The Dean to his apple-tree, came, full of hope,But tough was the fruit-stalk as double-twist rope,And when he had cut it with patience and pain,He bit just one mouthful—and never again."An apple so tasteless, so juiceless, so hard,Is, sure, good for nought but to bowl in the yard;The choir-boys may have it." But choir-boys soon foundIt was worthless—the tree that bore all the year round.And Gloster lads climbing the Deanery wallWere punished, as well might all youngthievesappal,For, clutching the booty for which they did sin,They bit at the apples—and left their teeth in!And thus all the year from October till May,From May till October, the apples shone gay;But 'twas just outside glitter, for no hand was foundTo pluck at the fruit which hung all the year round.And so till they rotted, those queer apples hung,The bare boughs and blossoms and ripe fruit amongAnd in Gloster city it still may be found—The tree that bears apples all the year round.
FOOTNOTE:[A]This tree, known among gardeners by the name of "Winter-hanger" or "Forbidden Fruit," was planted by Dean Tucker in 1760. It, or an off shoot from it, still exists in the city of Gloucester.
[A]This tree, known among gardeners by the name of "Winter-hanger" or "Forbidden Fruit," was planted by Dean Tucker in 1760. It, or an off shoot from it, still exists in the city of Gloucester.
[A]This tree, known among gardeners by the name of "Winter-hanger" or "Forbidden Fruit," was planted by Dean Tucker in 1760. It, or an off shoot from it, still exists in the city of Gloucester.
What, my little foolish Ned,Think you mother's eyes are blind,That her heart has grown unkind,And she will not turn her head,Cannot see, for all her joy,Her poor jealous little boy?What though sister be the pet—Laughs, and leaps, and clings, and loves,With her eyes as soft as dove's—Why should yours with tears be wet?Why such angry tears let fall?Mother's heart has room for all.Mother's heart is very wide,And its doors all open stand:Lightest touch of tiniest handShe will never put aside.Why her happiness destroy,Foolish, naughty, jealous boy?Come within the circle bright,Where we laugh, and dance, and sing,Full of love to everything;As God loves us, day and night,Andforgivesus. Come—with joyMother too forgives her boy.
Andso you wanta fairytale,My little maidens twain?Well, sit beside the waterfall,Noisy with last night's rain;On couch of moss, with elfin spearsBristling, all fierce to see,When from the yet brown moor down dropsThe lonely April bee.All the wide valley blushes green,While, in far depths below,Wharfe flashes out a great bright eye,Then hides his shining flow;—Wharfe, busy, restless, rapid Wharfe,The glory of our dale;O I could of the River WharfeTell such a fairy tale!"The Boy of Egremond," you cry,—"And all the 'bootless bene:'We know that poem, every word,And we the Strid have seen."No, clever damsels: though the taleSeems still to bear a part,In every lave of Wharfe's bright wave,The broken mother's heart—Little you know of broken hearts,My Kitty, blithe and wise,Grave Mary, with the woman soulDawning through childish eyes.And long, long distant may God keepThe day when each shall knowThe entrance to His kingdom throughHis baptism of woe!But yet 'tis good to hear of griefWhich He permits to be;Even as in our green inland homeWe talk of wrecks at sea.So on this lovely day, when springWakes soft o'er moor and dale,I'll tell—not quite your wish—but yetA noble "fairy" tale.
'Twas six o'clock in the morning,The sea like crystal lay,When the good troop-ship BirkenheadSet sail from Simon's Bay.The Cape of Good Hope on her rightGloomed at her through the noon:Brief tropic twilight fled, and nightFell suddenly and soon.At eight o'clock in the eveningDim grew the pleasant land;O'er smoothest seas the southern heavenIts starry arch out-spanned.The soldiers on the bulwarks leaned,Smoked, chatted; and belowThe soldiers' wives sang babes to sleep,While on the ship sailed slow.Six hundred and thirty souls held she,Good, bad, old, young, rich, poor;Six hundred and thirty living souls—God knew them all.—SecureHe counted them in His right hand,That held the hungering seas;And to four hundred came a voice—"The Master hath need of these."
