o' my Thumb, while his brothers were weeping,Everywhere peeping,Stealthily creeping,Found seven young Ogrelings cozily sleepingIn the very next bed on a pillow of down,And each of them wearing a little gold crown.Cried Hop o' my Thumb, on perceiving those bright caps,"We've not been accustomed to sleep without nightcaps!"So he took the gold circlets away from the others,And put them instead on himself and his brothers.By and byeThe Ogre so sly(Who had made up his mind to a little boy-pieFor his breakfast) comes up in the dead of the nightWith his very sharp knife, but without any light,And so in the dark (as pitched as the ark)Begins fumbling and feeling about for his mark,-Comes to the bed,But feels on Hop's headA crown, so goes off to his children instead,And at once—for at slaughter you see he a dab is-He cuts all the throats of his slumbering babbies.(For which, since here, Reader, you coroner are, dict--Ate, "Sarve him right"—it's the usual verdict.)Hop o' my ThumbHeard all, but kept mum;And as soon as the first streak of daylight was come,And the dawn "breaking fast" in the heavens he saw(The night was quite done, if the morning was raw),Woke his brothers at once; and they all crept downstairs,Climbed up to a window by aid of some chairs,Got easily out through a large broken pane,Jumped down on the grass, and were free once again!Off went each urchin,And left quite the lurch inThe Ogre, who still his bed slept like a church in.And well may they run,For as sure as a gunThe Ogre will wake and find out what he's done,And at once setting forth from his castle to catch 'em,In spite of their start will be sure to outmatch' 'em.They may run like the wind—but the horrible brute sPossessed of a pair of charmed Seven League Boots!Yes! dread and fear!Already they hearThe giant pursuing them—coming more near:-They must try to conceal themselves closely, that's clear.They endeavour to saveThemselves in a cave:The Ogre approaches, and even the braveLittle Hop o' my Thumb feels a tremor of dreadWhen the giant, who suffers most frightful fatiguesFrom striding across at each step seven leagues,Sits down on the rock that is over their head;But it's not long beforeHe's beginning to snore,And Hop o' my Thumb plucks up courage once more."Now while he's asleepWe must quietly creepFrom our hiding, and bolt like a parcel of sheep! ''Out scramble the boysWithout making a noise,And while this way or that way each rapidly shoots off,Hop o' my Thumb takes the Seven League Boots off.
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With the boots was our hero at once in his glory.He returned at full speed to the house of the giant,And finding the wife to his orders compliant,Made her hand him more treasure at once from the cofferThan the whole Bank of England is able to offer,And took it straightway to his parents, by whichHe made, like a 'tickler good joke, the poor rich.So his and his brothers'And father's and mother'sGood fortune he made—not to name any others..And as for the Ogre, what chanced to become of himI know not—I never asked Hop o' my Thumb of him;But one can't but supposeThat such giants as thoseWhich in nursery legends and stories one knows,By defaming the race must inflict quite a pangOn the large hearts of giants like Anak and Chang,"While this way or that way each rapidly shoots offHop o' my Thumb takes the Seven League Boots off(Though, their size for their suffering some remedy gives,Since one learns the more patience the longer one lives).So we 'll trust that this giant,So fierce and defiant,Got punished. Indeed, on one fact I'm reliant-His gold was all taken by Hop o' my Thumb!And so being left with a very small sum,Namely, nothing, 't is likely ere long he beganTo fall in arrear—and so sank to a van,-A poor sort of coopIn which he'd to stoop(E'en the greatest must bow if their fortunes will droop).Then at revels and fairs he'd be shown as a sight-As "A Giant"—see handbills—"unrivalled in height,Allowed on all sides to be taller than anyThat ever existed. Admission, one penny.N.B. Babies in arms free of charge are admitted."In which case e'en a monster like that's to be pitied.l'envoi.Five Favourite Fairy Fables old,-The efforts of a muse, which ekeAre efforts to amuse,—are told,And my farewell 't is time to speak,Since ended now this book of mine is,With one more "f" for't—addingFINIS.