A little Brook, that babbled under grass,Once saw a Poet pass—A Poet with long hair and saddened eyes,Who went his weary way with woeful sighs.And on another time,This Brook did hear that Poet read his rueful rhyme.Now in the poem that he read,This Poet said—"Oh! little Brook that babblest under grass!(Ah me! Alack! Ah, well-a-day! Alas!)Say, are you what you seem?Or is your life, like other lives, a dream?What time your babbling mocks my mortal moods,Fair Naïad of the stream!And are you, in good sooth,Could purblind poesy perceive the truth,A water-sprite,Who sometimes, for man's dangerous delight,Puts on a human form and face,To wear them with a superhuman grace?"When this poor Poet turns his bending back,(Ah me! Ah, well-a-day! Alas! Alack!)Say, shall you rise from out your grassy bed,With wreathed forget-me-nots about your head,And sing and play,And wile some wandering wight out of his way,To lead him with your witcheries astray?(Ah me! Alas! Alack! Ah, well-a-day!)Would it be safe for meThat fateful form to see?"(Alas! Alack! Ah, well-a-day! Ah me!)So far the Poet read his pleasing strain,Then it began to rain:He closed his book."Farewell, fair Nymph!" he cried, as with a lingering lookHis homeward way he took;And nevermore that Poet saw that Brook.The Brook passed several days in anxious expectationOf transformationInto a lovely nymph bedecked with flowers;And longed impatiently to prove those powers—Those dangerous powers—of witchery and wile,That should all mortal men mysteriously beguile;For life as running water lost its charmBefore the exciting hope of doing so much harm.And yet the hope seemed vain;Despite the Poet's strain,Though the days came and went, and went and came,The seasons changed, the Brook remained the same.The Brook was almost tiredOf vainly hoping to become a Naïad;When on a certain Summer's day,Dame Nature came that way,Busy as usual,With great and small;Who, at the water-sideDipping her clever fingers in the tide,Out of the mud drew creeping things,And, smiling on them, gave them radiant wings.Now when the poor Brook murmured, "Mother dear!"Dame Nature bent to hear,And the sad stream poured all its woes into her sympathetic ear,Crying,—"Oh, bounteous Mother!Do not do more for one child than another;If of a dirty grub or two(Dressing them up in royal blue)You make so many shining Demoiselles,[3]Change me as well;Uplift me also from this narrow place,Where life runs on at such a petty pace;Give me a human form, dear Dame, and thenSee how I'll flit, and flash, and fascinate the race of men!"
A little Brook, that babbled under grass,Once saw a Poet pass—A Poet with long hair and saddened eyes,Who went his weary way with woeful sighs.And on another time,This Brook did hear that Poet read his rueful rhyme.Now in the poem that he read,This Poet said—"Oh! little Brook that babblest under grass!(Ah me! Alack! Ah, well-a-day! Alas!)Say, are you what you seem?Or is your life, like other lives, a dream?What time your babbling mocks my mortal moods,Fair Naïad of the stream!And are you, in good sooth,Could purblind poesy perceive the truth,A water-sprite,Who sometimes, for man's dangerous delight,Puts on a human form and face,To wear them with a superhuman grace?
"When this poor Poet turns his bending back,(Ah me! Ah, well-a-day! Alas! Alack!)Say, shall you rise from out your grassy bed,With wreathed forget-me-nots about your head,And sing and play,And wile some wandering wight out of his way,To lead him with your witcheries astray?(Ah me! Alas! Alack! Ah, well-a-day!)Would it be safe for meThat fateful form to see?"(Alas! Alack! Ah, well-a-day! Ah me!)
So far the Poet read his pleasing strain,Then it began to rain:He closed his book."Farewell, fair Nymph!" he cried, as with a lingering lookHis homeward way he took;And nevermore that Poet saw that Brook.
The Brook passed several days in anxious expectationOf transformationInto a lovely nymph bedecked with flowers;And longed impatiently to prove those powers—Those dangerous powers—of witchery and wile,That should all mortal men mysteriously beguile;For life as running water lost its charmBefore the exciting hope of doing so much harm.And yet the hope seemed vain;Despite the Poet's strain,Though the days came and went, and went and came,The seasons changed, the Brook remained the same.
The Brook was almost tiredOf vainly hoping to become a Naïad;When on a certain Summer's day,Dame Nature came that way,Busy as usual,With great and small;Who, at the water-sideDipping her clever fingers in the tide,Out of the mud drew creeping things,And, smiling on them, gave them radiant wings.Now when the poor Brook murmured, "Mother dear!"Dame Nature bent to hear,And the sad stream poured all its woes into her sympathetic ear,Crying,—"Oh, bounteous Mother!Do not do more for one child than another;If of a dirty grub or two(Dressing them up in royal blue)You make so many shining Demoiselles,[3]Change me as well;Uplift me also from this narrow place,Where life runs on at such a petty pace;Give me a human form, dear Dame, and thenSee how I'll flit, and flash, and fascinate the race of men!"
[3]The "Demoiselle" Dragon-fly, a well-known slender variety (Libellula), with body of brilliant blue.
[3]The "Demoiselle" Dragon-fly, a well-known slender variety (Libellula), with body of brilliant blue.
Then Mother Nature, who is wondrous wise,Did that deluded little Brook adviseTo be contented with its own fair face,And with a good and cheerful grace,Run, as of yore, on its appointed race,Safe both from giving and receiving harms;Outliving human lives, outlasting human charms.But good advice, however kind,Is thrown away upon a made-up mind,And this was all that babbling Brook would say—"Give me a human face and form, if only for a day!"Then quoth Dame Nature:—"Oh, my foolish child!Ere I fulfil a wish so wild,Since I am kind and you are ignorant,This much I grant:You shall arise from out your grassy bed,And gathered to the waters overheadShall thus and thenLook down and see the world, and all the ways of men!"Scarce had the DameDeparted to the place from whence she came,When in that very hour,The sun burst forth with most amazing power.Dame Nature bade him blaze, and he obeyed;He drove the fainting flocks into the shade,He ripened all the flowers into seed,He dried the river, and he parched the mead;Then on the Brook he turned his burning eye,Which rose and left its narrow channel dry;And, climbing up by sunbeams to the sky,Became a snow-white cloud, which softly floated by.It was a glorious Autumn day,And all the world with red and gold was gay;When, as this cloud athwart the heavens did pass,Lying below, it saw a Poet on the grass,The very Poet who had such a stir made,To prove the Brook was a fresh-water mermaid.And now,Holding his book above his corrugated brow—He read aloud,And thus apostrophized the passing cloud:"Oh, snowy-breasted Fair!Mysterious messenger of upper air!Can you be of those female forms so dread,[4]Who bear the souls of the heroic deadTo where undying laurels crown the warrior's head?Or, as you smile and hover,Are you not rather some fond goddess of the skies who waits a mortal lover?And who, ah! who is he?—And what, oh, what!—your message to poor me?"—So far the Poet. Then he stopped:His book had dropped.But ere the delighted cloud could make reply,Dame Nature hurried by,And it put forth a wild beseeching cry—"Give me a human face and form!"Dame Nature frowned, and all the heavens grew black with storm.
