Chapter 4

"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 antennæ 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 antennæ. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Naïad 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 Naïad; 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.

A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN.