Miss MuffetLITTLE MISS MUFFET.Little Miss MuffetSat on a tuffet,Eating her curds and whey;When down came a spider,And sat down beside her,And frighten'd Miss Muffet away.
Miss Muffet
LITTLE MISS MUFFET.
Little Miss MuffetSat on a tuffet,Eating her curds and whey;When down came a spider,And sat down beside her,And frighten'd Miss Muffet away.
Little Miss MuffetSat on a tuffet,Eating her curds and whey;When down came a spider,And sat down beside her,And frighten'd Miss Muffet away.
Little Miss MuffetSat on a tuffet,Eating her curds and whey;When down came a spider,And sat down beside her,And frighten'd Miss Muffet away.
They set to work with even more ardour than the day before, for had they not been feasting on unaccustomed chocolate and dough nuts? And the dough nuts, judging from the reckless enthusiasm with which the two tunes were attacked and learnt, had got into their heads, which is not the usual place for dough nuts, and shows how beautifully light they must have been. Then they tried to actMiss Muffet, and quarrelled over the preliminaries just as grown up people do, each one wanting the best part for herself.
'I'se Miss Muffet!' shouted June, defiance in her eye.
'No, I!' cried May.
'No,Ishall be Muffet,' said April, very quietly and firmly.
'Oh then I'se the spider,' said June.
'Yes, and I is Muffet,' said April quickly.
'But I? What is I, then?' asked May, aggrieved.
'Oh, you can be the—the curds and whey,' said June, always ready with brilliant suggestions.
'No, the tuffet,' said April.
May absolutely refused to be the curds and whey, and didn't at all like the idea of being a tuffet, a thing for others to sit on, a mute and inglorious three-legged stool, with nothing to say and nothing to do; but she generally did as she was told, and after some grumbling was persuaded to go on all fours, whereupon April took her seat with great dignity on her back, and holding a cup with chocolate dregs to represent the curds and whey, lifted up her voice and gave tongue to the opening lines of the immortal ditty. Then there was a wild yell such as never yet had been heard to issue from any spider, and June flung herself on to the only vacant bit of tuffet she could see, and as it was May's head and as she was a very fat and heavy spider, the tuffet collapsed under the shock, flattening itself out straight, and they all fell, shrieking loudly, into a heap. There was such a tangle of arms and legs that the mother found it difficult to sort them out, and set each baby on the feet that belonged to it again; and besides, she was laughing, and you know what your thumbs feel like when you laugh, and how weak they get, and how they won't pull. 'Miss Muffet's too hard to act,' she said, comforting them,'because of that tiresome tuffet. TryMary, Mary. One can be Mary, and the other two the row of pretty maids. Two are just enough for a row.'
'And if one went away from that row—then?' inquired June. But her mother sat down to the piano, and refused to argue.
This succeeded better. The pretty maids sang the first half, and April, dancing up and down her garden path in front of them, answered their questions with cheerful shrillness. They sang it over and over again. The mother had to play it so often that she got to dislike it with all her heart, and still they went on, the pretty maids beating time with their feet, and the busy Mary flying up and down faster and faster and more and more breathlessly, her hair streaming out behind, and her face aflame. At last the mother felt as though she were being mesmerized, and hardly noticed what they were doing, till a strange spluttering noise made her look up, and there stood the pretty maids gasping, with their eyes and noses and mouths full of chocolate which April was diligently pouring out of the jug on to their heads, muttering as she did so 'Doch, doch, Du musst begossen werden,'—'Yes, yes, thou must be watered.'
Now this was a dreadful thing to do, and could only be excused by the state of wild excitement into which she had worked herself over the part of Mary. The mother was so astonished that for a moment she sat looking on without saying a word. The pretty maids, though they choked, quite entered into the spirit of the thing, and felt that as they were growing in a garden it was only right they should be watered. And besides, the chocolate was very nice still, in spite of its being cold, and trickled agreeably down into the mouths they were careful to hold as wide open as they would go. But they wouldn't go wide enough, and most of it trickled down over their pinafores to the edge of their dresses, and then dropped off in thick drops on to their mother's favourite carpet, making dark and horrid pools at their feet.
Oh, it was a dreadful ending to a party! And the worst of it was they were so excited that they never gave a thought to the dreadfulness of it, which made it very difficult for their mother to rebuke them. 'Oh,' she said, pointing to the two pools on the carpet, 'Oh,' and when she had said that she stopped, and didn't seem able to go on. I don't know whether she was trying notto cry at the spoilt carpet, or trying not to laugh at the spoilt babies, who looked pitiable objects now with their heads all over chocolate, while April stood staring at them in consternation, the empty jug in her hand.
