Part 2
Well, I must say, I quite renewed my youth to-day! How lucky that I chanced to go, Just when I did, beside that row Of hollyhocks beyond the gate! Lucky for _her_ at any rate; For suddenly I heard Miss Goose Struggling and crying, “Let me loose!” And, from behind the hollyhocks, Who should jump out but Mr. Fox! (The very same one, by the way, I _almost_ caught the other day.) Soon as I nabbed him, in his fright, He dropped Miss Goose and took to flight. Then after him like mad I flew, But--what could poor old Rover do? I am not what I used to be, So I let go, and ran to see At once how poor Miss Goose had fared, And found her much less hurt than scared From having come so near the noose:-- A sadder and a wiser goose.
V.
NOTE FROM MR. RUFUS FOX TO HIS COUSIN REYNARD.
DEAR COUSIN:
This is just to say Why dinner was postponed to-day,-- The goose had failed us, that was all; Excuse, I beg, this hurried scrawl. Will write to-morrow to explain-- Just now my paw is in such pain That when I try to write it shocks My nerves.
Yours truly, RUFUS FOX.
P. S.--I’d thank you if you sent A bottle of that liniment You spoke of several days ago-- The kind for “dog-bites,” don’t you know.
Once a naughty fay Chanced to sprain her wing; “At her tricks,” they say-- “Naughty little thing!”
Said the little fay As she lay in pain, “No more tricks I’ll play When I’m well again.”
Time heals everything. Can this be our fay, She who sprained her wing Just the other day?
Can she be this fair Thrifty little thing, Sewing up a tear In a beetle’s wing?
Yes,--alas! but oh, _Not_ a thrifty elf; Of course she has to sew What she tore herself!
The Princess’ hair hath golden sheen, And her cheek is lily-pale; But none may look in her eyes, I ween And live to tell the tale.
From out the south, and eke the north, And from the east and west, Full many a gallant knight rides forth Upon the fatal quest.
For a cruel spell on the Princess lies No mortal can undo Till one shall look into her eyes And tell their color true.
And some of them swear her eyes are green, And some that they are black, And many a knight rides forth, I ween, But never a one rides back.
For a cruel spell on the Princess lies, And whoso will may try His fate, and look into her eyes; But whoso quails must die.
* * * * *
The miller’s son is a dusty youth, And dusty curls hath he. Quoth he, “I’ll go myself, forsooth, And set this Princess free.”
The miller’s son he hath no spear Nor sword nor coat-of-mail, But an honest heart that knows not fear-- Heaven grant he may not fail!
The miller’s son at the portal knocks, At the Princess’ feet he bends, And he tosses aside his floury locks And a floury cloud ascends.
The Princess’ face in a mist of white Is veiled as with a veil, Her eyes are dimmed of their deadly light, And the miller doth not quail.
The Princess’ hair hath golden sheen, Her cheek is red, red rose, And her eyes?
* * * * *
Go ask the Prince-- I mean The miller’s son--he knows.
Nell’s Fairy-tale.
The fairy tale was ended, the wicked Queen had fled; The Prince had saved the Princess and cut off the monster’s head; The people all were joyful, and the Princess and the Prince Were married and--so ran the tale--“lived happy ever since.” Nell closed the book of fairy tales and mused: “I wonder why There are no fairies nowadays? I only wish that I Could be a fairy princess like the Princess Goldenhair.” Here Nell dropped off to sleep, and then she started in her chair, When, of its own accord, the book popped open, and behold! Out crept a wee elf-princess all arrayed in cloth of gold; She sighed a little tired sigh and then Nell heard her say, In a tiny tired little voice, that sounded far away: “Oh, dear! how very nice it is for once to get outside. You’ve no idea how flat it is, my dear, until you’ve tried, To be shut up in a story-book with Dragons, Queens, and Kings, And always have to do and say the same old, senseless things; You think it would be very fine, but really it’s no joke! _I’d_ rather be a girl, like _you_!--” Then little Nell awoke, “Poor Princess Goldenhair,” said she,--“unhappy little elf, I’m rather glad, upon the whole, that I am just myself!”
The Unfortunate Giraffe.
There was once a Giraffe who said, “What Do I want with my tea strong or hot? For my throat’s such a length, The tea loses its strength, And is cold ere it reaches the spot.”
Stockings or Scales.
