very angry, and then very frightened. "But I know what it is; that nasty
Boxer has got loose again. It's he that has done it."
"Boxer wouldn't tie shirt-sleeves in double knots, or make balls of
pocket-handkerchiefs," Gardener was heard to answer, solemnly.
"Then it's those horrid children; they are always up to some mischief or
other--just let me catch them!"
"You'd better not," said somebody in a voice exactly like Gardener's,
though he himself declared he had not spoken a word. Indeed, he was fast
asleep.
"Well, it's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of," the
Gardener's wife said, supposing she was talking to her husband all the
time; but soon she held her tongue, for she found here and there among
the clothes all sorts of queer marks--marks of fingers, and toes, and
heels, not in mud at all, but in coal-dust, as black as black could be.
Now, as the place where the big coal had tumbled out of the barrow was
fully fifty yards from the orchard, and, as the coal could not come to
the clothes, and the clothes could not go without hands, the only
conclusion she could arrive at was--well, no particular conclusion at
all!
It was too late that night to begin washing again; besides, she was
extremely tired, and her husband woke up rather worse than usual, so she
just bundled the clothes up anyhow in a corner, put the kitchen to
rights, and went mournfully to bed.
Next morning she got up long before it was light, washed her clothes
through all over again, and, it being impossible to dry them by the
fire, went out with them once more, and began spreading them out in
their usual corner, in a hopeless and melancholy manner. While she was
at it, the little folks came trooping around her. She didn't scold them
this time, she was too low-spirited.
"No! my old man isn't any better, and I don't fancy he ever will be,"
said she, in answer to their questions. "And every thing's going wrong
with us--just listen!" And she told the trick which had been played her
about the clothes.
The little people tried not to laugh, but it was so funny; and even now,
the minute she had done hanging them out, there was something so droll
in the way the clothes blew about, without any wind; the shirts hanging
with their necks downward, as if there was a man inside them; and the
drawers standing stiffly astride on the gooseberry-bushes, for all the
world as if they held a pair of legs still. As for Gardener's
night-caps--long, white cotton, with a tassel at the top--they were
alarming to look at; just like a head stuck on the top of a pole.
The whole thing was so peculiar, and the old woman so comical in her
despair, that the children, after trying hard to keep it in, at last
broke into shouts of laughter. She turned furiously upon them.
"It was you who did it!"
"No, indeed it wasn't!" said they, jumping farther to escape her blows.
For she had got one of her clothes-props, and was laying about her in
the most reckless manner. However, she hurt nobody, and then she
suddenly burst out, not laughing, but crying.
"It's a cruel thing, whoever has done it, to play such tricks on a poor
old body like me, with a sick husband that she works hard for, and not a
child to help her. But I don't care. I'll wash my clothes again, if it's
twenty times over, and I'll hang them out again in the very place, just
to make you all ashamed of yourselves."
Perhaps the little people were ashamed of themselves, though they really
had not done the mischief. But they knew quite well who had done it, and
more than once they were about to tell; only they were afraid, if they
did so, they should vex the Brownie so much that he would never come and
play with them any more.
So they looked at one another without speaking, and when the Gardener's
wife had emptied her basket and dried her eyes, they said to her, very
kindly:
"Perhaps no harm may come to your clothes this time. We'll sit and watch
them till they are dry."
"Just as you like; I don't care. Them that hides can find, and them that
plays tricks knows how to stop 'em."
It was not a civil speech, but then things were hard for the poor old
woman. She had been awake nearly all night, and up washing at daybreak;
her eyes were red with crying, and her steps weary and slow. The little
children felt quite sorry for her, and, instead of going to play, sat
watching the clothes as patiently as possible.
Nothing came near them. Sometimes, as before, the things seemed to dance
about without hands, and turn into odd shapes, as if there were people
inside them; but not a creature was seen and not a sound was heard. And
though there was neither wind nor sun, very soon all the linen was
perfectly dry.
"Fetch one of mother's baskets, and we'll fold it up as tidily as
possible--that is, the girls can do it, it's their business--and we boys
will carry it safe to Gardener's cottage."
So said they, not liking to say that they could not trust it out of
their sight for fear of Brownie, whom, indeed, they were expecting to
see peer round from every bush. They began to have a secret fear that
he was rather a naughty Brownie; but then, as the eldest little girl
whispered, "He was only a Brownie, and knew no better." Now they were
growing quite big children, who would be men and women some time; when
they hoped they would never do any thing wrong. (Their parents hoped the
same, but doubted it.)
