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diff --git a/16686.txt b/16686.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9a3760 --- /dev/null +++ b/16686.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4431 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses for Children, by Juliana Horatia Ewing + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Verses for Children + and Songs for Music + +Author: Juliana Horatia Ewing + +Release Date: September 12, 2005 [EBook #16686] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES FOR CHILDREN *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + [Illustration: The Convalescent.] + + VERSES FOR CHILDREN + + AND + + SONGS FOR MUSIC + + + + + BY + + JULIANA HORATIA EWING. + + + + + + LONDON: + + SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, + + NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C. + + NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO. + + + +[Published under the direction of the General Literature +Committee.] + + + + +PREFACE + + +It has been decided in publishing this volume to reproduce the +illustrations with which the verses originally appeared in _Aunt Judy's +Magazine_. In all cases Mrs. Ewing wrote the lines to fit the pictures, +and it is worthy of note to observe how closely she has introduced every +detail into her words. Most of the woodcuts are by German artists, Oscar +Pletsch, Fedor Flinzer, and others; but the frontispiece is from an +original sketch by Mr. Gordon Browne. In accordance with his special +desire, it has only been used for Mrs. Ewing's poem, as the Convalescent +was a little friend of the artist, who did not live to complete his +recovery. The poem is the last that Mrs. Ewing wrote for children, and +it was penned when she herself was enduring the discomforts of +convalescence with all the courage she so warmly advocates. + +Mr. Randolph Caldecott's illustrations to "Mother's Birthday Review" +first appeared in his _Sketch Book_, but the letterpress that +accompanied them was very brief, and Mrs. Ewing could not resist asking +permission to write some verses to the pictures, and publish them in +_Aunt Judy's Magazine_. This favour was kindly granted, and by Mrs. +Caldecott's further kindness the sketches are again used here. + +The contents of this volume have been arranged chronologically as far as +is possible. + +"The Willow Man" and "Grandmother's Spring" were both written to protest +against wantonly wasting Dame Nature's gifts, and the Note on page 69 +shows that Mrs. Ewing had learnt this lesson herself in childhood. My +Father has lately recalled an incident which he believes first roused +our Mother to teach the lesson to us. They were driving to Sheffield one +day, when on Bolsover Hill they saw a well-known veterinary surgeon of +the district, Mr. Peech, who had dismounted from his horse, and was +carefully taking up a few roots of white violets from a bank where they +grew in some profusion. He showed Mrs. Gatty what he was gathering, but +told her he was taking care to _leave a bit behind_. This happened fully +forty years ago, long before the Selborne and other Societies for the +preservation of rare plants and birds had come into existence, and +Mother was much impressed and pleased by Mr. Peech's delicate +scrupulousness. + +"A Soldier's Children" was written in 1879, whilst many friends were +fighting in South Africa, and ten years before a story bearing the same +name was issued by the writer of _Bootles' Baby_. + +The "Songs for Music" appeared in 1874 in a volume called _Songs by Four +Friends_, except the two last poems, "Anemones" and "Autumn Tints." The +former was given by Mrs. Ewing to her brother, Mr. Alfred Scott-Gatty, +to set to music, and it has recently been published by Messrs. Boosey. +"Autumn Tints" was found amongst Mrs. Ewing's papers after her death, +and is now printed for the first time. + +HORATIA K.F. EDEN. + +_June 1895._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +VERSES FOR CHILDREN. + + + + + THE BURIAL OF THE LINNET + + MASTER FRITZ + + THE WILLOW-MAN + + OUR GARDEN + + A FRIEND IN THE GARDEN + + THREE LITTLE NEST BIRDS + + DOLLY'S LULLABY: A NURSERY RHYME + + A HERO TO HIS HOBBY-HORSE + + THE DOLLS' WASH + + HOUSE-BUILDING AND REPAIRS + + THE BLUE-BELLS ON THE LEA + + AN ONLY CHILD'S TEA-PARTY + + PAPA POODLE + + GRANDMOTHER'S SPRING + + BIG SMITH + + KIT'S CRADLE + + THE MILL STREAM + + BOY AND SQUIRREL + + LITTLE MASTER TO HIS BIG DOG + + A SWEET LITTLE DEAR + + BLUE AND RED; OR, THE DISCONTENTED LOBSTER + + THE YELLOW FLY: A TALE WITH A STING IN IT + + CANADA HOME + + THE POET AND THE BROOK: A TALE OF TRANSFORMATIONS + + A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN + + "TOUCH HIM IF YOU DARE:" A TALE OF THE HEDGE + + MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW + + THE PROMISE + + CONVALESCENCE + + THE ADVENTURES OF AN ELF. (_Translated_) + + +SONGS FOR MUSIC. + + SERENADE + + MAIDEN WITH THE GIPSY LOOK + + AH! WOULD I COULD FORGET + + MADRIGAL + + THE ELLEREE: A SONG OF SECOND SIGHT + + OTHER STARS + + FADED FLOWERS + + SPEED WELL + + HOW MANY YEARS AGO? + + "WITH A DIFFERENCE" + + THE LILY OF THE LAKE + + FROM FLEETING PLEASURES: A REQUIEM FOR ONE ALIVE + + THE RUNAWAY'S RETURN + + FANCY FREE: A GIRL'S SONG + + MY LOVE'S GIFT + + ANEMONES + + AUTUMN LEAVES + + +HYMNS. + + CONFIRMATION + + WHITSUNTIDE + + CHRISTMAS WISHES: A CAROL + + TEACH ME. (_From the Danish_) + + + + +VERSES FOR CHILDREN. + + + +THE BURIAL OF THE LINNET. + + + Found in the garden--dead in his beauty. + Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring! + Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, + Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring. + + Bury him kindly--up in the corner; + Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there; + Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner, + Waving her tail like a plume in the air. + + Bury him nobly--next to the donkey; + Fetch the old banner, and wave it about: + Bury him deeply--think of the monkey, + Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out. + + Bury him softly--white wool around him, + Kiss his poor feathers,--the first kiss and last; + Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him: + Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast. + + Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty, + Silent through summer, though other birds sing; + Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, + Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring. + + + + + [Illustration: MASTER FRITZ.] + + + Fritz and I are not brother and sister, but we're next-door + neighbours; for we both live next door. + I mean we both live next door to each other; for I live at + number three, and Fritz and Nickel the dog live at number + four. + In summer we climb through the garret windows and sit + together on the leads, + And if the sun is too hot Mother lends us one big kerchief + to put over both our heads. + Sometimes she gives us tea under the myrtle tree in the big + pot that stands in the gutter. + (One slice each, and I always give Fritz the one that has + the most butter.) + In winter we sit on the little stool by the stove at number four; + For when it's cold Fritz doesn't like to go out to come in next door. + It was one day in spring that he said, "I should like to + have a house to myself with you Grethel, and Nickel." And I + said, "Thank you, Fritz." + And he said, "If you'll come in at tea-time and sit by the stove, I'll + tell you tales that'll frighten you into fits. + About boys who ran away from their homes, and were taken by robbers, + and run after by wolves, and altogether in a dreadful state. + I saw the pictures of it in a book I was looking in, to see where + perhaps I should like to emigrate. + I've not quite settled whether I shall, or be cast away on a desert + island, or settle down nearer home; + But you'd better come in and hear about it, and then, wherever it is, + you'll be sure to be ready to come." + So I took my darling Katerina in my arms, and we went in to tea. + I love Katerina, though she lost her head long ago, poor thing; but + Fritz made me put her off my knee, + For he said, "When you're hushabying that silly old doll I know you're + not attending to me. + Now look here, Grethel, I think I have made up my mind that we won't + go far; + For we can have a house, and I can be master of it just as well where + we are. + Under the stairs would be a good place for a house for us if there's + room. + It's very dirty, but you're the housewife now, and you must sweep it + out well with the broom. + I shall expect you to keep my house very comfortable, and have my meals + ready when there's anything to eat; + And when Nickel and I come back from playing outside, you may peep out + and pretend you're watching for us coming up the street. + You've kept your apple, I see--I've eaten mine--well, it will be + something to make a start, + And I'll put by some of my cake, if you'll keep some of yours, and + remember Nickel must have part. + I call it your cake and your apple, but of course now you're my + housewife everything belongs to me; + But I shall give you the management of it, and you must make it go as + far as you can amongst three. + And if you make nice feasts every day for me and Nickel, and never + keep us waiting for our food, + And always do everything I want, and attend to everything I say, I'm + sure I shall almost always be good. + And if I am naughty now and then, it'll most likely be your fault; + and, if it isn't, you mustn't mind; + For even if I seem to be cross, you ought to know that I mean to be + kind. + And I'm sure you'll like combing Nickel's hair for my sake; it'll be + something for you to do, and it bothers me so! + But it must be done regularly, for if it's not, his curls tangle into + lugs as they grow. + I think that's all, dear Grethel, for I love you so much that I'm sure + to be easy to please. + Only remember--it's a trifle--but when I want you, never keep that + headless doll on your knees. + I'd much rather not have her in my house--there, don't cry! if you + will have her, I suppose it must be; + Though I can't think what you want with Katerina when you've got + Nickel and me." + So I said, "Thank you, dear Fritz, for letting me bring her, for I've + had her so long I shouldn't like to part with her now; + And I'll try and do everything you want as well as I can, now you've + told me how." + But next morning I heard Fritz's garret-window open, and he put out + his head, + And shouted, "Grethel! Grethel! I want you. Be quick! Haven't you got + out of bed?" + I ran to the window and said, "What is it, dear Fritz?" and he said, + "I want to tell you that I've changed my mind. + Hans-Wandermann is here, and he says there are real sapphires on the + beach; so I'm off to see what I can find." + "Oh, Fritz!" I said, "can't I come too?" but he said, "You'd better + not, you'll only be in the way. + You can stop quietly at home with Katerina, and you may have Nickel + too, if he'll stay." + But Nickel wouldn't. I give him far more of my cake than Fritz does, + but he likes Fritz better than me. + So dear Katerina and I had breakfast together on the leads under the + old myrtle tree. + + + + + THE WILLOW-MAN. + + + There once was a Willow, and he was very old, + And all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold; + But ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow, + There grew upon his hoary head a crop of Mistletoe. + + All wrinkled and furrowed was this old Willow's skin, + His taper fingers trembled, and his arms were very thin; + Two round eyes and hollow, that stared but did not see, + And sprawling feet that never walked, had this most ancient tree. + + A Dame who dwelt near was the only one who knew + That every year upon his head the Christmas berries grew; + And when the Dame cut them, she said--it was her whim-- + "A merry Christmas to you, Sir!" _and left a bit for him_. + + "Oh, Granny dear, tell us," the children cried, "where we + May find the shining Mistletoe that grows upon the tree?" + At length the Dame told them, but cautioned them to mind + To greet the Willow civilly, _and leave a bit behind_. + + "Who cares," said the children, "for this old Willow-man? + We'll take the Mistletoe, and he may catch us if he can." + With rage the ancient Willow shakes in every limb, + For they have taken all, and _have not left a bit for him_! + + Then bright gleamed the holly, the Christmas berries shone, + But in the wintry wind without the Willow-man did moan: + "Ungrateful, and wasteful! the mystic Mistletoe + A hundred years hath grown on me, but never more shall grow." + + A year soon passed by, and the children came once more, + But not a sprig of Mistletoe the aged Willow bore. + Each slender spray pointed; he mocked them in his glee, + And chuckled in his wooden heart, that ancient Willow-tree. + + MORAL. + + Oh, children, who gather the spoils of wood and wold, + From selfish greed and wilful waste your little hands withhold. + Though fair things be common, this moral bear in mind, + "Pick thankfully and modestly, and leave a bit behind." + + + + + [Illustration] + + OUR GARDEN. + + + The winter is gone; and at first Jack and I were sad, + Because of the snow-man's melting, but now we are glad; + For the spring has come, and it's warm, and we're allowed to garden + in the afternoon; + And summer is coming, and oh, how lovely our flowers will be in June! + We are so fond of flowers, it makes us quite happy to think + Of our beds--all colours--blue, white, yellow, purple, and pink, + Scarlet, lilac, and crimson! And we're fond of sweet scents as well, + And mean to have pinks, roses, sweet peas, mignonette, clove + carnations, musk, and everything good to smell; + Lavender, rosemary, and we should like a lemon-scented verbena, and + a big myrtle tree! + And then if we could get an old "preserved-ginger" pot, and some + bay-salt, we could make _pot-pourri_. + Jack and I have a garden, though it's not so large as the big one, + you know; + But whatever can be got to grow in a garden we mean to grow. + We've got Bachelor's Buttons, and London Pride, and Old Man, and + everything that's nice: + And last year Jack sowed green peas for our dolls' dinners, but they + were eaten up by the mice. + And he would plant potatoes in furrows, which made the garden in a + mess, + So this year we mean to have no kitchen-garden but mustard and cress. + One of us plants, and the