Then Mother Nature, who is wondrous wise,Did that deluded little Brook adviseTo be contented with its own fair face,And with a good and cheerful grace,Run, as of yore, on its appointed race,Safe both from giving and receiving harms;Outliving human lives, outlasting human charms.But good advice, however kind,Is thrown away upon a made-up mind,And this was all that babbling Brook would say—"Give me a human face and form, if only for a day!"
Then quoth Dame Nature:—"Oh, my foolish child!Ere I fulfil a wish so wild,Since I am kind and you are ignorant,This much I grant:You shall arise from out your grassy bed,And gathered to the waters overheadShall thus and thenLook down and see the world, and all the ways of men!"Scarce had the DameDeparted to the place from whence she came,When in that very hour,The sun burst forth with most amazing power.Dame Nature bade him blaze, and he obeyed;He drove the fainting flocks into the shade,He ripened all the flowers into seed,He dried the river, and he parched the mead;Then on the Brook he turned his burning eye,Which rose and left its narrow channel dry;And, climbing up by sunbeams to the sky,Became a snow-white cloud, which softly floated by.
It was a glorious Autumn day,And all the world with red and gold was gay;When, as this cloud athwart the heavens did pass,Lying below, it saw a Poet on the grass,The very Poet who had such a stir made,To prove the Brook was a fresh-water mermaid.And now,Holding his book above his corrugated brow—He read aloud,And thus apostrophized the passing cloud:"Oh, snowy-breasted Fair!Mysterious messenger of upper air!Can you be of those female forms so dread,[4]Who bear the souls of the heroic deadTo where undying laurels crown the warrior's head?Or, as you smile and hover,Are you not rather some fond goddess of the skies who waits a mortal lover?And who, ah! who is he?—And what, oh, what!—your message to poor me?"—So far the Poet. Then he stopped:His book had dropped.But ere the delighted cloud could make reply,Dame Nature hurried by,And it put forth a wild beseeching cry—"Give me a human face and form!"Dame Nature frowned, and all the heavens grew black with storm.
[4]The Walkyrie in Teutonic mythology, whose office it is to bear the souls of fallen heroes from the field of battle.
[4]The Walkyrie in Teutonic mythology, whose office it is to bear the souls of fallen heroes from the field of battle.
But very soon,Upon a frosty winter's noon,The little cloud returned below,Falling in flakes of snow;Falling most softly on the floor most hardOf an old manor-house court-yard.And as it hastened to the earth again,The children sang behind the window-pane:"Old woman, up yonder, plucking your geese,Quickly pluck them, and quickly cease;Throw down the feathers, and when you have done,We shall have fun—we shall have fun."The snow had fallen, when with song and shoutThe girls and boys came out;Six sturdy little men and maids,Carrying heather-brooms, and wooden spades,Who swept and shovelled up the fallen snow,Which whimpered,—"Oh! oh! oh!Oh, Mother, most severe!Pity me lying here,I'm shaken all to pieces with that storm,Raise me and clothe me in a human form."They swept up much, they shovelled up more,There never was such a snow-man before!They built him bravely with might and main,There never will be such a snow-man again!His legs were big, his body was bigger,They made him a most imposing figure;His eyes were large and as black as coal,For a cinder was placed in each round hole.And the sight of his teeth would have made yours ache,Being simply the teeth of an ancient rake.They smoothed his forehead, they patted his back,There wasn't a single unsightly crack;And when they had given the final pat,They crowned his head with the scare-crow's hat.And soThe Brook—the Cloud—the Snow,Got its own way after so many days,And did put on a human form and face.But whetherThe situation pleased it altogether;If it is niceTo be a man of snow and ice;Whether it feelsPainful, when one congeals;How this man feltWhen he began to melt;Whether he wore his human form and faceWith any extraordinary grace;If many mortals fellAs victims to the spell;Or if,As he stood, stark and stiff,With a bare broomstick in his arms,And not a trace of transcendental charms,That man of snowGrew wise enough to knowThat the Brook's hopes were but a Poet's dream,And well content to be again a stream,On the first sunny day,Flowed quietly away;Or what the end was—You must ask the Poet,I don't know it.
But very soon,Upon a frosty winter's noon,The little cloud returned below,Falling in flakes of snow;Falling most softly on the floor most hardOf an old manor-house court-yard.And as it hastened to the earth again,The children sang behind the window-pane:"Old woman, up yonder, plucking your geese,Quickly pluck them, and quickly cease;Throw down the feathers, and when you have done,We shall have fun—we shall have fun."The snow had fallen, when with song and shoutThe girls and boys came out;Six sturdy little men and maids,Carrying heather-brooms, and wooden spades,Who swept and shovelled up the fallen snow,Which whimpered,—"Oh! oh! oh!Oh, Mother, most severe!Pity me lying here,I'm shaken all to pieces with that storm,Raise me and clothe me in a human form."
They swept up much, they shovelled up more,There never was such a snow-man before!They built him bravely with might and main,There never will be such a snow-man again!His legs were big, his body was bigger,They made him a most imposing figure;His eyes were large and as black as coal,For a cinder was placed in each round hole.And the sight of his teeth would have made yours ache,Being simply the teeth of an ancient rake.They smoothed his forehead, they patted his back,There wasn't a single unsightly crack;And when they had given the final pat,They crowned his head with the scare-crow's hat.
