Chapter 31

And, last of all, if cut with care, Her horns make combs to comb our hair; And so we learn--thanks to our teachers-- That cows are very useful creatures.

[Page 171--Moo Moo Land]

The Cowboy's Song

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, Home from the wood They sent me to fetch you As fast as I could. The sun has gone down-- It is time to go home, Mooly cow, mooly cow, Why don't you come? Your udders are full, And the milkmaid is there, And the children are all waiting, Their suppers to share. I have let the long bars down-- Why don't you pass thro'" The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, Have you not been Regaling all day Where the pastures are green? No doubt it was pleasant, Dear Mooly, to see The clear running brook And the wide-spreading tree, The clover to crop, And the streamlet to wade, To drink the cool water And lie in the shade; But now it is night-- They are waiting for you." The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, Where do you go When all the green pastures Are covered in with snow? You can go to the barn, And we feed you with hay, And the maid goes to milk You there, every day; She pats you, she loves you, She strokes your sleek hide, She speaks to you kindly, And sits by your side: Then come along home, Pretty Mooly cow, do." The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

"Mooly cow, mooly cow, Whisking your tail The milkmaid is waiting, I say, with her pail; She tucks up her petticoats, Tidy and neat, And places the three-legged Stool for her seat. What can you be staring at, Mooly? You know That we ought to have gone Home an hour ago. How dark it is growing! O, what shall I do?" The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

That Calf

To the yard, by the barn, Came the farmer one morn, And calling the cattle, he said, While they trembled with fright: "Now which of you, last night, Shut the barn door while I was abed?" Each one of them all shook his head.

Now the little calf Spot, She was down in the lot, And the way the rest talked was a shame; For no one, night before, Saw her shut up the door; But they said that she did, all the same, For they always made her take the blame.

Said the horse (dapple gray), "I was not up that way Last night, as I recollect;" And the bull, passing by, Tossed his horns very high, And said, "Let who may be here object, I say this, that calf I suspect.

Then out spoke the cow, "It is terrible now, To accuse honest folks of such tricks." Said the cock in the tree, "I'm sure 'twasn't me;" And the sheep all cried, "Bah! (there were six) Now that calf's got herself in a fix."

"Why, of course we all knew 'Twas the wrong thing to do," Said the chickens. "Of course," said the cat. "I suppose," cried the mule, Some folks think me a fool, But I'm not quite as simple as that; The poor calf never knows what she's at."

Just that moment, the calf, Who was always the laugh And the jest of the yard, came in sight. "Did you shut my barn door?" Asked the farmer once more, "I did, sir, I closed it last night," Said the calf; "and I thought that was right."

Then each one shook his head, "She will catch it," they cried, "Serves her right for her meddlesome ways." Said the farmer, "Come here, Little bossy, my dear, You have done what I cannot repay, And your fortune is made from to-day.

"For a wonder, last night, I forgot the door quite, And if you had not shut it so neat, All my colts had slipped in, And gone right to the bin, And got what they ought not to eat, They'd have founded themselves on wheat."

The each hoof of them All began to loudly to bawl, The very mule smiled, the cock crew; "Little Spotty, my dear, You're a favourite here," They cried, "we all said it was you, We were so glad to give you your due." And the calf answered knowingly, "Boo!"

Phoebe Cary

[Page 172--Baa Baa Land]

The Lost Lamb

Storm upon the mountain, Rainy torrents beating, And the little snow-white lamb, Bleating, ever bleating! Storm upon the mountain, Night upon its throne, And the little snow-white lamb, Left alone, alone!

Down the glen the shepherd Drives his flock afar; Through the murky mist and cloud, Shines no beacon star. Fast he hurries onward, Never hears the moan Of the pretty snow-white lamb, Left alone, alone!

Up the glen he races, Breasts the bitter wind, Scours across the plain, and leaves Wood and wold behind;-- Storm upon the mountain, Night upon its throne-- There he finds the little lamb, Left alone, alone!

Struggling, panting, sobbing, Kneeling on the ground, Round the pretty creature's neck Both his arms were wound; Soon, within his bosom, All its bleatings done, Home he bears the little lamb, Left alone, alone!

Oh! the happy faces, By the shepherd's fire! High without the tempest roars, But the laugh rings higher, Young and old together Make that joy their own-- In their midst the little lamb, Left alone, alone!

T. Westwood

The Pet Lamb

The dew was falling fast, The stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And looking o'er the hedge Before me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, With a maiden by its side.

Nor sheep nor kine were near; The lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord Was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass Did the little maiden kneel, While to this mountain lamb. She gave its evening meal.