other waters, but Jack likes the + watering-pot; + And then when my turn comes to water he says it's too hot! + We sometimes quarrel about the garden, and once Jack hit me with + the spade; + So we settled to divide it in two by a path up the middle, and + that's made. + We want some yellow sand now to make the walk pretty, but there's none + about here, + So we mean to get some in the old carpet-bag, if we go to the seaside + this year. + On Monday we went to the wood and got primrose plants and a sucker of + a dog-rose; + It looks like a green stick in the middle of the bed at present; but + wait till it blows! + The primroses were in full flower, and the rose ought to flower soon; + You've no idea how lovely they are in that wood in June! + The primroses look quite withered now, I am sorry to say, + But that is not our fault but Nurse's, and it shows how hard it is to + garden when you can't have your own way. + We planted them carefully, and were just going to water them all in + a lump, + When Nurse fetched us both indoors, and put us to bed for wetting our + pinafores at the pump. + It's very hard, and I'm sure the gardener's plants wouldn't grow any + better than ours, + If Nurse fetched him in and sent him to bed just when he was going to + water his flowers. + We've got Blue Nemophila and Mignonette, and Venus's Looking-glass, + and many other seeds; + The Nemophila comes up spotted, which is how we know it from the weeds. + At least it's sure to come up if the hens haven't scratched it up + first. + But when it is up the cats roll on it, and that is the worst! + I sowed a ring of sweet peas, and the last time I looked they were + coming nicely on, + Just sprouting white, and I put them safely back; but when Jack looked + he found they were gone. + Jack made a great many cuttings, but he has had rather bad luck, + I've looked at them every day myself, and not one of them has struck. + The gardener gave me a fine moss-rose, but Jack took it to his side, + I kept moving it back, but he took it again, and at last it died. + But now we've settled to dig up the path, and have the bed as it was + before, + So everything will belong to us both, and we shan't ever quarrel + any more. + It is such a long time, too, to wait for the sand, and perhaps + sea-sand does best on the shore. + We're going to take everything up, for it can't hurt the plants to + stand on the grass for a minute, + And you really can't possibly rake a bed smooth with so many + things in it. + We shall dig it all over, and get leaf-mould from the wood, and hoe + up the weeds, + And when it's tidy we shall plant, and put labels, and strike cuttings, + and sow seeds. + We are so fond of flowers, Jack and I often dream at night + Of getting up and finding our garden ablaze with all colours, blue, + red, yellow, and white. + And Midsummer's coming, and big brother Tom will sit under the tree + With his book, and Mary will beg sweet nosegays of Jack and me. + The worst is, we often start for the seaside about Midsummer Day, + And no one takes care of our gardens whilst we are away. + But if we sow lots of seeds, and take plenty of cuttings before we + leave home, + When we come back, our flowers will be all in full bloom, + Bright, bright sunshine above, and sweet, sweet flowers below. + Come, oh Midsummer, quickly come! and go quickly, Midsummer, go! + + P.S. It is so tiresome! Jack wants to build a green-house now, + He has found some bits of broken glass, and an old window-frame, and + he says he knows how. + I tell him there's not glass enough, but he says there's lots, + And he's taken all the plants that belong to the bed and put + them in pots. + + + + + A FRIEND IN THE GARDEN. + + + He is not John the gardener, + And yet the whole day long + Employs himself most usefully, + The flower-beds among. + + He is not Tom the pussy-cat, + And yet the other day, + With stealthy stride and glistening eye, + He crept upon his prey. + + He is not Dash the dear old dog, + And yet, perhaps, if you + Took pains with him and petted him, + You'd come to love him too. + + He's not a Blackbird, though he chirps, + And though he once was black; + And now he wears a loose grey coat, + All wrinkled on the back. + + He's got a very dirty face, + And very shining eyes! + He sometimes comes and sits indoors; + He looks--and p'r'aps is--wise. + + But in a sunny flower-bed + He has his fixed abode; + He eats the things that eat my plants-- + He is a friendly TOAD. + + + + + [Illustration] + + THREE LITTLE NEST BIRDS. + + + We meant to be very kind, + But if ever we find + Another soft, grey-green, moss-coated, feather-lined nest in a hedge, + We have taken a pledge-- + Susan, Jemmy, and I--with remorseful tears, at this very minute, + That if there are eggs or little birds in it-- + Robin or wren, thrush, chaffinch or linnet-- + We'll leave them there + To their mother's care. + There were three of us--Kate, and Susan, and Jem-- + And three of them-- + I don't know _their_ names, for they couldn't speak, + Except with a little imperative squeak, + Exactly like Poll, + Susan's squeaking doll; + But squeaking dolls will lie on the shelves + For years and never squeak of themselves: + The reason we like little birds so much better than toys + Is because they are _really_ alive, and know how to make a noise. + + There were three of us, and three of them; + Kate,--that is I,--and Susan, and Jem. + Our mother was busy making a pie, + And theirs, we think, was up in the sky; + But for all Susan, Jemmy, or I can tell, + She may have been getting their dinner as well. + They were left to themselves (and so were we) + In a nest in the hedge by the willow tree; + And when we caught sight of three red little fluff-tufted, hazel-eyed, + open-mouthed, pink-throated heads, we all shouted for glee. + + The way we really did wrong was this: + We took them for Mother to kiss, + And she told us to put them back; + Whilst out on the weeping-willow _their_ mother was crying "Alack!" + We really heard + Both what Mother told us to do, and the voice of the mother-bird. + But we three--that is Susan and I and Jem-- + Thought we knew better than either of them: + And in spite of our mother's command and the poor bird's cry, + We determined to bring up her three little nestlings ourselves + on the sly. + + We each took one, + It did seem such excellent fun! + Susan fed hers on milk and bread, + Jem got wriggling worms for his instead. + I gave mine meat, + For, you know, I thought, "Poor darling pet! why shouldn't it have + roast beef to eat?" + But, oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! how we cried + When in spite of milk and bread and worms and roast beef, the + little birds died! + It's a terrible thing to have heart-ache, + I thought mine would break + As I heard the mother-bird's moan, + And looked at the grey-green, moss-coated, feather-lined nest she had + taken such pains to make, + And her three little children dead, and as cold as stone. + Mother said, and it's sadly true, + "There are some wrong things one can never undo." + And nothing that we could do or say + Would bring life back to the birds that day. + + The bitterest tears that we could weep + Wouldn't wake them out of their stiff cold sleep. + But then, + We--Susan and Jem and I--mean never to be so selfish, and wilful, + and cruel again. + And we three have buried those other three + In a soft, green, moss-covered, flower-lined grave at the foot of + the willow tree. + And all the leaves which its branches shed + We think are tears because they are dead. + + + + + DOLLY'S LULLABY. + + A NURSERY RHYME + + + Hush-a-by, Baby! _Your_ baby, Mamma, + No one but pussy may go where you are; + Soft-footed pussy alone may pass by, + For, if he wakens, your baby will cry. + + Hush-a-by, Dolly! My baby are you, + Yellow-haired Dolly, with eyes of bright blue; + Though I say "Hush!" because Mother does so, + You wouldn't cry like her baby, I know! + + Hush-a-by, Baby! Mamma walks about, + Sings to you softly, or rocks you without; + If you slept sounder, then I might walk too, + Sing to my Dolly, and rock her like you! + + Hush-a-by Dolly! Sleep sweetly, my pet! + Dear Mamma made you this fine berceaunette, + Muslin and rose-colour, ribbon and lace; + When had a baby a cosier place? + + Hush-a-by, Baby! the baby who cries. + Why, dear Mamma, don't you shut baby's eyes? + Pull down his wire, as I do, you see; + Lay him by Dolly, and come out with me. + + Hush-a-by, Dolly! Mamma will not speak; + You, my dear baby, would sleep for a week. + Poor Mamma's baby allows her no rest, + Hush-a-by, Dolly, of babies the best! + + + + + [Illustration] + + A HERO TO HIS HOBBY-HORSE. + + + Hear me now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces! + Time is it that you and I won something more than races. + I have got a fine cocked hat, with feathers proudly waving; + Out into the world we'll go, both death and danger braving. + + Doubt not that I know the way--the garden-gate is clapping: + Who forgot to lock it last deserves his fingers slapping. + When they find we can't be found, oh won't there be a chorus! + You and I may laugh at that, with all the world before us. + + All the world, the great green world that lies beyond the paling! + All the sea, the great round sea where ducks and drakes are sailing! + I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander + Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander. + + Months ago, my faithful steed, that Goose attacked your master; + How it hissed, and how I cried! It ran, but I ran faster! + Down upon my face I fell, its awful wings were o'er me, + Mother came and picked me up, and off to bed she bore me. + + Months have passed, my faithful steed, both you and I are older, + Sheathless is my wooden sword, my heart I think is bolder. + Always ready bridled thou, with reins of crimson leather; + Woe betide the Goose to-day who meets us both together! + + Up then now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces! + Time it is that you and I won something more than races. + I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander + Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander. + + + + + THE DOLLS' WASH. + + + Sally is the laundress, and every Saturday + She sends our clean clothes up from the wash, and Nurse puts them away. + Sometimes Sally is very kind, but sometimes she's as cross as a Turk; + When she's good-humoured we like to go and watch her at work. + She has tubs and a copper in the wash-house, and a great big fire and + plenty of soap; + And outside is the drying-ground with tall posts, and pegs bought from + the gipsies, and long lines of rope. + The laundry is indoors with another big fire, and long tables, and a + lot of irons, and a crimping-machine; + And horses (not live ones with tails, but clothes-horses) and the same + starch that is used by the Queen. + Sally wears pattens in the wash-house, and turns up her sleeves, and + splashes, and rubs, + And makes beautiful white lather which foams over the tops of the tubs, + Like waves at the seaside dashing against the rocks, only not so + strong. + If I were Sally I should sit and blow soap-bubbles all the day long. + Sally is angry sometimes because of the way we dirty our frocks, + Making mud pies, and rolling down the lawn, and climbing trees, and + scrambling over the rocks. + She says we do it on purpose, and never try to take care; + But if things have got to go to the wash, what can it matter how + dirty they are? + Last week Mary and I got a lot of kingcups from the bog, and I + carried them home in my skirt; + It was the end of the week, and our frocks were done, so we didn't + mind about the dirt. + But Sally was as cross as two sticks, and won't wash our dolls' + clothes any more--so she said,-- + But never mind, for we'll ask Mamma if we may have a real Dolls' + Wash of our own instead. + + * * * * * + + Mamma says we may on one condition, to which we agree; + We're to _really_ wash the dolls' clothes, and make them just + what clean clothes should be. + She says we must wash them thoroughly, which of course we intend to do, + We mean to rub, wring, dry, mangle, starch, iron, and air them too. + A regular wash must be splendid fun, and everybody knows + That any one in the world can wash out a few dirty clothes. + + * * * * * + + Well, we've had the Dolls' Wash, but it's only pretty good fun. + We're glad we've had it, you know, but we're gladder still that + it's done. + As we wanted to have as big a wash as we could, we collected + everything we could muster, + From the dolls' bed dimity hangings to Victoria's dress, which I'd + used as a duster. + It was going to the wash, and Mary and I were house-maids--fancy + house-maids, I mean-- + And I took it to dust the bookshelf, for I knew it would come back + clean. + Well, we washed in the wash-hand-basin, which holds a good deal, as + the things are small; + We made a glorious lather, and splashed half over the floor; but the + clothes weren't white after all. + However, we hung them out in our drying-ground in the garden, which + we made with dahlia-sticks and long strings, + And then Dash went and knocked over one of the posts, and down in the + dirt went our things! + So we washed them again and hung them on the towel-horse, and most of + them came all right, + But Victoria's muslin dress--though I rinsed it again and again--will + never dry white! + And the grease-spots on Mary's doll's dress don't seem to come out, and + we can't think how they got there; + Unless it was when we made that Macassar-oil, because she has + real hair. + I knew mine was going to the wash, but I'm sorry I used it as a duster + before it went; + We think dirty clothes perhaps shouldn't be _too_ dirty before they + are sent. + We had sad work in trying to make the starch--I wonder what the Queen + does with hers? + I stirred mine up with a candle, like Sally, but it only made it worse; + So we had to ask Mamma's leave to have ours made by Nurse. + Nurse makes beautiful starch--like water-arrowroot when you're ill--in + a minute or two. + It's a very odd thing that what looks so easy should be so difficult + to do! + Then Mary put the iron down to heat, but as soon as she'd turned + her back, + A jet of gas came sputtering out of the coals and smoked it black. + We dared not ask Sally for another, for we knew she'd refuse it, + So we had to clean this one with sand and brown-paper before we + could use it. + It was very hard work, but I rubbed till I made it shine; + Yet