On, onward, still the vessel wentTill, with a sudden shock,Like one that's clutched by unseen Death,She struck upon a rock.She filled. Not hours, not minutes left;Each second a life's gone:Drowned in their berths, washed overboard,Lost, swimming, one by one;Till, o'er this chaos of despairRose, like celestial breath,The law of order, discipline,Obedience unto death.The soldiers mustered upon deck,As mute as on parade;"Women and children to the boats!"And not a man gainsayed.Without a murmur or a moanThey stood, formed rank and file,Between the dreadful crystal seasAnd the sky's dreadful smile.In face of death they did their workAs they in life would do,Embarking at a quiet quay—A quiet, silent crew."Now each man for himself. To the boats!"Arose a passing cry.The soldier-captain answered, "SwampThe women and babes?—No, die!"And so they died. Each in his place,Obedient to command,They went down with the sinking ship,Went down in sight of land.The great sea oped her mouth, and closedO'er them. Awhile they trodThe valley of the shadow of death,And then were safe with God.
My little girlies—What! your tearsAre dropping on the grass,Over my more than "fairy" tale,A tale that "really was!"Nay, dry them. If we could but seeThe joy in angels' eyesO'er good lives, or heroic deathsOf pure self-sacrifice,—We should not weep o'er these that sleep—Their short, sharp struggle o'er—Under the rolling waves that breakUpon the Afric shore.God works not as man works, nor seesAs man sees: though we markOfttimes the moving of His handsBeneath the eternal Dark.But yet we know that all is wellThat He, who loved all these,Loves children laughing on the moor,Birds singing in the trees;That He who made both life and death,He knoweth which is best:We live to Him, we die to Him,And leave Him all the rest.
CHILDI wishI were a little birdWhen the sun shinesAnd the wind whispers low,Through the tall pines,I'd rock in the elm tops,Rifle the pear-tree,Hide in the cherry boughs,O such a rare tree!I wish I were a little bird;All summer longI'd fly so merrilySing such a song!Song that should never ceaseWhile daylight lasted,Wings that should never tireHowe'er they hasted.MOTHERBut if you were a little bird—My baby-blossom.Nestling so cosilyIn mother's bosom,—A bird, as we see them now,When the snows harden,And the wind's blighting breathHowls round the garden:What would you do, poor bird,In winter drear?No nest to creep into,No mother near:Hungry and desolate,Weary and woeful,All the earth bound with frost,All the sky snow-full?CHILD (thoughtfully).That would be sad, and yetHear what I'd do—Mother, in winter timeI'd come to you!If you can like the birdsSpite of their thieving,Give them your trees to build,Garden to live in,I think if I were a birdWhen winter comesI'd trust you, mother dear,For a few crumbs,Whether I sang or not,Were lark, thrush, or starling.—MOTHER (aside).Then—Father—I trustTheeWith this my darling.
"Whatis wrong with my big brother?"Says the child;For they two had got no motherAnd she loved him like no other:If he smiled,All the world seemed bright and gayTo this happy little May.If to her he sharply spoke,This big brother—Then her tender heart nigh broke;But the cruel pain that woke,She would smother—As a little woman can;—Was he not almost a man?But when trouble or disgraceSmote the boy,She would lift her gentle face—Surely 'twas her own right place.To bring joy?For she loved him—loved him so!Whether he was good or noMay be he will never feelHalf her love;Wound her, and forget to heal:Idle words are sharp as steel:But above,I know what the angels sayOf this silent little May.
Don'tbe afraid of the dark,My daughter, dear as my soul!You see but a part of the gloomy world,But I—I have seen the whole,And I know each step of the fearsome way,Till the shadows brighten to open day.Don't be afraid of pain,My tender little child:When its smart is worst there comes strength to bear,And it seems as if angels smiled,—As I smile, dear, when I hurt you now.In binding up that wound on your brow.Don't be afraid of grief,'Twill come—as night follows day,But the bleakest sky has tiny riftsWhen the stars shine through—as to sayWait, wait a little—till night is o'erAnd beautiful day come back once more.O child, be afraid of sin,But have no other fear,For God's in the dark, as well as the light;And while we can feel Him near,His hand that He gives, His love that He gave,Lead safely, even to the dark of the grave.
Alfredis gentle as a girl,But Judith longs to be a boy!Would cut off every pretty curlWith eager joy!Hates to be called "my dear"—or kissed:For dollies does not care one fig:Goes, sticking hands up to the wristIn jackets big.Would like to do whate'er boy can;Play cricket—even to go school:It is so grand to be a man!A girl's a fool!But Alfred smiles superior loveOn all these innocent vagaries.He'd hate a goose! but yet a doveAh, much more rare is!She's anything but dove, good sooth!But she's his dear and only sister:And, had she been a boy, in truthHow he'd have missed her.So, gradually her folly dies,And she'll consent to be just human,When there shines out of girlish eyesThe real Woman.
