Chapter 3

"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 Naïads, 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 Naïads, 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 Naïads 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.