Chapter 3

I have often sat and thought about that kite, and wondered who its father and mother were. Perhaps they were very poor people, just made of newspaper and little bits of common string knotted together, obliged to fly day and night for a living, and never able to give any time to their children or to bring them up properly. It was pretty, for it had a snow-white face, and pink and white ears; and, with these, no one, let alone a kite, could help being pretty. But though the kite was pretty, it was not good, and it did not prosper; it came to a bad end, oh! a terrible end indeed. It stuck itself on a roof one day, a common red roof with a broken chimney and three tiles missing. It stuck itself there, and it would not move; the children tugged and pulled and coaxed and cried, but still it would not move. At last they fetched a ladder, and had nearly reached it when suddenly the kite started and flew away--right away over the field and over the heath, and over the far far woods, and it never came back again--never--never.

Dear, that is all. But I think sometimes that perhaps beyond the dark pines and the roaring sea the kite is flying still, on and on, farther and farther away, for ever and for ever.

THE TINKER'S MARRIAGE.

Two beaux and a belle, a goat and a carriage, They all set off to the tinker's marriage. Two three-cornered hats, and one with a feather, They looked very fine in the sweet summer weather. But the carriage turned over, the poor goat shied, The little belle laughed, the silly beaux cried, And the tinker fumed, "Oh, why do they tarry? And why don't they come to see me marry? I shall throw my bride right into the sea, If they are not here by half-past three." But the belle was laughing, "Oh, what shall we do!" And the beaux were crying, "Bee-bee-bee-boo."

THE CHILDREN AND THE GARLAND.

"To-morrow is May-day," the children said; "the birds must call us very early, and we will go to the woods and make a garland." And in the morning, long before the sun had looked over the tops of the houses into the village street, they were far away in the woods.

"I will give them some roses as they come back," the gardener said. "They shall put them among the spring flowers, as a swallow among the thrushes, to show that summer is on its way."

When the children had made their garland and a posy for each one of them, they went singing all down the village street, over the grey stone bridge, beyond the hayricks, and past the houses on the hill-side.

In one of the houses there was a pale little child with a sad, thin face. "Mother," he said, "here are some children with a garland. Will it be summer when they have gone by?" He called after them as they went on, "Come back, oh, come back again!"

"Yes, we will come back," they answered, but they went on their way singing. All through the day he waited for them, but they did not come; and at last, when it was evening, the mother took him up into her arms to carry him to his bed. Suddenly he heard the children singing in the distance. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "they are coming;" and he watched till they came up the hill again and stood before him. "But where is your garland?" he asked.

"We gave it to lame Mary, the postman's wife, for she is always longing to see the fields," they answered; "but these roses are for you, dear little boy; they are all for you," and putting them into his hands they went back to the village.

"You are very tired," the child said to the roses; "all your leaves are drooping. Poor roses, perhaps you are lonely away from the garden; but you shall sleep near me, and there is a star rising up in the sky; it will watch us all through the night." Then the child nestled down in his white bed--he and his little warm heart, in which there was love for all things. While he slept the roses looked at his pale little face and sighed, and presently they stole softly on to his cheeks and rested there. The children saw them still there when the summer was over; when the garland was quite dead, and lame Mary longed for the fields no more.

ROUND THE TEA-TABLE.

A nice little party we're seated at tea, The dollies all seem very glad, Save the poor little thing who is leaning on me; I fear that she feels rather bad; Poor limp little thing! she wants a back-bone, She's only just made up of rag. There's little Miss Prim sitting up all alone, And the Japanese looks like a wag.

Now what shall we talk of, my own dollies fair? And what shall we give you for tea? That queer little thing with the short frizzy hair, Why does he keep looking at me? My sister and I we will sing you a song Before we get up from the table; It shall not be sad, and it shall not be long-- We'll sing it as well as we're able.

SONG.

The darkness is stealing all over the place, The flowers are weeping for sorrow, The daisy is hiding its little round face, The sun has gone seeking to-morrow.

So while you are seated all round the tea-table, Please join in the chorus as well as you're able; O! sing! sing away for your life.

CHORUS.

It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, Time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, So bring me the carving-knife.

The darkness is hiding the birds on the trees, The thrushes are weary of singing, A strange little rumour is borne on the breeze Of Summer the swallows are bringing.

So while you are seated all round the tea-table, Please join in the chorus as well as you're able; O! sing! sing away for your life.

CHORUS.

It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, Time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, So bring me the carving-knife.

The Summer is stealing all over the place, The wind is all scented with roses, The dear little birds are all flying a race, On purpose to give us their noses.

