CHAPTER XII.

THE FOLK-LORE MEETINGS AT THE ART PALACE.

Among the things that especially interested the Marlowes in the Manufacturing and Liberal Arts Building, was the German Exhibition of toys, and the Hans Christian Anderson room, in the Danish department. The Liberal Arts Building seemed to be the representative world, the exhibition of the very best that the human mind can accomplish under a single roof.

“The birds fly about over these forty acres,” said young Ephraim Marlowe, “and do not know that they are not out of doors.”

“The building is a prairie covered with glass, so it seems to me,” said Mr. Marlowe. “How bright and beautiful! Listen!”

As he spoke there fell upon the acres of industrial art the music of the chimes.

Our trio in their journeys often rested in the Building of Public Comfort, and at times on the wide, cool porticos and verandas of the Woman’s Building. They sometimes went for coffee to the Brazilian Garden, or to the Cafés of Costa Rica and Venezuela.

The Children’s Building was always a charm. A house to be delightful must have a generous and sympathetic soul, and this the Children’s Building had in Mrs. Clara Doty Bates, to whom this department largely owed its successful evolution. Mrs. Bates’ own room was filled with portraits of children’s authors, and the best books for the young.

The Folk-Lore Societies held their meetings in the Art Palace, in the city, where the Auxiliary Congresses met. There were many private meetings among these amiable story-tellers. In one of the twenty-eight or more halls devoted to such meetings, Mr. Marlowe related the story of “Waban,” and recited a legend associated with the arrival of the “Viking.”

During the visits of the Marlowes at the Fair, there occurred one day a very tragic scene. The Cold Storage Warehouse took fire, and some firemen were sent up to the top of the high tower. While they were there, the flames burst out around the tower below, and they saw that they were doomed.

One of these, seeing his fate, seemed to glory in the thought that his life was to end in sacrifice for others. He put his hand to his lips, threw a kiss to the awestruck multitude, and thus parting with the world leaped into the flames. A man never knows how noble he may be till his worth is put to the test. Mr. Marlowe, the Quaker, thought that this man’s death was the noblest scene that he saw at the great Fair.

The Court of Honor at night was a scene of the new world of electricity such as the past had never seen. One night amid the thronging thousands there burst over the vast area a song between the selections of the great orchestra. It was “Nearer my God to Thee.” It seemed like a cry in the night. At another time the song of “Old Folks at Home” in like manner followed the band.

The French building allured our trio, who were greatly interested in its beautiful rooms. The German building on the inside presented the stately and gloomy grandeur of an old cathedral. All of the foreign buildings were plans of their own countries, and in most of them, especially in the South American, one felt the charm and spell of what they were intended to express.

Day by day the delighted crowds surged on. One could hardly dream here that there was such a thing as death in the world. None of the faces seemed to wear any trace of sorrow or care. Every one appeared happy. O blessed hours! When will the world ever find in associated life such pleasure again?

A WABAN ROSE.

I went out to the bowery hills of the little town named Waban, to see the wonderful Waban roses. “There must be some legends here?” said I.

“There is,” said the gardener. Then we sat down among the roses, and he told it to me.

WABAN.

Tommy Trembly was a tinker. “Tommy Tinker” he might have been called, for, like his English craftsman of the same trade name, he was accustomed to roam

the country around, Crying, “Old brass to mend.”

The old New England tinkers were useful folk in their day, but they are as dead to customs of the present time as poor Christopher Sly, whom the curious ballad of “The Tinker’s Good Fortune” put for a time in a duke’s place, and whom Shakespeare so happily celebrates in the Induction to the comedy of the “Taming of the Shrew.”

Our New England tinker, Tommy Trembly, did not experience any such good fortune as Christopher’s. But he resembled Sly in his alehouse habits, and like him, hoped for the accidents of fortune.

He did not chance to fall into the kindly hands of the good Duke of Burgundy, but he did fall into the pastoral court of Old Waban, the famous Indian judge. This did not bring him the fortune that he expected; and it is of Tommy Trembly’s ill-luck and misfortune as a witness in court that I have a somewhat curious provincial story to tell.

Old Waban’s name meant the wind. To the Indians of Natick he was the wind. His mind, it was believed, swept the sky, wandered free over the forests and streams, and comprehended all things. When the wind uttered his voice the truth was thought to have been spoken, and nothing more needed saying. The Wind was the oracle.