And soThe Brook—the Cloud—the Snow,Got its own way after so many days,And did put on a human form and face.But whetherThe situation pleased it altogether;If it is niceTo be a man of snow and ice;Whether it feelsPainful, when one congeals;How this man feltWhen he began to melt;Whether he wore his human form and faceWith any extraordinary grace;If many mortals fellAs victims to the spell;Or if,As he stood, stark and stiff,With a bare broomstick in his arms,And not a trace of transcendental charms,That man of snowGrew wise enough to knowThat the Brook's hopes were but a Poet's dream,And well content to be again a stream,On the first sunny day,Flowed quietly away;Or what the end was—You must ask the Poet,I don't know it.
A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN.
Our home used to be in a hut in the dear old Camp, with lots of bands and trumpets and bugles and Dead Marches, and three times a day there was a gun,But now we live in View Villa at the top of the village, and it isn't nearly such fun.We never see any soldiers, except one day we saw a Volunteer, and we ran after him as hard as ever we could go, for we thought he looked rather brave;But there's only been one funeral since we came, an ugly black thing with no Dead March or Union Jack, and not even a firing party at the grave.There is a man in uniform to bring the letters, but he's nothing like our old Orderly, Brown;I told him, through the hedge, "Your facings are dirty, and you'd have to wear your belt if my father was at home," and oh, how he did frown!But things can't be expected to go right when Old Father's away, and he's gone to the war;Which is why we play at soldiers and fighting battles more than ever we did before.And I try to keep things together: every morning I have a parade of myself and Dick,To see that we are clean, and to drill him and do sword-exercise with poor Grandpapa's stick.Grandpapa's dead, so he doesn't want it now, and Dick's too young for a real tin sword like mine:He's so young he won't make up his mind whether he'll go into the Artillery or the Line.I want him to be a gunner, for his frock's dark blue, and Captain Powder gave us a wooden gun with an elastic that shoots quite a big ball.It's nonsense Dick's saying he'd like to be a Chaplain, for that's not being a soldier at all.Besides, he always wants to be Drum-Major when we've funerals, to stamp the stick and sing RUM—TUM—TUM—To the Dead March inSaul(that's the name of the tune, and you play it on a drum).
Our home used to be in a hut in the dear old Camp, with lots of bands and trumpets and bugles and Dead Marches, and three times a day there was a gun,But now we live in View Villa at the top of the village, and it isn't nearly such fun.We never see any soldiers, except one day we saw a Volunteer, and we ran after him as hard as ever we could go, for we thought he looked rather brave;But there's only been one funeral since we came, an ugly black thing with no Dead March or Union Jack, and not even a firing party at the grave.There is a man in uniform to bring the letters, but he's nothing like our old Orderly, Brown;I told him, through the hedge, "Your facings are dirty, and you'd have to wear your belt if my father was at home," and oh, how he did frown!But things can't be expected to go right when Old Father's away, and he's gone to the war;Which is why we play at soldiers and fighting battles more than ever we did before.And I try to keep things together: every morning I have a parade of myself and Dick,To see that we are clean, and to drill him and do sword-exercise with poor Grandpapa's stick.Grandpapa's dead, so he doesn't want it now, and Dick's too young for a real tin sword like mine:He's so young he won't make up his mind whether he'll go into the Artillery or the Line.I want him to be a gunner, for his frock's dark blue, and Captain Powder gave us a wooden gun with an elastic that shoots quite a big ball.It's nonsense Dick's saying he'd like to be a Chaplain, for that's not being a soldier at all.Besides, he always wants to be Drum-Major when we've funerals, to stamp the stick and sing RUM—TUM—TUM—To the Dead March inSaul(that's the name of the tune, and you play it on a drum).
A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN.
Mary is so good, she might easily be a Chaplain, but of course she can't be anything that wants man;She likes nursing her doll, but when we have battles she moves the lead soldiers about, and does what she can.She never grumbles about not being able to grow up into a General, though I should think it must be a great bore.I asked her what she would do if she were grown up into a woman, and belonged to some one who was wounded in the war,—She said she'd go out and nurse him: so I said, "But supposing you couldn't get him better, and he died; how would you behave?"And she said if she couldn't get a ship to bring him home in, she should stay out there and grow a garden, and make wreaths for his grave.Nurse says we oughtn't to have battles, now Father's gone to battle, but that's just the reason why!And I don't believe one bit what she said about its making Mother cry.Only she does like us to put away our toys on Sunday, so we can't have the soldiers or the gun;But yesterday Dick said, "I was thinking in church, and I've thought of a game about soldiers, and it's a perfectly Sunday one;It's a Church Parade: you'll have to be a lot of officers and men, Mary'll do for a few wives and families, and I'll be Chaplain to the Forces and pray for everyone at the war."So he put his nightgown over his knickerbocker suit, and knelt on the Ashantee stool, and Mary and I knelt on the floor.I think it was rather nice of Dick, for he said what put it into his headWas thinking they mightn't have much time for their prayers on active service, and we ought to say them instead.I should have liked to parade the lead soldiers, but I didn't, for Mother says, "What's the good of being a soldier's son if you can't do as you're bid?"But we thought there'd be no harm in letting the box be there if we kept on the lid.Dick couldn't pray out of the Prayer-book, because he's backward with being delicate, and he can't read;So he had to make a prayer out of his own head, and I think he did it very well indeed.He began, "GOD save the Queen, and the Army and the Navy, and the Irregular Forces and the Volunteers!Especially Old Father (he went out with the first draft, and he's a Captain in the Royal Engineers").But I said, "I don't think 'GOD save the Queen' is a proper prayer, I think it's only a sort of three cheers."So he said, "GOD bless the Generals, and the Colonels, and the Majors, and the Captains, and the Lieutenants, and the Sub-lieutenants, and the Quartermasters, and the non-commissioned officers, and the men;And the bands, and the colours, and the guns, and the horses and the wagons, and the gun-carriage they use for the funerals; and please I should like them all to come home safe again.(Don't, Mary! I haven't finished; it isn't time for you to say Amen.)I haven't prayed for the Chaplains, or the Doctors who help the poor men left groaning on the ground when the victories are won;And I want to pray particularly for the very poor ones who die of fever and miss all the fighting and fun.GOD bless the good soldiers, like Old Father, and Captain Powder, and the men with good-conduct medals; and please let the naughty ones all be forgiven;And if the black men kill our men, send down white angels to take their poor dear souls to Heaven!Nowyou may both say Amen, and I shall give out hymn four hundred and thirty-seven."There are eight verses and eight Alleluias, and we can't sing very well, but we did our best,Only Mary would cry in the verse about "Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest!"But we're both very glad Dick has found out a Sunday game about fighting, for we never had one before;And now we can play at soldiers every day till Old Father comes home from the war.
