Chapter 8

And they never had stirred from their places Right under the maple tree-- This old, old, old, old lady And the boy with the lame little knee-- This dear, dear, dear old lady And the boy who was half-past three.

Henry C. Bunner.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "The Poems of H. C. Bunner." Copyright, 1889, by Charles Scribner's Sons._

_What May Happen to a Thimble_

Come about the meadow, Hunt here and there, Where's mother's thimble? Can you tell where? Jane saw her wearing it, Fan saw it fall, Ned isn't sure That she dropp'd it at all.

Has a mouse carried it Down to her hole-- Home full of twilight, Shady, small soul? Can she be darning there, Ere the light fails, Small ragged stockings-- Tiny torn tails?

Did a finch fly with it Into the hedge, Or a reed-warbler Down in the sedge? Are they carousing there, All the night through? Such a great goblet, Brimful of dew!

Have beetles crept with it Where oak roots hide? There have they settled it Down on its side? Neat little kennel, So cosy and dark, Has one crept into it, Trying to bark?

Have the ants cover'd it With straw and sand? Roomy bell-tent for them, So tall and grand; Where the red soldier-ants Lie, loll, and lean-- While the blacks steadily Build for their queen.

Has a huge dragon-fly Borne it (how cool!) To his snug dressing-room, By the clear pool? There will he try it on, For a new hat-- Nobody watching But one water-rat?

Did the flowers fight for it, While, undecried, One selfish daisy Slipp'd it aside; Now has she plunged it in Close to her feet-- Nice private water-tank For summer heat?

Did spiders snatch at it Wanting to look At the bright pebbles Which lie in the brook? Now are they using it (Nobody knows!) Safe little diving-bell, Shutting so close?

Hunt for it, hope for it, All through the moss; Dip for it, grope for it-- 'Tis such a loss! Jane finds a drop of dew, Fan finds a stone; I find the thimble, Which is mother's own!

Run with it, fly with it-- Don't let it fall; All did their best for it-- Mother thanks all. Just as we give it her,-- Think what a shame!-- Ned says he's sure That it isn't the same!

"B."

_Discontent_

Down in a field, one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, Save one, who tried to hide herself, And drooped that pleasant weather.

A robin, who had flown too high, And felt a little lazy, Was resting near a buttercup Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grew so trig and tall! She always had a passion For wearing frills around her neck, In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be The same old tiresome color; While daisies dress in gold and white, Although their gold is duller.

"Dear robin," said the sad young flower, "Perhaps you'd not mind trying To find a nice white frill for me, Some day when you are flying?"

"You silly thing!" the robin said, "I think you must be crazy: I'd rather be my honest self, Than any made-up daisy.

"You're nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you: Be the best buttercup you can, And think no flower above you.

"Though swallows leave me out of sight, We'd better keep our places: Perhaps the world would all go wrong With one too many daisies.

"Look bravely up into the sky, And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here, where you are growing."

Sarah Orne Jewett.

_The Nightingale and the Glowworm_

A nightingale that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite; When looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glowworm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song: For 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard this short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.

William Cowper.

_Thanksgiving Day_

Over the river and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow. Over the river and through the wood-- Oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood, To have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!" Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood Trot fast, my dapple-gray! Spring over the ground, Like a hunting-hound! For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barn-yard gate. We seem to go Extremely slow,-- It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood-- Now grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

Lydia Maria Child.

_A Thanksgiving Fable_

It was a hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving morn, And she watched a thankful little mouse, that ate an ear of corn. "If I ate that thankful little mouse, how thankful he should be, When he has made a meal himself, to make a meal for me!

"Then with his thanks for having fed, and his thanks for feeding me, With all _his_ thankfulness inside, how thankful I shall be!" Thus mused the hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving Day; But the little mouse had overheard and declined (with thanks) to stay.

Oliver Herford.

_The Magpie's Nest_

A Fable

When the Arts in their infancy were, In a fable of old 'tis express'd A wise magpie constructed that rare Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.

This was talk'd of the whole country round; You might hear it on every bough sung, "Now no longer upon the rough ground Will fond mothers brood over their young:

"For the magpie with exquisite skill Has invented a moss-cover'd cell Within which a whole family will In the utmost security dwell."

To her mate did each female bird say, "Let us fly to the magpie, my dear; If she will but teach us the way, A nest we will build us up here.

"It's a thing that's close arch'd overhead, With a hole made to creep out and in; We, my bird, might make just a bed If we only knew how to begin."

* * * * *

To the magpie soon every bird went And in modest terms made their request, That she would be pleased to consent To teach them to build up a nest.

She replied, "I will show you the way, So observe everything that I do: First two sticks 'cross each other I lay--" "To be sure," said the crow, "why I knew

"It must be begun with two sticks, And I thought that they crossed should be." Said the pie, "Then some straw and moss mix In the way you now see done by me."

"O yes, certainly," said the jackdaw, "That must follow, of course, I have thought; Though I never before building saw, I guess'd that, without being taught."

"More moss, straw, and feathers, I place In this manner," continued the pie. "Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the case; Though no builder myself, so thought I."

* * * * *

Whatever she taught them beside, In his turn every bird of them said, Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried He had just such a thought in his head.