Waban’s name still lives. The beautifully shaded lake under the green hills about Wellesley College, over which the girl students often row in good weather, will always recall the name of the famous chief which it bears; and a pretty suburban village near Boston is also called Waban. The name is worth perpetuating, for Waban was a noble chief and an upright judge.

He was a judge more than a chief; and Natick, and other old towns on the winding Charles River, used to be full of anecdotes of his odd but wise edicts.

One of his writs against an evil-doer who bore the name of Jeremiah Offscow was long preserved.

It ran: “You, you big constable guide, you catch um Jeremiah Offscow, strong you hold um, safe you bring um afore me. Waban, justice of the peace.” He had a love of fine-sounding and rhythmic language, as the writ shows.

Waban’s principal residence was at Natick, but that name once comprehended the whole region along the Charles River occupied by the Natick Indians. The great tree at Brighton, under which he used to pray and preach, was for public safety recently cut down. It was the largest tree ever known in the New England Colonies.

Old Waban’s judgments at court were often severe. A young Indian justice of the peace came to him one day, and said:—

“What would you do in case where a whole company of Indians were found to have become drunk and quarrelsome?”

“I first tie them all up.”

“And then?”

“I would whip um plaintiff.”

“Yes?”

“And then I whip um ’fendant!”

The young Indian looked surprised.

“What I do with the witnesses in such a case? Listen.”

But I will not tell here what old Judge Waban would have done with a witness in such a situation, for it would anticipate my story.

Tommy Trembly, the tinker, roamed up and down the provincial towns, with a soldering iron and pail of solder in a loose bag on his back, crying lustily, as he passed a house, “Old brass to mend? Old brass to mend?” by which he meant: “Have you any kitchen utensils that need repairing?”

Much of the cooking and laundrying was done at this period in immense brass kettles, which after long use became thin and leaky, and the leaks were commonly mended by the wandering tinker during his visits.

Tommy Trembly was a pioneer of his craft. He used to wander from Boston up and down the towns on the Charles River, and into the Indian towns of Natick, Punkapoag and Magunkaquog, or “the place of great trees,” as Hopkinton was once called. Other tinkers wandered up the valley of the Merrimac.

Nearly every village had an “ordinary,” or eating-house. This place was sometimes more a drinking-house than an eating-house. Most of the disorderly conduct of those generally well-conducted days began in the mugs of these old taverns.

There were some twelve hundred Praying Indians, as the Christian Indians were called, in the villages near Boston at this time. These had been converted to Christianity through the efforts of John Eliot, the Indian apostle, who translated the Bible into the Indian tongue. The principal seat of the Praying Indians was at Natick, and Waban was their principal leader, governor, counsellor, and judge.

There was an ordinary near the borders of Lake Cochituate, not far from the Indian village, kept by one “Indian Pendergast” and his wife, which acquired a bad reputation from the brawls that had occurred there over the drinking-cups. Squaw Pendergast, as the hostess was called, was a sharp-eyed, money-loving Indian woman, who could speak English well; and it was her passion to secure as many pence and shillings as possible from every guest who came.

“’Tis the bar that makes the money, I tell you; ’tis the bar that makes the money. Slap!” she used to say, striking her hand on her long, jingling jacket.

“Yes,” once answered a grave old Indian deacon; “and it is the bar that loses the money at last, and good name and soul and all, as you will see, Squaw Pendergast. Ale money um heap poor!”

One early autumn day Tommy Trembly wandered away from Boston along the Charles River, through little settlements and past the farms, crying, when he saw a habitation, “Old brass to mend? Old brass to mend?”

The next afternoon found him at Natick. He had mended many pots and kettles by the way. The heats of early autumn were cooling now; the apples were reddening on the trees. There were thistle-downs on the roads and byways, and the graceful leaves of the sassafras were turning yellow.

Approaching Natick, Tommy ceased to cry, “Old brass to mend?” He had earned much money by the way, and his only thought now was of the ordinary, and of Squaw Pendergast’s hard cider and foaming mugs of ale. Here and there a farmer called to him to stop, but he did not heed.

“Here, stop, stop! Kettles, kettles!” shouted one goodwife; but Tommy did not even turn his head in response.

“Stop that wild tinker; kettles, kettles!” she cried to her hired man. “Kettles, kettles!” shouted the man, swinging his corn-knife; but on flew Tommy, unheeding.

“Are you flying to-day?” asked black-eyed Squaw Pendergast, as his dusty figure moved athwart the cool trunks of the trees.

