THUMBPAGETHE SLEEPING PRINCESS.Theringing bells and the booming cannonProclaimed on a summer mornThat in the good king’s royal palaceA Princess had been born.The towers flung out their brightest banners,The ships their streamers gay,And every one, from lord to peasant,Made joyful holiday.Great plans for feasting and merry-makingWere made by the happy king;And, to bring good fortune, seven fairiesWere bid to the christening.And for them the king had seven dishesMade out of the best red gold,Set thickly round on the sides and coversWith jewels of price untold.When the day of the christening came, the buglesBlew forth their shrillest notes;Drums throbbed, and endless lines of soldiersFiled past in scarlet coats.And the fairies were there the king had bidden,Bearing their gifts of good—But right in the midst a strange old womanSurly and scowling stood.They knew her to be the old, old fairy,All nose and eyes and ears,Who had not peeped, till now, from her dungeonFor more than fifty years.Angry she was to have been forgottenWhere others were guests, and to findThat neither a seat nor a dish at the banquetTo her had been assigned.THUMBPAGENow came the hour for the gift-bestowing;And the fairy first in placeTouched with her wand the child and gave her“Beauty of form and face!”Fairy the second bade, “Be witty!”The third said, “Never fail!”The fourth, “Dance well!” and the fifth, “O Princess,Sing like the nightingale!”The sixth gave, “Joy in the heart forever!”But before the seventh could speak,The crooked, black old Dame came forward,And, tapping the baby’s cheek,“You shall prick your finger upon a spindle,And die of it!” she cried.All trembling were the lords and ladies,And the king and queen beside.But the seventh fairy interrupted,“Do not tremble nor weep!That cruel curse I can change and soften,And instead of death give sleep!“But the sleep, though I do my best and kindest,Must last for an hundred years!”On the king’s stern face was a dreadful pallor,In the eyes of the queen were tears.“Yet after the hundred years are vanished,”—The fairy added beside,—“A Prince of a noble line shall find her,And take her for his bride.”But the king, with a hope to change the future,Proclaimed this law to be:That, if in all the land there was kept one spindle,Sure death was the penalty.THUMBPAGEThe Princess grew, from her very cradleLovely and witty and good;And at last, in the course of years, had blossomedInto full sweet maidenhood.And one day, in her father’s summer palace,As blithe as the very air,She climbed to the top of the highest turret,Over an old worn stairAnd there in the dusky cobwebbed garret,Where dimly the daylight shone,A little, doleful, hunch-backed womanSat spinning all alone.“O Goody,” she cried, “what are you doing?”“Why, spinning, you little dunce!”The Princess laughed: “’Tis so very funny,Pray let me try it once!”With a careless touch, from the hand of GoodyShe caught the half-spun thread,And the fatal spindle pricked her finger!Down fell she as if dead!And Goody shrieking, the frightened courtiersClimbed up the old worn stairOnly to find, in heavy slumber,The Princess lying there.They bore her down to a lofty chamber,They robed her in her best,And on a couch of gold and purpleThey laid her for her rest,The roses upon her cheek still blooming,And the red still on her lips,While the lids of her eyes, like night-shut lilies,Were closed in white eclipse.Then the fairy who strove her fate to alterFrom the dismal doom of death,Now that the vital hour impended,Came hurrying in a breath.And then about the slumbering palaceThe fairy made up-springA wood so heavy and dense that neverCould enter a living thing.THUMBPAGEPrinceAnd there for a century the PrincessLay in a trance so deepThat neither the roar of winds nor thunderCould rouse her from her sleep.Then at last one day, past the long-enchantedOld wood, rode a new king’s son,Who, catching a glimpse of a royal turretAbove the forest dunFelt in his heart a strange wish for exploringThe thorny and briery place,And, lo, a path through the deepest thicketOpened before his face!On, on he went, till he spied a terrace,And further a sleeping guard,And rows of soldiers upon their carbinesLeaning, and snoring hard.Up the broad steps! The doors swung backward!The wide halls heard no tread!But a lofty chamber, opening, showed himA gold and purple bed.And there in her beauty, warm and glowing,The enchanted Princess lay!While only a word from his lips was neededTo drive her sleep away.He spoke the word, and the spell was scattered,The enchantment broken through!The lady woke. “Dear Prince,” she murmured,“How long I have waited for you!”Then at once the whole great slumbering palaceWas wakened and all astir;Yet the Prince, in joy at the Sleeping Beauty,Could only look at her.She was the bride who for years an hundredHad waited for him to come,And now that the hour was here to claim her,Should eyes or tongue be dumb?The Princess blushed at his royal wooing,Bowed “yes” with her lovely head,And the chaplain, yawning, but very lively,Came in and they were wed!But about the dress of the happy Princess,I have my woman’s fears—It must have grown somewhat old-fashionedIn the course of so many years!
THUMBPAGE
Theringing bells and the booming cannonProclaimed on a summer mornThat in the good king’s royal palaceA Princess had been born.The towers flung out their brightest banners,The ships their streamers gay,And every one, from lord to peasant,Made joyful holiday.Great plans for feasting and merry-makingWere made by the happy king;And, to bring good fortune, seven fairiesWere bid to the christening.
Theringing bells and the booming cannon
Proclaimed on a summer morn
That in the good king’s royal palace
A Princess had been born.
The towers flung out their brightest banners,
The ships their streamers gay,
And every one, from lord to peasant,
Made joyful holiday.
Great plans for feasting and merry-making
Were made by the happy king;
And, to bring good fortune, seven fairies
Were bid to the christening.
And for them the king had seven dishesMade out of the best red gold,Set thickly round on the sides and coversWith jewels of price untold.When the day of the christening came, the buglesBlew forth their shrillest notes;Drums throbbed, and endless lines of soldiersFiled past in scarlet coats.
And for them the king had seven dishes
Made out of the best red gold,
Set thickly round on the sides and covers
With jewels of price untold.
When the day of the christening came, the bugles
Blew forth their shrillest notes;
Drums throbbed, and endless lines of soldiers
Filed past in scarlet coats.
And the fairies were there the king had bidden,
Bearing their gifts of good—
But right in the midst a strange old woman
Surly and scowling stood.
They knew her to be the old, old fairy,
All nose and eyes and ears,
Who had not peeped, till now, from her dungeon
For more than fifty years.
Angry she was to have been forgotten
Where others were guests, and to find
That neither a seat nor a dish at the banquet
To her had been assigned.