"OurFather which art in heaven,"Little Agnes prays,Though her kneeling is but show,Though she is too young to knowAll, or half she says.God will hear her, Agnes mild,God will love the innocent child."Our Father which art in heaven."She has a father here,Does she think of his kind eyes,Tones that ne'er in anger rise—"Yes, dear," or "No, dear."They will haunt her whole life longLike a sweet pathetic song."Our Father which art in heaven,"Through thy peaceful prayer,Think of the known father's face,Of his bosom, happy place;Safely sheltered there;And so blessed—long may He bless!Think too of the fatherless.
Comealong for the work is ready—Rough it may be, rough, tough and hard—But—fourteen years old—stout, strong and steady,Life's game's beginning, lad!—play your card—Come along.Mother stands at the door-step cryingWell but she has a brave heart too:She'll try to be glad—there's nought like trying,She's proud of having a son like you.Come along.Young as she is, her hair is whitening,She has ploughed thro' years of sorrow deep,She looks at her boy, and her eyes are brightening,Shame if ever you make them weep!Come along.Bravo! See how the brown cheek flushes!Ready to work as hard as you can?I have always faith in a boy that blushes,None will blush for him, when he's a man.Come along.
Wego on our way together,Baby, and dog, and I;Three merry companions,'Neath any sort of sky;Blue as her pretty eyes are,Or gray, like his dear old tail;Be it windy, or cloudy, or stormy,Our courage does never fail.Sometimes the snow lies thickly,Under the hedge-row bleak;Then baby cries "Pretty, pretty,"The only word she can speak.Sometimes two rivers of waterRun down the muddy lane;Then dog leaps backwards and forwardsBarking with might andmain.Baby's a little lady,Dog is a gentleman brave:If he had two legs as you haveHe'd kneel to her like a slave;As it is he loves and protects her,As dog and gentleman can;I'd rather be a kind doggieI think, than a brute of a man.
Shewas going home down the lonely street,A widow-woman with weary feetAnd weary eyes that seldom smiled:She had neither mother, sister, nor child.She earned her bread with a patient heart,And ate it quietly and apart,In her silent home from day to day,No one to say her "ay," or "nay."She was going home without care to haste;What should she haste for? On she pacedThrough the snowy night so bleak and wild,When she thought she heard the cry of a child,A feeble cry, not of hunger or pain,But just of sorrow. It came again.She stopped—she listened—she almost smiled—"That sounds like a wail of a motherless child."A house stood open—no soul was there—Her dull, tired feet grew light on the stair;She mounted—entered. One bed on the floor,And Something in it: and close by the door,Watching the stark form, stretched out still,Ignorant knowing not good nor ill,But only a want and a misery wild,Crouched the dead mother's motherless child.What next? Come say what would you have doneDear children playing about in the sun,Or sitting by pleasant fireside warm,Hearing outside the howling storm?The widow went in and she shut the door,She stayed by the dead an hour or more—And when she went home through the night so wild,She had in her arms a sleeping child.Now she is old and feeble and dull,But her empty heart is happy and fullIf her crust be hard and her cottage poorThere's a young foot tripping across the floor,Young hands to help her that never tire,And a young voice singing beside the fire;And her tired eyes look as if they smiled,—Childless mother and motherless child.
I tookthe wren's nest;—Heaven forgive me!Its merry architects so smallHad scarcely finished their wee hall,That empty still and neat and fairHung idly in the summer air.The mossy walls, the dainty door,Where Love should enter and explore,And Love sit caroling outside,And Love within chirp multiplied;—I took the wren's nest;—Heaven forgive me!How many hours of happy painsThrough early frosts and April rains,How many songs at eve and mornO'er springing grass and greening corn,Before the pretty house was made!One little minute, only one,And she'll fly back, and find it—gone!I took the wren's nest;—Bird, forgive me!Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,Ye have before youallthe year,And every wood holds nooks for you,In which to sing andbuildand wooOne piteous cry of birdish pain—And ye'll begin your life again,Forgetting quite the lost, lost homeIn many a busy home to come—But I?—Your wee house keep I mustUntil it crumble intodust.I took the wren's nest:God forgive me!