So while you are seated all round the tea-table, Please join in the chorus as well as you're able; O! sing! sing away for your life.

CHORUS.

It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses Time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, It's time to cut off the dicky birds' noses, So bring me the carving-knife.

TOMMY.

Tommy was sitting on the bench near the end of the lane. By his side was a basin tied up in a cotton handkerchief; in the buttonhole of his coat there was a sprig of sweet-william. The girls from the big house came and stood still in front of him, staring at him rudely, but he did not speak.

"Tommy, are you tired?" they asked.

"Yes," Tommy answered, crossly, "I'm very tired, and father's working in the fields, and I have got to take him his dinner before I go to the fair."

"Why don't the servants take it?"

"Servants!" said Tommy scornfully; "we've no servants. We are not rich people!"

"Wouldn't you like to be rich?" the eldest sister asked, while the two little ones walked slowly round Tommy, looking at the feather in his hat; he had put it there so that he might look smart when he went on to the village.

"No, it's too expensive," said Tommy, shaking his head; "rich people have to buy such a lot of things, and to wear fine clothes, and they can't have dinner in the fields."

"My father has his dinner in a room," said the girl.

"That's because he's rich," answered Tommy, "and people would talk if he didn't; rich people can't do as they like, as poor can."

"And my father lives in a big house," the girl went on, for she was vulgar, and liked to boast.

"Yes, and it takes up a lot of room; my father's got the whole world to live in if he likes; that's better than a house."

"But my father doesn't work," said the girl, scornfully.

"Mine does," said Tommy, proudly. "Rich people can't work," he went on, "so they are obliged to get the poor folk to do it. Why, we have made everything in the world. Oh! it's a fine thing to be poor."

"But suppose all the rich folk died, what would the poor folk do?"

"But suppose all the poor folk died," cried Tommy, "what would the rich folk do? They can sit in carriages, but can't build them, and eat dinners, but can't cook them." And he got up and went his way. "Poor folk ought to be very kind to rich folk, for it's hard to be the like of them," he said to himself as he went along.

THE SWALLOWS.

There were some children in the north looking at the swallows flying south. "Why are they going away?" the little one asked.

"The summer is over," the elder sister answered, "and if they stayed here they would be starved and die of cold, and so, when the summer goes, they journey south."

"Our mother and sisters are in the south," the little one said, as they looked after the birds. "Dear little swallows, tell mother that we are watching for her!" But they were already flying over the sea. The chilly winds tried to follow, but the swallows flew so swiftly they were not overtaken; they went on, with the summer always before them. They were tired many a time; once they stayed to rest upon the French coast, and once, in the Bay of Biscay, they clung to the rigging of a ship all through the night, but in the morning they went on again.

Far away in the south, two English children were looking from the turret window of an old castle.

"Here are the swallows," they said; "perhaps they have come from England. Dear swallows, have you brought us a message?" they asked.

"It was very cold, we had no time for messages; and we must not lose the track of summer," the swallows twittered, and they flew on till they reached the African shore.

"Poor little swallows," said the English children, as they watched the ship come into port that was to take them back to their own land; "they have to chase the summer and the sun, but we do not mind whether it is summer or winter, for if we only keep our hearts warm, the rest does not matter."

"It is very good of the swallows to come to us," the elder sister said, in the next spring, when she heard their first soft twitter beneath the eaves, "for the summer is in many places, and we are so far from the south."

"Yes, it is very good of them to come," the children answered; "dear little swallows, perhaps they love us!"

A FIRST LOVE-MAKING.

A land there is beyond the sea That I have never seen, But Johnny says he'll take me there, And I shall be a queen. He'll build for me a palace there, Its roof will be of thatch, And it will have a little porch And everything to match.

And he'll give me a garden-green, And he'll give me a crown Of flowers that love the wood and field And never grow in town. And we shall be so happy there, And never, never part, And I shall be the grandest queen-- The queen of Johnny's heart.

Then, Johnny, man your little boat To sail across the sea; There's only room for king and queen-- For Johnny and for me. And, Johnny dear, I'm not afraid Of any wind or tide, For I am always safe, my dear, If you are by my side.

SMUT.

Now, this story is quite true. Once upon a time there was a cat called Mr. Puff; he lived in a grand house, quite close to the Turkish Embassy. A lord and a lady and several servants lived with Mr. Puff; he was very kind to them, letting them do in all things as they liked, and never sending them away or keeping the house to himself. One day Mr. Puff, being out in the rain, found a poor little kitten, covered with mud, and crying bitterly: so Mr. Puff took the kitten between his teeth, carried it home, and set it down on the drawing-room hearth-rug. The lord and the lady had the kitten washed, and gave it food, and called it Smut. Then Smut went and sat him down on the lord's writing-table.