THUMBPAGE
Now came the hour for the gift-bestowing;And the fairy first in placeTouched with her wand the child and gave her“Beauty of form and face!”Fairy the second bade, “Be witty!”The third said, “Never fail!”The fourth, “Dance well!” and the fifth, “O Princess,Sing like the nightingale!”The sixth gave, “Joy in the heart forever!”But before the seventh could speak,The crooked, black old Dame came forward,And, tapping the baby’s cheek,
Now came the hour for the gift-bestowing;
And the fairy first in place
Touched with her wand the child and gave her
“Beauty of form and face!”
Fairy the second bade, “Be witty!”
The third said, “Never fail!”
The fourth, “Dance well!” and the fifth, “O Princess,
Sing like the nightingale!”
The sixth gave, “Joy in the heart forever!”
But before the seventh could speak,
The crooked, black old Dame came forward,
And, tapping the baby’s cheek,
“You shall prick your finger upon a spindle,And die of it!” she cried.All trembling were the lords and ladies,And the king and queen beside.
“You shall prick your finger upon a spindle,
And die of it!” she cried.
All trembling were the lords and ladies,
And the king and queen beside.
But the seventh fairy interrupted,“Do not tremble nor weep!That cruel curse I can change and soften,And instead of death give sleep!
But the seventh fairy interrupted,
“Do not tremble nor weep!
That cruel curse I can change and soften,
And instead of death give sleep!
“But the sleep, though I do my best and kindest,
Must last for an hundred years!”
On the king’s stern face was a dreadful pallor,
In the eyes of the queen were tears.
“Yet after the hundred years are vanished,”—
The fairy added beside,—
“A Prince of a noble line shall find her,
And take her for his bride.”
But the king, with a hope to change the future,
Proclaimed this law to be:
That, if in all the land there was kept one spindle,
Sure death was the penalty.
THUMBPAGE
The Princess grew, from her very cradleLovely and witty and good;And at last, in the course of years, had blossomedInto full sweet maidenhood.And one day, in her father’s summer palace,As blithe as the very air,She climbed to the top of the highest turret,Over an old worn stairAnd there in the dusky cobwebbed garret,Where dimly the daylight shone,A little, doleful, hunch-backed womanSat spinning all alone.
The Princess grew, from her very cradle
Lovely and witty and good;
And at last, in the course of years, had blossomed
Into full sweet maidenhood.
And one day, in her father’s summer palace,
As blithe as the very air,
She climbed to the top of the highest turret,
Over an old worn stair
And there in the dusky cobwebbed garret,
Where dimly the daylight shone,
A little, doleful, hunch-backed woman
Sat spinning all alone.
“O Goody,” she cried, “what are you doing?”“Why, spinning, you little dunce!”The Princess laughed: “’Tis so very funny,Pray let me try it once!”
“O Goody,” she cried, “what are you doing?”
“Why, spinning, you little dunce!”
The Princess laughed: “’Tis so very funny,
Pray let me try it once!”
With a careless touch, from the hand of GoodyShe caught the half-spun thread,And the fatal spindle pricked her finger!Down fell she as if dead!
With a careless touch, from the hand of Goody
She caught the half-spun thread,
And the fatal spindle pricked her finger!
Down fell she as if dead!
And Goody shrieking, the frightened courtiers
Climbed up the old worn stair
Only to find, in heavy slumber,
The Princess lying there.
They bore her down to a lofty chamber,
They robed her in her best,
And on a couch of gold and purple
They laid her for her rest,
The roses upon her cheek still blooming,
And the red still on her lips,
While the lids of her eyes, like night-shut lilies,
Were closed in white eclipse.
Then the fairy who strove her fate to alter
From the dismal doom of death,
Now that the vital hour impended,
Came hurrying in a breath.
And then about the slumbering palace
The fairy made up-spring
A wood so heavy and dense that never
Could enter a living thing.
THUMBPAGE
And there for a century the Princess
Lay in a trance so deep
That neither the roar of winds nor thunder
Could rouse her from her sleep.
Then at last one day, past the long-enchanted
Old wood, rode a new king’s son,
Who, catching a glimpse of a royal turret
Above the forest dun
Felt in his heart a strange wish for exploring
The thorny and briery place,
And, lo, a path through the deepest thicket
Opened before his face!
On, on he went, till he spied a terrace,
And further a sleeping guard,
And rows of soldiers upon their carbines
Leaning, and snoring hard.
Up the broad steps! The doors swung backward!
The wide halls heard no tread!
But a lofty chamber, opening, showed him
A gold and purple bed.
And there in her beauty, warm and glowing,
The enchanted Princess lay!
While only a word from his lips was needed
To drive her sleep away.
He spoke the word, and the spell was scattered,
The enchantment broken through!
The lady woke. “Dear Prince,” she murmured,
“How long I have waited for you!”
Then at once the whole great slumbering palace
Was wakened and all astir;
Yet the Prince, in joy at the Sleeping Beauty,
Could only look at her.
She was the bride who for years an hundred
Had waited for him to come,
And now that the hour was here to claim her,
Should eyes or tongue be dumb?
The Princess blushed at his royal wooing,
Bowed “yes” with her lovely head,
And the chaplain, yawning, but very lively,
Came in and they were wed!
But about the dress of the happy Princess,
I have my woman’s fears—
It must have grown somewhat old-fashioned
In the course of so many years!
THUMBPAGEJACK AND JILL.Littleboys, sit still—Girls, too, if you will—And let me tell you of Jack and Jill;For I think anotherSuch sister and brotherWere never the children of one mother!For an idle lad,As he was, Jack hadNo traits, after all, that were very bad.He, was simply Jack,With the coat on his backPatched up in all colors from gray to black.Both feet were bare;And I do declareThat he never washed his face; and his hairWas the color of straw—You never sawSuch a crop—as long as the moral law!When he went to school,It was the rule(Though ’twas hard to say he was really a fool)To send him at once,So thick was his sconce,To the block that was kept for the greatest dunce.Jill with slateAnd Jill! no lassScarce ever hasMade bigger tracks on the country grass;For her only funWas to romp and run,Bare-headed, bare-footed, in wind and sun.Wherever went Jack,Close on his track,With hair unbraided and down her back,Loud-voiced and shrill,She followed, untilNo one said “Jack” without saying “Jill.”But to succeedIn teaching to readSuch a harum-scarum, was work indeed!And I’m forced to tellThat her way to spellHer name was with only a single ‘l.’fly with spellerTHUMBPAGEYet they were content.One day they were sentTo the hill for water, and they went.They did not drown,But Jack fell down,With a pail in his hand, and broke his crown!And Jill, who must goAnd always doExactly as Jack did, tumbled too!Just think, if you will,How they rolled down hill—Straw-headed Jack and bare-footed Jill!But up Jack got,And home did trot,Nor cared whether Jill was hurt or not;While his poor bruised knobDid burn and throb,Tear falling on tear, sob following sob!He could run the faster,So a paper plasterHad bound up the sight of his disasterBefore Jill came;And the thoughtful dame,For a break inherhead, had fixed the same.silhouette of Jill's mother beating herBut Jill came in,With a saucy grinAt seeing the plight poor Jack was in;And when she sawThat bundle of straw(His hair) bound up with a cloth, and his jawTied up in white,The comical sightMade her clap her hands and laugh outright!The dame, perplexedAnd dreadfully vexed,Got a stick and said, “I’ll whip her next!”How many blows fellI will not tell,But she did it in earnest, she did it well,Till the naughty backWas blue and black,And Jill needed a plaster as much as Jack!The next time, though,Jack has to goTo the hill for water, I almost knowThat bothering JillWill go up the hill,And ifhefalls again, why, of courseshewill!