A child'ssmile—nothing more;Quiet and soft and grave, and seldom seen,Like summer lightning o'er,Leaving the little face again serene.I think, boy well-beloved,Thine angel, who did grieve to see how farThy childhood is removedFrom sports that dear to other children are,On this pale cheek has thrownThe brightness of his countenance, and madeA beauty like his own—That, while we see it, we are half afraid,And marvel, will it stay?Or, long ere manhood, will that angel fair,Departing some sad day,Steal the child-smile and leave the shadow care?Nay, fear not. As is givenUnto this child the father watching o'er,His angel up in heavenBeholds Our Father's face for evermore.And he will help him bearHis burthen, as his father helps him now;So he may come to wearThat happy child-smile on an old man's brow.
A littlebird flew my window by,'Twixt the level street and the level sky,The level rows of houses tall,The long low sun on the level wallAnd all that the little bird did sayWas, "Over the hills and far away."A little bird sang behind my chair,From the level line of corn-fields fair,The smooth greenhedgerow'slevel boundNot a furlong off—the horizon's bound,And the level lawn where the sun all dayBurns:—"Over the hills and far away."A little bird sings above my bed,And I know if I could but lift my headI would see the sun set, round and grand,Upon level sea and level sand,While beyond the misty distance grayIs "Over the hills and far away."I think that a little bird will singOver a grassy mound, next spring,Where something that once wasme, ye'll leaveIn the level sunshine, morn and eve:But I shall be gone, past night, past day,Over the hills and far away.
Saida drop to a drop, "Just look at me!I'm the finest rain-drop you ever did see:I have lived ten seconds at least on my pane;Swelling and filling and swelling again."All the little rain-drops unto me run,I watch them and catch them and suck them up each one:All the pretty children stand and at me stare;Pointing with their fingers—'That's the biggest drop there.'""Yet you are but a drop," the small drop replied;"I don't myself see much cause for pride:The bigger you swell up,—we know well, my friend,—The faster you run down the sooner you'll end."For me, I'm contented outside on my ledge,Hearing the patter of rain in the hedge;Looking at the firelight and the children fair,—Whether they look at me, I'm sure I don't care.""Sir," cried the first drop, "your talk is but dull;I can't wait to listen, for I'm almost full;You'll run a race with me?—No?—Then 'tis plainI am the largest drop in the whole pane."Off ran the big drop, at first rather slow:Then faster and faster, as drops will, you know:Raced down the window-pane, like hundreds before,Just reached the window-sill—one splash—and was o'er.
Sogrows the rising year, and so declinesBy months, weeks, days, unto its peaceful endEven as by slow and ever-varying signsThrough childhood, youth, our solemn steps we bendUp to the crown of life, and thence descend.Great Father, who of every one takest care,From him on whom full ninety years are piledTo the young babe, just taught to lisp a prayerAbout the "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,"Who children loves, being once himself a child,—O make us day by day like Him to grow;More pure and good, more dutiful and meek;Because He loves those who obey Him so;Because His love is the best thing to seek,Because without His love, all loves are weak,—All earthly joys are miserable and poor,All earthly goodness quickly droops and dies,Like rootless flowers you plant in gardens—sureThat they will flourish—till in mid-day skiesThe sun burns, and they fade before your eyes.O God, who art alone the life and lightOf this strange world to which as babes we come,Keep Thou us always children in Thy sight:Guide us from year to year, thro' shine and gloomAnd at our year's end, Father, take us home.
"Whythus aside your playthings throw,Over the wet lawn hurrying so?Where are you going, I want to know?""I'm running after the rainbow.""Little boy, with your bright brown eyesFull of an innocent surprise,Stop a minute, my Arthur wise,What do you want with the rainbow?"Arthur paused in his headlong race,Turned to his mother his hot, young face,"Mother, I want to reach the placeAt either end of the rainbow."Nurse says, wherever it meets the ground.Such beautiful things may oft be foundBuried below, or scattered round,If one can but catch the rainbow."O please don't hinder me, mother dear,It will all be gone while I stay here;"So with many a hope and not one fear,The child ran after the rainbow.Over the damp grass, ankle deep,Clambering up the hilly steep,And the wood where the birds were going to sleep,But he couldn't catch the rainbow.And when he came out at the wood's far side,The sun was setting in golden pride,There were plenty of clouds all rainbow dyed,But not a sign of the rainbow.Said Arthur, sobbing, as home he went,"I wish I had thought what mother meant;I wish I had only been content,And not ran after the rainbow."And as he came sadly down the hill,Stood mother scolding—but smiling still,And hugged him up close, as mothers will:So he quite forgot the rainbow.