“Ay, Squaw Pendergast, and it’s good money I’ve made to-day,” said Tommy, striking on a pocket in his leather breeches.

“It’s a lively supper that I have for you,” said the squaw. Tommy threw down his bag of tools and fanned himself with his hat, looking away to the sunset sky.

A “lively” supper Tommy made, but his pocket did not chink so lively after it was over. Some idling cattle-drovers came, and he took another supper with them; and after his two suppers were over his leather pocket did not chink at all. But the chink might have been heard in Squaw Pendergast’s long woollen pocket.

During the evening a quarrel arose between the half-intoxicated drovers and Pendergast, the keeper of the ordinary, who was an ale-drinking, indolent, disorderly Indian. The men disputed; the Indian interfered, and struck one of them to the floor, where he lay for a time insensible.

The squaw took her husband’s side in the quarrel, and threw firewood at the drovers; and amid it all the alarmed neighbors came to the place and demanded the keeping of the peace.

The idlers at the ordinary went away through fear of arrest, and with them disappeared Tommy Trembly’s bag of tinker’s tools, solder, and soldering irons.

The man recovered, but the next morning came an order from Judge Waban for the arrest of the Indian Pendergast and his squaw, and also a demand that Tommy Trembly should appear as witness.

The court day was appointed. Tommy was greatly frightened, for the eccentric punishments of Old Waban’s courts were famous; and the affair presented Tommy in no favorable light among the grave Puritan Indians.

“I am only a witness,” he said to the people who stared at him on the way, “only the witness, you know.”

“You don’t know what you will find yourself when you get into the court of Old Waban,” said a farmer. “If you weren’t a white man I would not like to stand in your place.”

The court was held on the brown fields near where Wellesley College now stands. The slopes were cooled by great oak shadows, and overlooked the lovely pond now called Lake Waban. All the people, Indians and white, gathered from skeleton villages around to witness the trial.

It was a hot autumn day. The locusts sang in the great oaks, and the ospreys whirled in the sky. The grasses rustled; the ferns were turning yellow, and blue gentians filled the dry beds of the summer weirs under the hills.

Here and there wild grasses hung from the trees, and everywhere the always curious bluejays floated and scolded, as if to ask what meant all this gathering of the people.

Old Waban sat under a patriarchal oak, grave and stately. A blanket trimmed with shells was thrown over him. He wore leather breeches, and herons’ plumes covered his head. He was an old man, but his hair was black and long. His hands were hard and brawny as copper, and as he sat down on a shelf of rock under the oak, he rested his chin on a staff.

Among the Indians who gathered around him were several who claimed to be nearly one hundred years old. Peambow, or Peam Boohan, the ruling elder of Hassanamesit (Groton), was there, and Pennahannit, or Captain Josiah, the governor-general of the Praying Indian towns. Several sagamores came in blankets and feathers, and some twenty or more white people were present.

Finally came Joshua Mayhew, Esq., on horseback, as the representative justice of the General Court of Massachusetts to the rustic court of the Christian Indian community. It was high noon, and old Judge Waban slowly rose, and stood with lifted hand. “Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind.” He looked a forest patriarch, as he stood in the shadow of the sun-crowned oak.

“The peace has been broken. A white man is the witness of it. Let the prisoners be brought, and Thomas Trembly, who is the witness. Sit down!”

All sat down on the ground. The two prisoners were brought, with their hands tied behind them. After them came Tommy Trembly.

“Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind,” said Old Waban, rising, with lifted hand. “Thomas Trembly, tell us the story of the fight which you saw at Pendergast’s.”

Tommy told his story,—the quarrel, and how he was robbed.

“It was a bad place?” said Waban, shaking his head.

“It was an orful bad place,—an _orful_ place,” said Tommy.

“The people were all drinking there?”

“All drinking. Yes, it was orful.”

“Did you drink?”

“I took a warm supper. I had been travelling and tinkering.”

Squaw Pendergast bent her black eyes angrily upon him.

“And I was robbed,” said Tommy, with a martyr-like air. “The squaw she first got away from me all my money for—my supper. Then I was frightened, and then I was robbed. I have lost almost a week’s work.”

“Ugh!” said Old Waban; “hard times you’ve had. Ugh!”

“Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind,” he presently said. “What shall be done with the Indian Pendergast?”

There was a council of the leading Indians.