In a serious and careful manner they folded up the clothes, and laid
them one by one in the basket without any mischief, until, just as the
two biggest boys were lifting their burden to carry it away, they felt
something tugging at it from underneath.
"Halloo! Where are you taking all this rubbish? Better give it to me."
"No, if you please," said they, very civilly, not to offend the little
brown man. "We'll not trouble you, thanks! We'd rather do it ourselves;
for poor Gardener is very ill, and his wife is very miserable, and we
are extremely sorry for them both."
"Extremely sorry!" cried Brownie, throwing up his cap in the air, and
tumbling head over heels in an excited manner. "What in the world does
extremely sorry mean?"
The children could not explain, especially to a Brownie; but they
thought they understood--anyhow, they felt it. And they looked so
sorrowful that the Brownie could not tell what to make of it.
He could not be said to be sorry, since, being a Brownie, and not a
human being, knowing right from wrong, he never tried particularly to do
right, and had no idea that he was doing wrong. But he seemed to have an
idea that he was troubling the children, and he never liked to see them
look unhappy.
So he turned head over heels six times running, and then came back
again.
"The silly old woman! I washed her clothes for her last night in a way
she didn't expect. I hadn't any soap, so I used a little mud and
coal-dust, and very pretty they looked. Ha, ha, ha! Shall I wash them
over again to-night?"
"Oh, no, please don't!" implored the children.
"Shall I starch and iron them? I'll do it beautifully. One--two--three,
five--six--seven, Abracadabra, tum--tum--ti!" shouted he, jabbering all
sorts of nonsense, as it seemed to the children, and playing such antics
that they stood and stared in the utmost amazement, and quite forgot the
clothes. When they looked round again, the basket was gone.
"Seek till you find, seek till you find,
Under the biggest gooseberry-bush, exactly to your mind."
They heard him singing this remarkable rhyme, long after they had lost
sight of him. And then they all set about searching; but it was a long
while before they found, and still longer before they could decide,
which was the biggest gooseberry-bush, each child having his or her
opinion--sometimes a very strong one--on the matter. At last they agreed
to settle it by pulling half-a-dozen little sticks, to see which stick
was the longest, and the child that held it was to decide the
gooseberry-bush.
This done, underneath the branches what should they find but the
identical basket of clothes! only, instead of being roughly dried, they
were all starched and ironed in the most beautiful manner. As for the
shirts, they really were a picture to behold, and the stockings were all
folded up, and even darned in one or two places, as neatly as possible.
And strange to tell, there was not a single black mark of feet or
fingers on any one of them.
"Kind little Brownie! clever little Brownie!" cried the children in
chorus, and thought this was the most astonishing trick he had ever
played.
What the Gardener's wife said about it, whether they told her any thing,
or allowed her to suppose that the clothes had been done in their own
laundry instead of the Brownie's (wherever that establishment might be),
is more than I can tell. Of one thing only I am certain--that the little
people said nothing but what was true. Also, that the very minute they
got home they told their mother every thing.
But for a long time after that they were a good deal troubled. Gardener
got better, and went hobbling about the place again, to his own and
every body's great content, and his wife was less sharp-tongued and
complaining than usual--indeed, she had nothing to complain of. All the
family were very flourishing, except the little Brownie.
Often there was heard a curious sound all over the house; it might have
been rats squeaking behind the wainscot--the elders said it was--but the
children were sure it was a sort of weeping and wailing.
"They've stolen my coal,
And I haven't a hole
To hide in;
Not even a house
One could ask a mouse
To bide in."
A most forlorn tune it was, ending in a dreary minor key, and it lasted
for months and months--at least the children said it did. And they were
growing quite dull for want of a playfellow, when, by the greatest good
luck in the world, there came to the house not only a new lot of
kittens, but a new baby. And the new baby was everybody's pet, including
the Brownie's.
[Illustration: The new baby was everybody's pet.--Page 87]
From that time, though he was not often seen, he was continually heard
up and down the staircase, where he was frequently mistaken for Tiny or
the cat, and sent sharply down again, which was wasting a great deal of
wholesome anger upon Mr. Nobody. Or he lurked in odd corners of the
nursery, whither the baby was seen crawling eagerly after nothing in
particular, or sitting laughing with all her might at something--probably
her own toes.
But, as Brownie was never seen, he was never suspected. And since he did
no mischief--neither pinched the baby nor broke the toys, left no soap
in the bath and no footmarks about the room--but was always a
well-conducted Brownie in every way, he was allowed to inhabit the
nursery (or supposed to do so, since, as nobody saw him, nobody could
prevent him), until the children were grown up into men and women.