THUMBPAGE
Littleboys, sit still—Girls, too, if you will—And let me tell you of Jack and Jill;For I think anotherSuch sister and brotherWere never the children of one mother!For an idle lad,As he was, Jack hadNo traits, after all, that were very bad.He, was simply Jack,With the coat on his backPatched up in all colors from gray to black.Both feet were bare;And I do declareThat he never washed his face; and his hairWas the color of straw—You never sawSuch a crop—as long as the moral law!
Littleboys, sit still—
Girls, too, if you will—
And let me tell you of Jack and Jill;
For I think another
Such sister and brother
Were never the children of one mother!
For an idle lad,
As he was, Jack had
No traits, after all, that were very bad.
He, was simply Jack,
With the coat on his back
Patched up in all colors from gray to black.
Both feet were bare;
And I do declare
That he never washed his face; and his hair
Was the color of straw—
You never saw
Such a crop—as long as the moral law!
When he went to school,It was the rule(Though ’twas hard to say he was really a fool)To send him at once,So thick was his sconce,To the block that was kept for the greatest dunce.
When he went to school,
It was the rule
(Though ’twas hard to say he was really a fool)
To send him at once,
So thick was his sconce,
To the block that was kept for the greatest dunce.
And Jill! no lassScarce ever hasMade bigger tracks on the country grass;For her only funWas to romp and run,Bare-headed, bare-footed, in wind and sun.
And Jill! no lass
Scarce ever has
Made bigger tracks on the country grass;
For her only fun
Was to romp and run,
Bare-headed, bare-footed, in wind and sun.
Wherever went Jack,Close on his track,With hair unbraided and down her back,Loud-voiced and shrill,She followed, untilNo one said “Jack” without saying “Jill.”
Wherever went Jack,
Close on his track,
With hair unbraided and down her back,
Loud-voiced and shrill,
She followed, until
No one said “Jack” without saying “Jill.”
But to succeedIn teaching to readSuch a harum-scarum, was work indeed!And I’m forced to tellThat her way to spellHer name was with only a single ‘l.’
But to succeed
In teaching to read
Such a harum-scarum, was work indeed!
And I’m forced to tell
That her way to spell
Her name was with only a single ‘l.’
THUMBPAGE
Yet they were content.One day they were sentTo the hill for water, and they went.They did not drown,But Jack fell down,With a pail in his hand, and broke his crown!And Jill, who must goAnd always doExactly as Jack did, tumbled too!Just think, if you will,How they rolled down hill—Straw-headed Jack and bare-footed Jill!
Yet they were content.
One day they were sent
To the hill for water, and they went.
They did not drown,
But Jack fell down,
With a pail in his hand, and broke his crown!
And Jill, who must go
And always do
Exactly as Jack did, tumbled too!
Just think, if you will,
How they rolled down hill—
Straw-headed Jack and bare-footed Jill!
But up Jack got,
And home did trot,
Nor cared whether Jill was hurt or not;
While his poor bruised knob
Did burn and throb,
Tear falling on tear, sob following sob!
He could run the faster,
So a paper plaster
Had bound up the sight of his disaster
Before Jill came;
And the thoughtful dame,
For a break inherhead, had fixed the same.
But Jill came in,With a saucy grinAt seeing the plight poor Jack was in;And when she sawThat bundle of straw(His hair) bound up with a cloth, and his jaw
But Jill came in,
With a saucy grin
At seeing the plight poor Jack was in;
And when she saw
That bundle of straw
(His hair) bound up with a cloth, and his jaw
Tied up in white,The comical sightMade her clap her hands and laugh outright!The dame, perplexedAnd dreadfully vexed,Got a stick and said, “I’ll whip her next!”
Tied up in white,
The comical sight
Made her clap her hands and laugh outright!
The dame, perplexed
And dreadfully vexed,
Got a stick and said, “I’ll whip her next!”
How many blows fellI will not tell,But she did it in earnest, she did it well,Till the naughty backWas blue and black,And Jill needed a plaster as much as Jack!
How many blows fell
I will not tell,
But she did it in earnest, she did it well,
Till the naughty back
Was blue and black,
And Jill needed a plaster as much as Jack!
The next time, though,Jack has to goTo the hill for water, I almost knowThat bothering JillWill go up the hill,And ifhefalls again, why, of courseshewill!
The next time, though,
Jack has to go
To the hill for water, I almost know
That bothering Jill
Will go up the hill,
And ifhefalls again, why, of courseshewill!