Mary is so good, she might easily be a Chaplain, but of course she can't be anything that wants man;She likes nursing her doll, but when we have battles she moves the lead soldiers about, and does what she can.She never grumbles about not being able to grow up into a General, though I should think it must be a great bore.I asked her what she would do if she were grown up into a woman, and belonged to some one who was wounded in the war,—She said she'd go out and nurse him: so I said, "But supposing you couldn't get him better, and he died; how would you behave?"And she said if she couldn't get a ship to bring him home in, she should stay out there and grow a garden, and make wreaths for his grave.Nurse says we oughtn't to have battles, now Father's gone to battle, but that's just the reason why!And I don't believe one bit what she said about its making Mother cry.Only she does like us to put away our toys on Sunday, so we can't have the soldiers or the gun;But yesterday Dick said, "I was thinking in church, and I've thought of a game about soldiers, and it's a perfectly Sunday one;It's a Church Parade: you'll have to be a lot of officers and men, Mary'll do for a few wives and families, and I'll be Chaplain to the Forces and pray for everyone at the war."So he put his nightgown over his knickerbocker suit, and knelt on the Ashantee stool, and Mary and I knelt on the floor.I think it was rather nice of Dick, for he said what put it into his headWas thinking they mightn't have much time for their prayers on active service, and we ought to say them instead.I should have liked to parade the lead soldiers, but I didn't, for Mother says, "What's the good of being a soldier's son if you can't do as you're bid?"But we thought there'd be no harm in letting the box be there if we kept on the lid.Dick couldn't pray out of the Prayer-book, because he's backward with being delicate, and he can't read;So he had to make a prayer out of his own head, and I think he did it very well indeed.He began, "GOD save the Queen, and the Army and the Navy, and the Irregular Forces and the Volunteers!Especially Old Father (he went out with the first draft, and he's a Captain in the Royal Engineers").But I said, "I don't think 'GOD save the Queen' is a proper prayer, I think it's only a sort of three cheers."So he said, "GOD bless the Generals, and the Colonels, and the Majors, and the Captains, and the Lieutenants, and the Sub-lieutenants, and the Quartermasters, and the non-commissioned officers, and the men;And the bands, and the colours, and the guns, and the horses and the wagons, and the gun-carriage they use for the funerals; and please I should like them all to come home safe again.(Don't, Mary! I haven't finished; it isn't time for you to say Amen.)I haven't prayed for the Chaplains, or the Doctors who help the poor men left groaning on the ground when the victories are won;And I want to pray particularly for the very poor ones who die of fever and miss all the fighting and fun.GOD bless the good soldiers, like Old Father, and Captain Powder, and the men with good-conduct medals; and please let the naughty ones all be forgiven;And if the black men kill our men, send down white angels to take their poor dear souls to Heaven!Nowyou may both say Amen, and I shall give out hymn four hundred and thirty-seven."There are eight verses and eight Alleluias, and we can't sing very well, but we did our best,Only Mary would cry in the verse about "Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest!"But we're both very glad Dick has found out a Sunday game about fighting, for we never had one before;And now we can play at soldiers every day till Old Father comes home from the war.
"TOUCH HIM IF YOU DARE."
Hedge-Plants.
"Beware!We advise you to take care.He lodges with us, so we know him well,And can tellYou all about him,And we strongly advise you not to flout him."
"Beware!We advise you to take care.He lodges with us, so we know him well,And can tellYou all about him,And we strongly advise you not to flout him."
Dandelion.
"At my time of life," said the Dandelion,"I keep an eye onThe slightest sign of disturbance and riot,For my one object is to keep quietThe reason I take such very great care,"The old Dandy went on, "is because of my hair.It was very thick once, and as yellow as gold;But now I am old,It is snowy-white,And comes off with the slightest fright.As to using a brush—My good dog! I beseech you, don't rush,Go quietly by me, if you pleaseYou're as bad as a breeze.I hope you'll attend to what we've said;And—whatever you do—don't touch my head,In this equinoctial, blustering weatherYou might knock it off with a feather."
"At my time of life," said the Dandelion,"I keep an eye onThe slightest sign of disturbance and riot,For my one object is to keep quietThe reason I take such very great care,"The old Dandy went on, "is because of my hair.It was very thick once, and as yellow as gold;But now I am old,It is snowy-white,And comes off with the slightest fright.As to using a brush—My good dog! I beseech you, don't rush,Go quietly by me, if you pleaseYou're as bad as a breeze.I hope you'll attend to what we've said;And—whatever you do—don't touch my head,In this equinoctial, blustering weatherYou might knock it off with a feather."
Thistle.
Said the Thistle, "I can tickle,But not as a Hedgehog can prickle;Even my tough old friend the MokeWould find our lodger no joke."
Said the Thistle, "I can tickle,But not as a Hedgehog can prickle;Even my tough old friend the MokeWould find our lodger no joke."
Dog-rose.
"I have thorns," sighed the Rose,"But they don't protect me like those;He can pull his thorns right over his nose."
"I have thorns," sighed the Rose,"But they don't protect me like those;He can pull his thorns right over his nose."
Nettle.
"My sting," said the Nettle,"Is nothing to his when he's put on his mettle.No nose can endure it,No dock-leaves will cure it."
"My sting," said the Nettle,"Is nothing to his when he's put on his mettle.No nose can endure it,No dock-leaves will cure it."
Dog.