After you have been very excited and happy there is always a horrible time that comes when you feel so flat, and dull, and stale, that you are more like ginger-beer without the ginger and the froth than anything else. That is how the babies felt when they were having the chocolate washed off their faces and heads, and were being put, with all the fizz gone out of them, into premature beds. It was very difficult to get the chocolate out of their hair, and Séraphine expressed her disapproval by scrubbing with such pitiless vigour that they felt quite dazed. And then it was bewildering besides having their heads washed on any night but Saturday. It seemed to upset things so, and they were used to regular ways,—head-washing on Saturday nights, clean clothes on Sunday morning, a smell of soap-suds pervading the passages on Monday—that is what had always happened ever since the world, with people in it wanting washing, began. Eve, explained April to June in subdued murmurs while they were undressing, used towash her long yellow hair on Saturdays too, dipping it up and down in the waters of Paradise; and as soap wasn't among the things that grew on the trees there, she used bananas instead, which were after all much more like soap than like bananas; and June asked whether she ate what was left over of the soap, when she had finished her washing, and April said people didn't eat soap, and June said people did eat bananas, and they talked it over in whispers, trying vainly to settle it, as they went shivering to bed.
The next morning, when the mother got up, she went to her bedroom window and tried to look out; but the snow was heaped up outside on the sills half way to the top. She was very sorry for the babies, who had been shut up now for more than a week. They seemed depressed, too, at breakfast time, and May had a cold, and kept on sneezing into her bread and milk. The first time she did it, and the second time too, the others said,Gesundheit, which is what people say in Germany when you sneeze; but when she went on doing it and didn't seem inclined to stop, they were irritated, and left off sayingGesundheitand saidpfuiinstead, which is what people say in Germany when they are disgusted.
May didn't like havingpfuisaid to her, and sniffed in a very injured manner; and Séraphine had got out of bed the wrong side, and was shrouded in impenetrable gloom and mystery; and there was a strong north wind blowing which got in at all the cracks and made it harder than ever to keep warm; so that things were looking rather bad all round.
Long before it had been time to get up, April and June had talked over in their beds whether their mother would invite them to tea and tunes again after the chocolate incident or not. June thought she would, because June's experience of mothers was that they were a long-suffering race, and slow to anger; but April had been the chief sinner, and was full of doubts. They would not have mentioned it for the world at breakfast, but looked out of the corners of their eyes very often at their mother while they were eating their bread and milk—so often, indeed, that once or twice the spoonfuls went astray, and emptied themselves on to their bibs instead of into their mouths, giving May an opportunity of calling outSchmutzfinck, which she did at once in a very loud voice, greatly to her relief and satisfaction, revenging herself in this way for thepfuisthat had been hurled at her.Schmutzfinckis not a polite thing to call any one, and means that the person who says it thinks you exceedingly dirty and generally objectionable; but it is wonderful what relief it gave May to say it,—she quite brightened up, and left off sniffing.
The mother was reading letters, and didn't seem to notice what anybody was doing, and Séraphine, whose duty it was to see that the bibs didn't get more than their fair share of breakfast, never bothered about either bibs or babies, but sat staring into space with a wild misgiving eye. There are some days, you know, when the best of people get out of bed the wrong side, and can't get right again the whole day, and set other people wrong too, and it was perfectly clear from Séraphine's face that that was what she had done that morning. Corners would await the babies that day at every turn if they were much with Séraphine, however carefully they might climb the narrow path of being good; so the mother carried April and June off with her into the store room after breakfast, and while she was ordering the dinner they gambolled innocently among the sausages, and played at hide and seek between the barrels of pickled cabbage, and visited their old kitten, now grown into a big and churlish cat, but belovedstill for old sake's sake and for its unforgettable sweetness on the first day they ever saw it, when it arrived at lesson-time in Herr Schenk's pocket, its front paws resting on the edge of the pocket, and its face resting on its paws, and its blue eyes, grown so green and fierce, gazing dreamily round. It was a Tom-cat, but the babies called it Rose.
'Now what shall I do with these babies of mine to-day?' the mother was asking herself all the time she was sayingJato every suggestion of the cook's. Somebody from the village came and wanted to speak to her, and as it turned into a long conversation she had to send the babies back to Séraphine; and then something else happened that kept her, and it was nearly an hour before she could get away and see what was going on in the schoolroom. But the babies had made up a game for themselves that had put Séraphine to flight and was keeping them quite happy. They had got May on to the sofa, covered her well up, told her she was very ill and must sleep, and when the mother came in, April and June were striding up and down the room shouting German lullabies at the top of their voices.