"What ails thee, young one; what? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, And green as grass can be; Rest, little young one, rest; What is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs, are they not strong? And beautiful thou art. This grass is tender grass; These flowers they have no peers; And that green corn all day long Is rustling in they ears!

"Rest little young one, rest; Hast thou forgot the day Why my father found the first In places far away; Many flocks were on the hills, But thou wert owned by none, And thy mother from thy side For evermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, And in pity brought thee home; Oh! blessed day for thee! Then whither would'st thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast; The dam that did the yean Upon the mountain top No kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that thrice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, As clear as ever ran. And twice, too, in the day, When the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk-- Warm milk it is, and new.

"Here, then, thou need'st not dread The raven in the sky; Night and day thou'rt safe; Our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep, and at break of day, I will come to thee again."

Wordsworth

A Visit to the Lambs

Mother, let's go and see the lambs; This warm and sunny day I think must make them very glad, And full of fun and play.

Ah, there they are. You pretty things! Now, don't you run away; I'm come on purpose, that I am, To see you this fine day.

What pretty little heads you've got, And such good-natured eyes! And ruff of wool all round your necks-- How nicely curl'd it lies!

Come here, my little lambkin, come, And lick my hand--now do! How silly to be so afraid! Indeed I won't hurt you.

Just put your hand upon its back, Mother, how nice and warm! There, pretty lamb, you see I don't Intend to do you harm.

Easy Poetry

[Page 173--Baa Baa Land]

The Pet Lamb

Once on a time, a shepherd lived Within a cottage small; The grey thatched roof was shaded by An elm-tree dark and tall; While all around, stretched far away, A wild and lonesome moor, Except a little daisied field Before the trellised door.

Now, it was on a cold March day, When on the moorland wide The shepherd found a trembling lamb By its mother's side; And so pitiful it bleated, As with the cold it shook, He wrapped it up beneath his coat, And home the poor lamb took.

He placed it by the warm fireside, And then his children fed This little lamb, whose mother died, With milk and sweet brown bread, Until it ran about the floor, Or at the door would stand; And grew so tame, it ate its food From out the children's hand.

It followed them where'er they went, Came ever at their call, And dearly was this pretty lamb Beloved by them all. And often on a market-day, When cotters crossed the moor, They stopped to praise the snow-white lamb, Beside the cottage door;

They patted it upon its head, And stroked it with the hand, And vowed it was the prettiest lamb They'd seen in all the land.

Now, this kind shepherd was as ill, As ill as he could be, And kept his bed for many a week, And nothing earned he; And when he had got well again, He to his wife did say, "The doctor wants his money, and I haven't it to pay.

"What shall we do, what can we do? The doctor made me well, There's only one thing can be done, We must the pet lamb sell; We've nearly eaten all the bread, And how can we get more, Unless you call the butcher in When he rides by the door?"

"Oh, do not sell my white pet lamb," Then little Mary said, "And every night I'll go up stairs Without my tea to bed; Oh! do not sell my sweet pet lamb; And if you let it live, The best half of my bread and milk I will unto it give."

The doctor at that very time Entered the cottage door, As, with her arms around her lamb, She sat upon the floor. "For if the butcher buys my lamb, He'll take away its life, And make its pretty white throat bleed With his sharp cruel knife;

"And never in the morning light Again it will me meet, Nor come again to lick my hand, Look up upon me and bleat." "Why do you weep, my pretty girl?" The doctor then did say. "Because I love my little lamb, Which must be sold to-day;

It lies beside my bed at night, And, oh, it is so still, It never made a bit of noise When father was so ill. "Oh do not let them sell my lamb, And then I'll go to bed, And never ask for aught to eat

But a small piece of bread." "I'll buy the lamb and give it you," The kind, good doctor said, "And with the money that I pay Your father can buy bread. "As for the bill, that can remain Until another year." He paid the money down, and said, "The lamb is yours, my dear:

You have a kind and gentle heart, And God, who made us all, He loveth well those who are kind To creatures great and small; "And while I live, my little girl, Your lamb shall not be sold, But play with you upon the moor, And sleep within the fold."

And so the white pet lamb was saved, And played upon the moor, And after little Mary ran About the cottage-floor. It fed upon cowslips tall, And ate the grass so sweet, And on the little garden-walk Pattered its pretty feet;

And with its head upon her lap The little lamb would lay Asleep beneath the elm-tree's shade, Upon the summer's day, While she twined the flowers around its neck, And called it her, "Sweet May."

Thomas Miller

[Page 174--Piggy Land]

The Pig, He is a Gentleman

The pig, he is a gentleman, And never goes to work; He eats the very best of food Without knife or fork.

The pig, he is a gentleman, And drinks the best of milk; His clothes are good, and thick, and strong And wear as well as silk.