"Bow-wow!" said the Dog:"All this fuss about a Hedgehog?Though I never saw one before—There's my paw!Good-morning, Sir! Do you never stir?You look like an overgrown burr.Good-day, I-say:Will you have a game of play?With your humped-up back and your spines on end,You remind me so of an intimate friend,The Persian PussWho lives with us.How well I know her tricks!The dear creature!Just when you're sure you can reach her,In the twinkling of a couple of sticksShe saves herself by her heels,And looks down at you out of the apple-tree, with eyes like catherine wheels.The odd part of it is,I could swear that I could not possibly missHer silky, cumbersome, traily tail,And that's just where I always fail.But you seem to have nothing, Sir, of the sort;And I should be mortified if you thoughtThat I'm stupid at sport;I assure you I don't often meet my match,Where I chase I commonly catch.I've caught cats,And rats,And (between ourselves) I once caught a sheep,And I think I could catch a weasel asleep."
"Bow-wow!" said the Dog:"All this fuss about a Hedgehog?Though I never saw one before—There's my paw!Good-morning, Sir! Do you never stir?You look like an overgrown burr.Good-day, I-say:Will you have a game of play?With your humped-up back and your spines on end,You remind me so of an intimate friend,The Persian PussWho lives with us.How well I know her tricks!The dear creature!Just when you're sure you can reach her,In the twinkling of a couple of sticksShe saves herself by her heels,And looks down at you out of the apple-tree, with eyes like catherine wheels.The odd part of it is,I could swear that I could not possibly missHer silky, cumbersome, traily tail,And that's just where I always fail.But you seem to have nothing, Sir, of the sort;And I should be mortified if you thoughtThat I'm stupid at sport;I assure you I don't often meet my match,Where I chase I commonly catch.I've caught cats,And rats,And (between ourselves) I once caught a sheep,And I think I could catch a weasel asleep."
Hedge-Plants.
From the whole of the hedge there rose a shout,"Oh! you'll catch it, no doubt!But remember we gave you warning fair,Touch him if you dare!"
From the whole of the hedge there rose a shout,"Oh! you'll catch it, no doubt!But remember we gave you warning fair,Touch him if you dare!"
Dog.
"If I dare?" said the Dog—"Take that!"As he gave the Hedgehog a pat.But oh, how he pitied his own poor paw;And shook it and licked it, it was so sore.
"If I dare?" said the Dog—"Take that!"As he gave the Hedgehog a pat.But oh, how he pitied his own poor paw;And shook it and licked it, it was so sore.
Dandelion.
"It's much too funny by half,"Said the Dandelion; "it makes me ill,For I cannot keep still,And my hair comes out if I laugh."The Hedgehog he spoke never a word,And he never stirred;His peeping eyes, his inquisitive nose,And his tender toes,Were all wrapped up in his prickly clothes.A provoking enemy you may suppose!And a dangerous one to flout—Like a well-stocked pin-cushion inside out.The Dog was valiant, the Dog was vain,He flew at the prickly ball again,Snapping with all his might and main,But, oh! the pain!He sat down on his stumpy tail and howled,Then he laid his jaws on his paws and growled.
"It's much too funny by half,"Said the Dandelion; "it makes me ill,For I cannot keep still,And my hair comes out if I laugh."
The Hedgehog he spoke never a word,And he never stirred;His peeping eyes, his inquisitive nose,And his tender toes,Were all wrapped up in his prickly clothes.A provoking enemy you may suppose!And a dangerous one to flout—Like a well-stocked pin-cushion inside out.
The Dog was valiant, the Dog was vain,He flew at the prickly ball again,Snapping with all his might and main,But, oh! the pain!He sat down on his stumpy tail and howled,Then he laid his jaws on his paws and growled.
Dandelion.
With laughter the Dandelion shook—"It passes a printed book;It's as good as a play, I declare,But it's cost me half my back hair!"The Dog he made another essay,It really and truly was very plucky—But "third times," you know, are not always lucky—And this time he ran away!
With laughter the Dandelion shook—"It passes a printed book;It's as good as a play, I declare,But it's cost me half my back hair!"The Dog he made another essay,It really and truly was very plucky—But "third times," you know, are not always lucky—And this time he ran away!
Hedge-Plants.
Then the Hedge-plants every oneRustled together, "What fun! what fun!The battle is done,The victory won.Dear Hedge-pig, pray come out of the Sun."The Hedge-pig put forth his snout,He sniffed hither and thither and peeped about;Then he tucked up his prickly clothes,And trotted away on his tender toesTo where the hedge-bottom is cool and deep,Had a slug for supper, and went to sleep.His leafy bed-clothes cuddled his chin,And all the Hedge-plants tucked him in.But the hairs and the tears that we shedNever can be recalled;And whenhetoo went off, in hysterics, to bed,DANDELION was bald.
Then the Hedge-plants every oneRustled together, "What fun! what fun!The battle is done,The victory won.Dear Hedge-pig, pray come out of the Sun."
The Hedge-pig put forth his snout,He sniffed hither and thither and peeped about;Then he tucked up his prickly clothes,And trotted away on his tender toesTo where the hedge-bottom is cool and deep,Had a slug for supper, and went to sleep.His leafy bed-clothes cuddled his chin,And all the Hedge-plants tucked him in.
But the hairs and the tears that we shedNever can be recalled;And whenhetoo went off, in hysterics, to bed,DANDELION was bald.
Brother Bill.