THUMBPAGELITTLE BO-PEEP.Whatwas Bo-Peep? Can anyone guess?Why, little Bo-Peep was a shepherdess!And she dressed in a short white petticoat,And a kirtle of blue, with a looped-up look,And a snowy kerchief about her throat,And held in her hand a crook.What eyes she had, the little Bo-Peep!They had tears to laugh with, and tears to weep.So fringy, and shy, and blue, and sweet,That even the summer skies in color,Or the autumn gentians under her feet,Less tender were and duller.Now, a shepherdess ought to watch her sheep;But the careless little girl, Bo-Peep,Was hunting for late wild strawberries,The sweetest her tongue had ever tasted;They were few in number, and small in size,Too good, though, to be wasted.And in that way the little Bo-Peep,The first she knew, had lost her sheep!To the top of the nearest knoll she ran,The better to look the pasture over;She shaded her face, and called, “Nan! Nan!”But none of them could discover.About and about went little Bo-Peep;Her feet grew tired, the hills were steep;And in trying her fears to overcomeShe sighed, “I don’t know where to find ’em.But let ’em alone, and they’ll come home,And bring their tails behind ’em!”Bo-Peep sleepingSo down sat trustful little Bo-Peep,And in a minute was fast asleep!Arm over her head, and her finger-endsAll red with the fruit she had been eating;While her thoughts were only of her lost friends,And she dreamed she heard them bleating.’Twas a happy dream for little Bo-Peep;As she lay on the grass, her flock of sheep,With scatter and clatter and patter of feet,Came hastening from all ways hither, thither;First one would bleat, then another would bleat,Then “b-a-a—a-a!” all together!THUMBPAGEBut ah, it was only while Bo-PeepWas tired enough to stay asleepThat her flock was with her; for when she woke,Rubbing her eyes to see the clearer,She found that her dream was all a joke,And they were nowhere near her.Tearful and sorrowful grew Bo-Peep!Down from her lashes the tears would creep;But she started out, as there was need,Before it should be too dark to find them;She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,For they’d left their tails behind them!Did she laugh or cry, our little Bo-Peep,To see such a comical crowd of sheep?There were plenty of bodies, white and fat;And plenty of wide mouths, eating, eating;Plenty of soft wool, and all that:And plenty of noisy bleating;Yet all of them stood, and tried to keepAt a little distance from Bo-Peep!They knew her voice, and were very gladTo have her come with her crook to find them,But they felt so strangely because they hadNot a single tail behind them.The innocent-faced old mother-sheep,Who bleated and stamped to greet Bo-Peep,With their tails shorn close, were odd enough;But the very oddest of all was when aGroup of the lambs went galloping off,All legs, and hadn’t any!Though sorry enough was little Bo-PeepThat the tails were lost from her pretty sheep,She murmured, “I’ll find them easily,And there’s very little good in crying!”So away she went, and at last, in a tree,She saw them hung a-drying!She piled them up in a great white heap,And the best she could do, poor little Bo-Peep!Was to try to fasten them where they grew—Or that was, at least, what she intended,—But if she did it I never knew,For now my story is ended!pussy willowBo-peep holding sheep
THUMBPAGE
Whatwas Bo-Peep? Can anyone guess?
Why, little Bo-Peep was a shepherdess!
And she dressed in a short white petticoat,
And a kirtle of blue, with a looped-up look,
And a snowy kerchief about her throat,
And held in her hand a crook.
What eyes she had, the little Bo-Peep!They had tears to laugh with, and tears to weep.So fringy, and shy, and blue, and sweet,That even the summer skies in color,Or the autumn gentians under her feet,Less tender were and duller.
What eyes she had, the little Bo-Peep!
They had tears to laugh with, and tears to weep.
So fringy, and shy, and blue, and sweet,
That even the summer skies in color,
Or the autumn gentians under her feet,
Less tender were and duller.
Now, a shepherdess ought to watch her sheep;But the careless little girl, Bo-Peep,Was hunting for late wild strawberries,The sweetest her tongue had ever tasted;They were few in number, and small in size,Too good, though, to be wasted.
Now, a shepherdess ought to watch her sheep;
But the careless little girl, Bo-Peep,
Was hunting for late wild strawberries,
The sweetest her tongue had ever tasted;
They were few in number, and small in size,
Too good, though, to be wasted.
And in that way the little Bo-Peep,The first she knew, had lost her sheep!To the top of the nearest knoll she ran,The better to look the pasture over;She shaded her face, and called, “Nan! Nan!”But none of them could discover.
And in that way the little Bo-Peep,
The first she knew, had lost her sheep!
To the top of the nearest knoll she ran,
The better to look the pasture over;
She shaded her face, and called, “Nan! Nan!”
But none of them could discover.
About and about went little Bo-Peep;Her feet grew tired, the hills were steep;And in trying her fears to overcomeShe sighed, “I don’t know where to find ’em.But let ’em alone, and they’ll come home,And bring their tails behind ’em!”
About and about went little Bo-Peep;
Her feet grew tired, the hills were steep;
And in trying her fears to overcome
She sighed, “I don’t know where to find ’em.
But let ’em alone, and they’ll come home,
And bring their tails behind ’em!”
So down sat trustful little Bo-Peep,
And in a minute was fast asleep!
Arm over her head, and her finger-ends
All red with the fruit she had been eating;
While her thoughts were only of her lost friends,
And she dreamed she heard them bleating.
’Twas a happy dream for little Bo-Peep;
As she lay on the grass, her flock of sheep,
With scatter and clatter and patter of feet,
Came hastening from all ways hither, thither;
First one would bleat, then another would bleat,
Then “b-a-a—a-a!” all together!
THUMBPAGE
But ah, it was only while Bo-Peep
Was tired enough to stay asleep
That her flock was with her; for when she woke,
Rubbing her eyes to see the clearer,
She found that her dream was all a joke,
And they were nowhere near her.
Tearful and sorrowful grew Bo-Peep!
Down from her lashes the tears would creep;
But she started out, as there was need,
Before it should be too dark to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they’d left their tails behind them!
Did she laugh or cry, our little Bo-Peep,
To see such a comical crowd of sheep?
There were plenty of bodies, white and fat;
And plenty of wide mouths, eating, eating;
Plenty of soft wool, and all that:
And plenty of noisy bleating;
Yet all of them stood, and tried to keep
At a little distance from Bo-Peep!
They knew her voice, and were very glad
To have her come with her crook to find them,
But they felt so strangely because they had
Not a single tail behind them.
The innocent-faced old mother-sheep,
Who bleated and stamped to greet Bo-Peep,
With their tails shorn close, were odd enough;
But the very oddest of all was when a
Group of the lambs went galloping off,
All legs, and hadn’t any!
Though sorry enough was little Bo-Peep
That the tails were lost from her pretty sheep,
She murmured, “I’ll find them easily,
And there’s very little good in crying!”
So away she went, and at last, in a tree,
She saw them hung a-drying!
She piled them up in a great white heap,
And the best she could do, poor little Bo-Peep!
Was to try to fasten them where they grew—
Or that was, at least, what she intended,—
But if she did it I never knew,
For now my story is ended!
THUMB
Buz, Buz, Buz--says the Great buzzing Bee. / Go away butterfly--this flower is for me. / Why? Why? Why? says the little butterfly, / If you may sit on this flower, why may’nt [_sic_] I?