as soon as it got on a damped "fine thing" it left a brown line. + I rubbed it for a long, long time before it would iron without a mark, + But it did at last, and we finished our Dolls' Wash just before dark. + + * * * * * + + Sally's very kind, for she praised our wash, and she has taken away + Victoria's dress to do it again; and I really must say + She was right when she said, "You see, young ladies, a week's wash + isn't all play." + Our backs ache, our faces are red, our hands are all wrinkled, and + we've rubbed our fingers quite sore; + We feel very sorry for Sally every week, and we don't mean to dirty + our dresses so much any more. + + + + + [Illustration] + + HOUSE-BUILDING AND REPAIRS. + + + Father is building a new house, but I've had one given to me for + my own; + Brick red, with a white window, and black where it ought to be glass, + and the chimney yellow, like stone. + Brother Bill made me the shelves with his tool-box, and the table I + had before, and the pestle-and-mortar; + And Mother gave me the jam-pot when it was empty; it's rather big, but + it's the only pot we have that will really hold water. + We--that is I and Jemima, my doll. (For it's a Doll's House, you know, + Though some of the things are real, like the nutmeg-grater, but not + the wooden plates that stand in a row. + _They_ came out of a box of toy tea-things, and I can't think what + became of the others; + But one never can tell what becomes of anything when one has brothers.) + Jemima is much smaller than I am, and, being made of wood, she is thin; + She takes up too much room inside, but she can lie outside on the roof + without breaking it in. + I wish I had a drawing-room to put her in when I want to really cook; + I have to have the kitchen-table outside as it is, and the + pestle-and-mortar is rather too heavy for it, and everybody + can look. + There's no front door to the house, because there's no front to have a + door in, and beside, + If there were, I couldn't play with anything, for I shouldn't know how + to get inside. + I never heard of a house with only one room, except the cobbler's, and + his was a stall. + I don't quite know what that is; but it isn't a house, and it served + him for parlour and kitchen and all. + Father says that whilst he is about it, he thinks he shall add on + a wing; + And brother Bill says he'll nail my Doll's House on the top of an + old tea-chest, which will come to the same thing. + + * * * * * + + Father's house is not finished, though the wing is; for now the + builder says it will be all wrong if there isn't another + to match; + And my house isn't done either, though it's nailed on, for Bill took + off the roof to make a new one of thatch. + The paint is very much scratched, but he says that's nothing, for it + must have had a new coat; + And he means to paint it for me, inside and out, when he paints + his own boat. + There's a sad hole in the floor, but Bill says the wood is as rotten + as rotten can be: + Which was why he made such a mess of the side with trying to put real + glass in the window, through which one can see. + Bill says he believes that the shortest plan would be to make a new + Doll's House with proper rooms, in the regular way; + Which was what the builder said to Father when he wanted to build in + the old front; and to-day + I heard him tell him the old materials were no good to use and weren't + worth the expense of carting away. + I don't know when I shall be able to play at dolls again, for all the + things are put away in a box; + Except Jemima and the pestle-and-mortar, and they're in the bottom + drawer with my Sunday frocks. + I almost wish I had kept the house as it was before; + We managed very well with a painted window and without a front door. + I don't know what Father means to do with his house, but if ever + mine is finished, I'll never have it altered any more. + + + + + THE BLUE-BELLS ON THE LEA. + + FAIRY KING. + + + "The breeze is on the Blue-bells, + The wind is on the lea; + Stay out! stay out! my little lad, + And chase the wind with me. + If you will give yourself to me, + Within the fairy ring, + At deep midnight, + When stars are bright, + You'll hear the Blue-bells ring-- + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + On slender stems they swing. + + "The rustling wind, the whistling wind, + We'll chase him to and fro, + We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down + To where the King-cups grow; + And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits + To light us on our way, + And far behind, + Upon the wind, + The Blue-bells seem to play-- + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + Lest we should go astray. + + "So gay that fairy music, + So jubilant those bells, + How days and weeks and months go by + No happy listener tells! + The toad-stools are with sweetmeats spread, + The new Moon lends her light, + And ringers small + Wait, one and all, + To ring with all their might-- + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + And welcome you to night." + + + BOY. + + "My mother made me promise + To be in time for tea, + 'Go home! go home!' the breezes say, + That sigh along the lea. + I dare not give myself away; + For what would Mother do? + I wish I might + Stay out all night + At fairy games with you. + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + And hear the bells of blue. + + "But Father sleeps beneath the grass, + And Mother is alone: + And who would fill the pails, and fetch + The wood when I am gone? + And who, when little Sister ails, + Can comfort her, but me? + Her cries and tears + Would reach my ears + Through all the melody-- + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + Of Blue-bells on the lea." + + The sun was on the Blue-bells, + The lad was on the lea. + "Oh, wondrous bells! Oh, fairy bells! + I pray you ring to me. + I only did as Mother bade, + For tea I did not care, + And winds at night + Give more delight + Than all this noonday glare." + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + No sound of bells was there. + + + BOY. + + "The snow lies o'er the Blue-bells, + A storm is on the lea; + Our hearth is warm, the fire burns bright, + The flames dance merrily. + Oh, Mother dear! I would no more + That on that summer's day, + Within the ring, + The Fairy King + Had stolen me away-- + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + To where the Blue-bells play. + + "Yet when the storm is loudest, + At deep midnight I dream, + And up and down upon the lea + To chase the wind I seem; + While by my side, in feathered cap, + There runs the Fairy King, + And down below, + Beneath the snow, + We hear the Blue-bells ring-- + D! + DI! DIN! + DING! + Such happy dreams they bring!" + + + + + AN ONLY CHILD'S TEA-PARTY. + + + When I go to tea with the little Smiths, there are eight of them + there, but there's only one of me, + Which makes it not so easy to have a fancy tea-party as if there were + two or three. + I had a tea-party on my birthday, but Joe Smith says it can't have + been a regular one, + Because as to a tea-party with only one teacup and no teapot, + sugar-basin, cream-jug, or slop-basin, he never heard of such + a thing under the sun. + But it was a very big teacup, and quite full of milk and water, and, + you see, + There wasn't anybody there who could really drink milk and water except + Towser and me. + The dolls can only pretend, and then it washes the paint off + their lips, + And what Charles the canary drinks isn't worth speaking of, for he + takes such very small sips. + Joe says a kitchen-chair isn't a table; but it has got four legs and + a top, so it would be if the back wasn't there; + And that does for Charles to perch on, and I have to put the Prince + of Wales to lean against it, because his legs have no joints + to sit on a chair. + + [Illustration] + + That's the small doll. I call him the Prince of Wales because he's + the eldest son, you see; + For I've taken him for my brother, and he was Mother's doll before + I was born, so of course he is older than me. + Towser is my real live brother, but I don't think he's as old as the + Prince of Wales; + He's a perfect darling, though he whisks everything over he comes + near, and I tell him I don't know what we should do if + we all had tails. + His hair curls like mine in front, and grows short like a lion behind, + but no one need be frightened, for he's as good as good; + And as to roaring like a real menagerie lion, or eating people up, + I don't believe he would if he could. + He has his tea out of the saucer after I've had mine out of the cup; + You see I am sure to leave some for him, but if I let him begin first + he would drink it all up. + The big doll Godmamma gave me this birthday, and the chair she gave me + the year before. + (I haven't many toys, but I take great care of them, and every birthday + I shall have more and more.) + You've no idea what a beautiful doll she is, and when I pinch her in + the middle, she can squeak; + It quite frightened Towser, for he didn't know that any of us but he + and I and Charles were able to speak. + I've taken her for my only sister, for of course I may take anybody + I choose; + I've called her Cinderella, because I'm so fond of the story, and + because she's got real shoes. + I don't feel so _only_ now there are so many of us; for, counting + Cinderella there are five,-- + She, and I, and Towser, and Charles, and the Prince of Wales--and + three of us are really alive; + And four of us can speak, and I'm sure the Prince of Wales is + wonderful for his size; + For his things (at least he's only got one thing) take off and on, + and, though he's nothing but wood, he's got real glass eyes. + And perhaps in three birthdays more there may be as many of us as the + Smiths, for five and three make eight; + I shall be seven years old then (as old as Joe), but I don't like + to think too much of it, it's so long to wait. + And after all I don't know that I want any more of us: I think I'd + rather my sister had a chair + Like mine; and the next year I should like a collar for Towser if + it wouldn't rub off his hair. + And it would be very nice if the Prince of Wales could be dressed + like a Field-marshal, for he's got nothing on his legs; + And Cinderella's beautifully dressed, and Towser looks quite as if + he'd got a fur coat on when he begs. + Joe says it's perfectly absurd, and that I can't take a Pomeranian + in earnest for my brother; + But I don't think he really and truly knows how much Towser and I + love each other. + I didn't like his saying, "Well, there's one thing about your lot,--you + can always have your own way." + And then he says, "You can't possibly have fun with four people when + you have to pretend what they say." + But, whatever he says, I don't believe I shall ever enjoy a tea-party + more than the one that we had on that day. + + + + + [Illustration] + + PAPA POODLE. + + + Can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head? + How long will it be, Papa Poodle, before you have learned to read? + You were called Papa Poodle because you took care of me when I was + a baby: + And now I can read words of three syllables, and you sit with a book + before you like a regular gaby. + You've not read a word since I put you in that corner ten minutes ago; + Bill and I've fought the battle of Waterloo since dinner, and you've + not learned BA BE BI BO. + Here am I doing the whole British Army by myself, for Bill is obliged + to be the French; + And I've come away to hear you say your lesson, and left Bill waiting + for me in the trench. + And there you sit, with a curly white wig, like the Lord Chief Justice, + and as grave a face, + Looking the very picture of goodness and wisdom, when you're really in + the deepest disgrace. + Those woolly locks of yours grow thicker and thicker, Papa Poodle. + Does the wool tangle inside as well as outside your head? and is it + that which makes you such a noodle? + You seem so clever at some things, and so stupid at others, and I keep + wondering why; + But I'm afraid the truth is, Papa Poodle, that you're uncommonly sly. + You did no spelling-lessons last week, for you were out from morning + till night, + Except when you slunk in, like a dirty door-mat on legs, and with one + ear bleeding from a fight, + Looking as if you'd no notion what o'clock it was, and had come home + to see. + But _your watch keeps very good meal-time_, Papa Poodle, for you're + always at breakfast, and dinner, and tea. + No, it's no good your shaking hands and licking me with your + tongue,--I know you can do that; + But sitting up, and giving paws, and kissing, won't teach you to + spell C A T, Cat. + I wonder, if I let you off lessons, whether I could teach you to pull + the string with your teeth, and fire our new gun? + If I could, you might be the Artillery all to yourself, and it would + be capital fun. + You wag your tail at that, do you? You would like it a great deal + better? + But I can't bear you to be such a dunce, when you look so wise; and + yet I don't believe you'll ever learn a letter. + Aunt Jemima is going to make me a new cocked hat out of the next old + newspaper, for I want to have a review; + But the newspaper after that, Papa Poodle, must be kept to make a + fool's cap for you. + + + + + GRANDMOTHER'S SPRING. + + + "In my young days," the grandmother said (Nodding her head, + Where cap and curls were as white as snow), + "In my young days, when we used to go + Rambling, + Scrambling; + Each little dirty hand in hand, + Like a chain of daisies, a comical band + Of neighbours' children, seriously straying, + Really and truly going a-Maying, + My mother would bid us linger, + And lifting a slender, straight forefinger, + Would say-- + 'Little Kings and Queens of the May, + Listen to me! + If you want to be + Every one of you very good + In that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful wood, + Where the little birds' heads get so turned with delight, + That some of them sing all night: + Whatever you pluck, + Leave some for good luck; + Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root, + From overhead, or from underfoot, + Water-wonders of pond or brook; + Wherever you look, + And whatever you find-- + Leave something behind: + Some for the Naiads, + Some for the Dryads, + And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'" + + "After all these years," the grandame said, + Lifting her head, + "I think I can hear my mother's voice + Above all other noise, + Saying, 