To have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed;We don't give it up, for Mother says the harder things are, the harder you must try till you succeed.Still,ourbirthdays are different; we want so many things, and choosing your own pudding, and even half-holidays are treats;But what can you do for people who always order the dinner, and never have lessons, and don't even like sweets?I know Mother does not. Baby put a big red comfit in her mouth, and I saw her take it out again on the sly;I don't believe she even enjoys going a-gypseying, for she gets neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry.And how can you boil the kettle if you're not near the brook? But it's the last time she shall go there,I told her so; I said, "What's the good of having five sons, except to mount guard over you, you Queen of all Mothers that ever were?"But she's not easy to manage, and she shams sometimes, and shamming is a thing I can't bear.She shammed about the red comfit, when she didn't think Baby could see her;And (because they're the only things we can think of for birthday presents for her) she shams wearing out a needle-book and a pin-cushion every year.The only things we can think of for Father are paper-cutters; but there's no sham abouthiswearingthemout;He would always lose them, long before his next birthday, if Mother did not keep finding them lying about.Last year's paper-cutter was as big as a sword (not as big as Father's sword, but as big as a wooden one, like ours),And he left it behind in a railway-carriage, when he'd had it just thirty-six hours;So we knew he was ready for another. It was Mother's birthday that bothered us so;
To have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed;We don't give it up, for Mother says the harder things are, the harder you must try till you succeed.Still,ourbirthdays are different; we want so many things, and choosing your own pudding, and even half-holidays are treats;But what can you do for people who always order the dinner, and never have lessons, and don't even like sweets?I know Mother does not. Baby put a big red comfit in her mouth, and I saw her take it out again on the sly;I don't believe she even enjoys going a-gypseying, for she gets neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry.And how can you boil the kettle if you're not near the brook? But it's the last time she shall go there,I told her so; I said, "What's the good of having five sons, except to mount guard over you, you Queen of all Mothers that ever were?"But she's not easy to manage, and she shams sometimes, and shamming is a thing I can't bear.She shammed about the red comfit, when she didn't think Baby could see her;And (because they're the only things we can think of for birthday presents for her) she shams wearing out a needle-book and a pin-cushion every year.The only things we can think of for Father are paper-cutters; but there's no sham abouthiswearingthemout;He would always lose them, long before his next birthday, if Mother did not keep finding them lying about.Last year's paper-cutter was as big as a sword (not as big as Father's sword, but as big as a wooden one, like ours),And he left it behind in a railway-carriage, when he'd had it just thirty-six hours;So we knew he was ready for another. It was Mother's birthday that bothered us so;
MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW.
And if it hadn't been for Dolly's Major (he's her Godfather, and she calls him "my Major"), what we should have done I really don't know!He said, "What's the matter?" And Dolly said,"Mother's birthday's the matter." And I said, "We can't think what to deviseTo give her a birthday treat that won't give her neuralgia, and will take her by surprise.Look here, Major! How can you give people treats who can order what they wish for far better than you?I wonder what they do for the Queen!—her birthday must be the hardest of all." But he said, "Not a bit of it! They have a review:Cocked hats and all the rest of it; and a salute, and afeu de joie, and a March-Past.That's the way we keep the Queen's Birthday; and every year the same as the last."So I settled at once to have a Mother's Birthday Review; and that she should be Queen, and I should be the General in command.I thought she couldn't come to any harm by sitting in a fur cloak and a birthday wreath at the window, and bowing and waving her hand.We did not tell her what was coming, we only asked for leave to have all the seven donkeys for an hour and a half;(We always hire them from the same old man)—two for the girls, and five for me and my brothers—I told him, "for me and my Staff."We could have managed with five, if the girls would only have been Maids of Honour, and stayed indoors with the Queen.Maggie would if I'd asked her; but Dolly will go her own way, and that's into the thick of everything, to see whatever there is to be seen.She's only four years old, but she's ridiculously like the picture of an ancient ancestress of oursWho defended an old castle in Cornwall, against the French, for hours and hours.Her husband was away, so she was in command, and all her household obeyed her;She made them strip the lead off the roofs, and they did, and she boiled it down and gave it very hot indeed to the French invader.[5]Maggie would have let the French in; she doesn't like me to say so, but I know she would,—you can get anything out of Maggie by talking.
And if it hadn't been for Dolly's Major (he's her Godfather, and she calls him "my Major"), what we should have done I really don't know!He said, "What's the matter?" And Dolly said,"Mother's birthday's the matter." And I said, "We can't think what to deviseTo give her a birthday treat that won't give her neuralgia, and will take her by surprise.Look here, Major! How can you give people treats who can order what they wish for far better than you?I wonder what they do for the Queen!—her birthday must be the hardest of all." But he said, "Not a bit of it! They have a review:Cocked hats and all the rest of it; and a salute, and afeu de joie, and a March-Past.That's the way we keep the Queen's Birthday; and every year the same as the last."So I settled at once to have a Mother's Birthday Review; and that she should be Queen, and I should be the General in command.I thought she couldn't come to any harm by sitting in a fur cloak and a birthday wreath at the window, and bowing and waving her hand.We did not tell her what was coming, we only asked for leave to have all the seven donkeys for an hour and a half;(We always hire them from the same old man)—two for the girls, and five for me and my brothers—I told him, "for me and my Staff."We could have managed with five, if the girls would only have been Maids of Honour, and stayed indoors with the Queen.Maggie would if I'd asked her; but Dolly will go her own way, and that's into the thick of everything, to see whatever there is to be seen.She's only four years old, but she's ridiculously like the picture of an ancient ancestress of oursWho defended an old castle in Cornwall, against the French, for hours and hours.Her husband was away, so she was in command, and all her household obeyed her;She made them strip the lead off the roofs, and they did, and she boiled it down and gave it very hot indeed to the French invader.[5]Maggie would have let the French in; she doesn't like me to say so, but I know she would,—you can get anything out of Maggie by talking.
MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW.
She likes to hire a donkey, and then sham she'd rather not ride, for fear of being too heavy; and to take Spike out for a run, and then carry him to save him the trouble of walking.But she's very good; she made all our cocked hats, and at the review she and Dolly and Spike were the loyal crowd.Dick and Tom and Harry were the troops, and I was the General, and Mother looked quite like a Queen at the window, and bowed.The donkeys made very good chargers on the whole, and especially mine;Jem's was the only one that gave trouble, and neither fair means nor foul would keep him in line.Just when I'd dressed all their noses to a nice level (you can do nothing with their ears), then back went Jem's brute,And Jem caught him a whack with the flat of his sword (a thing you never see done on the Staff), and it rather spoilt the salute;But the spirit of the troops was excellent, and we'd afeu de joiewith penny pistols (Jem's donkey was the only one that shied), and Dolly's Major says that, all things considered, he never saw a better March-Past;And Mother was delighted with her first Birthday Review, and she is none the worse for it, and says she only hopes that it won't be the last.
