There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffsAnd islands of Winander!—many a time,At evening, when the earliest stars beganTo move along the edges of the hills,Rising or setting, would he stand alone,Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;And there, with fingers interwoven, both handsPressed closely palm to palm and to his mouthUplifted, he, as through an instrument,Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,That they might answer him,—And they would shoutAcross the watery vale, and shout again,Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loudRedoubled and redoubled; concourse wildOf jocund din! and, when there came a pauseOf silence such as baffled his best skill,Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hungListening, a gentle shock of mild surpriseHas carried far into his heart the voiceOf mountain-torrents; or the visible sceneWould enter unawares into his mindWith all its solemn imagery, its rocks,Its woods, and that uncertain heaven receivedInto the bosom of the steady lake.This boy was taken from his mates, and diedIn childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.Pre-eminent in beauty is the valeWhere he was born and bred: the church-yard hangsUpon a slope above the village-school;And through that church-yard when my way has ledOn Summer-evenings, I believe, that thereA long half-hour together I have stoodMute—looking at the grave in which he lies!William Wordsworth.
On the top of the Crumpetty TreeThe Quangle Wangle sat,But his face you could not see,On account of his Beaver Hat.For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide,With ribbons and bibbons on every side,And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,So that nobody ever could see the faceOf the Quangle Wangle Quee.The Quangle Wangle saidTo himself on the Crumpetty Tree,"Jam, and jelly, and breadAre the best of food for me!But the longer I live on this Crumpetty TreeThe plainer than ever it seems to meThat very few people come this wayAnd that life on the whole is far from gay!"Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.But there came to the Crumpetty TreeMr. and Mrs. Canary;And they said, "Did ever you seeAny spot so charmingly airy?May we build a nest on your lovely Hat?Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!Oh, please let us come and build a nestOf whatever material suits you best,Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"And besides, to the Crumpetty TreeCame the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl;The Snail and the Bumblebee,The Frog and the Fimble Fowl(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg);And all of them said, "We humbly begWe may build our homes on your lovely Hat,—Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"And the Golden Grouse came there,And the Pobble who has no toes,And the small Olympian bear,And the Dong with a luminous nose.And the Blue Baboon who played the flute,And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute,And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,—All came and built on the lovely HatOf the Quangle Wangle Quee.And the Quangle Wangle saidTo himself on the Crumpetty Tree,"When all these creatures moveWhat a wonderful noise there'll be!"And at night by the light of the Mulberry MoonThey danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon,On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,And all were as happy as happy could be,With the Quangle Wangle Quee.Edward Lear.
I"What fairings will ye that I bring?"Said the King to his daughters three;"For I to Vanity Fair am boun,Now say what shall they be?"Then up and spake the eldest daughter,That lady tall and grand:"Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great,And gold rings for my hand."Thereafter spake the second daughter,That was both white and red:"For me bring silks that will stand alone,And a gold comb for my head."Then came the turn of the least daughter,That was whiter than thistle-down,And among the gold of her blithesome hairDim shone the golden crown."There came a bird this morning,And sang 'neath my bower eaves,Till I dreamed, as his music made me,'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'"Then the brow of the King swelled crimsonWith a flush of angry scorn:"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest,And chosen as ye were born,"But she, like a thing of peasant race,That is happy binding the sheaves";Then he saw her dead mother in her face,And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves."IIHe mounted and rode three days and nightsTill he came to Vanity Fair,And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk,But no Singing Leaves were there.Then deep in the greenwood rode he,And asked of every tree,"Oh, if you have, ever a Singing Leaf,I pray you give it me!"But the trees all kept their counsel,And never a word said they,Only there sighed from the pine-topsA music of seas far away.Only the pattering aspenMade a sound of growing rain,That fell ever faster and faster.Then faltered to silence again."Oh, where shall I find a little foot-pageThat would win both hose and shoon,And will bring to me the Singing LeavesIf they grow under the moon?"Then lightly turned him Walter the page,By the stirrup as he ran:"Now pledge you me the truesome wordOf a king and gentleman,"That you will give me the first, first thingYou meet at your castle-gate,And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves,Or mine be a traitor's fate."The King's head dropt upon his breastA moment, as it might be;'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said,"My faith I plight to thee."Then Walter took from next his heartA packet small and thin,"Now give you this to the Princess Anne,The Singing Leaves are therein."IIIAs the King rode in at his castle-gate,A maiden to meet him ran,And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and criedTogether, the Princess Anne."Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he,"And woe, but they cost me dear!"She took the packet, and the smileDeepened down beneath the tear.It deepened down till it reached her heart,And then gushed up again,And lighted her tears as the sudden sunTransfigures the summer rain.And the first Leaf, when it was opened,Sang: "I am Walter the page,And the songs I sing 'neath thy windowAre my only heritage."And the second Leaf sang: "But in the landThat is neither on earth nor sea,My lute and I are lords of moreThan thrice this kingdom's fee."And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!"And ever it sang, "Be mine!"Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter,And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!"At the first Leaf she grew pale enough,At the second she turned aside,At the third,'twas as if a lily flushedWith a rose's red heart's tide."Good counsel gave the bird," said she,"I have my hope thrice o'er,For they sing to my very heart," she said,"And it sings to them evermore."She brought to him her beauty and truth,But and broad earldoms three,And he made her queen of the broader landsHe held of his lute in fee.James Russell Lowell.