'She shall sleep,' explained June in a stentorian whisper to her mother.
'But how can she with such a noise going on?'
'It isn't one noise, it'sWiegenlieder,' said June offended; and turning away began again to roar out something aboutSchlaf, Kindlein, schlaf, in a voice that shook the walls.
'Oh, she did sneeze so badly!' whispered April, with uplifted hands; 'Oh such a lot of times! Oh such a very lot of times!' And seeing that May had got her arms outside the cushion she had put on her chest, she pounced on them, dragged them underneath again, smoothed the cushion with resounding pats, and, bending down, shoutedschlaf, Kindlein, schlaf, into her ear. Séraphine was nowhere to be seen, and indeed the lullabies were very maddening. May, however, seemed to like them, and lay on the sofa quite comfortable, and pleased at doing nothing; and though she sneezed a good deal, was otherwise enjoying herself.
'That child's ears can't be very sensitive,' thought the mother, getting away as quickly as possible; and she shut all the doors between the schoolroom and the drawing-room, and, as lullabies were the fashion, wrote a tune forHush-a-bye Baby.
Hush-a-byeHUSH-A-BYE, BABY.Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,When the wind blows the cradle will rock;When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,And down comes baby and cradle and all.
Hush-a-bye
HUSH-A-BYE, BABY.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,When the wind blows the cradle will rock;When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,And down comes baby and cradle and all.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,When the wind blows the cradle will rock;When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,And down comes baby and cradle and all.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,When the wind blows the cradle will rock;When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,And down comes baby and cradle and all.
By lunch time things were looking brighter. Séraphine had been so deafened by the singing that she had kept out of the way and left the babies alone; the mother was exhausted but pleased, for she had managed to write three tunes; the thermometer had gone up several degrees, the sun was shining gaily, and the babies would be able to go and skate on the stream at the end of the garden. It was the Thursday in Holy Week, and if a thaw set in soon there would still be a chance of a green Easter, and the eggs would be hidden after all in the garden. Of course if the garden is frozen up at Easter, or if it rains, the eggs have to be hidden in the house, under the tables and chairs, which is never half such fun; but where the babies lived it was nearly always fine and blue on Easter Sunday, and they had never yet been prevented from having their egg-hunt out of doors.
The mother watched them go off with their skates after lunch, jumping and running down the path that had been shovelled in the snow, and even Séraphine, the moment she got out of the house into the blessed sunshine, began to look happy, and as though life, after all, were a very pleasant thing. 'And so it is,' thought the mother, as she stood for a moment in thesun, breathing in the pure cold air, and sheltered by the house from the north wind, 'and so it always will be, as long as there is sun to shine and people with the grace to say thank you.' And she went into the house and wrote three more tunes.
When they were finished she leant back in her chair and felt rather less sure about the pleasantness of life. 'May I never make another!' she said to herself. 'To-morrow is Good Friday, and the babies go to church. On Easter eve the egg-basket comes, and each one will be busy hiding her eggs. On Easter Sunday they will go to church again, and in the afternoon look for the eggs. And then perhaps the snow will be gone, and lessons will begin again, and the garden grow greener and greener every day, and never, never, never need I make any more tunes!' And she gave a deep sigh of relief, for you see she had only made the tunes to please the babies when they had nothing else to please them, and wouldn't have done so for any other person or reason in the world.
When, at dusk, the babies came tramping up the snow-path, jingling their skates, and very warm and cheerful, the library windows were ablaze with light. Their mother met them at thedoor, and told them to take off their coats quickly and come to her, for the Easter hare had been to see her and had left something for them. I don't think the sort of hare that is called Easter ever goes to England, but in Germany they are supposed to bring all the eggs and presents at Easter in a basket, just as Father Christmas brings the presents at Christmas. The babies had often seen hares in the garden, but they never had baskets, and it was only the mother who was lucky enough to meet the real Easter hare, basket and all. As Easter time drew near she would come in from the garden and say, 'Who do you think I met, babies, in the copse where the anemones grow?' And they would listen with round eyes while she described the costume and conversation and conduct of the Easter hare. They used to prowl round the copse sometimes for hours, but they never saw him. 'He's rather shy,' said the mother.
It was wonderful what things that Easter hare did. The library was brilliant with lamps and candles, and the fire was blazing up the great chimney, and on a low table round which stood three little chairs, the Easter hare had put a cloth, and a new dolls' tea set that the babies had never seen, with spoons, andknives, and tiny napkins, and in the middle of the table a little flower-pot with a whole snowdrop plant growing in it. There were a great many plates of cake, and bread and butter, and pieces of scone, and jam, for the plates were so small that one of each would never have filled the babies, and there was a little dish of white radishes on one side of the snowdrop, and a little dish of red radishes on the other side of the snowdrop, and it looked as festive a banquet as any one could wish to see. 'Oh!' cried the babies when they came in.