THUMBPAGEHOP-O-MY-THUMB.Onceon a time there was a fagot-maker,And he had seven sons.Who could be aught but poor to feed and shelterSo many little ones?For all were merely lads; not one was ableTo earn the crust of bread,Though scant it might be, coarse and black and humble,With which he must be fed.Hop o' my ThumbAnd, worst of all, the youngest one was puny,So odd, and still, and slight,That father, mother, and the other brothers,Thought him not over bright.So small he was when he was born, so tinySince then he had become,That—for he was no bigger than your finger—They called him Hop-o’-my-Thumb.Now at this time, for days and days together,There fell no drop of rain;The corn shrunk on the stalks; and in the sunshineRustled the shriveled grain;As if a fire had swept across the meadowsThey shriveled in the drouth;And what this meant for the poor fagot-makerWas famine, without doubt.One night he sat before a smouldering fire,His head bowed down with grief,Trying with those weak wits of his to compassSome scheme for their relief.His wife above the feeble embers hovered,And wrung her toil-hard hands;She knew there was no help for their starvation,No hope in making plans.Hop o' my ThumbTHUMBPAGEHop o' my ThumbAt last he spoke: “Ah, bad luck to the trying,I cannot find them food!To-morrow morning with me to the forestI’ll take the little brood!“I cannot bear to watch this piece meal starving,So, while they run and play,Or gather fagots for me, or pick berriesTo eat, I’ll come away!”“Oh!” groaned the wife, “I’m sure the wolves will eat them,Poor dears—poor little dears!Yet do as you think best—we all must perish!”Then went to bed in tears.Meanwhile, though all the rest were sleeping soundly,Hop-o’-my-Thumb had heard,And at the thought of wolves and woods, in terrorHis little heart was stirred;And so he lay and planned; and early dressed him,And ran with all his mightDown to the river, where he filled his pocketsWith pebbles small and white.And, as they started for the wood, he lingeredSomewhat behind, and whenThey came to dismal places, dropped in secretA pebble now and then.Thick grew the trees; ’twas twilight in their shadows,Although broad day without;But gay the laddies at the fagot-pickingWent scampering about,Hop o' My Thumb and his frightened brothersAnd chattering like a flock of busy sparrows;Till, having hungry grown,They turned to ask their mother for their dinner,And found they were alone!Hop o' My Thumb shows the way homeThen all but Hop-o’-my-Thumb wailed out affrighted.“Don’t cry so hard!” said he.“I’ll find the path, if you’ll but keep togetherAnd try to follow me!”By the white stones strewn on the dead pine needles,Though night had fallen, he soonLed the way out, and spied their humble cottage,Low lying ’neath the moon.THUMBPAGEThey hurried near, and, pausing at the window,Hop-o’my-Thumb climbed up,And peeped within; his father and his motherWere just about to sup.Some one had paid them two gold guineasOn an old debt; and whenThey went for beef for two, they were so hungryThey bought enough for ten.Quick as a flash the ravenous seven went rushingPell-mell into the house,Nor left, of the fine roast upon the table,Enough to feed a mouse.It all went well long as the money lasted.When that was gone, once moreThe father planned to take them to the forest,And leave them as before.the boys rush in happilyHop-o’-my-Thumb, who heard again the plotting,Crept from his trundle-bed,But in the place of pebbles in his pocketsPut only crumbs of bread.Again they went, through brier and through thicket,Into the darksome wood;Again he dropped his clues along the pathwayBehind him when he could.large woman meets brothersBut when once more they found themselves deserted,And little Hop-o’-my-ThumbFelt sure to lead them out, he found the finchesHad eaten every crumb!Then what to do! They wandered hither, thither,For hours in dread and fear,Until at last they saw, with fitful glimmer,A feeble light appear.It shone but faintly, like a single candle,But, trudging towards the ray,They reached a house and knocked; the door was openedAfter a brief delay,woman hides boys under bedAnd a kind woman asked them what they wanted.They said: “To stay all night.”“Run, run away! The faster you run the better!”She answered in affright.THUMBPAGE“An Ogre lives here, cruel and bloody minded!He eats up little boys!Run, run! I hear him coming from the mountains,I know him by the noise!”“But we can’t run, we are so faint and tired!”Hop-o’-my-Thumb began—“’Tis all the same whether the wolves shall eat us,Or your good gentleman.”And so she took them in, fed them, and hid themAll underneath her bed;And in a minute more they heard approaching,Tramp! tramp! an awful tread!It was the Ogre coming home; his supperWas steaming nice and hot,—Two calves upon a spit, ten rabbits roasting,A whole sheep in the pot.He banged the door wide open, sniffed and snorted,Then, in a dreadful voice,Roared out, while his poor wife stood by and trembled,“I smell seven little boys!”In vain she told him ’twas the mutton scorching;The veal had browned too fast;He searched the house, peering around and under,And reached the bed at last,Then dragged them one by one out, fairly shoutingAt little Hop-o’my-Thumb,Saying the lads would make, towards a dinner,Six mouthfuls and one crumb.“O, leave them till to-morrow!” cried the woman;“You’ve meat enough to-night.”“Well, so I have,” he said, “I’ll wait a little.Ah! ugh! they’re plump and white.”Now it so chanced the Ogre had seven daughters,And all slept in one bed,In a large room, and each wore for a nightcapA gold crown on her head.And Hop-o’-my-Thumb, when all the house was quiet,Into their chamber crept,And the gold head-bands for himself and brothersStole from them while they slept.THUMBPAGEWicked and sly it was; he knew the OgreWould, no doubt, rise at dawn,And, being but half awake, would kill the childrenWho had no night-caps on.And, sure enough, he did! He was so drowsy,And fogs so veiled the sun,That, whetting up a huge, broad-bladed dagger,He slew them, every one.Then Hop-o’-my-Thumb, awakening his brothers,Whispered: “Make haste and fly!”Without a word they did as they were bidden,In twinkling of an eye,ogre sharpens knifeogre runs with knifeOut in the drizzly mist of a gray morning,Off through the chill and dew,And none too soon! Within an hour the OgreHis dreadful blunder knew.“Wife, fetch my seven-league boots at once!” he shouted;“I’ll catch the vipers yet!”He stamped his feet into the magic leatherWith many a muttered threat;And off he started, over hill and valley,Seven leagues at every stride;The children saw him like a giant shadow,But they could only hide.He scoured the country, rumbling like a tempest;Far, near, they heard his roar,Until at last his seven-league feet grew tired,And he could go no more.And down he lay to rest him for a minute—The day had grown so hot—Close to a rock where lay the seven children,Although he knew it not.boys hide in a caveHop-o’-my-thumb spoke softly to his brothers:“Run! fast as ever you can,And leave me to take care of Mr. Ogre.”And hurry-scurry they ran.And Hop-o’-my-Thumb, creeping from out his crevice,With greatest caution drewThe Ogre’s boots off (these would shrink or widenJust as you wished them to),THUMBPAGEAnd put them on himself. Then he decidedTo hasten to the king;And, as he traveled towards the royal palace,Each boot was like a wing.There was a war. The king had need of serviceIn carrying the news.He heard his tale, and said, “I’ll use this fellowWho wears the magic shoes.”So little Hop-o’-my-Thumb made mints of money,And his whole familyLived very easy lives, and from his bountyGrew rich as rich could be.Hop o' My Thumb speaks to the kingthe fall of the OgreAs for the Ogre, in his sleep he tumbledDown from that ledge of rock,And was so bumped and bruised he never rallied,But perished from the shock.And Hop-o’-my-Thumb, whose influence in high placesWas certain to prevail,Made the kind Ogress, who had hidden and fed them,Duchess of Draggletail.the Ogress as Duchess
THUMBPAGE
Onceon a time there was a fagot-maker,And he had seven sons.Who could be aught but poor to feed and shelterSo many little ones?