“Let him be tied to a hornbeam, and given fifty lashes on his bare back,” said Waban.

A small hornbeam-tree stood near. Indian Pendergast was tied to it, his clothing was partly removed, and he was whipped, amid the silence of the assembly.

“Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind,” said Old Waban. “What shall be done with the squaw?”

Another council, as before.

“Twenty-five lashes on her shoulders,” pronounced Old Waban.

She was led away to the hornbeam, and received the lashes in perfect silence, as though she had been an image.

“You got paid well,” said Tommy, as she was led by him after the chastisement.

“Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind!” said Old Waban to the drovers. “Go, take your cattle and drive them away, and never do you come again to the honest Indian towns. If you come, you shall go to the hornbeam-tree, too. Go!”

He lifted his brown arm and pointed to the north. He stood like a statue. The drovers did not reply; they knew his right to order them away from the towns. The cattle were grazing in the meadowy pastures under the hills, among the tall swamp-grass and spearmint beds and fir-trees. The drovers hurried them away.

There was something grand in the old Indian as he stood there with lifted arm, the very picture of Justice and Truth. Here was a forest prophet who, under the Christian teaching of Eliot, had put the nature of the savage animal, to which he had been born, under his will, and was governed by his faith in God and moral sense.

He was called “The New Chief” because he had developed a new nature and become a new man. Odd his decisions in court often were, but there was moral sense in them, and he believed that when Waban the Wind spoke, he uttered the will of the Higher Power.

The people watched the drovers as they cracked their whips and disappeared among the blazed trees of the oaklands. Waban at length broke the silence.

“Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! for the last time. Listen to the voice of the Wind. What shall be done with Thomas Trembly?”

“Done?” said Tommy, starting; “done with me? I haven’t done nothing. I’m white; you can’t touch me. I’m only a witness.”

“Ugh!” said Old Waban.

“I ought to be paid for my tinker’s tools,” said Tommy.

“Ugh!” said Old Waban, “you lost them there.”

“Yes, that was the very place where I lost them; and I’ll lose a week’s time beside.”

“And that because you were there?”

“Yes; and by good rights I ought to be paid the cost of my tools, and the money I lost at the inn after being so shamefully used there,” said Tommy.

“Ugh! Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the Wind. What shall be done with Thomas Trembly, the tinker?”

“Give him the ordinary,” said a white man. “Fine the Pendergasts by giving the tinker the ordinary.”

The chief again lifted his hand.

“Take him,” said Waban, “to the hornbeam-tree, and give him as many sound lashes as you gave the squaw.”

“What! You can’t! I am a _white_ man!”

“But the white brother here,” said Waban, turning to Justice Mayhew, “approves my sentence. Take him to the hornbeam.”

“What for? what for?” screamed the tinker.

“What for?” said Waban. “What for? For being found in bad company. You shouldn’t have been there!”

Tommy received the chastisement in a very frantic manner, uttering the loudest protestations. When the lashes had been given he crept away, hardly lifting his eyes.

The people of Natick were slow to forget the old chief’s methods with witnesses who were found in bad company, and who “shouldn’t have been there.”

LEGEND OF NORTHMEN’S ROCK.[5]

(Thorfin, 1007.)

Have you heard it—the Northmen’s Rune of the Rose In the climes of the sunbeams pale? ’Twas—Far from the night of the six months’ snows Went the barque of the silver sail. ’Twas—Far from the lands of the frozen fens Lay the lands of the sunshine clear, And Thorfin followed the osprey’s pens, With his bride from Fiord Fere, To the land of the lily and rose, To the land where the wild woods sing; Oh, happy the bride of the North, who goes On the barque of the silver wing!

The palace a pile of crystal shone, And its ice walls were mingled with fire, And minstrels sat round the mailed throne, With red torch, the saga and lyre. “I have married a wife,” said Thorfin, young, “And my bride is tender and fair; And I’ve heard the tale by the minstrels sung, Of the land of the golden air, Of the land of the lily and rose, Of the land where the sun-birds sing, Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows, And the winters are bright with spring.

“My crystal sails in the silver mist, I will lift where the warm winds play, And over the seas of amethyst, I will bear my bride away Far over the sea-road Eric the Red, Past Helluland the fair, To the pine-plumed mountain that lifts its head In the land of the golden air; To the land of the lily and rose. The land where the sun-birds sing, Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows, And the winters are bright with spring.”