'Hearken, my child! + There is nothing more destructive and wild, + No wild bull with his horns, + No wild-briar with clutching thorns, + No pig that routs in your garden-bed, + No robber with ruthless tread, + More reckless and rude, + And wasteful of all things lovely and good, + Than a child, with the face of a boy and the ways of a bear, + Who _doesn't care;_ + Or some little ignorant minx + Who _never thinks_. + Now I never knew so stupid an elf, + That he couldn't think and care for himself. + Oh, little sisters and little brothers, + Think for others, and care for others! + And of all that your little fingers find, + Leave something behind, + For love of those that come after: + Some, perchance, to cool tired eyes in the moss that stifled your + laughter! + Pluck, children, pluck! + But leave--for good luck-- + Some for the Naiads, + And some for the Dryads, + And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies!'" + + "We were very young," the grandmother said, + Smiling and shaking her head; + "And when one is young, + One listens with half an ear, and speaks with a hasty tongue; + So with shouted Yeses, + And promises sealed with kisses, + Hand-in-hand we started again, + A chubby chain, + Stretching the whole wide width of the lane; + Or in broken links of twos and threes, + For greater ease + Of rambling, + And scrambling, + By the stile and the road, + That goes to the beautiful, beautiful wood; + By the brink of the gloomy pond, + To the top of the sunny hill beyond, + By hedge and by ditch, by marsh and by mead, + By little byways that lead + To mysterious bowers; + Or to spots where, for those who know, + There grow, + In certain out-o'-way nooks, rare ferns and uncommon flowers. + There were flowers everywhere, + Censing the summer air, + Till the giddy bees went rolling home + To their honeycomb, + And when we smelt at our posies, + The little fairies inside the flowers rubbed coloured dust on + our noses, + Or pricked us till we cried aloud for snuffing the dear dog-roses. + But above all our noise, + I kept thinking I heard my mother's voice. + But it may have been only a fairy joke, + For she was at home, and I sometimes thought it was + really the flowers that spoke. + From the Foxglove in its pride, + To the Shepherd's Purse by the bare road-side; + From the snap-jack heart of the Starwort frail, + To meadows full of Milkmaids pale, + And Cowslips loved by the nightingale. + Rosette of the tasselled Hazel-switch, + Sky-blue star of the ditch; + Dandelions like mid-day suns; + Bindweed that runs; + Butter and Eggs with the gaping lips, + Sweet Hawthorn that hardens to haws, and Roses that die into hips; + Lords-with-their-Ladies cheek-by-jowl, + In purple surcoat and pale-green cowl; + Family groups of Primroses fair; + Orchids rare; + Velvet Bee-orchis that never can sting, + Butterfly-orchis which never takes wing, + Robert-the-Herb with strange sweet scent, + And crimson leaf when summer is spent: + Clustering neighbourly, + All this gay company, + Said to us seemingly-- + 'Pluck, children, pluck! + But leave some for good luck: + Some for the Naiads, + Some for the Dryads, + And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies,'" + + "I was but a maid," the grandame said, + "When my mother was dead; + And many a time have I stood. + In that beautiful wood, + To dream that through every woodland noise, + Through the cracking + Of twigs and the bending of bracken, + Through the rustling + Of leaves in the breeze, + And the bustling + Of dark-eyed, tawny-tailed squirrels flitting about the trees, + Through the purling and trickling cool + Of the streamlet that feeds the pool, + I could hear her voice. + Should I wonder to hear it? Why? + Are the voices of tender wisdom apt to die? + And now, though I'm very old, + And the air, that used to feel fresh, strikes chilly and cold, + On a sunny day when I potter + About the garden, or totter + To the seat from whence I can see, below, + The marsh and the meadows I used to know, + Bright with the bloom of the flowers that blossomed there long ago; + Then, as if it were yesterday, + I fancy I hear them say-- + 'Pluck, children, pluck, + But leave some for good luck; + Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root, + From overhead, or from underfoot, + Water-wonders of pond or brook; + Wherever you look, + And whatever your little fingers find, + Leave something behind: + Some for the Naiads, + And some for the Dryads, + And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'" + + + The following note was given in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, June + 1880, when "Grandmother's Spring" first appeared:--"It may + interest old readers of _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ to know that + 'Leave some for the Naiads and the Dryads' was a favourite + phrase with Mr. Alfred Gatty, and is not merely the charge of + an imaginary mother to her 'blue-eyed banditti.' Whether my + mother invented the expression for our benefit, or whether she + only quoted it, I do not know. I only remember its use as a + check on the indiscriminate 'collecting' and 'grubbing' of a + large family; a mystic warning not without force to fetter the + same fingers in later life, with all the power of a pious + tradition."--J.H.E. + + + + + [Illustration] + + BIG SMITH. + + + Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith? + Nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with. + I'm good to-day, and so I've come to see if it is true + That you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe. + + Why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather? + Is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather? + If horses should be shod with iron, Big Smith, will you shoe mine? + For now I may not take him out, excepting when it's fine. + + Although he's not a real live horse, I'm very fond of him; + His harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim. + His tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels; + I think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels. + + They say that Dapple-grey's not yours, but don't you wish he were? + My horse's coat is only paint, but his is soft grey hair; + His face is big and kind, like yours, his forelock white as snow-- + Shan't you be sorry when you've done his shoes and he must go? + + I do so wish, Big Smith, that I might come and live with you; + To rake the fire, to heat the rods, to hammer two and two. + To be so black, and not to have to wash unless I choose; + To pat the dear old horses, and to mend their poor old shoes. + + When all the world is dark at night, you work among the stars, + A shining shower of fireworks beat out of red-hot bars. + I've seen you beat, I've heard you sing, when I was going to bed; + And now your face and arms looked black, and now were glowing red. + + The more you work, the more you sing, the more the bellows roar; + The falling stars, the flying sparks, stream shining more and more. + You hit so hard, you look so hot, and yet you never tire; + It must be very nice to be allowed to play with fire. + + I long to beat and sing and shine, as you do, but instead + I put away my horse, and Nurse puts me away to bed. + I wonder if you go to bed; I often think I'll keep + Awake and see, but, though I try, I always fall asleep. + + I know it's very silly, but I sometimes am afraid + Of being in the dark alone, especially in bed. + But when I see your forge-light come and go upon the wall, + And hear you through the window, I am not afraid at all. + + I often hear a trotting horse, I sometimes hear it stop; + I hold my breath--you stay your song--it's at the blacksmith's shop. + Before it goes, I'm apt to fall asleep, Big Smith, it's true; + But then I dream of hammering that horse's shoes with you! + + + + + KIT'S CRADLE. + + + They've taken the cosy bed away + That I made myself with the Shetland shawl, + And set me a hamper of scratchy hay, + By that great black stove in the entrance-hall. + + [Illustration] + + I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that! + They may think I will, but they little know + There's a soft persistence about a cat + That even a little kitten can show. + + I wish I knew what to do but pout, + And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea; + My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt + Whether stolen sausage agrees with me. + + On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door, + They've turned me out of the easy-chairs; + I wonder it never struck me before + That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs. + + * * * * * + + I've found a crib where they won't find me, + Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house. + Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree! + A cat can keep as still as a mouse. + + It's rather unwise perhaps to purr, + But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves. + I'm happy in every hair of my fur; + They may keep the hamper and hay themselves. + + [Illustration] + + + + + THE MILL STREAM. + + + One of a hundred little rills-- + Born in the hills, + Nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky, + Sang--"Who so mighty as I? + The farther I flow + The bigger I grow. + I, who was born but a little rill, + Now turn the big wheel of the mill, + Though the surly slave would rather stand still. + Old, and weed-hung, and grim, + I am not afraid of him; + For when I come running and dance on his toes, + With a creak and a groan the monster goes. + And turns faster and faster, + As he learns who is master, + Round and round, + Till the corn is ground, + And the miller smiles as he stands on the bank, + And knows he has me to thank. + Then when he swings the fine sacks of flour, + I feel my power; + But when the children enjoy their food, + I know I'm not only great but good!" + + Furthermore sang the brook-- + "Who loves the beautiful, let him look! + Garlanding me in shady spots + The Forget-me-nots + Are blue as the summer sky: + Who so lovely as I? + My King-cups of gold + Shine from the shade of the alders old, + Stars of the stream!-- + At the water-rat's threshold they gleam. + From below + The Frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow, + And in masses + The Willow-herb, the flags, and the grasses, + Reeds, rushes, and sedges, + Flower and fringe and feather my edges. + To be beautiful is not amiss, + But to be loved is more than this; + And who more sought than I, + By all that run or swim or crawl or fly? + Sober shell-fish and frivolous gnats, + Tawny-eyed water-rats; + The poet with rippling rhymes so fluent, + Boys with boats playing truant, + Cattle wading knee-deep for water; + And the flower-plucking parson's daughter. + Down in my depths dwell creeping things + Who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings, + For--too swift for a school-boy's prize-- + Hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies. + At my side the lover lingers, + And with lack-a-daisical fingers, + The Weeping Willow, woe-begone, + Strives to stay me as I run on." + + There came an hour + When all this beauty and love and power + Did seem + But a small thing to that Mill Stream. + And then his cry + Was, "Why, oh! why + Am I thus surrounded + With checks and limits, and bounded + By bank and border + To keep me in order, + Against my will? + I, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill! + But for these jealous banks, the good + Of my gracious and fertilizing flood + Might spread to the barren highways, + And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways. + Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave + Her feet in my cooling wave; + When the tender and beautiful Beech + Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach? + Could I but rush with unchecked power, + The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour. + And what are the ends + Of life, but to serve one's friends?" + + A day did dawn at last, + When the spirits of the storm and the blast, + Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow, + Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the + valley below. + Dams were broken and weirs came down; + Cottage and mill, country and town, + Shared in the general inundation, + And the following desolation. + Then the Mill Stream rose in its might, + And burst out of bounds to left and to right, + Rushed to the beautiful Beech, + In the meadow far out of reach. + But with such torrents the poor tree died, + Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side. + The cattle swam till they sank, + Trying to find a bank. + Never more shall the broken water-wheel + Grind the corn to make the meal, + To make the children's bread. + The miller was dead. + + When the setting sun + Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done + In its hour + Of unlimited power, + And what was left when that had passed by, + Behold the channel was stony and dry. + In uttermost ruin + The Mill Stream had been its own undoing. + Furthermore it had drowned its friend: + This was the end. + + + + + [Illustration] + + BOY AND SQUIRREL. + + + Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true! + We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you; + We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me + That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me. + + Some human beings might not understand the life we lead; + If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read; + He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise; + If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys. + + Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump, + What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump? + Miss Mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers; + What wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs? + + But you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbing trees, + Of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze, + Of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning hoards, + And all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords. + + It cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me, + Who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free; + An extra hour indoors, I know, is punishment to you; + _You_ make _me_ twirl a tiny cage? It never can be true! + + Yet I've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow. + He thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know; + He says we're safe with Doctor Birch, because he is so blind, + And that Miss Mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind. + + But you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you, + He says my life and liberty are lost unless I do; + That you, who fear the Doctor's cane, will fling big sticks at me, + And tear me from my forest home, and from my favourite tree. + + The more we think of what he says, the more we're sure it's "chaff," + We sit beneath the shadow of our bushy tails and laugh; + Hey, presto! Friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play, + If you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day! + + + + + LITTLE MASTER TO HIS BIG DOG. + + + Oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate, + Your mouth waters so, and your big tail is drumming + Flop! flop! flop! on the carpet, and yet if you'll wait, + When we have quite finished, your dinner is coming. + + Yes! I know what you mean, though you don't speak a word; + You say that you wish that I kindly would let you + Take your meals with the family, which is absurd, + And on a tall chair like a gentleman set you. + + But how little you think, my dear dog, when you talk; + You've no "table manners," you bolt meat, you gobble; + And how could you eat bones with a knife, spoon, and fork? + You would be in a most inconvenient hobble. + + And yet, once on a time it is certainly true, + My own manners wanted no little refining; + For I gobbled, and spilled, and was greedy like you, + And had no idea of good manners when dining. + + So that when I consider the tricks _you_ have caught, + To sit or shake paws with the utmost good breeding, + I must own it quite possible you may be taught + The use of a plate, and a nice style of feeding. + + Therefore try to learn manners, and eat as I do; + Don't glare at the joint, and as soon as you're able + To behave like the rest, you shall feed with us too, + And dine like a gentleman sitting at table. + + + + + [Illustration] + + A SWEET LITTLE DEAR + + + I always _was_ a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a + sensitive nature!