Onceon a time there was a fagot-maker,
And he had seven sons.
Who could be aught but poor to feed and shelter
So many little ones?
For all were merely lads; not one was ableTo earn the crust of bread,Though scant it might be, coarse and black and humble,With which he must be fed.
For all were merely lads; not one was able
To earn the crust of bread,
Though scant it might be, coarse and black and humble,
With which he must be fed.
And, worst of all, the youngest one was puny,
So odd, and still, and slight,
That father, mother, and the other brothers,
Thought him not over bright.
So small he was when he was born, so tiny
Since then he had become,
That—for he was no bigger than your finger—
They called him Hop-o’-my-Thumb.
Now at this time, for days and days together,
There fell no drop of rain;
The corn shrunk on the stalks; and in the sunshine
Rustled the shriveled grain;
As if a fire had swept across the meadows
They shriveled in the drouth;
And what this meant for the poor fagot-maker
Was famine, without doubt.
One night he sat before a smouldering fire,
His head bowed down with grief,
Trying with those weak wits of his to compass
Some scheme for their relief.
His wife above the feeble embers hovered,
And wrung her toil-hard hands;
She knew there was no help for their starvation,
No hope in making plans.
At last he spoke: “Ah, bad luck to the trying,
I cannot find them food!
To-morrow morning with me to the forest
I’ll take the little brood!
“I cannot bear to watch this piece meal starving,
So, while they run and play,
Or gather fagots for me, or pick berries
To eat, I’ll come away!”
“Oh!” groaned the wife, “I’m sure the wolves will eat them,
Poor dears—poor little dears!
Yet do as you think best—we all must perish!”
Then went to bed in tears.
Meanwhile, though all the rest were sleeping soundly,
Hop-o’-my-Thumb had heard,
And at the thought of wolves and woods, in terror
His little heart was stirred;
And so he lay and planned; and early dressed him,And ran with all his mightDown to the river, where he filled his pocketsWith pebbles small and white.
And so he lay and planned; and early dressed him,
And ran with all his might
Down to the river, where he filled his pockets
With pebbles small and white.
And, as they started for the wood, he lingered
Somewhat behind, and when
They came to dismal places, dropped in secret
A pebble now and then.
Thick grew the trees; ’twas twilight in their shadows,
Although broad day without;
But gay the laddies at the fagot-picking
Went scampering about,
And chattering like a flock of busy sparrows;Till, having hungry grown,They turned to ask their mother for their dinner,And found they were alone!
And chattering like a flock of busy sparrows;
Till, having hungry grown,
They turned to ask their mother for their dinner,
And found they were alone!
Then all but Hop-o’-my-Thumb wailed out affrighted.
“Don’t cry so hard!” said he.
“I’ll find the path, if you’ll but keep together
And try to follow me!”
By the white stones strewn on the dead pine needles,
Though night had fallen, he soon
Led the way out, and spied their humble cottage,
Low lying ’neath the moon.
They hurried near, and, pausing at the window,Hop-o’my-Thumb climbed up,And peeped within; his father and his motherWere just about to sup.
They hurried near, and, pausing at the window,
Hop-o’my-Thumb climbed up,
And peeped within; his father and his mother
Were just about to sup.
Some one had paid them two gold guineas
On an old debt; and when
They went for beef for two, they were so hungry
They bought enough for ten.
Quick as a flash the ravenous seven went rushing
Pell-mell into the house,
Nor left, of the fine roast upon the table,
Enough to feed a mouse.
It all went well long as the money lasted.
When that was gone, once more
The father planned to take them to the forest,
And leave them as before.
Hop-o’-my-Thumb, who heard again the plotting,Crept from his trundle-bed,But in the place of pebbles in his pocketsPut only crumbs of bread.
Hop-o’-my-Thumb, who heard again the plotting,
Crept from his trundle-bed,
But in the place of pebbles in his pockets
Put only crumbs of bread.
Again they went, through brier and through thicket,Into the darksome wood;Again he dropped his clues along the pathwayBehind him when he could.
Again they went, through brier and through thicket,
Into the darksome wood;
Again he dropped his clues along the pathway
Behind him when he could.
But when once more they found themselves deserted,
And little Hop-o’-my-Thumb
Felt sure to lead them out, he found the finches
Had eaten every crumb!
Then what to do! They wandered hither, thither,
For hours in dread and fear,
Until at last they saw, with fitful glimmer,
A feeble light appear.
It shone but faintly, like a single candle,
But, trudging towards the ray,
They reached a house and knocked; the door was opened
After a brief delay,
And a kind woman asked them what they wanted.
They said: “To stay all night.”
“Run, run away! The faster you run the better!”
She answered in affright.
“An Ogre lives here, cruel and bloody minded!
He eats up little boys!
Run, run! I hear him coming from the mountains,
I know him by the noise!”
“But we can’t run, we are so faint and tired!”Hop-o’-my-Thumb began—“’Tis all the same whether the wolves shall eat us,Or your good gentleman.”And so she took them in, fed them, and hid themAll underneath her bed;And in a minute more they heard approaching,Tramp! tramp! an awful tread!It was the Ogre coming home; his supperWas steaming nice and hot,—Two calves upon a spit, ten rabbits roasting,A whole sheep in the pot.He banged the door wide open, sniffed and snorted,Then, in a dreadful voice,Roared out, while his poor wife stood by and trembled,“I smell seven little boys!”In vain she told him ’twas the mutton scorching;The veal had browned too fast;He searched the house, peering around and under,And reached the bed at last,
“But we can’t run, we are so faint and tired!”
Hop-o’-my-Thumb began—
“’Tis all the same whether the wolves shall eat us,
Or your good gentleman.”
And so she took them in, fed them, and hid them
All underneath her bed;
And in a minute more they heard approaching,
Tramp! tramp! an awful tread!