The pig he, is a gentleman, And covers up his head, And looks at you with one eye, And grunts beneath his bed.

He eats, and drinks, and sleeps all day Just like his lady mother, His father, uncle, and his aunt, His sister, and his brother.

E. W. Cole

The Pigs

"Do look at those pigs, as they lie in the straw," Little Richard said to papa; "They keep eating longer than ever I saw, What nasty fat gluttons they are!"

"I see they are feasting," his father replied, "They ear a great deal, I allow; But let us remember, before we deride, 'Tis the nature, my dear, of a sow.

"But when a great boy, such as you my dear Dick, Does nothing but eat all the day, And keeps sucking good things till he makes himself sick, What a glutton, indeed, we may say.

"When plumcake and sugar for ever he picks, And sweetmeats, and comfits, and figs; Pray let him get rid of his own nasty tricks, And then he may laugh at the pigs."

J. T.

Five Little Pigs

Five lit-tle fingers And five lit-tle pigs, Of each I've a story to tell; Look at their faces And fun-ny curl-ed tails, And hear what each one be-fell.

Ring-tail, that stead-y And good lit-tle pig, To mark-et set off at a trot; And brought him his bas-ket Quite full of nice things, Con-tent-ed and pleas-ed with his lot.

Young Smil-er, the next, Was a stay at home pig, Lik-ed his pipe, and to sit at his ease; He fell fast a-sleep, Burned his nose with his pipe, And a-woke with a ve-ry loud sneeze.

Num-ber three was young Long-snout Who ate up the beef. He was both greed-y and fat; He made him-self ill By eat-ing too much, And then he was sor-ry for that.

And poor lit-tle Grun-ter-- You know he had none-- A pig-gy so hun-gry and sad! He si-lent-ly wiped The salt tears from his eyes, I think it was real-ly too bad.

Young Squeak-er cried, "Wee, wee, wee," All the way home, A pig-gy so fret-ful was he; He got a good whip-ping, Was sent off to bed, And de-served it, I think you must see.

Oh, these five lit-tle pigs, How they've made child-ren laugh In ages and ages now past! And they'll be quite as fun-ny, In years yet to come, While small toes and small fing-ers last.

The Self-willed Pig

It happened one day, As the other pigs tell, In the course of their walk They drew near to a well, So wide and so deep, With so smooth a wall round, That a pig tumbling in Was sure to be drowned.

But a perverse little brother, Foolish as ever, Still boasting himself Very cunning and clever, Now made up his mind That, whatever befell, He would run on before And jump over the well.

Then away he ran fast To one side of the well, Climbed up on the wall, Slipped, and headlong he fell; And now from the bottom His pitiful shout Was, "Oh mother! I'm in; Pray do help me out!"

She ran to the side When she heard his complaint, And she then saw him struggling, Weakly and faint, Yet no help could she give! But, "My children," cried she, "How often I've feared A sad end his would be!"

"Oh, mother, dear mother;" The drowning pig cried, "I see all this comes Of my folly and pride!" He could not speak more, But he sank down and died, Whilst his mother and brothers Wept round the well-side!

[Page 175--Piggy Land]

Three Naughty Pigs

Three naughty pigs, All in one pen, Drank up the milk Left by the men, Then all the three Fast as they could, Dug their way out To find something good.

Out in the garden A maiden fair Had set some flowers Of beauty rare.

Out in the garden A merry boy Had planted seeds, With childish joy,

One naughty pig Ran to the bed; Soon lay the flowers Drooping and dead.

To naughty pigs Dug up the seeds, And left, for the boy, Not even weeds.

Three naughty pigs, Back in the pen, Never could do Such digging again.

For, in their noses, Something would hurt Whenever they tried To dig in the dirt.

Little Biddy

Little Biddy O'Toole, on her three-legged stool, Was 'atin' her praties so hot; Whin up stepped the pig, Wid his appetite big, And Biddy got down like a shot.

The Spectre Pig

It was the stalwart butcher man That knit his swarthy brow, And said the gentle pig must die, And sealed it with a vow.

And oh! it was the gentle pig Lay stretched upon the ground, And ah! it was the cruel knife His little heart that found.

They took him then those wicked men, They trailed him all along; They put a stick between his lips, And through his heels a thong.

And round and round an oaken beam A hempen cord they flung, And like a mighty pendulum All solemnly he swung.

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man And think what thou hast done, And read thy catechism well, Thou sanguinary one.

For if its sprite should walk by night It better were for thee, That thou were mouldering in the ground, Or bleaching in the sea.

It was the savage butcher then That made a mock of sin, And swore a very wicked oath, He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son, His voice was broke with sighs, And with his pocket handkerchief He wiped his little eyes.