'The Easter hare did it all,' said the mother, 'and has lent you his best tea things. He is coming in again to-night to fetch them, because he's giving rather a lot of parties himself just now, and can't spare them long.'
'Oh how dear he is!' cried April, dancing round the little table, while May hung fondly over the radishes.
But June took her mother aside. 'I wants to say you something,' she said, in a voice that sounded hollow, pulling her by her dress into a remote corner.
'Well?' said the mother bending down.
June put her arms round her mother's neck and drew her headclose. 'I doesn't believe thereisone Easter hare,' she whispered in a loud and awful whisper.
'Oh you tickle me!' cried the mother, pulling herself up straight again with a jerk, and rubbing her ear.
'I doesn't believe thereeveris Easter hares,' continued June, in a tone of gloomy conviction, while her mother rubbed her tickled ear without answering, 'nor any baskets too not. I doesn't believe there ever didwasany, either.'
The mother stood looking down at her, mechanically rubbing her ear. 'What a dreadful baby you are,' she murmured at last; 'why don't you believe in him? When I was a little girl I believed everything.'
'But I not,' said June, shaking her head with a sort of solemn triumph, as though she thought it was very clever of her not to believe everything, and a great advance on the easy faith of her mother's youthful years; 'there isn't any hares with baskets, but only mummies.'
Then the mother stooped down and whispered that it was to be a secret between them, and June was so pleased at sharing a secret with her mother that she has faithfully kept it ever since,and has never breathed a doubt to April and May, who firmly believe in him to this day. I saw the mother a little while ago, and she told me so.
Tea Party
The Tea Party
The tea party began, very properly, with a German grace, and then April sat where the teapot was and poured out the tea; but the little cups came back to be filled again so quickly that she had no peace, and couldn't get on with her bread and butter, and as May and June wouldn't wait they began to help themselves, June drinking three cups to the other babies' one, so that by the time the party was over she was extremely full and unpopular. But she liked the feeling of being full, and as for being unpopular what did she care? She laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks at the discomfiture of the others, when they found that even turning the teapot and milk jug upside down failed to produce another drop. They had had five cups each, and June had had fifteen. Saints would have been provoked at such gross unfairness and revolting greediness. April glared at her across the table: 'Guttersnipe!' she cried, in a voice of thunder.
'Look here, babies,' interrupted the mother from the other end of the room, feeling that the next thing to happen would beApril's flinging herself upon June and sitting on her and jumping up and down, this being a favourite form of punishment, and knowing that people with fifteen cups of tea inside them mustn't be jumped on; 'look here, babies, at all the tunes I've made for you to-day. Did you ever hear of such a good mummy? Don't you want me to tell you the stories belonging to them?'
She knew this suggestion would bring them crowding round. It always did. There was nothing they loved so much as being told stories. Séraphine told them blood-curdling ones in French, all about bears and wolves coming to gobble up children who didn't prize and cherish their nurses as much as they deserved; you know the sort of story, I am sure,—the sort that makes your hair try to stand on end in the night if you wake up and begin to think of them. The babies' hair couldn't stand on end because it was too long, and besides, it was safely wrapped up in curl papers; but even if it could have it wouldn't have, for happily they were tough babies, and refused to be anything but amused by Séraphine's bears. I suppose nearly every baby has to pass through the stage of having to listen to the results in bears and black men of their nurse's fruitful imaginings, and it is a mercy if the victim is toughenough not to mind. When this mother I am telling you about was small, which she was in the days that for you children are merely pre-historic, during the greater part of three years she woke up every night and shivered for two or three hours, sick with fright, and very cold; and what do you think she was afraid of? A thing called the Crack of Doom, which her nurse had told her would usher in the Last Day; and the Last Day, said the nurse, might be expected to begin any night. The baby lay awake trembling, waiting to hear the crack, sure it would be a most horrible bang, her ears stuffed with as much of her stockings as would go in, besides her fingers, in abject misery every night for all that long time, when she might have been comfortably asleep. So when she grew up, and turned into a mother, she was thankful that her babies were so tough; and I hope all children who read this will try and be tough too, and refuse to be made wretched by such silly tales.
