Born in the hills,
Nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky,
Sang--"Who so mighty as I?
The farther I flow
The bigger I grow.
I, who was born but a little rill,
Now turn the big wheel of the mill,
Though the surly slave would rather stand still.
Old, and weed-hung, and grim,
I am not afraid of him;
For when I come running and dance on his toes,
With a creak and a groan the monster goes.
And turns faster and faster,
As he learns who is master,
Round and round,
Till the corn is ground,
And the miller smiles as he stands on the bank,
And knows he has me to thank.
Then when he swings the fine sacks of flour,
I feel my power;
But when the children enjoy their food,
I know I'm not only great but good!"
Furthermore sang the brook--
"Who loves the beautiful, let him look!
Garlanding me in shady spots
The Forget-me-nots
Are blue as the summer sky:
Who so lovely as I?
My King-cups of gold
Shine from the shade of the alders old,
Stars of the stream!--
At the water-rat's threshold they gleam.
From below
The Frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow,
And in masses
The Willow-herb, the flags, and the grasses,
Reeds, rushes, and sedges,
Flower and fringe and feather my edges.
To be beautiful is not amiss,
But to be loved is more than this;
And who more sought than I,
By all that run or swim or crawl or fly?
Sober shell-fish and frivolous gnats,
Tawny-eyed water-rats;
The poet with rippling rhymes so fluent,
Boys with boats playing truant,
Cattle wading knee-deep for water;
And the flower-plucking parson's daughter.
Down in my depths dwell creeping things
Who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings,
For--too swift for a school-boy's prize--
Hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies.
At my side the lover lingers,
And with lack-a-daisical fingers,
The Weeping Willow, woe-begone,
Strives to stay me as I run on."
There came an hour
When all this beauty and love and power
Did seem
But a small thing to that Mill Stream.
And then his cry
Was, "Why, oh! why
Am I thus surrounded
With checks and limits, and bounded
By bank and border
To keep me in order,
Against my will?
I, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill!
But for these jealous banks, the good
Of my gracious and fertilizing flood
Might spread to the barren highways,
And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways.
Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave
Her feet in my cooling wave;
When the tender and beautiful Beech
Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach?
Could I but rush with unchecked power,
The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour.
And what are the ends
Of life, but to serve one's friends?"
A day did dawn at last,
When the spirits of the storm and the blast,
Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow,
Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the
valley below.
Dams were broken and weirs came down;
Cottage and mill, country and town,
Shared in the general inundation,
And the following desolation.
Then the Mill Stream rose in its might,
And burst out of bounds to left and to right,
Rushed to the beautiful Beech,
In the meadow far out of reach.
But with such torrents the poor tree died,
Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side.
The cattle swam till they sank,
Trying to find a bank.
Never more shall the broken water-wheel
Grind the corn to make the meal,
To make the children's bread.
The miller was dead.
When the setting sun
Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done
In its hour
Of unlimited power,
And what was left when that had passed by,
Behold the channel was stony and dry.
In uttermost ruin
The Mill Stream had been its own undoing.
Furthermore it had drowned its friend:
This was the end.
[Illustration]
BOY AND SQUIRREL.
Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you;
We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me
That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.
Some human beings might not understand the life we lead;
If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read;
He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise;
If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.
Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump,
What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump?
Miss Mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers;
What wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs?
But you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbing trees,
Of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze,
Of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning hoards,
And all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords.
It cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me,
Who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free;
An extra hour indoors, I know, is punishment to you;
_You_ make _me_ twirl a tiny cage? It never can be true!
Yet I've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow.
He thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know;
He says we're safe with Doctor Birch, because he is so blind,
And that Miss Mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind.
But you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you,
He says my life and liberty are lost unless I do;
That you, who fear the Doctor's cane, will fling big sticks at me,
And tear me from my forest home, and from my favourite tree.
The more we think of what he says, the more we're sure it's "chaff,"
We sit beneath the shadow of our bushy tails and laugh;
Hey, presto! Friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play,
If you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day!
LITTLE MASTER TO HIS BIG DOG.
Oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate,
Your mouth waters so, and your big tail is drumming
Flop! flop! flop! on the carpet, and yet if you'll wait,
When we have quite finished, your dinner is coming.
Yes! I know what you mean, though you don't speak a word;
You say that you wish that I kindly would let you
Take your meals with the family, which is absurd,
And on a tall chair like a gentleman set you.
But how little you think, my dear dog, when you talk;
You've no "table manners," you bolt meat, you gobble;
And how could you eat bones with a knife, spoon, and fork?
You would be in a most inconvenient hobble.
And yet, once on a time it is certainly true,
My own manners wanted no little refining;
For I gobbled, and spilled, and was greedy like you,
And had no idea of good manners when dining.
So that when I consider the tricks _you_ have caught,
To sit or shake paws with the utmost good breeding,
I must own it quite possible you may be taught
The use of a plate, and a nice style of feeding.