--Mamma often says so. + And I'm the sweetest, little dear in my blue ribbons, and quite a + picture in my Pompadour hat!--Mrs. Brown told her so on + Sunday, and that's how I know. + And I'm a sacred responsibility to my parents--(it was what the + clergyman's wife at the seaside said), + And a solemn charge, and a fair white page, and a tender bud, and + a spotless nature of wax to be moulded;--but the rest of + it has gone out of my head. + There was a lot more, and she left two books as well, and I think she + called me a Privilege, and Mamma said "Yes," and began to cry. + And Nurse came in with luncheon on a tray, and put away the books, and + said she was as weak as a kitten, and worried to + fiddlestrings, as any one with common sense could see with + half an eye. + I was hopping round the room, but I stopped and said, "My kitten's not + weak, and I don't believe anybody could see with only half an + eye. Could they, Mamma?" + And Nurse said, "Go and play, my dear, and let your Mamma rest;" + but Mamma said, "No, my love, stay where you are. + Dear Nurse, lift me up, and put a pillow to my back, I know + you mean to be kind; + But she does ask such remarkable questions, and while I've strength + to speak, don't let me check the inquiring mind. + If I should fail to be all a mother ought--oh, how my head throbs when + the dear child jumps!" and then Nurse said, "Ugh! + When you're worried into your grave, she'll have no mother at all, + and'll have to tumble up as other folks do. + There's the poor master at his wits' end--a child's not all a grown + person has to think of--and Miss Jane would do well enough if + she'd less of her own way; + But there's more children spoilt with care than the want of it, and + more mothers murdered than there's folks hanged for, and + that's what I say. + Children learns what you teach 'em, and Miss Jane's old enough to have + learned to wait upon you: + And if her mother thought less of her and she thought more of her + mother, it would be better for her too." + But Nurse is a nasty cross old thing--I hate her; and I hate the + doctor, for he wanted me to be left behind + When Mamma went to the sea for her health; but I begged and begged + till she promised I should go, for Mamma is always kind. + And she bought me a new wooden spade and a basket, and a red and green + ship with three masts, and a one-and-sixpenny telescope to + look at the sea; + But when I got on to the sands, I thought I'd rather be on the + esplanade, for there was a little girl there who was + looking at me, + Dressed in a navy-blue suit and a sailor hat, with fair hair tied + with ribbons; so I told Mamma, + And she got me a suit, ready-made (but she said it was dreadfully + dear), and a hat to match, in the Pebble Brooch Repository + and Universal Bazaar. + It faded in the sun, and came all to pieces in the wash; but I was + tired of it before. + For the esplanade is very dull, and the little girl with fair hair had + got sand-boots and a shrimping-net and was playing on + the shore. + And when my sand-boots came home, and I'd got a better net than hers, + she went donkey-riding, and I knew it was to tease me, + But Nurse was so cross, and said if they sent a man in a herring-boat + to the moon for what I wanted that nothing would please me. + So I said the seaside was a very disagreeable place, and I wished I + hadn't come, + And I told Mamma so, and begged her to try and get well soon, to take + us all home. + But now we've got home, it's very hot, and I'm afraid of the wasps; + and I'm sure it was cooler at the sea, + And the Smiths won't be back for a fortnight, so I can't even have + Matilda to tea. + I don't care much for my new doll--I think I'm too old for dolls now; + I like books better, though I didn't like the last, + And I've read all I have: I always skip the dull parts, and when you + skip a good deal you get through them so fast. + I like toys if they're the best kind, with works; though when I've had + one good game with them, I don't much care to play with + them again. + I feel as if I wanted something new to amuse me, and Mamma says it's + because I've got such an active brain. + Nurse says I don't know what I want, and I know I don't, and that's + just what it is. + It seems so sad a young creature like me should feel unhappy, and not + know what's amiss; + But Nurse never thinks of my feelings, any more than the cruel nurse + in the story about the little girl who was so good, + And if I die early as she did, perhaps then people will be sorry I've + been misunderstood. + I shouldn't like to die early, but I should like people to be sorry + for me, and to praise me when I was dead: + If I could only come to life again when they had missed me very much, + and I'd heard what they said-- + Of course that's impossible, I know, but I wish I knew what to + do instead! + It seems such a pity that a sweet little dear like me should + ever be sad. + And Mamma says she buys everything I want, and has taught me + everything I will learn, and reads every book, and takes + every hint she can pick up, and keeps me with her all day, + and worries about me all night, till she's nearly mad; + And if any kind person can think of any better way to make me happy + we shall both of us be glad. + + + + + BLUE AND RED: + OR, THE DISCONTENTED LOBSTER. + + + Permit me, Reader, to make my bow, + And allow + Me to humbly commend to your tender mercies + The hero of these simple verses. + By domicile, of the British Nation; + By birth and family, a Crustacean. + One's hero should have a name that rare is; + And his was _Homarus_, but--_Vulgaris!_ + A Lobster, who dwelt with several others,-- + His sisters and brothers,-- + In a secluded but happy home, + Under the salt sea's foam. + It lay + At the outermost point of a rocky bay. + A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove, + With a red-roofed fishing village above, + Of irregular cottages, perched up high + Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky. + Shells and pebbles, and wrack below, + And shrimpers shrimping all in a row; + Tawny sails and tarry boats, + Dark brown nets and old cork floats; + Nasty smells at the nicest spots, + And blue-jerseyed sailors and--lobster-pots. + + "It is sweet to be + At home in the deep, deep sea. + It is very pleasant to have the power + To take the air on dry land for an hour; + And when the mid-day midsummer sun + Is toasting the fields as brown as a bun, + And the sands are baking, it's very nice + To feel as cool as a strawberry ice + In one's own particular damp sea-cave, + Dipping one's feelers in each green wave. + It is good, for a very rapacious maw, + When storm-tossed morsels come to the claw; + And 'the better to see with' down below, + To wash one's eyes in the ebb and flow + Of the tides that come and the tides that go." + So sang the Lobsters, thankful for their mercies, + All but the hero of these simple verses. + Now a hero-- + If he's worth the grand old name-- + Though temperature may change from boiling-point to zero + Should keep his temper all the same: + Courageous and content in his estate, + And proof against the spiteful blows of Fate. + It, therefore, troubles me to have to say, + That with this Lobster it was never so; + Whate'er the weather or the sort of day, + No matter if the tide were high or low, + Whatever happened he was never pleased, + And not himself alone, but all his kindred teased. + + "Oh! oh! + What a world of woe + We flounder about in, here below! + Oh dear! oh dear! + It is too, too dull, down here! + I haven't the slightest patience + With any of my relations; + I take no interest whatever + In things they call curious and clever. + And, for love of dear truth I state it, + As for my Home--I hate it! + I'm convinced I was formed for a larger sphere, + And am utterly out of my element here." + Then his brothers and sisters said, + Each solemnly shaking his and her head, + "You put your complaints in most beautiful verse, + And yet we are sure, + That, in spite of all you have to endure, + You might go much farther and fare much worse. + We wish you could live in a higher sphere, + But we think you might live happily here." + "I don't live, I only exist," he said, + "Be pleased to look upon me as dead." + And he swam to his cave, and took to his bed. + He sulked so long that the sisters cried, + "Perhaps he has really and truly died." + But the brothers went to the cave to peep, + For they said, "Perhaps he is only asleep." + They found him, far too busy to talk, + With a very large piece of bad salt pork. + "Dear Brother, what luck you have had to-day! + Can you tell us, pray, + Is there any more pork afloat in the bay?" + But not a word would my hero say, + Except to repeat, with sad persistence, + "This is not life, it's only existence." + + One day there came to the fishing village + An individual bent on pillage; + But a robber whom true scientific feeling + May find guilty of picking, but not of stealing. + He picked the yellow poppies on the cliffs; + He picked the feathery seaweeds in the pools; + He picked the odds and ends from nets and skiffs; + He picked the brains of all the country fools. + He dried the poppies for his own herbarium, + And caught the Lobsters for a seaside town aquarium. + + "Tank No. 20" is deep, + "Tank No. 20" is cool, + For clever contrivances always keep + The water fresh in the pool; + And a very fine plate-glass window is free to the public view, + Through which you can stare at the passers-by and the passers-by + stare at you. + Said my hero, "This is a great variety + From those dull old rocks, where we'd no society." + + For the primal cause of incidents, + One often hunts about, + When it's only a coincidence + That matters so turned out. + And I do not know the reason + Or the reason I would tell-- + But it may have been the season-- + Why my hero chose this moment for casting off his shell. + He had hitherto been dressed[1] + (And so had all the rest) + In purplish navy blue from top to toe! + But now his coat was new, + It was of every shade of blue + Between azure and the deepest indigo; + And his sisters kept telling him, till they were tired, + There never was any one so much admired. + + My hero was happy at last, you will say? + So he was, dear Reader--two nights and a day; + Then, as he and his relatives lay, + Each at the mouth of his mock + Cave in the face of a miniature rock, + They saw, descending the opposite cliff, + By jerks spasmodic of elbows stiff; + Now hurriedly slipping, now seeming calmer, + With the ease and the grace of a hog in armour, + And as solemn as any ancient palmer, + No less than nine + Exceedingly fine + And full-grown lobsters, all in a line. + But the worst of the matter remains to be said. + These nine big lobsters were all of them _red_.