There was quite a little packet of tunes in the mother's hand, for, as I said, she had actually managed to write six that day. The babies sat at her feet, and she began to tell them the nursery rhymes, beginning withHush-a-bye, Baby, and its perilous position,left in its cradle on the top of a tree. They thought the poor hush-a-bye baby couldn't have had a very nice mummy, and asked if it was smashed, and if so whether it ever got mended again, and what became of the cradle, and ifLieber Gottwasn't very angry with the mummy for letting her baby get broken, and a great many other questions that were not always easy to answer.
This is its tune:
HUSH-A-BYE, BABY.
[[audio/mpeg][MusicXML]
Then the mother told them about Jack and Jill going off so cheerfully in the morning, all clean and tidy, to the pump on the top of the hill to fetch water for their mother's cooking; and how they began to quarrel on the way down again, as boys and girls will, instead of walking carefully over the loose stones; and how Jack, while he was reaching across to pinch his sister, stumbled, and fell, and broke his head, and the pail of water fell on the top of him, and Jill fell on the top of the pail of water, and there was a horrid mess; so that instead of two nice clean good children bringing the water to cook with, their mother, after waiting ever so long and getting crosser each minute, saw a broken pail, and a broken head, and a pair of dripping children with torn clothes and foolish faces coming into her kitchen. 'Oh! it is a sad thing when children quarrel!' observed the mother, pointing the moral when she had reached the end of this tragic story; and she wagged her head several times, turning up her eyes so far that the babies at her feet couldn't see what they called the yolks of them at all, but only the whites, and were greatly impressed. They began to wag their heads too, shaking them slowly from side to side, all their sympathies being with Jack and Jill's mother.But June remarked that nothing would have happened if the pump hadn't been on a hill. 'I never did see pumps on hills,' she added; which was very true, for where she lived there were no hills, and there was only one pump.
Jack and JillJACK AND JILL.Jack and Jill went up the hillTo fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crown,And Jill came tumbling after.
Jack and Jill
JACK AND JILL.
Jack and Jill went up the hillTo fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crown,And Jill came tumbling after.
Jack and Jill went up the hillTo fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crown,And Jill came tumbling after.
Jack and Jill went up the hillTo fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crown,And Jill came tumbling after.
This is theJack and Jilltune:
JACK AND JILL.
Jack and Jill music
[[audio/mpeg][MusicXML]
Then the mother told them about the Pussy Cat who went to London expressly to look at the Queen, but did nothing so grand as that after all, only chasing a poor little mouse under a chair and frightening it out of its wits, which of course it could have done just as well at home, and saved all the expense of the journey.
'Was she one German puss?' asked June.
'Oh, the poor German pussies are much too busy getting out of the way of all the stones that are thrown at them to have time for going anywhere and enjoying themselves. This puss must have been English, and sleek, and well cared for, with a kind master and mistress to stroke it every day and give it milk.'
Pussy CatPUSSY CAT, PUSSY CAT.Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?I've been to London to look at the Queen.Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?I frighten'd a little mouse under the chair.
Pussy Cat
PUSSY CAT, PUSSY CAT.
Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?I've been to London to look at the Queen.Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?I frighten'd a little mouse under the chair.
Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?I've been to London to look at the Queen.Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?I frighten'd a little mouse under the chair.
Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?I've been to London to look at the Queen.Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?I frighten'd a little mouse under the chair.
The babies sat looking into the fire. A contented, amiable, affectionate cat was an animal they had never yet met. Where they lived, the poor cats were forced to be wild and spend their lives hunting in the fields and forests, because if they ever appeared within reach of a stone and a person to throw it, they were certain to have a bit of themselves broken or bruised. If a man with a gun met a cat he naturally shot it. If an old maid kept a cat, as old maids sometimes will, it was sure sooner or later to come home from an evening stroll with its ears cut off by thenearest farmer, who hoped by this means to make hunting in his fields, with the rain and dew getting into the exposed parts, a thing so disagreeable that the cat would never again indulge in it, and as for the next time it came home from an evening stroll, it would probably come in the character of a corpse.
The babies had themselves possessed kittens that they had loved and lost. Directly they were big enough they took to tree-climbing and bird-nesting, and finally stayed away altogether. It was in their blood,—the blood of ancient German cats, passed on through rows and rows of fathers and mothers who also had had stones thrown at them, and had climbed trees and eaten birds; and what is a poor cat to do? Rose, the black cat in the kitchen, had developed such strange and unpleasant habits of spitting and biting, and clawing, that it had been banished from the playroom. The servants only tolerated it because it killed the mice, and even they (I mean the servants, not the mice) never passed it without tweaking its tail. Think how dreadful it must be to go through life with a thing following you about behind that anyone can tweak who wants to! No wonder poor Rose's temper was so uncertain.