From the fiords white moved the lateen sail, From the fiords white and gray, Where the nights are fire and the sun is pale, And snow-mists veil the day. “Farewell” sang the bards in the crystal halls, To the barque of Thorfin fair. “We still will sing at the festivals Of the land of the golden air; Of the land of the lily and rose, The land where the sun-birds sing; Oh, happy the bride of the North that goes On the barque of the silver wing.”

They came to the slopes of the New World’s Bay, And the either hills were green, But a red canoe with plumes of gray In the dusky nights was seen. Then Thorfin said: “The sun is bright, And its summers are wondrous fair, But the wily savage lurks at night In the land of the golden air; In the land of the lily and rose, The land where the sun-birds sing, Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows, And the winters are bright with spring.

“We will write our names on the sea walls clear, On the reedy rocks by the Bay; And the legend leave of our young child here, Then sail o’er the seas away.” So back o’er the waves of the windy seas, The child of their love they bear, To dream of the mount and its sun-crowned trees In the land of the golden air; In the land of the lily and rose, In the land where the sun-birds sing, Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows, And the winters are bright with spring.

To the fiords wild came the lateen sail, To the fiords white and gray, Where the nights are fire, and the sun is pale, And the snow-mists veil the day. “The sail comes back,” said the bards of the halls, “From the land of lands most fair; Now what shall we sing at the festivals? For sorrow and death are there, In the land of the lily and rose, In the land where the sun-birds sing, And the world is not happy wherever goes The barque with the silver wing.”

On their royal pens round Mount Hope Bay, The ospreys scream in the noons, And the early bluebirds flit, and stray The herons white, in the moons. And the rocks of the Bay, the legends say, The name of the young child bear; Though centuries nine have passed away, From the booths of Thorfin there; And this was the Northmen’s Rune of the Rose, And the land of the sunshine clear, And the bride who sailed from the Norland snows And the waters of Fiord Fere.

[5] This Rock may be seen on the East shore of the Mt. Hope Lands, near the Soldiers’ Home.

The last stories told at the folk-lore meetings in the Art Palace were largely in verse. One of these was a peculiar kind of old New England narrative, told in the “chink, chink” manner; another was an Illinois wonder-tale, with a peculiar refrain.

The old Puritan baby-story of the “wee, wee pig” was also recited in the colonial manner.

We end our folk-lore stories with these curious examples of legend and traditions.

THE ROCK OF THE ILLINOIS.

A BALLAD.

The Illini lived in the climes of the flowers, Where the air-swimming birds in the sunshine delight, Where the summers were splendors of magical hours, And the day was a sun-torch, a star-torch the night. Oh, fair were their lives on the carpets of bloom, And loud were their fire-songs of triumph and joy, And redly their night-torches danced through the gloom At their feasts on the Rock of the blue Illinois: The gray rock that hung O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sung In the dark under glooms, And cool, cool ran the prairie river!

That Rock was the Indian’s glory and pride, The crown of the venturous chiefs, massive and strong, The prairies beneath it, and dimpling beside The bright laughing face of the river of song. But the Plumes of the Lakes all united at last, The tribes of the Illini proud to destroy, And down from the northern plains swept like a blast, And laid siege to the Rock of the blue Illinois: The gray rock that hung O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sung In the dark under glooms, And cool, cool ran the prairie river!

“Ho! Ho!” cry the chiefs of the Illini proud, To the braves of the Lakes on the prairie below, “Ye have come in the sun, ye will go in the cloud, As the hatchet-wolves run to the timber—Ho! ho!”— “Ho! Ho!” answer back the Lake Plumes, in their ire, “’Tis the North winds that wither, and waste and destroy, We have come in the blast, and will go in the fire.” Then loud laughed the Rock of the blue Illinois: The gray rock that hung O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sung In the dark under glooms, And cool, cool ran the prairie river.

And gayly their sun-dance the Illini kept, And boastful they rested at eve in the dews, But nearer and nearer their wily foes crept, And the cool river filled with their rocking canoes. Seven suns lit the day; seven moons lit the night; Then fled from the Illini’s faces the joy; For the water was low, and the springs sunk from sight, And the foe held the banks of the blue Illinois! Oh, the gray rock that hung O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sung In the dark under glooms, And cool, cool ran the prairie river!