[2] + And when they got safe to the floor of the tank,-- + For which they had chiefly good luck to thank,-- + They settled their cumbersome coats of mail, + And every lobster tucked his tail + Neatly under him as he sat + In a circle of nine for a cosy chat. + They seemed to be sitting hand in hand, + As shoulder to shoulder they sat in the sand, + And waved their antennae in calm rotation, + Apparently holding a consultation. + But what were the feelings of Master Blue Shell? + Oh, gentle Reader! how shall I tell? + + [Footnote 1: The colours of lobsters vary a good deal in various + localities. _Homarus vulgaris_, the common lobster, is spotted, and, on + the upper part, more or less of a bluish black. I once saw a lobster + that had just got a new shell, and was of every lovely shade of blue + and violet.] + + [Footnote 2: _Palurinus vulgaris_, the spiny lobster, has no true + claws, but huge hairy antennae. These lobsters are red _during their + lifetime_! I have seen them (in the Crystal Palace Aquarium) seated + exactly as here described, with blue lobsters watching them from + niches of the rocky sides of the tank, where they looked like + blue-jerseyed smugglers at the mouths of caves.] + + From the moment that those Nine he saw, + He never could bear his blue coat more. + "Oh, Brothers in misfortune!" he said, + "Did you ever see any lobsters so grand, + As those who sit down there in the sand? + Why were we born at all, since not one of us all was born red?" + "Dear Brother, indeed, this is quite a whim." + (So his brothers and sisters reasoned with him; + And, being exceedingly cultivated, + The case with remarkable fairness stated.) + "Red is a primary colour, it's true, + But so is Blue; + And we all of us think, dear Brother, + That one is quite as good as the other. + A swaggering soldier's a saucy varlet, + Though he looks uncommonly well in scarlet. + No doubt there's much to be said + For a field of poppies of glowing red; + For fiery rifts in sunset skies, + Roses and blushes and red sunrise; + For a glow on the Alps, and the glow of a forge, + A foxglove bank in a woodland gorge; + Sparks that are struck from red-hot bars, + The sun in a mist, and the red star Mars; + Flowers of countless shades and shapes, + Matadors', judges', and gipsies' capes; + The red-haired king who was killed in the wood, + Robin Redbreast and little Red Riding Hood; + Autumn maple, and winter holly, + Red-letter days of wisdom or folly; + The scarlet ibis, rose cockatoos, + Cardinal's gloves, and Karen's shoes; + Coral and rubies, and huntsmen's pink; + Red, in short, is splendid, we think. + But, then, we don't think there's a pin to choose; + If the Guards are handsome, so are the Blues. + It's a narrow choice between Sappers and Gunners. + You sow blue beans, and rear scarlet runners. + Then think of the blue of a mid-day sky, + Of the sea, and the hills, and a Scotchman's eye; + Of peacock's feathers, forget-me-nots, + Worcester china and "jap" tea-pots. + The blue that the western sky wears casually, + Sapphire, turquoise, and lapis-lazuli. + What can look smarter + Than the broad blue ribbon of Knights of the Garter? + And, if the subject is not too shocking, + An intellectual lady's stocking. + And who that loves hues + Could fail to mention + The wonderful blues + Of the mountain gentian?" + But to all that his brothers and sisters said, + He made no reply but--"I wish I were dead! + I'm all over blue, and I want to be red." + And he moped and pined, and took to his bed. + "That little one looks uncommonly sickly, + Put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly." + The voice that spoke was the voice of Fate, + And the lobster was soon in his former state; + Where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled, + And growled and grumbled: + "Oh dear! what shall I do? + I want to be red, and I'm all over blue." + + I don't think I ever met with a book + The evil genius of which was a cook; + But it thus befell, + In the tale I have the honour to tell; + For as he was fretting and fuming about, + A fisherman fished my hero out; + And in process of time, he heard a voice, + Which made him rejoice. + The voice was the cook's, and what she said + Was, "He'll soon come out a beautiful red." + + He was put in the pot, + The water was very hot; + The less we say about this the better, + It was all fulfilled to the very letter. + He did become a beautiful red, + But then--which he did not expect--he was dead! + + Some gentle readers cannot well endure + To see the ill end of a bad beginning; + And hope against hope for a nicer cure + For naughty heroes than to leave off sinning. + And yet persisting in behaving badly, + Do what one will, does commonly end sadly. + + But things in general are so much mixed, + That every case must stand upon its merits; + And folks' opinions are so little fixed, + And no one knows the least what he inherits-- + I should be glad to shed some parting glory + Upon the hero of this simple story. + + It seems to me a mean end to a ballad, + But the truth is, he was made into salad; + It's not how one's hero should end his days, + In a mayonnaise, + But I'm told that he looked exceedingly nice, + With cream-coloured sauce, and pale-green lettuce and ice. + + I confess that if he'd been my relation, + This would not afford me any consolation; + For I feel (though one likes to speak well of the dead) + That it must be said, + He need not have died so early lamented, + If he'd been content to live contented. + + P.S.--His claws were raised to very high stations; + They keep the earwigs from our carnations. + + + + + THE YELLOW FLY. + + A TALE WITH A STING IN IT. + + [Illustration] + + + Ah! + There you are! + I was certain I heard a strange voice from afar. + Mamma calls me a pup, but I'm wiser than she; + One ear cocked and I hear, half an eye and I see; + Wide-awake though I doze, not a thing escapes me. + + Yes! + Let me guess: + It's the stable-boy's hiss as he wisps down Black Bess. + It sounds like a kettle beginning to sing, + Or a bee on a pane, or a moth on the wing, + Or my master's peg-top, just let loose from the string. + + [Illustration] + + Well! + Now I smell, + I don't know who you are, and I'm puzzled to tell. + You look like a fly dressed in very gay clothes, + But I blush to have troubled my mid-day repose + For a creature not worth half a twitch of my nose. + + [Illustration] + + How now? + Bow, wow, wow! + The insect imagines we're playing, I vow! + If I pat you, I promise you'll find it too hard. + Be off! when a watch-dog like me is on guard, + Big or little, no stranger's allowed in the yard. + + Eh? + "Come away!" + My dear little master, is that what you say? + I am greatly obliged for your kindness and cares, + But I really can manage my own small affairs, + And banish intruders who give themselves airs. + + [Illustration] + + Snap! + Yap! yap! yap! + You defy me?--you pigmy, you insolent scrap! + What!--this to my teeth, that have worried a score + Of the biggest rats bred in the granary floor! + Come on, and be swallowed! I spare you no more! + + Help! + Yelp! yelp! yelp! + Little master, pray save an unfortunate whelp, + Who began the attack, but is now in retreat, + Having shown all his teeth, just escapes on his feet, + And is trusting to you to make safety complete. + + [Illustration] + + Oh! + Let me go! + My poor eye! my poor ear! my poor tail! my poor toe! + Pray excuse my remarks, for I meant no such thing. + Don't trouble to come--oh, the brute's on the wing! + I'd no notion, I'm sure, there were flies that could sting. + + Dear me! + I can't see. + My nose burns, my limbs shake, I'm as ill as can be. + I was never in such an undignified plight. + Mamma told me, and now I suppose she was right; + One should know what one's after before one shows fight. + + + + + [Illustration] + + CANADA HOME. + + + Some Homes are where flowers for ever blow, + The sun shining hotly the whole year round; + But our Home glistens with six months of snow, + Where frost without wind heightens every sound. + And Home is Home wherever it is, + When we're all together and nothing amiss. + + Yet Willy is old enough to recall + A Home forgotten by Eily and me; + He says that we left it five years since last Fall, + And came sailing, sailing, right over the sea. + But Home is Home wherever it is, + When we're all together and nothing amiss. + + Our other Home was for ever green, + A green, green isle in a blue, blue sea, + With sweet flowers such as we never have seen; + And Willy tells all this to Eily and me. + But Home is Home wherever it is, + When we're all together and nothing amiss. + + He says, "What fine fun when we all go back!" + But Canada Home is very good fun + When Pat's little sled flies along the smooth track, + Or spills in the snowdrift that shines in the sun. + For Home is Home wherever it is, + When we're all together and nothing amiss. + + Some day I should dearly love, it is true, + To sail to the old Home over the sea; + But only if Father and Mother went too, + With Willy and Patrick and Eily and me. + For Home is Home wherever it is, + When we're all together and nothing amiss. + + + + + THE POET AND THE BROOK. + + A TALE OF TRANSFORMATIONS. + + + 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 Naiad 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 me + That 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 look + His homeward way he took; + And nevermore that Poet saw that Brook. + + The Brook passed several days in anxious expectation + Of transformation + Into 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 charm + Before 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 tired + Of vainly hoping to become a Naiad; + When on a certain Summer's day, + Dame Nature came that way, + Busy as usual, + With great and small; + Who, at the water-side + Dipping 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 then + See how I'll flit, and flash, and fascinate the race of men!" + + [Footnote 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 advise + To 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 overhead + Shall thus and then + Look down and see the world, and all the ways of men!" + Scarce had the Dame + Departed 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 dead + To 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. + + [Footnote 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 hard + Of 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 shout + The 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 so + The Brook--the Cloud--the Snow, + Got its own way after so many days, + And did put on a human form and face. + But whether + The situation pleased it altogether; + If it is nice + To be a man of snow and ice; + Whether it feels + Painful, when one congeals; + How this man felt + When he began to melt; + Whether he wore his human form and face + With any extraordinary grace; + If many mortals fell + As 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 snow + Grew wise enough to know + That 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. + + + + + [Illustration] + + 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 in _Saul_ (that's the name of the tune, and you play + it on a drum). + + [Illustration] + + 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 head + Was 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! + _Now_ you 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. + + + + + [Illustration] + + "TOUCH HIM IF YOU DARE." + + A TALE OF THE HEDGE. + + + HEDGE-PLANTS. + + "Beware! + We advise you to take care. + He lodges with us, so we know him well, + And can tell + You 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 on + The slightest sign of disturbance and riot, + For my one object is to keep quiet + The 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 please + You'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 weather + You 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 Moke + Would 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." + + + 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." + + + 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 Puss + Who 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 sticks + She 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 miss + Her 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 thought + That 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!" + + + 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. + + + 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. + + + 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! + + + HEDGE-PLANTS. + + Then the Hedge-plants every one + Rustled 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 toes + To 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 shed + Never can be recalled; + And when _he_ too went off, in hysterics, to bed, + DANDELION was bald. + + + + + MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW. + + 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, _our_ birthdays 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 about _his_ wearing _them_ out; + 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; + + [Illustration: Review of the Household Troops + The Cavalry] + + 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 devise + To 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 a _feu 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 ours + Who 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. + + [Illustration: The Spectators.] + + 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 a _feu de joie_ + with 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. + + [Footnote 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. + Boys _look_ braver, 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 you + dreadfully; 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 night + All 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 bray + Of the one bright day + In 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 Majesty THE 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. + + [Footnote 6: Heath bed-straw (_Galium Saxatile_). This white-flowered + bed-straw grows profusely on Hampstead Heath.] + + + + + THE PROMISE. + + + CHILD. + + Five blue eggs hatching, + With bright eyes watching, + Little brown mother, you sit on your nest. + + + BIRD. + + Oh! pass me blindly, + Oh! spare me kindly, + Pity my terror, and leave me to rest. + + + CHORUS OF CHILDREN. + + Hush! hush! hush! + 'Tis a poor mother thrush. + When the blue eggs hatch, the brown birds will sing-- + This is a promise made in the Spring. + + + CHILD. + + Five speckled thrushes + In leafy bushes + Singing sweet songs to the hot Summer sky. + In and out twitting, + Here and there flitting, + Happy is life as the long days go by. + + + CHORUS. + + Hush! hush! hush! + 'Tis the song of the thrush: + Hatched are the blue eggs; the brown birds do sing-- + Keeping the promise made in the Spring. + + Published in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, July 1866, with music by + Alexander Ewing. + + + + + CONVALESCENCE. + + + Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, whilst I try to + remember the word, + What was it?--that the doctor says is now fairly established both + in me and my bird. + C-O-N-_con_, _with a con_, S-T-A-N-_stan_, _with a stan_--No! That's + Constantinople, that is + The capital of the country where rhubarb-and-magnesia comes from, and + I wish they would keep it in that country, and not send + it to this. + C-O-N-_con_--how my head swims! Now I've got it! + C-O-N-V-A-L-E-S-C-E-N-C-E. + _Convalescence!