She likes to hire a donkey, and then sham she'd rather not ride, for fear of being too heavy; and to take Spike out for a run, and then carry him to save him the trouble of walking.But she's very good; she made all our cocked hats, and at the review she and Dolly and Spike were the loyal crowd.Dick and Tom and Harry were the troops, and I was the General, and Mother looked quite like a Queen at the window, and bowed.The donkeys made very good chargers on the whole, and especially mine;Jem's was the only one that gave trouble, and neither fair means nor foul would keep him in line.Just when I'd dressed all their noses to a nice level (you can do nothing with their ears), then back went Jem's brute,And Jem caught him a whack with the flat of his sword (a thing you never see done on the Staff), and it rather spoilt the salute;But the spirit of the troops was excellent, and we'd afeu de joiewith penny pistols (Jem's donkey was the only one that shied), and Dolly's Major says that, all things considered, he never saw a better March-Past;And Mother was delighted with her first Birthday Review, and she is none the worse for it, and says she only hopes that it won't be the last.
[5]Dame Elizabeth Treffry (temp.Henry VI.) defended Place House, Fowey, Cornwall, in the circumstances and with the vigorous measures described. On his return her husband wisely "Embattled all the walls of the house, and in a manner made it a Castelle, and unto this day it is the glorie of the town building in Faweye."—Carew. The beauties of Place Castle remain to this day also.
[5]Dame Elizabeth Treffry (temp.Henry VI.) defended Place House, Fowey, Cornwall, in the circumstances and with the vigorous measures described. On his return her husband wisely "Embattled all the walls of the house, and in a manner made it a Castelle, and unto this day it is the glorie of the town building in Faweye."—Carew. The beauties of Place Castle remain to this day also.
Dolly.
They call me Dolly, but I'm not a doll, and I'm not a baby, though Baby is sometimes my name;I behave beautifully at meals, and at church, and I can put on my own boots, and can say a good deal of the Catechism, and ride a donkey, and play at any boys' game.I've ridden a donkey that kicks (at least I rode him as long as I was on), and a donkey that rolls, and an old donkey that goes lame.I mean to ride like a lady now, but that's because I ought, not because I easily can;For what with your legs and your pommels (I mean the saddle's pommels), it would be much easier always to ride like a man.Boyslookbraver, but I think it's really more dangerous to ride sideways, because of the saddle slipping round.(I didn't cry; I played at slipping round the world, and getting to New Zealand with my head upside down on the ground.)The reason the saddle is slippery is not because it's smooth, for it's rather rough; and there's a hard ridge behind,And the horse's hair coming through the donkey's back (I mean through his saddle) scratches youdreadfully; but I tuck my things under me, and pretend I don't mind.They work out again though, particularly when they are starched, and I think frocks get shorter every time they go to the wash;But I don't complain; if it's very uncomfortable, I make an ugly face to myself, and say, "Bosh!"We've all of us had a good deal of practice, so we ought to know how to ride;We've ridden a great deal since we came to live on the Heath, and we rode a good deal when Father was stationed at the sea-side.My Major taught me to ride sideways, and at first he would hold me on;But I don't like being touched; and I don't call it riding like a lady if you're held on by an officer, and I'd rather tumble off if I can't stick on by myself; so I sent him away, and the nasty saddle slipped round directly he was gone.I only crushed my sun-bonnet, and the donkey stood quite still. (We always call that one "the old stager.")I wasn't frightened, except just the tiniest bit; but he says he was dreadfully frightened. So I said, "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, considering all your medals, and that you're a Major."He likes me very much, and I like him, and when my fifth birthday comes, he says I'm to choose a donkey, and he'll buy it for me, but the saddle and bridle shall be quite new;So I've made up my mind to choose the one Brother Bill had for his charger at Mother's Birthday Review;And Maggie is so glad, she says her life is quite miserable with thinking how miserable other lives are, if only we knew.Maggie loves every creature that lives; she won't confess to black beetles, but she can't stamp on them (I've stamped out lots in my winter boots), and she doesn't even think a donkey ugly when he brays;And she says she shall buy a brush, out of her pocket-money, and brush my donkey every day till he looks like a horse, and that it shan't be her fault if there isn't one poor old brute beast who lives happily to the end of his days.Jack Ass.The dew falls over the Heath, Brother Donkeys, and the darkness falls, but still through the gathering nightAll around us spreads the Heath Bed-straw[6]in glimmering sheets of white.Dragged and trampled, and plucked and wasted, it patiently spreads and survives;Kicked and thwacked, and prodded and over-laden, we patiently cling to our lives.Hee-haw! for the rest and silence of darkness that follow the labours of light.Hee-haw! for the hours from night to morning, that balance the hours from morning to night.Hee-haw! for the sweet night air that gives human beings cold in the head.Hee-haw! for the civilization that sends human beings to bed.Rest, Brother Donkeys, rest, from the bit, the burden, the blow,The dust, the flies, the restless children, the brutal roughs, the greedy donkey-master, the greedier donkey-hirer, the holiday-maker who knows no better, and the holiday-makers who ought to know!When the odorous furze-bush prickles the seeking nose, and the short damp grass refreshes the tongue,—lend, Brother Donkeys, lend a long and attentive ear!Whilst I proudly brayOf the one bright dayIn our hard and chequered career.I've dragged pots, and vegetables, and invalids, and fish, and I've galloped with four costermongers to the races;I've carried babies, and sea-coal, and sea-sand, and sea-weed in panniers, and been sold to the gypsies, and been bought back for the sea-side, and ridden (in a white saddle-cloth with scarlet braid) by the fashionable visitors. (There was always a certain distinction in my paces,Though I say it who shouldn't) I've spent a summer on the Heath, and next winter near Covent Garden, and moved the following year to the foot of a mountain, to take people up to the top to show them the view.But how little we know what's before us! And how little I guessed I should ever be chief charger at a Queen's Birthday Review!Did I triumph alone? No, Brother Donkeys, no! You also took your place with the defenders of the nation;Subordinate positions to my own, but meritoriously filled, though a little more style would have well become so great an occasion.That malevolent old Moke—may his next thistle choke him!—disgraced us all with his jibbing—the ill-tempered old ass!Young Neddy is shaggy and shy, but not amiss, if he'd held his ears up, and not kept his eyes on the grass.Nothing is more je-june (I may say vulgar) than to seem anxious to eat when the crisis calls for public spirit, enthusiasm, and an elevated tone;And I wish, Brother Donkeys, I wish that all had felt as I felt, the responsibility of a March-Past the Throne!Respect and self-respect delicately blended; one ear up, and the other lowered to salute, as I passed the window from which we were seen(Unless I grievously misunderstood the young General this morning,) by no less a personage than her Most Gracious MajestyThe Queen.Sleep, Brother Donkeys, sleep! But I fancy you're sleeping already, for you make no reply;Not a quiver of your ears, not a sign from your motionless drooping noses, dark against the dusky night sky.As black and immovable as the silent fir-trees you solemnly slumber beneath,Whilst I wakefully meditate on a glorious past, and painfully ponder the future, as the dews fall over the Heath.