They lowered their gourds to the river in vain; They crept toward the rippling waters to die; They called on the gods of the cloudlands for rain, But answered them only the flames of the sky. They delved, but in vain, in famishing springs; They sought, but in vain, the red Plumes to deploy; Their thirst deeper burned, and the rain-plover’s wings Brought no cloud to the air of the blue Illinois: To the gray rock that hung O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sung In the dark under glooms, And cool, cool ran the prairie river!

An Indian mother crept down to the tide, On her famishing bosom her babe newly born; The cool waters rippled the rock ferns beside, And sweetly the rain-plover sung in the corn. “Back!” shouted the foe, with their cross-bows upraised: She drew to her fever-spent bosom her boy; And her thin, withered face to the blazing sky raised, And leaped, and lay dead in the blue Illinois! Oh, the gray rock that hung O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sung In the dark under glooms, And cool, cool ran the prairie river!

“Ho! Ho!” cried the Plumes of the Northern Lakes proud, To the braves on the Rock whose red warfare was done. “Ho! Ho! we came down in the billows of cloud, But our feet will go back in the paths of the sun.” One by one sunk the braves on the high Rock to die; One by one did the gray wolves of fever destroy; And the Northern winds blew, and the waves rippled by, And the rain-plover sang on the blue Illinois! Oh, the gray rock that hung O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sung In the dark under glooms, And cool, cool ran the prairie river!

Their red wars were ended, their victories past. They perished, the cool waters singing below; “Ho! Ho!” again shouted the Plumes of the blast; But only the silent Rock echoed “Ho! Ho!” ’Twas so, fever maddened, the Illini died, Whose bright, airy tents filled the prairies with joy, And the rain-plover sings o’er their white bones beside The gray, crumbling Rock of the blue Illinois!

But often the boatman his moonlit oar lifts, And holds in the air, and his boat gliding slow, He listens—and o’er him a thin echo drifts. “Ho! Ho!” and re-echoes “Ho! Ho!” and “Ho! Ho!” Like the breath of the dying it comes, and is gone; Like the shuddering leaves that the still frosts destroy, And sweetly the rain-plover sings in the corn, When the morning breeze ripples the blue Illinois! And the gray rocks still hang O’er the billows of blooms, Where the rain-plover sang In the dark under glooms, And cool runs the prairie river!

“THE WEE WEE PIG.”

There was, once on a time, a wee wee old woman who lived in a wee wee house near Cockermouth in old England. One day when the wee wee old woman was sweeping her wee wee house with a wee wee broom, she found a wee wee sixpence. So she took her wee wee sixpence and went to market and bought a wee wee pig, and started her wee wee pig on the road to her wee wee home. The wee wee pig went along very well until they came to a bridge, which the wee wee old woman could not persuade, coax, or force her wee wee pig to cross. So the wee wee old woman left her wee wee pig, and went back until she came to a stick.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, stick, do beat wee wee pig; wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the stick wouldn’t beat wee wee pig. So the wee wee old woman went along until she came to a fire.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, fire, do burn stick; stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the fire wouldn’t burn the stick. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to some water.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, water, do quench fire; fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the water wouldn’t quench the fire. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to an ox.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, ox, do drink water; water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the ox wouldn’t drink water. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a butcher.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, butcher, do kill ox; ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the butcher wouldn’t kill the ox. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a rope.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, rope, do hang butcher; butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the rope wouldn’t hang butcher. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a rat.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, rat, do gnaw rope; rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the rat wouldn’t gnaw the rope. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a cat.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, cat, do kill rat; rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the cat wouldn’t kill the rat. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a dog.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, dog, do kill cat; cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the dog wouldn’t kill the cat. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a bear.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, bear, do kill dog; dog won’t kill cat, cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the bear wouldn’t kill dog. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a lion.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, lion, do kill bear; bear won’t kill dog, dog won’t kill cat, cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the lion wouldn’t kill bear.

The poor old wee wee woman was now in a dreadful quandary. The lion was king of beasts, and the wee wee old woman didn’t know anything that could kill the lion. So the wee wee old woman sat down on an old stump, discouraged and all tired out.

Presently the wee wee old woman saw a wee little black flea, on her checked apron.

So just in joke and for nonsense the wee wee old woman said, “Oh, wee wee flea, do kill lion; lion wont kill bear, bear won’t kill dog, dog won’t kill cat, cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!”

Now the wee wee flea was a kind-souled, womanish little wee wee flea, and no sooner was she made acquainted with the poor old wee wee woman’s trouble than the wee wee flea gave a spring and lighted just inside the lion’s right nostril, out of the reach of his paw.