We'regoing to a party, my brother Dick and I:The best, grandest party we ever did try:And I'm very happy—but Dick is so shy!I've got a white ball-dress, and flowers in my hair,And a scarf, with a brooch too, mamma let me wear:Silk stockings, and shoes with high heels, I declare!There is to be music—a real soldier's band:AndImean to waltz, and eat ice, and be fanned,Like a grown-up young lady, the first in the land.But Dick is so stupid, so silent and shy:Has never learnt dancing, so says he won't try—Yet Dick is both older and wiser than I.And I'm fond of my brother—this darling old Dick:I'll hunt him in corners wherever he stick,He's bad at a party—but at school he's a brick!So good at his Latin, at cricket, football,Whatever he tries at. And then he's so tall!Yet at play with the children he's best of us all.And his going to the party is just to pleaseme,Poor Dick! so good-natured. How dull he will be!But he says I shall dance "like a wave o' the sea."That's Shakespeare, his Shakespeare, he worships him so.Our Dick he writes poems, though none will he show;I found out his secret, but I won't tell: no, no.And when he's a great man, a poet you see,O dear! what a proud little sister I'll be;Hark! there comes the carriage. We're off, Dick and me.
Grandpapalives at the end of the lane,His cottage is small and its furniture plain;No pony to ride on, no equipage grand,—A garden, and just half an acre of land;No dainties to dine off, and very few toys,—Yet is grandpapa's house the delight of the boys.Grandpapa once lived in one little room,Grandpapa worked all day long at his loom:He speaks with queer accent, does dear grandpapa,And not half so well as papa and mamma.The girls think his clothes are a little rough,But the boys all declare they can't love him enough.A man of the people in manners and mind,Yet so honest, so tender, so clever, so kind:Makes the best of his lot still, where'er it be cast.A sturdy old Englishman, game to the last.Though simple and humble and unknown to fame,It's good luck to the boys to bear grandpapa's name!
Deuxpetits enfants Francais,Monsieur et Mademoiselle.Of what can they be talking, child?Indeed I cannot tell.But of this I am very certain,You would find naught to blameIn that sweet French politeness—I wish we had the same.Monsieur has got a melon,And scoops it with his knife,While Mademoiselle sits watching him:No rudeness here—no strife:Though could you listen only,They're chattering like two pies—French magpies, understand me—So merry and so wise.Their floor is bare of carpet,Their curtains are so thin,They dine on meagrepotage, andPut many an onion in!Her snow-white caps she irons:He blacks his shoes, he can;Yet she's a little ladyAnd he's a gentleman.O busy, happy children!That light French heart of yours,Would it might sometimes enter atOur solemn English doors!Would that we worked as gaily,And played, yes, played as well,And lived our lives as simplyAs Monsieur et Mademoiselle.
YoungDandelionOn a hedge-side,Said young Dandelion,"Who'll be my bride?"I'm a bold fellowAs ever was seen,With my shield of yellow,In the grass green."You may uproot me,From field and from lane,Trample me, cut me,—I spring up again."I never flinch, Sir,Wherever I dwell;Give me an inch, Sir.I'll soon take an ell."Drive me from gardenIn anger and pride,I'll thrive and hardenBy the road-side."Not a bit fearful,Showing my face,Always so cheerfulIn every place."Said young Dandelion,With a sweet air,"I have my eye onMiss Daisy fair."Though we may tarryTill past the cold,Her I will marryEre I grow old."I will protect herFrom all kinds of harm,Feed her with nectar,Shelter her warm."Whate'er the weather,Let it go by;We'll hold together,Daisy and I."I'll ne'er give in,—no!Nothing I fear:All that I win, O!I'll keep for my dear."Said young DandelionOn his hedge-side,"Who'll me rely on?Who'll be my bride?"
Myeyes are full, my silent heart is stirred,Amid these days so brightOf ceaseless warmth and light;Summer that will not die,Autumn, without one sighO'er sweet hours passing by—Cometh that tender noteOut of thy tiny throat,Like grief, or love, insisting to be heard,O little plaintive bird!No need of wordWell know I all your tale—forgotten bird!Soon you and I togetherMust face the winter weather,Remembering how we sungOur primrose fields among,In days when life was young;Now, all is growing old,And the warm earth's a-cold,Still, with brave heart we'll sing on, little bird,Sing only. Not one word.
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious punctuation errors repaired.Text uses both tablecloth and table-cloth.The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Text uses both tablecloth and table-cloth.
The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.