After that he retired into his coal-cellar, and, for all I know, he may
live there still, and have gone through hundreds of adventures since;
but as I never heard them, I can't tell them. Only I think, if I could
be a little child again, I should exceedingly like a Brownie to play
with me. Should not you?
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Some Poems For Children
By Miss Mulock]
THE BLACKBIRD AND THE ROOKS.
A SLENDER young Blackbird built in a thorn-tree
A spruce little fellow as ever could be;
His bill was so yellow, his feathers so black,
So long was his tail, and so glossy his back,
That good Mrs. B., who sat hatching her eggs,
And only just left them to stretch her poor legs,
And pick for a minute the worm she preferred,
Thought there never was seen such a beautiful bird.
And such a kind husband! how early and late
He would sit at the top of the old garden gate,
And sing, just as merry as if it were June,
Being ne'er out of patience, or temper, or tune.
"So unlike those Rooks, dear; from morning till night
They seem to do nothing but quarrel and fight,
And wrangle and jangle, and plunder--while we
Sit, honest and safe, in our pretty thorn-tree."
Just while she was speaking, a lively young Rook
Alit with a flap that the thorn-bush quite shook,
And seizing a stick from the nest--"Come, I say,
That will just suit me, neighbor"--flew with it away
The lady loud twittered--her husband soon heard:
Though peaceful, he was not a cowardly bird;
And with arguments angry enough to o'erwhelm
A whole Rookery--flew to the top of the elm.
"How dare you, you--" (thief he was going to say;
But a civiller sentiment came in the way:
For he knew 'tis no good, and it anyhow shames
A gentleman, calling strange gentlemen names:)
"Pray what is your motive, Sir Rook, for such tricks,
As building your mansion with other folks' sticks?
I request you'll restore them, in justice and law."
At which the whole colony set up a--caw!
But Blackbird, not silenced, then spoke out again;
"I've built my small nest with much labor and pain.
I'm a poor singing gentleman, Sirs, it is true,
Though cockneys do often mistake me for you;
But I keep Mrs. Blackbird, and four little eggs,
And neither e'er pilfers, or borrows, or begs.
Now have I not right on my side, do you see?"
But they flew at and pecked him all down the elm-tree.
Ah! wickedness prospers sometimes, I much fear;
And virtue's not always victorious, that's clear:
At least, not at first: for it must be confessed
Poor Blackbird lost many a stick from his nest;
And his unkind grand neighbors with scoffing caw-caws,
In his voice and his character found many flaws,
And jeered him and mocked him; but when they'd all done,
He flew to his tree and sang cheerily on.
At length May arrived with her garlands of leaves;
The swallows were building beneath the farm-eaves,
Wrens, linnets, and sparrows, on every hedge-side,
Were bringing their families out with great pride;
While far above all, on the tallest tree-top,
With a flutter and clamor that never did stop,
The haughty old Rooks held their heads up so high,
And dreamed not of trouble--until it drew nigh!
One morning at seven, as he came with delight
To his wife's pretty parlor of may-blossoms white,
Having fed all his family ere rise of sun,--
Mr. Blackbird perceived--a big man with a gun;
Who also perceived him: "See, Charlie, among
That may, sits the Blackbird we've heard for so long:
Most likely his nest's there--how frightened he looks!
Nay, Blackie, we're not come for you, but the Rooks."
I don't say 'twas cruel--I can't say 'twas kind--
On the subject I haven't quite made up my mind:
But those guns went pop-popping all morning, alas!
And young Rooks kept dropping among the long grass,
Till good Mr. Blackbird, who watched the whole thing,
For pity could scarcely a single note sing,
And in the May sunset he hardly could bear
To hear the returning Rooks' caw of despair.
"O, dear Mrs. Blackbird," at last warbled he,
"How happy we are in our humble thorn-tree;
How gaily we live, living honest and poor,
How sweet are the may-blossoms over our door."
"And then our dear children," the mother replied,
And she nested them close to her warm feathered side,
And with a soft twitter of drowsy content,
In the quiet May moonlight to sleep they all went.
THE SHAKING OF THE PEAR-TREE
OF all days I remember,
In summers passed away,
Was "the shaking of the pear-tree,"
In grandma's orchard gay.
A large old-fashioned orchard,
With long grass under foot,
And blackberry-brambles crawling
In many a tangled shoot.