But what, thought the babies, must these cats of England be like,—these glorious cats of liberty and luxury of whom their mother so often talked? Fascinating pussies with cheerful faces, unclipped ears, and ribbons round their necks, creatures who were often more spoilt than anybody else in the house, who rubbed themselves, confident and purring, against the legs of strangers, who spent their days deliciously snoozing before the fire, who walked about with their untweaked tails straight up in the air in the excess of their contentment? The babies could hardly imagine such a happy state of things; but the mother showed them the cat pictures in English weekly papers from time to time, and there sure enough were just such cats as she had described, ribbons and all. They took a ribbon once to Rose, going up to him timidly, and offering, with polite and flattering speeches, to tie it round his neck; but he jumped off his chair and ran under a table, and, crouching down, glared at them out of the shadow with fiery eyeballs; so that they went away sorrowfully, for in his days of innocence they had loved him much.
This is the tune forPussy Cat:
PUSSY CAT, PUSSY CAT.
Pussy Cat music
[[audio/mpeg][MusicXML]
The next rhyme the mother took up was the one about Curly Locks. You English children all know it, of course,—how somebody, who evidently wanted to marry her, offered her a cushion as a perpetual seat if only she would be his, and instead of washing dishes and feeding pigs, as she was doing when he made her his offer, she was to spend her time sitting on thiscushion sewing, and being fed at intervals with strawberries and sugar and cream.
'Strawberries and cream, babies, are very nice things.'
'Ach ja!' sighed the babies.
'But I shouldn't have liked the cushion and the needlework all day long.'
'No, no,' agreed the babies.
'And I know what I would have done in Curly Locks' place—I'd have let the young man go, and kept to the pigs.'
'But the strawberries?' insinuated May.
'Ach ja!' sighed April.
'I'd have let the strawberries go too,' said the mother; anything rather than the hot cushion and the sewing.'
'Ach nein!' sighed April softly, shaking her head, 'better take the strawberries.' And the other two silently nodded their approval.
'But we don't know what Curly Locks decided to do,' said the mother, 'for the rhyme doesn't go any farther. Perhaps she did marry him, and is sitting to this day on her cushion, and has grown dreadfully fat through never moving and eating so muchsugar and cream, and hasn't even the energy to curl her hair any more. But perhaps she was wise, and kept to the pigs.'
Curly LocksCURLY LOCKS.Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be mine?Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.
Curly Locks
CURLY LOCKS.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be mine?Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be mine?Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be mine?Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.
'Ach nein!' gently disagreed the babies, 'the strawberries is better.'
The mother laughed. Strawberries did seem rather pleasant things just then, with the snow on the ground, and no prospect of them for months. 'Curly Locks was a little dear, anyhow,' she said, putting down her tune, 'and I am sure she chose whatever was best.'
'Ach ja!' murmured the babies, 'she chose the strawberries.'
'Well, well,' said the mother.
This is the tune forCurly Locks:—
CURLY LOCKS.
Curly Locks music
[[audio/mpeg][MusicXML]
There were only two rhymes left, and the mother took up the top one. It wasSing a Song of Sixpence. But the pie in it was a difficulty, because pies and pie-dishes don't exist in Germany, and the babies had never seen one, and seemed, moreover, incapable of imagining one.
SixpenceSING A SONG OF SIXPENCE.Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;When the pie was open'd the birds began to sing,Was not that a dainty dish to set before a King.
Sixpence
SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;When the pie was open'd the birds began to sing,Was not that a dainty dish to set before a King.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;When the pie was open'd the birds began to sing,Was not that a dainty dish to set before a King.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;When the pie was open'd the birds began to sing,Was not that a dainty dish to set before a King.
'What's a pie?' asked June at once; and the mother beganto explain pies,—as she thought, with beautiful clearness. She explained pies in theory and pies in practice, their nature and uses; pies generalised and pies particularised, and of particularised pies particularly this pie, with its wonderful blackbirds who went on singing, undaunted by having been baked; and when she had finished, and was looking round for a gleam of interest, they sat stolidly gazing into the fire, and June merely said, 'But what's a pie?'
Then she went into details, expatiating eloquently on the joys of those pies so dear to English children,—gooseberry pie in the early summer, cherry pie later on, plum and apple pie still later, and at Christmas those peculiar pies that bear the name of mince.
But the babies sat unmoved.