It was the Ogre coming home; his supper
Was steaming nice and hot,—
Two calves upon a spit, ten rabbits roasting,
A whole sheep in the pot.
He banged the door wide open, sniffed and snorted,
Then, in a dreadful voice,
Roared out, while his poor wife stood by and trembled,
“I smell seven little boys!”
In vain she told him ’twas the mutton scorching;
The veal had browned too fast;
He searched the house, peering around and under,
And reached the bed at last,
Then dragged them one by one out, fairly shoutingAt little Hop-o’my-Thumb,Saying the lads would make, towards a dinner,Six mouthfuls and one crumb.
Then dragged them one by one out, fairly shouting
At little Hop-o’my-Thumb,
Saying the lads would make, towards a dinner,
Six mouthfuls and one crumb.
“O, leave them till to-morrow!” cried the woman;
“You’ve meat enough to-night.”
“Well, so I have,” he said, “I’ll wait a little.
Ah! ugh! they’re plump and white.”
Now it so chanced the Ogre had seven daughters,
And all slept in one bed,
In a large room, and each wore for a nightcap
A gold crown on her head.
And Hop-o’-my-Thumb, when all the house was quiet,
Into their chamber crept,
And the gold head-bands for himself and brothers
Stole from them while they slept.
Wicked and sly it was; he knew the OgreWould, no doubt, rise at dawn,And, being but half awake, would kill the childrenWho had no night-caps on.And, sure enough, he did! He was so drowsy,And fogs so veiled the sun,That, whetting up a huge, broad-bladed dagger,He slew them, every one.Then Hop-o’-my-Thumb, awakening his brothers,Whispered: “Make haste and fly!”Without a word they did as they were bidden,In twinkling of an eye,
Wicked and sly it was; he knew the Ogre
Would, no doubt, rise at dawn,
And, being but half awake, would kill the children
Who had no night-caps on.
And, sure enough, he did! He was so drowsy,
And fogs so veiled the sun,
That, whetting up a huge, broad-bladed dagger,
He slew them, every one.
Then Hop-o’-my-Thumb, awakening his brothers,
Whispered: “Make haste and fly!”
Without a word they did as they were bidden,
In twinkling of an eye,
Out in the drizzly mist of a gray morning,Off through the chill and dew,And none too soon! Within an hour the OgreHis dreadful blunder knew.“Wife, fetch my seven-league boots at once!” he shouted;“I’ll catch the vipers yet!”He stamped his feet into the magic leatherWith many a muttered threat;
Out in the drizzly mist of a gray morning,
Off through the chill and dew,
And none too soon! Within an hour the Ogre
His dreadful blunder knew.
“Wife, fetch my seven-league boots at once!” he shouted;
“I’ll catch the vipers yet!”
He stamped his feet into the magic leather
With many a muttered threat;
And off he started, over hill and valley,Seven leagues at every stride;The children saw him like a giant shadow,But they could only hide.He scoured the country, rumbling like a tempest;Far, near, they heard his roar,Until at last his seven-league feet grew tired,And he could go no more.And down he lay to rest him for a minute—The day had grown so hot—Close to a rock where lay the seven children,Although he knew it not.
And off he started, over hill and valley,
Seven leagues at every stride;
The children saw him like a giant shadow,
But they could only hide.
He scoured the country, rumbling like a tempest;
Far, near, they heard his roar,
Until at last his seven-league feet grew tired,
And he could go no more.
And down he lay to rest him for a minute—
The day had grown so hot—
Close to a rock where lay the seven children,
Although he knew it not.
Hop-o’-my-thumb spoke softly to his brothers:“Run! fast as ever you can,And leave me to take care of Mr. Ogre.”And hurry-scurry they ran.
Hop-o’-my-thumb spoke softly to his brothers:
“Run! fast as ever you can,
And leave me to take care of Mr. Ogre.”
And hurry-scurry they ran.
And Hop-o’-my-Thumb, creeping from out his crevice,
With greatest caution drew
The Ogre’s boots off (these would shrink or widen
Just as you wished them to),
And put them on himself. Then he decided
To hasten to the king;
And, as he traveled towards the royal palace,
Each boot was like a wing.
There was a war. The king had need of service
In carrying the news.
He heard his tale, and said, “I’ll use this fellow
Who wears the magic shoes.”
So little Hop-o’-my-Thumb made mints of money,
And his whole family
Lived very easy lives, and from his bounty
Grew rich as rich could be.
As for the Ogre, in his sleep he tumbled
Down from that ledge of rock,
And was so bumped and bruised he never rallied,
But perished from the shock.
And Hop-o’-my-Thumb, whose influence in high places
Was certain to prevail,
Made the kind Ogress, who had hidden and fed them,
Duchess of Draggletail.
the Ogress as Duchess
THUMBPAGETHE BABES IN THE WOOD.The Babes in the Wood.child writingCome, list to my story,More sorry, by far,To her who must tell it,And you who will hear it,Than all others are!’Tis the darling of each, whoHas spirit so mildAs to grieve for the Human—The sad man or woman,Or desolate child!Of eyes, my dear children,Yours are not the first,Through whose teary lashes,In soft, pitying splashes,The warm drops have burstAt hearing it. Many,For hundreds of years,Have in the same fashionTheir heartfelt compassionShown thus—with their tears!A dying father in his armsTwo children did enfold.The eldest one, a little boy,Was only three years old;Even less than that had served to tintThe baby’s head with gold.The mother, too, lay ill to death,No human power might save,And to her darlings, that same hour,Her farewell blessing gave.Father and mother—one in life—Were laid in the same grave.But, ere the latest breath was drawn,The father’s brother came—Nearest of kin, upon whose loveThe orphaned ones had claim—And he made oath to cherish themAs his own blood and name.THUMBPAGEThe will devised three hundred poundsA year unto the son,Three hundred, on her marriage-day,To Jane, the little one.Thus it was from the uncle’s greedThat trouble first begun.For if, by chance, they both should die,He was to have their gold;He felt no love for either child—His heart was hard and cold.And, while he promised fair, he plannedA scheme both bad and bold.uncle offers money to ruffiansuncle, aunt and childrenA twelvemonth did his darksome mindPlot for the dreadful deed.Two brutal ruffians he hiredTo help him in his need;And yet, so secret were his ways,None knew to intercede.He formed a wily, plausive tale,And told it everywhere,How the two children were to go,Under the best of care—Two friends of his—for holidayTo London, for the fair.The horses stood before the gate,The ruffians twain astride;And gay with scarlet girth and reinThey started, side by side.O, blithe the babies’ spirits were,That they could have a ride!For every pretty sight they saw,For every sound they heard,The boy had noisy laugh or shout,The girl had winsome word—He questioned, never satisfied,She chattered like a bird.ruffians with children on horsebackTHUMBPAGEMeanwhile each ruffian surly sat,In dark and restless mood;Little the prattlers, in their joy,Such silence understood,As on through the warm early dayThey rode towards the wood.They reached the leafy wilderness,And then the way grew wild;But ever with new glee the babesThe gathering gloom beguiled.Until, at last, quite cheered and won,One of the ruffians smiled.Love had o’ercome within his breastHis wicked avarice.“I will not kill the little things,”He said, “for any price!”Then passed hot words between the two,But only once or twice,For blows fell, and the kindly oneDropped to the earth and died;The children sank upon the ground,Trembling and terrified,And clung together, wondering,And moaned, and sobbed, and cried.night skyThen he who lived led them away,Both shivering with dread;They begged for food; he paused a space;“Stay here awhile,” he said,“And I will go into the townAt once, and fetch you bread.”He went. In their sweet innocenceThey trusted to his word;Meanwhile, the sparkling morning sunWith a grey cloud was blurred;And long, in vain, they waited there,Nor cried again, nor stirred!THUMBPAGEthe babes in the woodHow can I write the mournful end—And tell how, up and down,At last, by hunger driven, they strayOver the mosses brown—She clutching at his little coat,He clinging to her gown?More than one day—more than one night,Comes on them there alone!They search for blackberries, so weakAnd starving they are grown,Now through a thicket of wild brier,Now ’gainst a hindering stone!Then they lie down to die, poor babes!The cruel ground receivesTheir little bodies as a bed;Long time the south wind grievesAbove them; and a hovering boughA pall of shadow weaves;And robin-red-breasts pity them,And cover them with leaves!