From cherry time, till damsons
Dropped from the branches sere,
That wonderful old orchard
Was full of fruit all year;
We pick'd it up in baskets,
Or pluck'd it from the wall;
But the shaking of the pear-tree
Was the grandest treat of all.
Long, long the days we counted
Until that day drew nigh;
Then, how we watched the sun set,
And criticised the sky!
If rain--"'Twill clear at midnight;"
If dawn broke chill and gray,
"O many a cloudy morning
Turns out a lovely day."
So off we started gaily,
Heedless of jolt or jar;
Through town and lane, and hamlet,
In old Llewellyn's car.
He's dead and gone--Llewellyn,
These twenty years, I doubt:
If I put him in this poem,
He'll never find it out,
The patient, kind Llewellyn--
Whose broad face smiled all o'er,
As he lifted out us children
At grandma's very door.
And there stood Grandma's Betty,
With cheeks like apples red;
And Dash, the spaniel, waddled
Out of his cosy bed.
With silky ears down dropping,
And coat of chestnut pale;
He was so fat and lazy
He scarce could wag his tail.
Poor Dash is dead, and buried
Under the lilac-tree;
And Betty's old,--as, children,
We all may one day be.
I hope no child will vex us,
As we vexed Betty then,
With winding up the draw-well,
Or hunting the old hen.
And teasing, teasing, teasing,
Till afternoon wore round,
And shaken pears came tumbling
In showers upon the ground.
O how we jumped and shouted!
O how we plunged amid
The long grass, where the treasures,
Dropped down and deftly hid;
Long, slender-shaped, red-russet,
Or yellow just like gold;
Ah! never pears have tasted
Like those sweet pears of old!
We ate--I'd best not mention
How many: paused to fill
Big basket after basket;
Working with right good-will;
Then hunted round the orchard
For half-ripe plums--in vain;
So, back unto the pear-tree,
To eat, and eat again.
I'm not on my confession,
And therefore need not say
How tired, and cross, and sleepy,
Some were ere close of day;
For pleasure has its ending,
And eke its troubles too;
Which you'll find out, my children,
As well as we could do.
But yet this very minute,
I seem to see it all--
The pear-tree's empty branches
The gray of evening-fall;
The children's homeward silence,
The furnace fires that glowed,
Each mile or so, out streaming
Across the lonely road;
And high, high set in heaven,
One large bright, beauteous star,
That shone between the curtains
Of old Llewellyn's car.
THE WONDERFUL APPLE-TREE.[A]
COME here, my dear boys, and I'll tell you a fable,
Which you may believe as much as you're able;
It isn't all true, nor all false, I'll be bound--
Of the tree that bears apples all the year round.
There was a Dean Tucker of Gloster city,
Who may have been wise, or worthy, or witty;
But I know nothing of him, the more's the pity,
Save that he was Dean Tucker of Gloster city.
And walking one day with a musing air
In his Deanery garden, close by where
The great cathedral's west window's seen,--
"I'll plant an apple," said Tucker the Dean.
The apple was planted, the apple grew,
A stout young tree, full of leaves not few;
The apple was grafted, the apple bore
Of goodly apples, one, two, three, four.
The old Dean walked in his garden fair,
"I'm glad I planted that young tree there,
Though it was but a shoot, or some old tree's sucker;
I'll taste it to-morrow," said good Dean Tucker.
But lo, in the night when (they say) trees talk,
And some of the liveliest get up and walk,
With fairies abroad for watch and warden--
There was such a commotion in the Dean's garden!
"I will not be gathered," the apple-tree said,
"Was it for this I blossomed so red?
Hung out my fruit all the summer days,
Got so much sunshine, and pleasure and praise?"
"Ah!" interrupted a solemn red plum,
"This is the end to which all of us come;
Last month I was laden with hundreds--but now"--
And he sighed the last little plum off from his bough.
"Nay, friend, take it easy," the pear-tree replied
(A lady-like person against the wall-side).
"Man guards, nurtures, trains us from top down to root:
I think 'tis but fair we should give him our fruit."
"No, I'll not be gathered," the apple resumed,
And shook his young branches, and fluttered and fumed;
"And I'll not drop neither, as some of you drop,
Over-ripe: I'm determined to keep my whole crop.
"And I with"--O'er his branches just then _something_ flew;
It seemed like moth, large and grayish of hue.
But it was a Fairy. Her voice soft did sound,
"Be the tree that bears apples all the year round."