They call me Dolly, but I'm not a doll, and I'm not a baby, though Baby is sometimes my name;I behave beautifully at meals, and at church, and I can put on my own boots, and can say a good deal of the Catechism, and ride a donkey, and play at any boys' game.I've ridden a donkey that kicks (at least I rode him as long as I was on), and a donkey that rolls, and an old donkey that goes lame.I mean to ride like a lady now, but that's because I ought, not because I easily can;For what with your legs and your pommels (I mean the saddle's pommels), it would be much easier always to ride like a man.Boyslookbraver, but I think it's really more dangerous to ride sideways, because of the saddle slipping round.(I didn't cry; I played at slipping round the world, and getting to New Zealand with my head upside down on the ground.)The reason the saddle is slippery is not because it's smooth, for it's rather rough; and there's a hard ridge behind,And the horse's hair coming through the donkey's back (I mean through his saddle) scratches youdreadfully; but I tuck my things under me, and pretend I don't mind.They work out again though, particularly when they are starched, and I think frocks get shorter every time they go to the wash;But I don't complain; if it's very uncomfortable, I make an ugly face to myself, and say, "Bosh!"We've all of us had a good deal of practice, so we ought to know how to ride;We've ridden a great deal since we came to live on the Heath, and we rode a good deal when Father was stationed at the sea-side.My Major taught me to ride sideways, and at first he would hold me on;But I don't like being touched; and I don't call it riding like a lady if you're held on by an officer, and I'd rather tumble off if I can't stick on by myself; so I sent him away, and the nasty saddle slipped round directly he was gone.I only crushed my sun-bonnet, and the donkey stood quite still. (We always call that one "the old stager.")I wasn't frightened, except just the tiniest bit; but he says he was dreadfully frightened. So I said, "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, considering all your medals, and that you're a Major."He likes me very much, and I like him, and when my fifth birthday comes, he says I'm to choose a donkey, and he'll buy it for me, but the saddle and bridle shall be quite new;So I've made up my mind to choose the one Brother Bill had for his charger at Mother's Birthday Review;And Maggie is so glad, she says her life is quite miserable with thinking how miserable other lives are, if only we knew.Maggie loves every creature that lives; she won't confess to black beetles, but she can't stamp on them (I've stamped out lots in my winter boots), and she doesn't even think a donkey ugly when he brays;And she says she shall buy a brush, out of her pocket-money, and brush my donkey every day till he looks like a horse, and that it shan't be her fault if there isn't one poor old brute beast who lives happily to the end of his days.
Jack Ass.
Jack Ass.
The dew falls over the Heath, Brother Donkeys, and the darkness falls, but still through the gathering nightAll around us spreads the Heath Bed-straw[6]in glimmering sheets of white.Dragged and trampled, and plucked and wasted, it patiently spreads and survives;Kicked and thwacked, and prodded and over-laden, we patiently cling to our lives.Hee-haw! for the rest and silence of darkness that follow the labours of light.Hee-haw! for the hours from night to morning, that balance the hours from morning to night.Hee-haw! for the sweet night air that gives human beings cold in the head.Hee-haw! for the civilization that sends human beings to bed.Rest, Brother Donkeys, rest, from the bit, the burden, the blow,The dust, the flies, the restless children, the brutal roughs, the greedy donkey-master, the greedier donkey-hirer, the holiday-maker who knows no better, and the holiday-makers who ought to know!When the odorous furze-bush prickles the seeking nose, and the short damp grass refreshes the tongue,—lend, Brother Donkeys, lend a long and attentive ear!Whilst I proudly brayOf the one bright dayIn our hard and chequered career.I've dragged pots, and vegetables, and invalids, and fish, and I've galloped with four costermongers to the races;I've carried babies, and sea-coal, and sea-sand, and sea-weed in panniers, and been sold to the gypsies, and been bought back for the sea-side, and ridden (in a white saddle-cloth with scarlet braid) by the fashionable visitors. (There was always a certain distinction in my paces,Though I say it who shouldn't) I've spent a summer on the Heath, and next winter near Covent Garden, and moved the following year to the foot of a mountain, to take people up to the top to show them the view.But how little we know what's before us! And how little I guessed I should ever be chief charger at a Queen's Birthday Review!Did I triumph alone? No, Brother Donkeys, no! You also took your place with the defenders of the nation;Subordinate positions to my own, but meritoriously filled, though a little more style would have well become so great an occasion.That malevolent old Moke—may his next thistle choke him!—disgraced us all with his jibbing—the ill-tempered old ass!Young Neddy is shaggy and shy, but not amiss, if he'd held his ears up, and not kept his eyes on the grass.Nothing is more je-june (I may say vulgar) than to seem anxious to eat when the crisis calls for public spirit, enthusiasm, and an elevated tone;And I wish, Brother Donkeys, I wish that all had felt as I felt, the responsibility of a March-Past the Throne!Respect and self-respect delicately blended; one ear up, and the other lowered to salute, as I passed the window from which we were seen(Unless I grievously misunderstood the young General this morning,) by no less a personage than her Most Gracious MajestyThe Queen.Sleep, Brother Donkeys, sleep! But I fancy you're sleeping already, for you make no reply;Not a quiver of your ears, not a sign from your motionless drooping noses, dark against the dusky night sky.As black and immovable as the silent fir-trees you solemnly slumber beneath,Whilst I wakefully meditate on a glorious past, and painfully ponder the future, as the dews fall over the Heath.