THUMBPAGE
The Babes in the Wood.
Come, list to my story,
More sorry, by far,
To her who must tell it,
And you who will hear it,
Than all others are!
’Tis the darling of each, who
Has spirit so mild
As to grieve for the Human—
The sad man or woman,
Or desolate child!
Of eyes, my dear children,
Yours are not the first,
Through whose teary lashes,
In soft, pitying splashes,
The warm drops have burst
At hearing it. Many,
For hundreds of years,
Have in the same fashion
Their heartfelt compassion
Shown thus—with their tears!
A dying father in his arms
Two children did enfold.
The eldest one, a little boy,
Was only three years old;
Even less than that had served to tint
The baby’s head with gold.
The mother, too, lay ill to death,
No human power might save,
And to her darlings, that same hour,
Her farewell blessing gave.
Father and mother—one in life—
Were laid in the same grave.
But, ere the latest breath was drawn,
The father’s brother came—
Nearest of kin, upon whose love
The orphaned ones had claim—
And he made oath to cherish them
As his own blood and name.
The will devised three hundred pounds
A year unto the son,
Three hundred, on her marriage-day,
To Jane, the little one.
Thus it was from the uncle’s greed
That trouble first begun.
For if, by chance, they both should die,
He was to have their gold;
He felt no love for either child—
His heart was hard and cold.
And, while he promised fair, he planned
A scheme both bad and bold.
A twelvemonth did his darksome mind
Plot for the dreadful deed.
Two brutal ruffians he hired
To help him in his need;
And yet, so secret were his ways,
None knew to intercede.
He formed a wily, plausive tale,
And told it everywhere,
How the two children were to go,
Under the best of care—
Two friends of his—for holiday
To London, for the fair.
The horses stood before the gate,
The ruffians twain astride;
And gay with scarlet girth and rein
They started, side by side.
O, blithe the babies’ spirits were,
That they could have a ride!
For every pretty sight they saw,
For every sound they heard,
The boy had noisy laugh or shout,
The girl had winsome word—
He questioned, never satisfied,
She chattered like a bird.
THUMBPAGE
Meanwhile each ruffian surly sat,In dark and restless mood;Little the prattlers, in their joy,Such silence understood,As on through the warm early dayThey rode towards the wood.
Meanwhile each ruffian surly sat,
In dark and restless mood;
Little the prattlers, in their joy,
Such silence understood,
As on through the warm early day
They rode towards the wood.
They reached the leafy wilderness,And then the way grew wild;But ever with new glee the babesThe gathering gloom beguiled.Until, at last, quite cheered and won,One of the ruffians smiled.
They reached the leafy wilderness,
And then the way grew wild;
But ever with new glee the babes
The gathering gloom beguiled.
Until, at last, quite cheered and won,
One of the ruffians smiled.
Love had o’ercome within his breastHis wicked avarice.“I will not kill the little things,”He said, “for any price!”Then passed hot words between the two,But only once or twice,
Love had o’ercome within his breast
His wicked avarice.
“I will not kill the little things,”
He said, “for any price!”
Then passed hot words between the two,
But only once or twice,
For blows fell, and the kindly oneDropped to the earth and died;The children sank upon the ground,Trembling and terrified,And clung together, wondering,And moaned, and sobbed, and cried.
For blows fell, and the kindly one
Dropped to the earth and died;
The children sank upon the ground,
Trembling and terrified,
And clung together, wondering,
And moaned, and sobbed, and cried.
night sky
Then he who lived led them away,
Both shivering with dread;
They begged for food; he paused a space;
“Stay here awhile,” he said,
“And I will go into the town
At once, and fetch you bread.”
He went. In their sweet innocence
They trusted to his word;
Meanwhile, the sparkling morning sun
With a grey cloud was blurred;And long, in vain, they waited there,Nor cried again, nor stirred!
With a grey cloud was blurred;
And long, in vain, they waited there,
Nor cried again, nor stirred!
THUMBPAGE
the babes in the wood
How can I write the mournful end—And tell how, up and down,At last, by hunger driven, they strayOver the mosses brown—She clutching at his little coat,He clinging to her gown?
How can I write the mournful end—
And tell how, up and down,
At last, by hunger driven, they stray
Over the mosses brown—
She clutching at his little coat,
He clinging to her gown?
More than one day—more than one night,Comes on them there alone!They search for blackberries, so weakAnd starving they are grown,Now through a thicket of wild brier,Now ’gainst a hindering stone!
More than one day—more than one night,
Comes on them there alone!
They search for blackberries, so weak
And starving they are grown,
Now through a thicket of wild brier,
Now ’gainst a hindering stone!
Then they lie down to die, poor babes!
The cruel ground receives
Their little bodies as a bed;
Long time the south wind grieves
Above them; and a hovering bough
A pall of shadow weaves;
And robin-red-breasts pity them,
And cover them with leaves!