Here the wee wee flea began to bite the inside of the lion’s nose so sharp that he got dreadful mad, and just out of spite began to kill the bear, whereupon the bear began to kill the dog, the dog began to kill the cat, the cat began to kill the rat, the rat began to gnaw the rope, the rope began to hang the butcher, the butcher began to kill the ox, the ox began to drink the water, the water began to quench the fire, the fire began to burn the stick, the stick began to beat the wee wee pig, the wee wee pig began to go over the bridge, and the wee wee old woman got home time enough to go to bed that night.

A CHINK CHINK STORY.

The old story-tellers in the sea-faring towns used to strike their clenched hands on their knees so as to make a sound like the chinking of money.

THE WISE LITTLE WOMAN WHO OPENED THE PEWS.[6]

I.

Have you heard of the tropical Isles of June, The coral isles with their splendors of palms, Where the sails hang loose in the languorous noon, And a dusky sun is the rising moon, And the Southern Cross hangs over the sea Like the jewels of Heaven? Ah, me! ah, me! Those gardens of gold in the opal main, How they tempted the souls of the pilots of Spain! But as John the old Sailor was wont to say, When he told old tales in his comical way, “’Tis only the gold that _does_ good that is good— And only the rightful gold is gain. Alas for the spoil of the pilots of Spain! ’Twas fool’s gold all.”

II.

Our John was a sailor, Sailor John, A grizzly old sailor of Provincetown Bay, And one queer old tale that he used to tell By the bright fire-dogs to the boys now gone, And the fisher-folk—I remember well. He would tell it to us in his odd old way, After the revels on Christmas Day, And at evening after the hours of play. He would lock his hands and strike them upon His knees, like this: _chink, chink, chink, chink_. It sounds like coins of gold, I know, It sounds like coins of gold—but oh, When you open your hands there is nothing there But a goldless chasm of empty air!— ’Twas fool’s gold all.

III.

Our John the sailor, Sailor John, He used to tell the tale this way, In a very slow and deliberate way, After the storms upon Provincetown Bay: “’Tis about Sir Francis Drake of the Tay, Who was born in a hut beside the Tavy, A famous salt in Elizabeth’s day, The old sea-dog of the British Navy. He guarded the coast of England well, And haunted the seas, that old invader, And gathered spoils from the Spanish war, From the Isles of June to Cristobel, And flouted King Philip off Trafalgar, And scattered the ships of the Great Armada. The first to sail the Pacific Sea, And first to smoke tobacco was he.

“And he said at last, ‘Our coast is hilly, And the northern seas are dark and chilly: I’m growing old and my veins are cold, But still my soul is athirst for gold. Let me go once more to the Spanish Main, To isles of the sun, and the golden rain, And rob the galleons old of Spain.’ He went and died ’mid the isles, ah me! And his white ship scudded across the sea, The ‘Golden Hinde’ in the western wind, And never again to his home came he— But only his gold brought home again. ’Twas fool’s gold all.

IV.

“Old Plymouth stands by the windy sea, As lovely a city as ever was seen. And fair are the churches of Plymouth dean,[7] And tall was the church that stood on the quay.

“Now lonely old Susan lived on the moor, Away from the tower of Plymouth Green, Away from the roads of Plymouth dean. A little old woman and poor was she, Whose father had died on the stormy sea, And she went to the church on each Lord’s Day, Though her cottage was many a mile away— To the sailor’s church that looked o’er the bay, The church of the storms and wild sea-mews, And she was hired to open the pews. It made the church seem friendly and free, To open the pews by charity. The standing committee who seated the people, And the grim old bell-ringer who lived in the steeple, And the beadle who kept evil-doers in awe, And tickled the sleeper’s nose with a straw, And made lazy old women jump up in their dreams, And wake all their neighbors with spasms and screams— They were worthy folks all, but not equal in dues To the wise little woman who opened the pews. And the good folks on Sunday each gave her a penny, And at weddings and Christmases twice as many, And at Hallowe’en they gave her a guinea.

“Now, one autumn morn, as she came to the church, The sailors, lingering round the porch, Under the trees strange stories told Of Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of gold; And Susan stopped and listened awhile, Then opened the pews in the long, broad aisle, Not over-pleased at the wonderful news. ‘’Tis only the gold that does good that is gain, And I want not the gold of the pilots of Spain,’ Said the wise little woman who opened the pews.