_ And that's what the doctor says is now fairly + established both in my blackbird and me. + He says it means that you are better, and that you'll be well + by and by. + And so the Sea-captain says, and he says we ought to be friends, + because we're both convalescents--at least we're all three + convalescents, my blackbird, and the Captain and I. + He's a sea-captain, not a land-captain, but, all the same, he was + in the war, + And he fought,--for I asked him,--and he's been ill ever since, and + that's why he's not afloat, but ashore; + And why somebody else has got his ship; and she behaved so beautifully + in the battle, and he loves her quite as much as his wife, + and rather better than the rest of his relations, for I asked + him; and now he's afraid she will never belong to him + any more. + I like him. I've seen him three times out walking with two sticks, when + I was driving in the bath-chair, but I never talked to him + till to-day. + He'd only one stick and a telescope, and he let me look through it at + the big ship that was coming round the corner into the bay. + He was very kind, and let me ask questions. I said, "Are you a + sea-captain?" and he said, "Yes." And I said, "How funny it + is about land things and sea things! + There are captains and sea-captains, and weeds and sea-weeds, and + serpents and sea-serpents. Did you ever meet one, and is it + really like the dragons on our very old best blue tea-things?" + But he never did. So I asked him, "Have you got convalescence? Does + your doctor say it is fairly established? Do your eyes ache + if you try to read, and your neck if you draw, and your back + if you sit up, and your head if you talk? + Don't you get tired of doing nothing, and worse tired still if you do + anything; and does everything wobble about when you walk? + Wouldn't you rather go back to bed? I think I would. Don't you wish + you were well? Wouldn't you rather be ill than only better? + I do hate convalescence, don't you?" + Then I stopped asking, and he shut up his telescope, and sat down on + the shingle, and said, "When you come to my age, little chap, + you won't think 'What is it I'd rather have?' but, 'What is + it I've got to do?' + 'What have I got to do or to bear; and how can I do it or bear + it best?' + That's the only safe point to make for, my lad. Make for it, and + leave the rest!" + I said, "But _wouldn't_ you rather be in battles than in bed, with + your head aching as if it would split?" + And he said, "Of course I would; so would most men. But, my little + convalescent, that's not it. + What would _you_ think of a man who was ordered into battle, and went + grumbling and wishing he were in bed?" + "What should I think of the fellow? Why, I should know he was a + coward," I said. + "And if he were confined to bed," said the Sea-captain, "and lay + grumbling and wishing he were in battle, I should give + him no better a name; + For the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, are really + one and the same." + Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, for I'm thinking, and + I very much fear + You've had no good of being well since I was ill; I've led you such a + life; but indeed I am obliged to you, dear! + Is it true that Nurse has got something the matter with her legs, and + that Mary has gone home because she's worn out with nursing, + And won't be fit to work for months? (will _she_ be convalescent, + because it was such hard work waiting on _me_?) and did Cook + say, "So much grumbling and complaining is nigh as big a sin + as swearing and cursing"? + I wish I hadn't been so cross with poor Mary, and I wish I hadn't given + so much trouble about my medicine and my food. + I didn't think about her. I only thought what a bother it was. I wish + I hadn't thought so much about being miserable, that I never + thought of trying to be good. + I believe the Sea-captain is right, and I shall tell him so to-morrow, + when he comes here to tea; + He's going to look at my blackbird's leg, and if it is really set, he + wants me to let it go free. + He says captivity is worse than convalescence, and so I should think + it must be. + Are you tired, little Sister? You feel shaky. Don't beg my pardon; I + beg yours. I've not let you go out of my sight for weeks. + Get your things on, and have a gallop on Jack. + Ride round this way and let me see you. I won't say a word about + wishing I was going too; and if my head gets bad whilst + you're away, I will bear it my very best till you come back. + Tell me one thing before you start. If I learn to be patient, shall I + learn to be brave, do you think? The Sea-captain says so. + He says, "Self-command is the making of a man," and he's a finely-made + man himself, so he ought to know. + Perhaps, if I try hard at Convalescence now, I may become a brave + sea-captain hereafter, and take my beautiful ship into battle, + and bring her out again with flying colours and fame, + If the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, _are_ really + one and the same. + + + + + [Illustration] + + THE ADVENTURES OF AN ELF. + + A PICTURE POEM FOR THE LITTLE ONES. + + _By Fedor Flinzer. Freely translated by J.H. Ewing._ + + + I. + + Dear children, listen whilst I tell + What to a certain Elf befell, + Who left his house and sallied forth + Adventure seeking, south and north, + And west and east, by path and field, + Resolved to conquer or to yield. + A thimble on his back he carried, + With a rose-twig his foes he parried. + + [Illustration] + + + II. + + It was a sunny, bright, spring day, + When to the wood he took his way; + He knew that in a certain spot + A Bumble Bee his nest had got. + The Bee was out, the chance was good, + But just when grabbing all he could, + He heard the Bee behind him humming, + And only wished he'd heard him coming! + + [Illustration] + + + III. + + In terror turned the tiny man, + And now a famous fight began: + The Bee flew round, and buzzed and stung, + The Elf his prickly rose-staff swung. + Now fiercely here, now wildly there, + He hit the Bee or fought the air. + At last one weighty blow descended: + The Bee was dead--the fight was ended. + + [Illustration] + + + IV. + + Exhausted quite, he took a seat. + The honey tasted doubly sweet! + The thimble-full had been upset, + But still there were a few drops yet. + He licked his lips and blessed himself, + That he was such a lucky Elf, + And now might hope to live in clover; + But, ah! his troubles were not over! + + [Illustration] + + + V. + + For at that instant, by his side, + A beast of fearful form he spied: + At first he thought it was a bear, + And headlong fell in dire despair. + He lost one slipper in the moss, + And this was not his only loss. + With paws and snout the beast was nimble, + And very soon cleared out the thimble. + + [Illustration] + + + VI. + + This rifling of his honey-pot + Awoke our Elfin's wrath full hot. + He made a rope of linden bast, + By either end he held it fast, + And creeping up behind the beast, + Intent upon the honey feast, + Before it had the slightest inkling, + The rope was round it in a twinkling. + + [Illustration] + + + VII. + + The mouse shrieked "Murder!" "Fire!" and "Thieves!" + And struggled through the twigs and leaves. + It pulled the reins with all its might, + Our hero only drew them tight. + Upon the mouse's back he leapt, + And like a man his seat he kept. + His steed was terribly affrighted, + But he himself was much delighted. + + [Illustration] + + + VIII. + + "Gee up, my little horse!" he cried, + "I mean to have a glorious ride; + So bear me forth with lightning speed, + A Knight resolved on doughty deed. + The wide world we will gallop round, + And clear the hedges at one bound." + The mouse set off, the hero bantered, + And out into the world they cantered. + + [Illustration] + + + IX. + + At last they rode up to an inn: + "Good Mr. Host, pray who's within?" + "My daughter serves the customers, + Before the fire the Tom-cat purrs." + For further news they did not wait-- + The mouse sprang through the garden-gate-- + They fled without a look behind them. + The question is--Did Thomas find them? + + + + + SONGS FOR MUSIC + + + + + SERENADE. + + + I would not have you wake for me, + Fair lady, though I love you! + And though the night is warm, and all + The stars are out above you; + And though the dew's so light it could + Not hurt your little feet, + And nightingales in yonder wood + Are singing passing sweet. + + Yet may my plaintive strain unite + And mingle with your dreaming, + And through the visions of the night + Just interweave my seeming. + Yet no! sleep on with fancy free + In that untroubled breast; + No song of mine, no thought of me, + Deserves to break your rest! + + + + + MAIDEN WITH THE GIPSY LOOK. + + + Maiden with the gipsy look, + Dusky locks and russet hue, + Open wide thy Sybil's book, + Tell my fate and tell it true; + Shall I live? or shall I die? + Timely wed, or single be? + Maiden with the gipsy eye, + Read my riddle unto me! + + Maiden with the gipsy face, + If thou canst not tell me all, + Tell me thus much, of thy grace, + Should I climb, or fear to fall? + Should I dare, or dread to dare? + Should I speak, or silent be? + Maiden with the gipsy hair, + Read my riddle unto me! + + Maiden with the gipsy hair, + Deep into thy mirror look, + See my love and fortune there, + Clearer than in Sybil's book: + Let me cross thy slender palm, + Let me learn my fate from thee; + Maiden with the gipsy charm, + Read my riddle unto me. + + + + + AH! WOULD I COULD FORGET. + + + The whispering water rocks the reeds, + And, murmuring softly, laps the weeds; + And nurses there the falsest bloom + That ever wrought a lover's doom. + Forget me not! Forget me not! + Ah! would I could forget! + But, crying still, "Forget me not," + Her image haunts me yet. + + We wander'd by the river's brim, + The day grew dusk, the pathway dim; + Her eyes like stars dispell'd the gloom, + Her gleaming fingers pluck'd the bloom. + Forget me not! Forget me not! + Ah! would I could forget! + But, crying still, "Forget me not," + Her image haunts me yet. + + The pale moon lit her paler face, + And coldly watch'd our last embrace, + And chill'd her tresses' sunny hue, + And stole that flower's turquoise blue. + Forget me not! Forget me not! + Ah! would I could forget! + But, crying still, "Forget me not," + Her image haunts me yet. + + The fateful flower droop'd to death, + The fair, false maid forswore her faith; + But I obey a broken vow, + And keep those wither'd blossoms now! + Forget me not! Forget me not! + Ah! would I could forget! + But, crying still, "Forget me not," + Her image haunts me yet. + + Sweet lips that pray'd--"Forget me not!" + Sweet eyes that will not be forgot! + Recall your prayer, forego your power, + Which binds me by the fatal flower. + Forget me not! Forget me not! + Ah! would I could forget! + But, crying still, "Forget me not," + Her image haunts me yet. + + + + + MADRIGAL. + + + Life is full of trouble, + Love is full of care, + Joy is like a bubble + Shining in the air, + For you cannot + Grasp it anywhere. + + Love is not worth getting, + It doth fade so fast. + Life is not worth fretting + Which so soon is past; + And you cannot + Bid them longer last. + + Yet for certain fellows + Life seems true and strong; + And with some, they tell us, + Love will linger long; + Thus they cannot + Understand my song. + + + + + THE ELLEREE.[7] + + A SONG OF SECOND SIGHT. + + + Elleree! O Elleree! + Seeing what none else may see, + Dost thou see the man in grey? + Dost thou hear the night hounds bay? + Elleree! O Elleree! + Seventh son of seventh son, + All thy thread of life is spun, + Thy little race is nearly run, + And death awaits for thee! + + Elleree! O Elleree! + Coronach shall wail for thee; + Get thee shrived and get thee blest, + Get thee ready for thy rest, + Elleree! O Elleree! + That thou owest quickly give, + What thou ownest thou must leave, + And those thou lovest best shall grieve, + But all in vain for thee! + + "Bodach Glas!"[8] the chieftain said, + "All my debts but one are paid, + All I love have long been dead, + All my hopes on Heaven are stay'd, + Death to me can bring no dole;" + Thus the Elleree replied;-- + But with ebbing of the tide + As sinks the setting sun he died;-- + May Christ receive his soul! + + [Footnote 7: "Elleree" is the name of one who has the gift of second + sight.] + + [Footnote 8: "Bodach Glas," the Man in Grey, appears to a Highland + family with the gift of second sight, presaging death.] + + + + + OTHER STARS. + + + The night is dark, and yet it is not quite: + Those stars are hid that other orbs may shine; + Twin stars, whose rays illuminate the night, + And cheer her gloom, but only deepen mine; + For these fair stars are not what they do seem, + But vanish'd eyes remember'd in a dream. + + The night is dark, and yet it brings no rest; + Those eager eyes gaze on and banish sleep; + Though flaming Mars has lower'd his crimson crest, + And weary Venus pales into the deep, + These two with tender shining mock my woe + From out the distant heaven of long ago. + + The night is dark, and yet how bright they gleam! + Oh! empty vision of a vanish'd light! + Sweet eyes! must you for ever be a dream + Deep in my heart, and distant from my sight? + For could you shine as once you shone before, + The stars might hide their rays for evermore! + + + + + FADED FLOWERS. + + + My love she sent a flower to me + Of tender hue and fragrance rare, + And with it came across the sea + A letter kind as she was fair; + But when her letter met mine eyes, + The flower, the little flower, was dead: + And ere I touched the tender prize + The hues were dim, the fragrance fled. + + I sent my love a letter too, + In happy hope no more to roam; + I bade her bless the vessel true + Whose gallant sails should waft me home. + But ere my letter reach'd her hand, + My love, my little love, was dead, + And when the vessel touch'd the land, + Fair hope for evermore had fled. + + + + + SPEED WELL. + + + What time I left my native land, + And bade farewell to my true love, + She laid a flower in my hand + As azure as the sky above. + "Speed thee well! Speed well!" + She softly whispered, "Speed well! + This flower blue + Be token true + Of my true heart's true love for you!" + + Its tender hue is bright and pure, + As heav'n through summer clouds doth show, + A pledge though clouds thy way obscure, + It shall not be for ever so. + "Speed thee well! Speed well!" + She softly whisper'd, "Speed well! + This flower blue + Be token true + Of my true heart's true love for you!" + + And as I toil through help and harm, + And whilst on alien shores I dwell, + I wear this flower as a charm, + My heart repeats that tender spell: + "Speed thee well! Speed well!" + It softly whispers, "Speed well! + This flower blue + Be token true + Of my true heart's true love for you!" + + + + + HOW MANY YEARS AGO? + + + How many years