Then she took downThe Fairchild Familyfrom her bookshelves, an old children's book that your grandmothers used to read and whose pages bristle with pies, and she read out the descriptions of all the pies the Fairchild Family ate, still hoping to bring fire into the babies' eyes and water into their mouths. The Fairchild Family ate a great many pies. As a rule they were made ofraspberries and currants, and sometimes they were hot, and sometimes they were cold, and sometimes they were only apple; but the family was so fond of them that if one appeared on the table in front of him, Mr. Fairchild would cry out, on catching sight of it, 'What blessings we have about us, even in this world!' or something equally surprised and delighted. 'They all sat down,' read out the mother, with great expression and one eye on the babies,—'they all sat down, full of joy, to eat roast fowl and some boiled bacon, with a nice cold currant and raspberry pie.'
But the babies remained blank.
'I shall send to England for a pie-dish, babies,' she rashly promised, in her effort to get a spark of enthusiasm out of them, 'and we'll make all the pies I have told you about.'
But the babies didn't turn a hair.
'Or, what would be still nicer,' she went on, even more rashly, 'I'll take you all to England on purpose to eat pies!'
But the babies sat like stones.
The mother gave it up.
This is the tune:—
SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE.
Sixpence music
[[audio/mpeg][MusicXML]
'The last one of all,' said the mother, 'is to be sung by two babies only, for it is a duet. May can't learn it to-night because of her cold, so April and June shall do it.'
It wasWhere are you going to, my pretty maid?First the mother told them the story, and described how very pretty the pretty maid was, but how, directly the young man found she had no money, he wouldn't marry her.
Pretty MaidWHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?Where are you going to, my pretty maid?I'm going a-milking, Sir, she said.May I go with you, my pretty maid?You're kindly welcome, Sir, she said.Who is your father, my pretty maid?My father's a farmer, Sir, she said.Say will you marry me, my pretty maid?Yes, if you please, kind Sir, she said.What is your fortune, my pretty maid?My face is my fortune, kind Sir, she said.Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid!Nobody ask'd you, Sir, she said.
Pretty Maid
WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?I'm going a-milking, Sir, she said.May I go with you, my pretty maid?You're kindly welcome, Sir, she said.Who is your father, my pretty maid?My father's a farmer, Sir, she said.Say will you marry me, my pretty maid?Yes, if you please, kind Sir, she said.What is your fortune, my pretty maid?My face is my fortune, kind Sir, she said.Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid!Nobody ask'd you, Sir, she said.
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?I'm going a-milking, Sir, she said.May I go with you, my pretty maid?You're kindly welcome, Sir, she said.Who is your father, my pretty maid?My father's a farmer, Sir, she said.Say will you marry me, my pretty maid?Yes, if you please, kind Sir, she said.What is your fortune, my pretty maid?My face is my fortune, kind Sir, she said.Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid!Nobody ask'd you, Sir, she said.
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?I'm going a-milking, Sir, she said.May I go with you, my pretty maid?You're kindly welcome, Sir, she said.Who is your father, my pretty maid?My father's a farmer, Sir, she said.Say will you marry me, my pretty maid?Yes, if you please, kind Sir, she said.What is your fortune, my pretty maid?My face is my fortune, kind Sir, she said.Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid!Nobody ask'd you, Sir, she said.
'But why must she have some money?' asked April.
'Ihas got sevenpfennings,' said June, trying not to look proud.
'First he says will she marry him, and then he says he doesn't want to?' asked April, wonderingly.
'But mummy, was she one really milkmaid?' asked May.
'Yes, she was going milking when he met her.'
'And so pretty?'
'Oh, she was so pretty that the moment he saw her he wanted to marry her.'
'I never did yet see one pretty milkmaid,' remarked May.
'Neither did I,' confessed the mother; neither has any one else where the babies lived. Sometimes they used to go into the cow-sheds, and though there were long rows of cows stretching away as far as they could see, and a great many milkmaids all busy milking, no one could ever have called them pretty, however hard they tried. They were very strong, and very big, and wore short skirts reaching to their knees, and had bare legs and feet, and they milked very well, and were altogether estimable, but they weren't pretty. Most of them were married, with large families, and were quite old; so that the gay little milkmaidtripping across the buttercups, with shoes and stockings on, and a face like a flower, was almost as difficult to impress on the babies' imaginations as the pie had been.
'She wasn't like the milkmaids here,' explained the mother; 'she lived in England, where the happy cats are, and the pies.'
'And first he says will she marry him, and then he says he doesn't want to?' repeated April, to whom this conduct appeared extraordinary.
'Oh, she didn't care much, and only laughed at him when he went away.'
'Does youlikethat man, mummy?' asked June.
'Not much,' said the mother.
'I too not much,' said June with decision, 'I too not much at all.'
But June and the other two babies thought all male beings inferior creatures, because they had only met one boy in their lives, and they had been able to knock him down. Of course they saw distant boys from time to time, when they passed the end of the village street or were at the seaside, but there was only one boy for them to play with, the families within reachhappening to be made up of girls. This boy had come to tea with his mother on his first introduction into their midst, and after tea, and while the two mothers sat on a sofa watching their children, and each one thinking how much nicerherswere, the babies said, 'Now we shall play.'