If I were asked of all things what I most would like to be, I’d choose to be a mermaid and live below the sea. How nice, instead of walking, to swim around like little whales, And to wear, instead of stockings, many shiny pairs of scales, Which don’t need changing every time that nurse says they are wet. And then to have no shoes that always come untied!--and yet--
And yet, although it must be nice to swim around in scales, To attend a school of porpoises and play at tag with whales, To be on friendly speaking terms with jellyfish and eels, And never to be sent to bed or told I’m late for meals; Still, when I think of Christmas Eve my resolution fails, _How could I hang my stockings up if I had only scales?_
They were three robbers; aye, And they robbed a red, red rose; And they came from out the sky, And they went where no man knows.
One came when the day was young, And rent the curtain gray Of mist that round her hung, And he stole her pearls away;
One came when the day was old, And a sable coat he wore, And a belt of dusty gold, And he robbed her treasure-store.
One came when the day was dead, And no man saw him pass; And he caught her petals red And threw them upon the grass.
Three robbers bold were they, And they robbed a red, red rose; And they came and went away, And whither-- no man knows.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA: MISS BIRD, and MRS. CHIPMUNK.
_Scene_: The woods. _Time_: Last November.
MISS BIRD.--Why, Mrs. Chipmunk! how do you do?
MRS. CHIPMUNK.-- I’m quite well, thanks, Miss Bird; and you?
MISS B.--I’m sorry to say my health is poor, So my doctor has ordered a southern tour. _Couldn’t_ you manage to come along? It would do you good--
MRS. C.-- Yes, I’m far from strong, And it’s just what I’d most like to do If I’d only a pair of wings--
MISS B.-- Pooh! Pooh! There are trains for people who cannot fly.
MRS. C.--Yes, but the fares are so dreadfully high! So really I mustn’t think of that--
MISS B.--If only you’d wings like your cousin Bat.
MRS. C.--_If only!_ but then I haven’t, you see. Besides, I’ve rented a hole in a tree, On the first-floor branch just four trees west Of the oak where you built your last year’s nest.
MISS B.--A charming neighborhood! just the thing For a winter home--
MRS. C.-- Well, I hope, next spring, When you’re here again, you will try to call.
MISS B.--You are very kind--
MRS. C.-- Oh, not at all!
MISS B.--Good-by, Mrs. Chipmunk.
MRS. C.-- Oh, _must_ you fly? Then, a pleasant journey!
MISS B.-- Good-by!
MRS. C.-- _Good_-by!
THE PROFESSOR. Tell me, little violet white, If you will be so polite, Tell me how it came that you Lost your pretty purple hue? Were you blanched with sudden fears? Were you bleached with fairies’ tears? Or was Dame Nature out of blue, Violet, when she came to you?
THE VIOLET. Tell me, silly mortal, first, Ere I satisfy your thirst For the truth concerning me-- Why you are not like a tree? Tell me why you move around, Trying different kinds of ground, With your funny legs and boots In the place of proper roots?
Tell me, mortal, why your head, Where green branches ought to spread, Is as shiny smooth as glass, With just a fringe of frosty grass? Tell me--Why, he’s gone away! Wonder why he wouldn’t stay? Can he be--well, I declare!-- Sensitive about his hair?
“Oh, dear! is summer over?” I heard a rosebud moan, When first her eyes she opened, And found she was alone.
“Oh, why did summer leave me, Little me, belated? Where are the other roses? I think they _might_ have waited!”
Soon the little rosebud Saw to her surprise Other roses opening, So she dried her eyes.
Then I heard her laughing Gaily in the sun, “I thought the summer over; Why, it’s only just begun!”
Under a toadstool Crept a wee Elf, Out of the rain To shelter himself.
Under the toadstool, Sound asleep, Sat a big Dormouse All in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf, Frightened, and yet Fearing to fly away Lest he get wet.
To the next shelter-- Maybe a mile! Sudden the wee Elf Smiled a wee smile,
Tugged till the toadstool Toppled in two. Holding it over him Gaily he flew.
Soon he was safe home Dry as could be. Soon woke the Dormouse-- “Good gracious me!
Where is my toadstool?” Loud he lamented. --And that’s how umbrellas, First were invented.
A crocodile once dropped a line To a Fox to invite him to dine; But the Fox wrote to say _He was dining, that day,_ _With a Bird friend_, and begged to decline.
She sent off at once to a Goat. “Pray don’t disappoint me,” she wrote; But he answered too late, _He’d forgotten the date,_ _Having thoughtlessly eaten her note_.
The Crocodile thought him ill-bred, And invited two Rabbits instead; But the Rabbits replied, _They were hopelessly tied_ _By a previous engagement_, and fled.
Then she wrote in despair to some Eels, And begged them to “drop in” to meals; But the Eels left their cards _With their coldest regards_, And took to what went for their heels.
Cried the Crocodile then, in disgust, “My motives they seem to mistrust. Their suspicions are base, Since they don’t know their place,-- I suppose if I _must_ starve, I _must_!”