Never yet was a springtime,Late though lingered the snow,That the sap stirred not at the whisperOf the south wind, sweet and low;Never yet was a springtimeWhen the buds forgot to blow.Ever the wings of the summerAre folded under the mold;Life that has known no dyingIs Love's to have and to hold,Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter!The song! the green and the gold!Margaret E. Sangster.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man: to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a-ripening,—nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,This many summers in a sea of glory,But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me, and now has left meWeary, and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretchedIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,More pangs and fears than wars or women have;And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again.William Shakespeare.
Want any papers, Mister?Wish you'd buy 'em of me—Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,An' bizness dull, you see.Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat,None on 'em earning money—What do you think of that?Couldn't Dad work?Why yes, Boss,He's workin' for Gov'ment now—They give him his board for nothin',All along of a drunken row,An' Mam?well, she's in the poor-house,Been there a year or so,So I'm taking care of the others,Doing as well as I know.Tibby my sister?Not much, Boss,She's a kitten, a real Maltee;I picked her up last summer—Some boys was a drownin' of she;Throw'd her inter a hogshead;But a p'liceman came along,So I jest grabbed up the kittenAnd put for home, right strong.And Tom's my dog; he an' TibbyHain't never quarreled yet—They sleep in my bed in winterAn' keeps me warm—you bet!Mam's cat sleeps in the corner,With a piller made of her paw—Can't she growl like a tigerIf anyone comes to our straw!Oughtn't to live so?Why, Mister,What's a feller to do?Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,Seems as if each on 'em knew—They'll all three cuddle around me,Till I get cheery, and say:Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,An' money an' clothes, too, some day.But if I do git rich, Boss,(An' a lecturin' chap one nightSaid newsboys could be PresidentsIf only they acted right);So, if I was President, Mister,The very first thing I'd do,I'd buy poor Tom an' TibbyA dinner—an' Mam's cat, too!None o' your scraps an' leavin's,But a good square meal for all three;If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,That shows you don't knowme.So 'ere's your papers—come take one,Gimme a lift if you can—For now you've heard my story,You see I'm a fam'ly man!E.T. Corbett.
Not far advanced was morning day,When Marmion did his troop arrayTo Surrey's camp to ride;He had safe conduct for his band,Beneath the royal seal and hand,And Douglas gave a guide:The ancient Earl, with stately grace,Would Clara on her palfrey place,And whispered in an undertone,"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."The train from out the castle drew,But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.—"Though something I might plain," he said,"Of cold respect to stranger guest,Sent hither by your king's behest,While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,Part we in friendship from your land,And, noble Earl, receive my hand."—But Douglas round him drew his cloak,Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:—"My manors, halls, and bowers shall stillBe open, at my sovereign's will,To each one whom he lists, howe'erUnmeet to be the owner's peer.My castles are my king's alone,From turret to foundation-stone,—The hand of Douglas is his own;And never shall in friendly graspThe hand of such as Marmion clasp."Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,And shook his very frame for ire,And—"This to me!" he said,—"An't were not for thy hoary beard,Such hand as Marmion's had not sparedTo cleave the Douglas' head!And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,He who does England's message here,Even in thy pitch of pride,Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,(Nay, never look upon your lord,And lay your hands upon your sword,)I tell thee thou'rt defied!And if thou said'st I am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lowland or Highland, far or near,Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"—On the Earl's cheek the flush of rageO'ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth,—"And dar'st thou thenTo beard the lion in his den,The Douglas in his hall?And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!Up drawbridge, grooms,—what, warder, ho!Let the portcullis fall."—Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need!—And dashed the rowels in his steed;Like arrow through the archway sprung;The ponderous grate behind him rung;To pass there was such scanty room,The bars, descending, razed his plume.The steed along the drawbridge flies.Just as it trembled on the rise;Not lighter does the swallow skimAlong the smooth lake's level brim;And when Lord Marmion reached his band,He halts, and turns with clenched hand,And shout of loud defiance pours,And shook his gauntlet at the towers,"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"But soon he reined his fury's pace:"A royal messenger he came,Though most unworthy of the name.St. Mary, mend my fiery mood!Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,I thought to slay him where he stood.'Tis pity of him too," he cried;"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:I warrant him a warrior tried."With this his mandate he recalls,And slowly seeks his castle halls.Sir Walter Scott.
Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be.Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me.What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell,She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell."I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year agoOn the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams,With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams.'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour,An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go,With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below.Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild,Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child,Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread,Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath,Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light.Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main,Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train,An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by,An' the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridgeAn' I found her—dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridgeWhere she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill,An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill!So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be—Now we're married—she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me.An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell—She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell."Eugene J. Hall.
A traveler on the dusty roadStrewed acorns on the lea;And one took root and sprouted up,And grew into a tree.Love sought its shade, at evening time,To breathe his early vows;And age was pleased, in heats of noon,To bask beneath its boughs;The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,The birds sweet music bore;It stood a glory in its place,A blessing evermore.A little spring had lost its wayAmid the grass and fern,A passing stranger scooped a wellWhere weary men might turn;He walled it in, and hung with careA ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did,But judged that all might drink.He paused again, and lo! the well,By summer never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tonguesAnd saved a life beside.A dreamer dropped a random thought;'Twas old, and yet 'twas new;A simple fancy of the brain,But strong in being true.It shone upon a genial mind,And, lo! its light becameA lamp of life, a beacon ray,A monitory flame;The thought was small, its issue great;A watch-fire on the hill;It shed its radiance far adown,And cheers the valley still.A nameless man, amid a crowdThat thronged the daily mart,Let fall a word of Hope and Love,Unstudied from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown,A transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust,It saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love!O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first,But mighty at the last.Charles Mackay.
When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres,And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears,'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed,And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start;And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof,As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone,To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strainWhich is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair,And her bright-eyed, cherub brother—a serene, angelic pair—Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof,As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue,I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue,I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again,And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell,In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell,As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain,Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!Coates Kinney.
The "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in India, is often one of the mostdevoted subjects of the British crown, and he is much appreciated by the men.
You may talk o' gin an' beerWhen you're quartered safe out 'ere,An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;But if it comes to slaughterYou will do your work on water,An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.Now in Injia's sunny clime,Where I used to spend my timeA-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,Of all them black-faced crewThe finest man I knewWas our regimentalbhisti, Gunga Din.He was "Din! Din! Din!You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!Hi!Slippy hitherao!Water, get it!Panee lao!You squidgy-nosed, old idol, Gunga Din!"The uniform 'e woreWas nothin' much before,An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,For a twisty piece o' ragAn' a goatskin water bagWas all the field-equipment 'e could find,When the sweatin' troop-train layIn a sidin' through the day,Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,We shouted "Harry By!"Till our throats were bricky-dry,Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all,It was "Din! Din! Din!You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?You put somejuldeein it,Or I'llmarrowyou this minuteIf you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"'E would dot an' carry oneTill the longest day was done,An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.If we charged or broke or cut,You could bet your bloomin' nut,'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.With 'ismussickon 'is back,'E would skip with our attack,An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."An' for all 'is dirty 'ide'E was white, clear white, insideWhen 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!It was "Din! Din! Din!"With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.When the cartridges ran out,You could 'ear the front-files shout:"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"I sha'n't forgit the nightWhen I dropped be'ind the fightWith a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.I was chokin' mad with thirst,An' the man that spied me firstWas our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.'E lifted up my 'ead,An' 'e plugged me where I bled,An' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water—green:It was crawlin' and it stunk,But of all the drinks I've drunk,I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.It was "Din! Din! Din!'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"'E carried me awayTo where adoolilay,An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.'E put me safe inside,An', just before 'e died:"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.So I'll meet 'im later onIn the place where 'e is gone—Where it's always double drill and no canteen;'E'll be squattin' on the coalsGivin' drink to pore damned souls,An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!Din! Din! Din!You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,By the livin' Gawd that made you,You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!Rudyard Kipling.
"Panee lao"—Bring water swiftly."Harry Ry"—The British soldier's equivalent of "O Brother!""Put some juldee in it"—Be quick."Marrow you"—Hit you."Mussick"—Water-skin.