'Come, boy,' said June, seizing his arm as he showed no signs of moving, 'come—does you hear? We shall play.'
'I never play with little girls,' said the boy.
The babies stared. 'Why not?' they asked.
'They're much too stupid. They can't be soldiers when they grow up, and can't fight. I'm going to be a soldier, and fight everybody, and kill them too.' And he marched up and down the room with his head up and his shoulders back, making bloodthirsty lunges at the babies as he passed.
'Quite a little man you see,' whispered the delighted mamma on the sofa.
'I shall be one soldier too!' exclaimed June, fired with enthusiasm: and she began to march by his side.
'You can't, you silly, you're only a girl.'
'Oh, that doesn't matter!' she cried, with her usual airiness.
'Well youarea silly,' said the boy, with immense contempt.
'Youis one silly!' cried June, giving him a mighty push.
He rolled over at once, for though he was bigger than she was, and older, he wasn't half as compact and determined; and she lost no time in sitting on him and jumping up and down violently,—this being, as I have said, a favourite form of vengeance. And as no one can respect a person they have knocked down and jumped on, and as the conclusion was that all boys must be alike, the babies, especially June, thought them a decidedly inferior set.
'Tuck up your dress, April,' said the mother. 'You shall be the young man, and June the pretty maid. Come, we'll go to the piano and I'll teach you to act it. May can look on and clap.'
The babies wore blue dresses with blue knickerbockers underneath to match, and April had only to tuck up her skirt to look just like a boy whose curls haven't been cut off. They all went to the piano, and the mother taught them the tune.
Here it is:—
WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?
Pretty Maid musicPretty Maid music continued
[[audio/mpeg][MusicXML]
Nobody asked you
‘Nobody asked you, Sir,’ she said
It was the only tune of the six new ones that they were to learn that night, for it was already long past their bedtime. May sat on a sofa near, and applauded frantically. June made a very spirited milkmaid, and when the young man declared he wouldn't marry her, began to box with him, and as he turned tail and fled, pursued him round and round the room, defiantly shrieking '"Nobody asked you, Sir," she said,' till she couldn't go on for want of breath. The audience on the sofa was delighted, and clapped and cheered with all its might. The performance had to be given several times over, and the mother was as pleased as she could be that they liked to learn her tunes. You see they were babies who wanted very little to make them happy.
Then Séraphine appeared in the doorway, and though she saidnothing, looked such unutterable tubs and bedtime, that the mother, gathering all three together into her arms and giving them a final hug, told them they must go quickly, and promised to come and say good-night when they were in bed.
'It's English prayers to-night,' said April, as they went away. 'Won't you come when we says them, mummy?'
'Yes, I'll come. Be off now, my blessed darlings.'
The mother put the tunes together when they had gone, and began to shut the piano. The babies had been taught so many prayers by Herr Schenk and Séraphine that they had had to be divided into three sets, and the German ones were said one night, and the French ones the next night, and the English ones the night after that. In Herr Schenk's set there was a German hymn as well as the prayers, and in Séraphine's set there was a plaintive little tune to a short prayer: only in the English set there was no tune, although amongst the prayers wasGentle Jesus, meek and mild.
The mother, slowly shutting the piano, and putting things a little straight, thought of this, and came to the conclusion that to write one more tune wouldn't make much difference to her, and,as it would be a hymn, it would finish off her week of tune-writing in a sweet and holy manner. And I don't know how it was, but though she had spent so much time struggling with all the other tunes, and had had such difficulties with them, and had suffered such horrid pangs, the hymn tune was finished in five minutes, and by the time she went up to say good-night to the babies it was written out and ready for them to learn the next day.
And so they did learn it the next day, and have sung it ever since on English prayer nights; and they look so good and angelic while they do it, kneeling in a row in their long nightgowns, with bowed heads and folded hands, that the mother sitting in the midst is sure they must be the dearest babies in the world. But as that is exactly what other mothers think oftheirbabies, and as everybody can't be right, I don't suppose they can really be the dearest, although I know that they are very dear. This is the hymn tune:—
GENTLE JESUS, MEEK AND MILD.
Gentle Jesus music
[[audio/mpeg][MusicXML]
And when the mother went up half an hour later, as she had promised, and tucked them up in their beds, they were so tired that they couldn't keep their eyes open. 'Good-night, you sweet babies,' she said, stooping over each cot in turn, and kissing the sleepy baby in it.