When Smut grew to be a cat, but before he was yet a large one, the lord and the lady thought awhile, and spoke, "We have a dear friend," they said, "and he is catless; therefore, if Mr. Puff will agree, we will take Smut to him as a present." And Mr. Puff agreed. So Smut was put into a birdcage, for there was nothing else to serve him for a travelling carriage, and taken to the dear friend's house. The dear friend had a little girl with golden hair, and when she saw Smut, she cried out for joy, and said, "Never before did I see a dicky-bird with a furry coat, a long tail, and little white teeth." But Smut shook his head, as if to say, "I am not a dicky-bird, sweet maid, but only a four-legged cat;" then they opened the birdcage door, and he walked out, waving his tail.

Now, when Smut grew up, his gravity and dignity made all who knew his history wonder, and few could believe that he had once been a dirty kitten, covered with mud, glad to accept the charity of Mr. Puff. When a year had gone, or perhaps even a longer time, there was a great war in Turkey, and terrible battles were fought. Then Smut looked very anxious, and went quite bald, and his coat fell off in little patches; but none could tell why. At last he died, and the little girl wept sorely, and all who had known him grieved and lamented.

And when Smut had been sleeping only a little while beneath the lilac tree, accident revealed that, instead of a lowly foundling, he had been of high degree, for the little vagrant Mr. Puff had found was no less a person than the Turkish Ambassador's coachman's wife's cat's kitten.

SEE-SAW.

Get into the boat and away to the west, See-saw! see-saw! For they've cut down the tree with the poor linnet's nest, See-saw! see-saw! The bulrushes nod and the water-lilies sigh, See-saw! see-saw! And all of us know the sad reason why, See-saw! see-saw!

For, oh! the tree--the tree's cut down, And every one of its leaves are brown; And in the field the children play, But the little linnet has flown away: Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!

THE BAD GIRL.

She was always called the bad girl, for she had once, when she was very little, put out her tongue at the postman. She lived alone with her grandmother and her three brothers in the cottage beyond the field, and the girls in the village took no notice of her. The bad girl did not mind this, for she was always thinking of the cuckoo clock. The clock stood in one corner of the cottage, and every hour a door opened at the top of its face, and a little cuckoo came out and called its name just the same number of times that the clock ought to have struck, and called it so loudly and in so much haste that the clock was afraid to strike at all. The bad girl was always wondering whether it was worse for the clock to have a cupboard in its forehead, and a bird that was always hopping in and out, or for the poor cuckoo to spend so much time in a dark little prison. "If it could only get away to the woods," she said to herself, "who knows but its voice might grow sweet, and even life itself might come to it!" She thought of the clock so much that her grandmother used to say--

"Ah, lassie, if you would only think of me sometimes!" But the bad girl would answer--

"You are not in prison, granny dear, and you have not even a bee in your bonnet, let alone a bird in your head. Why should I think of you?"

One day, close by the farm, she saw the big girls from the school gathering flowers.

"Give me one," she said; "perhaps the cuckoo would like it." But they all cried, "No, no!" and tried to frighten her away. "They are for the little one's birthday. To-morrow she will be seven years old," they said, "and she is to have a crown of flowers and a cake, and all the afternoon we shall play merry games with her."

"Is she unhappy, that you are taking so much trouble for her?" asked the bad girl.

"Oh, no; she is very happy: but it will be her birthday, and we want to make her happier."

"Why?"

"Because we love her," said one;

"Because she is so little," said another;

"Because she is alive," said a third.

"Are all things that live to be loved and cared for?" the bad girl asked, but they were too busy to listen, so she went on her way thinking; and it seemed as if all things round--the birds, and bees, and the rustling leaves, and the little tender wild flowers, half hidden in the grass--answered, as she went along--

"Yes, they are all to be cared for and made happier, if it be possible."

"The cuckoo clock is not alive," she thought. "Oh, no; it is not alive," the trees answered; "but many things that do not live have voices, and many others are just sign-posts, pointing the way."

"The way! The way to what, and where?"

"We find out for ourselves;--we must all find out for ourselves," the trees sighed and whispered to each other.

As the bad girl entered the cottage, the cuckoo called out its name eleven times, but she did not even look up. She walked straight across to the chair by the fireside, and kneeling down, kissed her granny's hands.

MORNING TIME.

I.

Awake, my pet! What! slumbering yet, When the day's so warm and bright? The flowers that wept Before they slept O'er the darkness of yesternight, Have listened long To the lark's wild song, And awoke with the morning light.