All young and ignorant was he, But innocent and mild, And, in his soft simplicity, Out spoke the tender child--

"Oh! father, father, list to me; The pig is deadly sick, And men have hung him by his heels, And fed him with a stick."

It was the naughty butcher then That laughed as he would die, Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child And bid him not to cry.

"Oh! Nathan, Nathan, what's a pig, That thou shouldst weep and wail? Come bear thee like a butcher's child, And thou shalt have his tail."

It was the butcher's daughter then, So slender and so fair, That sobbed as if her heart would break And tore her yellow hair.

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone-- Fell fast the tear-drops big: "Ah! woe to me! Alas! alas! The pig! the pig! the pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips Make merry wit her woe, And call her many a naughty name, Because she whimpered so.

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, In vain your tears are shed, Ye cannot wash the crimson hand, Ye cannot sooth the dead.

The bright sun folded on his breast, His robes of rosey flame, And softly over all the west The shades of evening came.

He slept, and troops of murdered pigs Were busy in his dreams; Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks, Wide yawned their mortal seams.

The clock struck twelve; the dead hath heard; He opened both his eyes, And sullenly he shook his tail To lash the feeding flies.

One quiver of the hempen cord-- One struggle and one bound-- With stiffened limb and leaded eye, The pig was on the ground.

And straight towards the sleeper's house His fearful way he wended; And hooting owl, and hovering bat, On midnight wing attended.

Back flew the bolt, uprose the latch, And open swung the door, And little mincing feet were heard Pat, pat, along the floor.

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor, And two upon the bed; And they are breathing side by side, The living and the dead.

"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man! What makes your cheeks so pale? Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear To clasp a spectre's tail?"

Untwisted every winding coil; The shuddering wretch took hold, Till like an icicle it seemed, So tapering and so cold.

"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!" He strives to loose his grasp, But, faster than the clinging vine, Those twining spirals clasp.

And open, open, swung the door, And fleeter than the wind, The shadowy spectre swept before, The butcher trailed behind.

Fast fled the darkness of the night, And morn rose faint and dim; They called full loud, they knocked full long They did not waken him.

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam, A trampled pathway ran; A ghastly shape was swinging there-- It was the butcher man.

O. W. Holmes

[Page 176--Piggy Land]

Little Dame Crump

Little Dame Crump, With her little hair broom, One morning was sweeping Her little bedroom, When, casting he little Grey eyes on the ground, In a sly little corner A penny she found.

"Dear me!" cried the Dame, While she started with surprise, "How lucky I am To find such a prize! To market I'll go, And a pig I will buy, And little John Grubbins Shall make him a sty."

So she washed her face clean, And put on her gown, And locked up the house, And set off for town. Then to market she went, And a purchase she made Of a little white pig, And a penny she paid.

Having purchased the pig, She was puzzled to know How they both should get home; So fearing least piggie Should play her a trick, She drove him along With a little crab stick.

Piggie ran till they came To the foot of a hill, Where a little bridge stood O'er the stream of a mill; Piggie grunted and squeaked, But not further would go: Oh, fie! Piggie, fie! To serve little Dame so.

She went to the mill, And she borrowed a sack To put the pig in, And take him on her back: Piggie squeaked to get out, But the little Dame said, "If you won't go of yourself, You then must be made."

At last when the end Of her journey had come, She was awfully glad She had got the pig home: She carried him straight To his nice little sty, And gave him some hay And some straw, nice and dry.

With a handful of peas Then Piggie she fed, And put on her night-cap, And got into bed: Having first said her prayers, And put out the light; And being quite tired, We'll wish her good night.

The Chinese Pig

Old Madam Grumph, the pig, had got A pig-sty of her own; She is a most un-com-mon pig, And likes to live alone.

A red-tiled roofing covers in The one half of her sty; And, half sur-round-ed by a wall, Is open to the sky.

There stands the trough, they keep it fill'd With pig-wash and with parings; And all the other pigs declare Dame Grumph has dainty fairings.

They like to see what she's about, And poke their noses through A great hole in the pig-sty door, From whence they get a view.

The pigs, that run about the yard, Are very lean and tall, With long hind legs--but Madam Grumph Is round as any ball.

One autumn day, when she awoke ('Twas very cold and raw), She found a litter of young pigs Half buried in the straw.

"Humph," said the dame, "now let me see How many have I got." She counted, "Six and four are ten,-- Two dead ones in the lot.

"Eight--That's a nice round family; A black one and two white; The rest are spotted like myself, With prick ears--that's all right.

"What's to be done with those dead things, They'd better be thrown out," Said she, and packed the litter round The others with her snout.