V.

“’Twas in glimmering September—the hour, near noon; The prayers had been read; the clerk gave out a tune, And stood up and looked through the window, and then His eyes oped as though he’d ne’er close them again; His mouth opened too, and his lips rounded, _so_, And left on his face just the round letter O. Then he winked to the beadle, and winked to the squire, And their eyes sought the window, and turned from the choir. The horizon was broken—there were sails in the air; And the cross of St. George on the breeze floated fair. Then arose from the quay a tumultuous shout, And the heads of the singers went bobbing about, And no one looked upward, but every one _out_.

VI.

“The children grew restless, the tirewomen bold, And the beadle cried out, ‘Run, run! I’ve no doubt ’Tis Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of gold! It will make us all rich, and we’ll have a new bell.’ Then the beadle ran out; and the clerk and the squire Said, ‘We’ll now put new shingles upon the old spire!’ Ran the sailors and women and tradespeople all; And the deaconess, who could not her feelings repress, Said, ‘Run, and it may be _I’ll_ get a new dress.’ Till—oh, ’tis a scandalous story to tell— Till no one was left save quaint Rector Mews And the wise little woman who opened the pews; Only she, and the figures of saints on the wall. Then the rector said, ‘Susan, _we_ might as well run; There’s a ship coming in from the isles of the sun. It bodes good to us all, this remarkable news; I’ll run, while you shut up the pulpit and pews. ’Tis not every day I am called to behold A ship from the Indies all loaded with gold! ’Twill make us so rich we’ll all things make new, And have a new hassock in every pew!’ And he doffed his long robe in a hurry, and he Ran after the others all down to the quay.

“Susan heard the men shouting on roof-top and shore, The boom of the cannon, the answering gun. But she turned from the church to her thatched-cottage door, And was thankful her riches had made her so poor.

VII.

“Uneventful years passed, and dull was the news; And the wise little woman still opened the pews. And Sir Francis again from the port sailed away, Far off from the hills of the Tavy and Tay; And at last the good people looked out on the main For his ship to appear in the distance again; And the parson still preached on the sins of the Jews. From the Isles of June came not gold, spice, nor news; And the wise little woman who opened the pews Used to say, ‘You must search for gold on your knees, And look up to Heaven, not over the seas For gold-laden ships from the bright Caribbees, The riches that galleons bring over the deep. ’Tis only the gold that does good that is good; And the gold that we covet and hoard up and keep, That’s fool’s gold all.’

VIII.

“The St. Martin birds came to the church-tower tall, And the purple-winged swallows that lived in the wall; The mavis sang sweet, and the green hedgerows burned, And the wayside brooks into violets turned; The lilies tossed in the scented air, The peach-boughs reddened, and whitened the pear. Again on a Sunday came wonderful news, And the little old woman who opened the pews Again heard the shoutings of joy on the quay, The cannon and answering gun on the sea. But half-mast hung the flag on that battleship old. Half-mast! Who had died ’mid the cabins of gold? The grand ship rode into the harbor, and still Grew the wharves and the towers and the oak-shaded hill, And the news came at last, ’twas _Sir Francis_ had died ’Mid his cabins of gold at the last Christmas-tide. ‘Sir Francis?’ they said. ‘Let the old bell be tolled.’ And the old bell began to toll—toll—toll, Toll—toll—toll—toll. We hope there was gold in Sir Francis’s soul. And the people all turned from the long, windy quay,— With tears turned away from the May-pleasant sea, And talked of the brave old sea-lord who had died ’Neath the Southern Cross at Christmas-tide, And whose form had been sunk in the deep, moving sea In the festival days of Nativity.

IX.

“When the folks sought the church to talk of the news, Came the wise little woman who opened the pews, And she said to the parson, ‘I’m sorry indeed; ’Tis not _that_ kind of gold that our spirits most need, But the gold of the Word, the heart and the deed. The Sea Knight has only that true gold to-day That his honor refused, or his heart gave away. Let us look no more to the stores of the seas, To the isles of the sun or the bright Caribbees— Let us envy no more the rich galleons of Spain, ’Tis only the gold that does good that is gain. The wealth that avarice seeks to find Is like the gold of the “Golden Hinde;” Chink, chink, chink, chink; who it commands Will stand at last with empty hands— ’Tis fool’s gold all!’”

[6] Permission of “St. Nicholas.”

[7] _Dean_, as here used, means “a small valley.”