II.

Again and again Through the window-pane The jasmine flowers kept peeping, And in at the door, And along the floor, The sunny rays came creeping, So I opened wide The sash, and tried To tell them you were sleeping.

III.

Awake, my dear, The winter drear Has fled with all things dreary, But quickly by The spring will fly, And soon the birds will weary.-- Awake while yet The dew is wet And day is young, my deary.

THE PINK PARASOL.

The pink parasol had tender whalebone ribs and a slender stick of cherry-wood. It lived with the wilful child in the white-house, just beyond the third milestone. All about the trees were green, and the flowers grew tall; in the pond behind the willows the ducks swam round and round and dipped their heads beneath the water.

Every bird and bee, every leaf and flower, loved the child and the pink parasol as they wandered in the garden together, listening to the birds and seeking the shady spots to rest in, or walking up and down the long trim pathway in the sunshine. Yet the child tired of it all, and before the summer was over, was always standing by the gate, watching the straight white road that stretched across the plain.

"If I might but see the city, with the busy streets and the eager crowds," he was always saying to himself.

Then all that lived in the garden knew that the child would not be with them long. At last the day came when he flung down the pink parasol, and, without even one last look at the garden, ran out at the gate.

The flowers died, and the swallows journeyed south; the trees stretched higher and higher, to see the child come back across the plain, but he never came. "Ah, dear child!" they sighed many a time, "why are you staying? and are your eyes as blue as ever; or have the sad tears dimmed them? and is your hair golden still? and your voice, is it like the singing of the birds? And your heart--oh! my dear, my dear, what is in your heart now, that once was so full of summer and the sun?"

The pink parasol lay on the pathway, where the child left it, spoilt by the rain, and splashed by the gravel, faded and forgotten. At last, a gipsy lad, with dark eyes, a freckled face, and little gold rings in his ears, came by; he picked up the pink parasol, hid it under his coat, and carried it to the gipsy tent. There it stayed till one day the cherry-wood stick was broken into three pieces, and the pink parasol was put on the fire to make the water boil for the gipsy's tea.

THE SISTERS.

The little sisters went into the room to play at ball.

"We must be careful not to wake the white cat," the tall one said, softly.

"Or to spoil the roses," the fat one whispered; "but throw high, dear sister, or we shall never hit the ceiling."

"You dear children," thought the white cat, "why do you come to play here at all? Only just round the corner are the shady trees, and the birds singing on the branches, and the sunshine is flecking the pathway. Who knows but what, out there, your ball might touch the sky? Here you will only disturb me, and perhaps spoil the roses; and at best you can but hit the ceiling!"

THE WHITE RABBITS.

All the white rabbits but two, my dears, All the white rabbits but two, Away they all sailed in a cockle-shell boat, Painted a beautiful blue.

All the white rabbits so snowy and sleek, Away they went down to the shore; Little they thought, so happy and meek, They'd never come up from it more.

Oh, the white rabbits they wept and they sobbed, Till the boat it shook up in the sails; Oh, the white rabbits they sobbed and they shook From their poor loppy ears to their tails.

Away they all sailed to a desolate land Where never a lettuce-leaf grew, All the white rabbits but two, my dears, All the white rabbits but two.

THE WOODEN HORSE.

"Come and have a ride," the big brother said.

"I am afraid," the little one answered; "the horse's mouth is wide open."

"But it's only wooden. That is the best of a horse that isn't real. If his mouth is ever so wide open, he cannot shut it. So come," and the big brother lifted the little one up, and dragged him about.

"Oh, do stop!" the little one cried out in terror; "does the horse make that noise along the floor?"

"Yes."

"And is it a real noise?"

"Of course it is," the big brother answered.

"But I thought only real things could make real things," the little one said; "where does the imitation horse end and the real sound begin?"

At this the big brother stood still for a few minutes.

"I was thinking about real and imitation things," he said presently. "It's very difficult to tell which is which sometimes. You see they get so close together that the one often grows into the other, and some imitated things become real and some real ones become imitation as they go on. But I should say that you are a real coward for not having a ride."

"No, I am not," the little one laughed; and, getting astride the wooden horse, he sat up bravely. "Oh, Jack, dear," he said to his brother, "we will always be glad that we are real boys, or we too might have been made with mouths we were never able to shut!"

THE DUCK POND.

So little Bridget took the baby on her right arm and a jug in her left hand, and went to the farm to get the milk. On her way she went by the garden-gate of a large house that stood close to the farm, and she told the baby a story:--