THE PROFESSOR.
Pray tell me, sweet Forget-me-not, Oh, kindly tell me where you got Your curious name? I’m most desirous to be told The legend or romance of old From whence it came.
FORGET-ME-NOT.
Indeed, good sir, it seems to me, If you have books on Botany Upon your shelf, You’d better far consult those books-- He learns a thing the best who looks It up himself.
THE PROFESSOR.
I’ve works on Botany a few, But though I’ve searched them through and through, Never a word Can I discover in the same About your interesting name.
FORGET-ME-NOT.
Why, how absurd!
THE PROFESSOR.
Quite so! And now what can I do? I shall be most obliged if you Will make it plain.
FORGET-ME-NOT.
Another time. One moment more, And you’ll be drenched! It’s going to pour: I felt just now no less than four Big drops of rain.
[_Exit_ PROFESSOR.]
FORGET-ME-NOT.
(_Aside_) Indeed, I’d tell him if I knew; But it would never, never do If I explained That, long ago, I quite forgot Why I was called Forget-me-not (It’s well it rained)!
The Birds’ Farewell.
MY DEAR LITTLE MAID:
We must bid you good-by, For November is here, and it’s time we should fly To the South, where we have an engagement to sing, But, remember this, dear, we’ll return in the spring. And if, while abroad, we hear anything new, We’ll learn it, and sing it next summer to you In the same little tree on the lawn, if you’ll let us. So, good-by, little maiden! Please do not forget us. We’re sorry to leave you--too sorry for words, And we’ll always remain, Yours sincerely, “THE BIRDS.” P. S.--Please don’t mind if this letter sounds flat, And present our respectful regards to your cat.
[Sidenote: The Poet offereth to deliver a Fly from the Spider’s web.]
“Really, Fly, you ought to know Better, surely, than to go Into Mr. Spider’s net. Luckily _I’m_ here to set You free”; but ere I could have stirred, Mr. Spider’s voice I heard Crying in an angry tone: “Better let my lunch alone!
[Sidenote: Even Spiders’ rights must be respected.]
“One would think, for all _you_ care, Spiders could subsist on air. Listen to this tale and see If you don’t agree with me!”
* * * * *
I sat down without a word, Following is the tale I heard:
THE TALE.
[Sidenote: The Spider spinneth a yarn to instruct the Poet and divert him that he may forget about the Fly.]
A Prince who sought His lost Bride, caught In the toils of a witch,--woe betide her!-- When riding one night Through a forest, caught sight Of a Spi in the web of a Flyder.
(As perhaps you surmise, I have tried to disguise, The names, with the best of intention: For I make it my plan, Whenever I can, To avoid any personal mention.)
Said the Prince to the Spi, “Supposing that I Should deliver you out of this hatefulness, Will you pay me in kind, And help me to find My Bride?--Can I count on your gratefulness?”
Said the Spi, “Without doubt, If you _will_ let me out From the web of the terrible Flyder, By all means--oh, yes! You shall find your Princess, For I will myself be your guider!”
[Sidenote: The Flyder does not see it in the same light as the Prince.]
One jerk! He was free, And his buzzing and glee Drove the Prince to the verge of distraction. The Flyder, meanwhile, Wore a cynical smile, And a look of--well--_not_ satisfaction.
The Prince paid no heed, But mounted his steed, And started the Princess to find. The Spi led the way, But little dreamed they _That the Flyder had mounted behind_!
He found her, it’s true, And the wicked witch, too, Who fled when he up and defied her; But while being wed, Hanging over her head, The Princess caught sight of the Flyder!
[Sidenote: Showing the terrible consequences of meddling with the domestic affairs of a Flyder.]
At the terrible sight, Her reason took flight, Till she was completely bereft of it, When she drained a tureen Full of cold Paris green, And the Prince swallowed all that was left of it!
[Sidenote: Setting forth how a Poet and a Fly were both taken in by a Spider’s yarn, and how that a diverting tale may speed a good dinner.]
Listening to the Spider, I Quite forgot poor Mr. Fly And his pitiable plight Till the tale was finished quite, Then, alas! too late I knew, _Mr. Fly was finished, too_.
Highly Connected.
“I’m a very little cat, I know, and thin at that; But cast your eye upon this poster fine-- The big chap on that ball, He’s just a King, that’s all-- And, by the way, a relative of mine!”
There was a little miser elf who had a precious store Of silver motes from moonbeams and priceless grains of ore, And shiny dust of marigold, and glittering jeweled eyes Of burnished stars and spangles from the wings of butterflies, And bales of wondrous gossamer and green-gold beetles’ wings, And many other marvelous and rare and costly things. But, alas! with all his golden dust and jewels rich and rare, This little elf was never free from misery and care.
The wealth that might have conjured up all good things at his beck Was just a golden millstone that hung around his neck. He never had one moment’s peace, his treasure out of sight, Though he buried it for safety in a different place each night; Each night the thought of robbers made him close his eyes in vain, And just as soon as it was light he’d dig it up again.
One night (it was a woodland place in which he chanced to bide)-- As usual he sought a place in which his gold to hide. He had not long been seeking before he chanced to see A thing he’d never seen before--a curious kind of tree:
The stem was smooth and straight, and on the top there grew a sort Of dome or hat--let’s call it an umbrella-tree, for short. “The very place!” exclaimed the elf. “So strange a tree, ’tis clear, Is just the thing to mark the spot. I’ll hide my treasure here.”
No sooner said than done; and then, his treasure buried deep, Upon a bed of moss near by he laid him down to sleep. For once the elf enjoyed a night from dreams and terrors free; And, waking, sought with bounding step his tall umbrella-tree.
“Ah, here it is!” he cried; and sure enough, before his sight It stood. “But what is this?” Another like it to the right! “Which can it be?” He rubbed his chin. “What underneath the sun Has happened? Why, I could have sworn last night there was but one. Which can it be that marks the spot in which my treasure lies?” And looking round, another tree of the same shape and size, Another and another still met his astonished eyes.
Then the dreadful truth burst on him, and he stood transfixed with fright In a forest of umbrella-trees all grown up in a night.
* * * * *
When walking in the autumn woods, dear reader, and you pass A toadstool lying on its side among the leaves and grass, Think of the little miser elf, for ’tis a sign that he Still digs for his lost treasure underneath the umbrella-tree.
The Point of View.
On the top of the world, where there’s lots of snow, As all the geographies say, A small Eskimo, just to make the time go, Was building a Snow Man one day.
Now it happened by chance that two Polar Bears Came strolling along that way: “Perhaps it is none of our affairs, But what are you making?” said they.
“A Snow Man, of course,” said the Eskimo; The Bears gave a comical stare; Said they, “If you _must_ make a person of snow, Why on earth don’t you make a Snow Bear?”
He sat himself down for a moment to think Of some suitable sort of reply, When a Penguin, two Foxes, a Seal, and a Mink, And a Walrus came wandering by.
They stopped just a casual look to take, A casual word to say, And each had a trifling suggestion to make In a patronizing way.
The Walrus said, “Really, it isn’t half bad, And shows lots of promise, you know; Yet I think, for my part, though perhaps it’s a fad, A Snow Walrus were more apropos.”
The Foxes, the Seal, and the Mink were afraid They knew little of art, so they said, But they thought he would show better taste if he made A Fox, Seal, or Mink in its stead.
The Penguin said nothing, nor listened, but when They’d finished, he ventured to say, “It doesn’t look _much_ like a Penguin, but then Perhaps when completed, it may.”
They turned then to go; but the Eskimo-- Alas! he was seen no more; The heat of his anger and shame and chagrin Had melted the snow where the crust was thin, And he’d sunk, so to speak, through the floor.
Heroes.
I built a castle on the shore, And left to guard it three or four Lead soldiers of the bravest sort, And ordered them to hold the fort Till I should come once more.
But when I came again next day, I found the sea had washed away My castle built upon the sand. Alas! the gallant little band Of soldiers, where were they?
Buried in sand, erect, and square, They held the fort with martial air; And when I’d said a little speech, I dug them out and made them each A general then and there.
Very dark the autumn sky, Dark the clouds that hurried by; Very rough the autumn breeze Shouting rudely to the trees.
Listening, frightened, pale, and cold, Through the withered leaves and mold Peer’d a violet all in dread-- “Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.
Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing! She may call in vain for spring.” And the grasses whispered low, “We must never let her know.”
“What’s this whispering?” roared the breeze, “Hush! a violet!” sobbed the trees, “Thinks it’s spring--poor child, we fear She will die if she should hear!”
Softly stole the wind away, Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!” To a late thrush on the wing, “Stay with her one day and sing!”
Sang the thrush so sweet and clear That the sun came out to hear, And, in answer to her song, Beamed on violet all day long.
And the last leaves here and there Fluttered with a spring-like air, Then the violet raised her head-- “Spring has come at last!” she said.
Happy dreams had violet All that night--but happier yet, When the dawn came dark with snow, Violet never woke to know.
SCENE: _The vicinity of the Cuckoo Clock. Cuckoo discovered in the act of telling three o’clock. Parrot watching from a perch near by._
CUCKOO: Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!