* * * * *
The Dean to his apple-tree, came, full of hope,
But tough was the fruit-stalk as double-twist rope,
And when he had cut it with patience and pain,
He bit just one mouthful--and never again.
"An apple so tasteless, so juiceless, so hard,
Is, sure, good for nought but to bowl in the yard;
The choir-boys may have it." But choir-boys soon found
It was worthless--the tree that bore all the year round.
And Gloster lads climbing the Deanery wall
Were punished, as well might all young thieves appal,
For, clutching the booty for which they did sin,
They bit at the apples--and left their teeth in!
And thus all the year from October till May,
From May till October, the apples shone gay;
But 'twas just outside glitter, for no hand was found
To pluck at the fruit which hung all the year round.
And so till they rotted, those queer apples hung,
The bare boughs and blossoms and ripe fruit among
And in Gloster city it still may be found--
The tree that bears apples all the year round.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] This tree, known among gardeners by the name of "Winter-hanger" or
"Forbidden Fruit," was planted by Dean Tucker in 1760. It, or an off
shoot from it, still exists in the city of Gloucester.
THE JEALOUS BOY
WHAT, my little foolish Ned,
Think you mother's eyes are blind,
That her heart has grown unkind,
And she will not turn her head,
Cannot see, for all her joy,
Her poor jealous little boy?
What though sister be the pet--
Laughs, and leaps, and clings, and loves,
With her eyes as soft as dove's--
Why should yours with tears be wet?
Why such angry tears let fall?
Mother's heart has room for all.
Mother's heart is very wide,
And its doors all open stand:
Lightest touch of tiniest hand
She will never put aside.
Why her happiness destroy,
Foolish, naughty, jealous boy?
Come within the circle bright,
Where we laugh, and dance, and sing,
Full of love to everything;
As God loves us, day and night,
And _forgives_ us. Come--with joy
Mother too forgives her boy.
THE STORY OF THE BIRKENHEAD
TOLD TO TWO CHILDREN
AND so you want a fairy tale,
My little maidens twain?
Well, sit beside the waterfall,
Noisy with last night's rain;
On couch of moss, with elfin spears
Bristling, all fierce to see,
When from the yet brown moor down drops
The lonely April bee.
All the wide valley blushes green,
While, in far depths below,
Wharfe flashes out a great bright eye,
Then hides his shining flow;--
Wharfe, busy, restless, rapid Wharfe,
The glory of our dale;
O I could of the River Wharfe
Tell such a fairy tale!
"The Boy of Egremond," you cry,--
"And all the 'bootless bene:'
We know that poem, every word,
And we the Strid have seen."
No, clever damsels: though the tale
Seems still to bear a part,
In every lave of Wharfe's bright wave,
The broken mother's heart--
Little you know of broken hearts,
My Kitty, blithe and wise,
Grave Mary, with the woman soul
Dawning through childish eyes.
And long, long distant may God keep
The day when each shall know
The entrance to His kingdom through
His baptism of woe!
But yet 'tis good to hear of grief
Which He permits to be;
Even as in our green inland home
We talk of wrecks at sea.
So on this lovely day, when spring
Wakes soft o'er moor and dale,
I'll tell--not quite your wish--but yet
A noble "fairy" tale.
* * * * *
'Twas six o'clock in the morning,
The sea like crystal lay,
When the good troop-ship Birkenhead
Set sail from Simon's Bay.
The Cape of Good Hope on her right
Gloomed at her through the noon:
Brief tropic twilight fled, and night
Fell suddenly and soon.
At eight o'clock in the evening
Dim grew the pleasant land;
O'er smoothest seas the southern heaven
Its starry arch out-spanned.
The soldiers on the bulwarks leaned,
Smoked, chatted; and below
The soldiers' wives sang babes to sleep,
While on the ship sailed slow.
Six hundred and thirty souls held she,
Good, bad, old, young, rich, poor;
Six hundred and thirty living souls--
God knew them all.--Secure
He counted them in His right hand,
That held the hungering seas;
And to four hundred came a voice--
"The Master hath need of these."
* * * * *
On, onward, still the vessel went
Till, with a sudden shock,
Like one that's clutched by unseen Death,
She struck upon a rock.
She filled. Not hours, not minutes left;
Each second a life's gone:
Drowned in their berths, washed overboard,
Lost, swimming, one by one;
Till, o'er this chaos of despair
Rose, like celestial breath,
The law of order, discipline,
Obedience unto death.
The soldiers mustered upon deck,
As mute as on parade;
"Women and children to the boats!"
And not a man gainsayed.