ago, love, + Since you came courting me? + Through oak-tree wood and o'er the lea, + With rosy cheeks and waistcoat gay, + And mostly not a word to say,-- + How many years ago, love, + How many years ago? + + How many years ago, love, + Since you to Father spoke? + Between your lips a sprig of oak: + You were not one with much to say, + But Mother spoke for you that day,-- + How many years ago, love, + How many years ago? + + So many years ago, love, + That soon our time must come + To leave our girl without a home;-- + She's like her mother, love, you've said: + --At her age I had long been wed,-- + How many years ago, love, + How many years ago? + + For love of long-ago, love, + If John has aught to say, + When he comes up to us to-day, + (A likely lad, though short of tongue,) + Remember, husband, we were young,-- + How many years ago, love, + How many years ago? + + + + + "WITH A DIFFERENCE." + + + I'm weary waiting here, + The chill east wind is sighing, + The autumn tints are sere, + The summer flowers are dying. + The river's sullen way + Winds on through vacant meadows, + The dying light of day + Strives vainly with the shadows. + + A footstep stirs the leaves! + The faded fields seem brighter, + The sunset gilds the sheaves, + The low'ring clouds look lighter. + The river sparkles by, + Not all the flowers are falling, + There's azure in the sky, + And thou, my love, art calling. + + + + + THE LILY OF THE LAKE. + + + Over wastes of blasted heather, + Where the pine-trees stand together, + Evermore my footsteps wander, + Evermore the shadows yonder + Deepen into gloom. + Where there lies a silent lake, + No song-bird there its thirst may slake, + No sunshine now to whiteness wake + The water-lily's bloom. + + Some sweet spring-time long departed, + I and she, the simple-hearted, + Bride and bridegroom, maid and lover, + Did that gloomy lake discover, + Did those lilies see. + There we wandered side by side. + There it was they said she died. + But ah! in this I know they lied! + She will return to me! + + Never, never since that hour + Has the lake brought forth a flower. + Ever harshly do the sedges + Some sad secret from its edges + Whisper to the shore. + Some sad secret I forget. + The lily though will blossom yet: + And when it blooms I shall have met + My love for evermore. + + + + + FROM FLEETING PLEASURES. + + A REQUIEM FOR ONE ALIVE. + + + From fleeting pleasures and abiding cares, + From sin's seductions and from Satan's snares, + From woes and wrath to penitence and prayers, + Veni in pace! + + Sweet absolution thy sad spirit heal; + To godly cares that end in endless weal, + To joys man cannot think or speak or feel, + Vade in pace! + + From this world's ways and being led by them, + From floods of evil thy youth could not stem, + From tents of Kedar to Jerusalem, + Veni in pace! + + Blest be thy worldly loss to thy soul's gain, + Blest be the blow that freed thee from thy chain, + Blest be the tears that wash thy spirit's stain, + Vade in pace! + + Oh, dead, and yet alive! Oh, lost and found! + Salvation's walls now compass thee around, + Thy weary feet are set on holy ground. + Veni in pace! + + Death gently garner thee with all the blest, + In heavenly habitations be thou guest; + To light perpetual and eternal rest, + Vade in pace! + + + + + THE RUNAWAY'S RETURN. + + + It was on such a night as this, + Some long unreal years ago, + When all within were wrapp'd in sleep, + And all without was wrapp'd in snow, + The full moon rising in the east, + The old church standing like a ghost, + That, shivering in the wintry mist, + And breathless with the silent frost, + A little lad, I ran to seek my fortune on the main; + I marvel now with how much hope and with how little pain! + + It is of such a night as this, + In all the lands where I have been, + That memory too faithfully + Has painted the familiar scene. + By all the shores, on every sea, + In luck or loss, by night or day, + My highest hope has been to see + That home from which I ran away. + For this I toil'd, to this I look'd through many a weary year, + I marvel now with how much hope, and with how little fear. + + On such a night at last I came, + But they were dead I loved of yore. + Ah, Mother, then my heart felt all + The pain it should have felt before! + I came away, though loth to come, + I clung, and yet why should I cling? + When all have gone who made it home, + It is the shadow, not the thing. + A homeless man, once more I seek my fortune on the main: + I marvel with how little hope, and with what bitter pain. + + + + + FANCY FREE. + + A GIRL'S SONG. + + + With bark and bound and frolic round + My dog and I together run; + While by our side a brook doth glide, + And laugh and sparkle in the sun. + We ask no more of fortune's store + Than thus at our sweet wills to roam: + And drink heart's ease from every breeze + That blows about the hills of home. + As, fancy free, + With game and glee, + We happy three + Dance down the glen. + + And yet they say that some fine day + This vagrant stream may serve a mill; + My doggy guard a master's yard; + My free heart choose another's will. + How this may fare we little care, + My dog and I, as still we run! + Whilst by our side the brook doth glide, + And laugh and sparkle in the sun. + For, fancy free, + With game and glee, + We happy three + Dance down the glen. + + + + + MY LOVE'S GIFT. + + + You ask me what--since we must part-- + You shall bring home to me; + Bring back a pure and faithful heart, + As true as mine to thee. + I ask not wealth nor fame, + I only ask for thee, + Thyself--and that dear self the same-- + My love, bring back to me! + + You talk of gems from foreign lands, + Of treasure, spoil, and prize. + Ah, love! I shall not search your hands, + But look into your eyes. + I ask not wealth nor fame, + I only ask for thee, + Thyself--and that dear self the same-- + My love, bring back to me! + + You speak of glory and renown, + With me to share your pride, + Unbroken faith is all the crown + I ask for as your bride. + I ask not wealth nor fame, + I only ask for thee, + Thyself--and that dear self the same-- + My love, bring back to me! + + You bid me with hope's eager gaze + Behold fair fortune come. + I only dream I see your face + Beside the hearth at home. + I ask not wealth nor fame, + I do but ask for thee! + Thyself--and that dear self the same-- + May God restore to me! + + + + + ANEMONES. + + + If I should wish hereafter that your heart + Should beat with one fair memory of me, + May Time's hard hand our footsteps guide apart, + But lead yours back one spring-time to the Lea. + Nodding Anemones, + Wind-flowers pale, + Bloom with the budding trees, + Dancing to every breeze, + Mock hopes more fair than these, + Love's vows more frail. + + For then the grass we loved grows green again, + And April showers make April woods more fair; + But no sun dries the sad salt tears of pain, + Or brings back summer lights on faded hair, + Nodding Anemones, + Wind-flowers pale, + Bloom with the budding trees, + Dancing to every breeze, + Mock hopes more frail than these, + Love's vows more frail. + + + + + AUTUMN LEAVES. + + + The Spring's bright tints no more are seen, + And Summer's ample robe of green + Is russet-gold and brown; + When flowers fall to every breeze + And, shed reluctant from the trees, + The leaves drop down. + + A sadness steals about the heart, + --And is it thus from youth we part, + And life's redundant prime? + Must friends like flowers fade away, + And life like Nature know decay, + And bow to time? + + And yet such sadness meets rebuke, + From every copse in every nook + Where Autumn's colours glow; + How bright the sky! How full the sheaves! + What mellow glories gild the leaves + Before they go. + + Then let us sing the jocund praise, + In this bright air, of these bright days, + When years our friendships crown; + The love that's loveliest when 'tis old-- + When tender tints have turned to gold + And leaves drop down. + + + + + HYMNS. + + + + + CONFIRMATION. + + + Long, long ago, with vows too much forgotten, + The Cross of Christ was seal'd on every brow, + Ah! slow of heart, that shun the Christian conflict; + Rise up at last! The accepted time is now. + Soldiers of Jesus! Blest who endure; + Stand in the battle; the victory is sure. + + Hark! hark! the Saviour's voice to each is calling-- + "I bore the Cross of Death in pain for thee; + On thee the Cross of daily life is falling: + Children! take up the Cross and follow Me." + Soldiers of Jesus! &c. + + Strive as God's saints have striven in all ages; + Press those slow steps where firmer feet have trod: + For us their lives adorn the sacred pages, + For them a crown of glory is with God. + Soldiers of Jesus! &c. + + Peace! peace! sweet voices bring an ancient story, + (Such songs angelic melodies employ,) + "Hard is the strife, but unconceived the glory: + Short is the pain, eternal is the joy." + Soldiers of Jesus! &c. + + On! Christian souls, all base temptations spurning, + Drown coward thoughts in Faith's triumphant hymn; + Since Jesus suffer'd, our salvation earning, + Shall we not toil that we may rest with Him? + Soldiers of Jesus! &c. Amen. + + + + + WHITSUNTIDE. + + + Come down! come down! O Holy Ghost! + As once of old Thou didst come down + In fiery tongues at Pentecost, + The Apostolic heads to crown. + + Come down! though now no flame divine, + Nor heaven-sent Dove, our sight amaze; + Our Church still shows the outward sign, + Thou truly givest inward grace. + + Come down! come down! on infancy, + The babes whom Jesus deign'd to love; + God give us grace by faith to see, + Above the Font, the mystic Dove. + + Come down! come down! on kneeling bands + Of those who fain would strength receive; + And in the laying on of hands + Bless us beyond what we believe. + + Come down! not only on the saint, + Oh! struggle with the hard of heart, + With wilful sin and inborn taint, + Till lust, and wrath, and pride depart. + + Come down! come down! sweet Comforter! + It was the promise of the Lord. + Come down! although we grieve Thee sore, + Not for our merits--but His Word. + + Come down! come down! not what we would, + But what we need, O bring with Thee. + Turn life's sore riddle to our good; + A little while and we shall see. Amen. + + + + + CHRISTMAS WISHES. + + A CAROL. + + + Oh, happy Christmas, full of blessings, come! + Now bid our discords cease; + Here give the weary ease; + Let the long-parted meet again in peace; + Bring back the far-away; + Grant us a holiday; + And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray-- + Let love restore the fallen to his Home; + Whilst up and down the snowy streets the Christmas minstrels sing; + And through the frost from countless towers the bells of + Christmas ring. + + Ah, Christ! and yet a happier day shall come! + Then bid our discords cease; + There give the weary ease; + Let the long-parted meet again in peace; + Bring back the far-away; + Grant us a holiday; + And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray-- + Let love restore the fallen to his Home; + Whilst up and down the golden streets the blessed angels sing, + And evermore the heavenly chimes in heavenly cadence ring. + + + + + TEACH ME. + + _Translated from the Danish of Oehlenschlaeger._ + + + Teach me, O wood, to fade away, + As autumn's yellow leaves decay + A better spring impends,-- + Then green and glorious shall my tree + Take deep root in eternity,-- + Whose summer never ends! + + Teach me, O bird of passage, this, + To seek, in faith a better bliss + On other unknown shores! + When all is winter here and ice, + There ever-smiling Paradise + Unfolds its happy doors. + + Teach me, thou summer butterfly, + To break the bonds which on me lie. + With fetters all too firm. + Ah, soon on golden purple wing + The liberated soul shall spring, + Which now creeps as a worm! + + Teach me, O Lord, to yonder skies + To lift in hope these weary eyes + With earthly sorrows worn. + Good Friday was a bitter day, + But bright the sun's eternal ray + Which broke on Easter morn. + + +THE END. + + +_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay._ + + +_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized, +complete, and uniform Edition published._ + +_It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol., +issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will +appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series +will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was +specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing._ + +_The following is a list of the books included in the Series_-- + + + 1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES. + + 2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. + + 3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES. + + 4. A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING. + + 5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES. + + 6. SIX TO SIXTEEN. + + 7. LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES. + + 8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL. + + 9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS. + + 10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING + PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATE + THEATRICALS, &c. + + 11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES. + + 12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES + OF BEASTS AND MEN. + + 13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I. + + 14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II. + + 15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE + STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. + + 16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES + OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS. + + 17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the + Bloody Hand--Wonder Stories--Tales of the + Khoja, and other translations. + + 18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER + BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's + Letters. + + +S.P.C.K., NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W.C. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Verses for Children, by Juliana Horatia Ewing + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES FOR CHILDREN *** + +***** This file should be named 16686.txt or 16686.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/6/8/16686/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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