Still the pie went on showing her art, Till a nest she had built up half-way; She no more of her skill would impart, But in her anger went fluttering away.

And this speech in their hearing she made, As she perch'd o'er their heads on a tree: "If ye all were well skill'd in my trade, Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"

When a scholar is willing to learn, He with silent submission should hear; Too late they their folly discern, The effect to this day does appear.

For whenever a pie's nest you see, Her charming warm canopy view, All birds' nests but hers seem to be A magpie's nest just cut in two.

Charles and Mary Lamb.

_The Owl and the Pussy-Cat_

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat; They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the moon above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are,-- You are, What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How wonderful sweet you sing! O let us be married,--too long we have tarried,-- But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the Bong tree grows And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose,-- His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined upon mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon, And hand in hand on the edge of the sand They danced by the light of the moon,-- The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear.

_A Lobster Quadrille_

"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail, "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance, Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied, "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"

Lewis Carroll.

_The Fairies' Shopping_

Where do you think the Fairies go To buy their blankets ere the snow?

When Autumn comes, with frosty days The sorry shivering little Fays

Begin to think it's time to creep Down to their caves for Winter sleep.

But first they come from far and near To buy, where shops are not too dear.

(The wind and frost bring prices down, So Fall's their time to come to town!)

Where on the hill-side rough and steep Browse all day long the cows and sheep,

The mullein's yellow candles burn Over the heads of dry sweet fern:

All summer long the mullein weaves His soft and thick and woolly leaves.

Warmer blankets were never seen Than these broad leaves of fuzzy green--

(The cost of each is but a shekel Made from the gold of honeysuckle!)

To buy their sheets and fine white lace (With which to trim a pillow-case),

They only have to go next door, Where stands a sleek brown spider's store,

And there they find the misty threads Ready to cut into sheets and spreads;

Then for a pillow, pluck with care Some soft-winged seeds as light as air;

Just what they want the thistle brings, But thistles are such surly things--

And so, though it is somewhat high, The clematis the Fairies buy.

The only bedsteads that they need Are silky pods of ripe milk-weed,

With hangings of the dearest things-- Autumn leaves, or butterflies' wings!

And dandelions' fuzzy heads They use to stuff their feather beds;

And yellow snapdragons supply The nightcaps that the Fairies buy,

To which some blades of grass they pin, And tie them 'neath each little chin.

Then, shopping done, the Fairies cry, "Our Summer's gone! oh sweet, good-bye!"

And sadly to their caves they go, To hide away from Winter's snow--

And then, though winds and storms may beat, The Fairies' sleep is warm and sweet!

Margaret Deland.

_Fable_

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig." Bun replied: "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year And a sphere; And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back Neither can you crack a nut!"

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

_A Midsummer Song_

Oh, father's gone to market-town: he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will, "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"

From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound, A murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo; And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo: "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"

Above the trees, the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom, And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose. But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?

How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter! The farmer's wife is listening now, and wonders what's the matter. Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill. But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly!

Richard Watson Gilder.

_The Fairies of the Caldon-Low_

"And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?" "I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Hill?" "I heard the drops of water made, And I heard the corn-ears fill."

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary-- All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low."

"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine;

"And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And their dancing feet so small; But oh! the sound of their talking Was merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way.

"And some they played with the water And rolled it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill;

"'For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be By the dawning of the day!

"'Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew so sharp and shrill!

"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go, Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn:

"'Oh, the poor blind widow-- Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands stiff and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseed, And flung it down from the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow!

"'Oh, the poor lame weaver! How will he laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!'

"And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin; 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 'And I want some more to spin.

"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another-- A little sheet for Mary's bed And an apron for her mother.'

"And with that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low, There was no one left but me.

"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.

"But, as I came down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly old miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!

"And I peeped into the widow's field, And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stiff and green!

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate With the good news in his eye!

"Now, this is all that I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"

Mary Howitt.

_The Elf and the Dormouse_

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, Gayly 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.

Oliver Herford.

_Meg Merrilies_

Old Meg she was a gipsy, And lived upon the moors; Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants pods o' broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her brothers were the craggy hills, Her sisters larchen-trees; Alone with her great family She lived as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And 'stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh She made her garlanding, And every night the dark glen yew She wore; and she would sing, And with her fingers old and brown She plaited mats of rushes, And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, And tall as Amazon; An old red blanket cloak she wore, A ship-hat had she on; God rest her aged bones somewhere! She died full long agone!

John Keats.

_Romance_

I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea; Her masts were of the shining gold, Her deck of ivory; And sails of silk, as soft as milk, And silvern shrouds had she.

And round about her sailing, The sea was sparkling white, The waves all clapped their hands and sang To see so fair a sight. They kissed her twice, they kissed her thrice, And murmured with delight.

Then came the gallant captain, And stood upon the deck; In velvet coat, and ruffles white, Without a spot or speck; And diamond rings, and triple strings Of pearls around his neck.

And four-and-twenty sailors Were round him bowing low; On every jacket three times three Gold buttons in a row; And cutlasses down to their knees; They made a goodly show.

And then the ship went sailing, A-sailing o'er the sea; She dived beyond the setting sun, But never back came she, For she found the lands of the golden sands, Where the pearls and diamonds be.

Gabriel Setoun.

_The Cow-Boy's Song_