Therefore try to learn manners, and eat as I do;
Don't glare at the joint, and as soon as you're able
To behave like the rest, you shall feed with us too,
And dine like a gentleman sitting at table.
[Illustration]
A SWEET LITTLE DEAR
I always _was_ a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a
sensitive nature!--Mamma often says so.
And I'm the sweetest, little dear in my blue ribbons, and quite a
picture in my Pompadour hat!--Mrs. Brown told her so on
Sunday, and that's how I know.
And I'm a sacred responsibility to my parents--(it was what the
clergyman's wife at the seaside said),
And a solemn charge, and a fair white page, and a tender bud, and
a spotless nature of wax to be moulded;--but the rest of
it has gone out of my head.
There was a lot more, and she left two books as well, and I think she
called me a Privilege, and Mamma said "Yes," and began to cry.
And Nurse came in with luncheon on a tray, and put away the books, and
said she was as weak as a kitten, and worried to
fiddlestrings, as any one with common sense could see with
half an eye.
I was hopping round the room, but I stopped and said, "My kitten's not
weak, and I don't believe anybody could see with only half an
eye. Could they, Mamma?"
And Nurse said, "Go and play, my dear, and let your Mamma rest;"
but Mamma said, "No, my love, stay where you are.
Dear Nurse, lift me up, and put a pillow to my back, I know
you mean to be kind;
But she does ask such remarkable questions, and while I've strength
to speak, don't let me check the inquiring mind.
If I should fail to be all a mother ought--oh, how my head throbs when
the dear child jumps!" and then Nurse said, "Ugh!
When you're worried into your grave, she'll have no mother at all,
and'll have to tumble up as other folks do.
There's the poor master at his wits' end--a child's not all a grown
person has to think of--and Miss Jane would do well enough if
she'd less of her own way;
But there's more children spoilt with care than the want of it, and
more mothers murdered than there's folks hanged for, and
that's what I say.
Children learns what you teach 'em, and Miss Jane's old enough to have
learned to wait upon you:
And if her mother thought less of her and she thought more of her
mother, it would be better for her too."
But Nurse is a nasty cross old thing--I hate her; and I hate the
doctor, for he wanted me to be left behind
When Mamma went to the sea for her health; but I begged and begged
till she promised I should go, for Mamma is always kind.
And she bought me a new wooden spade and a basket, and a red and green
ship with three masts, and a one-and-sixpenny telescope to
look at the sea;
But when I got on to the sands, I thought I'd rather be on the
esplanade, for there was a little girl there who was
looking at me,
Dressed in a navy-blue suit and a sailor hat, with fair hair tied
with ribbons; so I told Mamma,
And she got me a suit, ready-made (but she said it was dreadfully
dear), and a hat to match, in the Pebble Brooch Repository
and Universal Bazaar.
It faded in the sun, and came all to pieces in the wash; but I was
tired of it before.
For the esplanade is very dull, and the little girl with fair hair had
got sand-boots and a shrimping-net and was playing on
the shore.
And when my sand-boots came home, and I'd got a better net than hers,
she went donkey-riding, and I knew it was to tease me,
But Nurse was so cross, and said if they sent a man in a herring-boat
to the moon for what I wanted that nothing would please me.
So I said the seaside was a very disagreeable place, and I wished I
hadn't come,
And I told Mamma so, and begged her to try and get well soon, to take
us all home.
But now we've got home, it's very hot, and I'm afraid of the wasps;
and I'm sure it was cooler at the sea,
And the Smiths won't be back for a fortnight, so I can't even have
Matilda to tea.
I don't care much for my new doll--I think I'm too old for dolls now;
I like books better, though I didn't like the last,
And I've read all I have: I always skip the dull parts, and when you
skip a good deal you get through them so fast.
I like toys if they're the best kind, with works; though when I've had
one good game with them, I don't much care to play with
them again.
I feel as if I wanted something new to amuse me, and Mamma says it's
because I've got such an active brain.
Nurse says I don't know what I want, and I know I don't, and that's
just what it is.
It seems so sad a young creature like me should feel unhappy, and not
know what's amiss;
But Nurse never thinks of my feelings, any more than the cruel nurse
in the story about the little girl who was so good,
And if I die early as she did, perhaps then people will be sorry I've
been misunderstood.
I shouldn't like to die early, but I should like people to be sorry
for me, and to praise me when I was dead:
If I could only come to life again when they had missed me very much,
and I'd heard what they said--
Of course that's impossible, I know, but I wish I knew what to
do instead!
It seems such a pity that a sweet little dear like me should
ever be sad.
And Mamma says she buys everything I want, and has taught me
everything I will learn, and reads every book, and takes
every hint she can pick up, and keeps me with her all day,
and worries about me all night, till she's nearly mad;
And if any kind person can think of any better way to make me happy
we shall both of us be glad.
BLUE AND RED:
OR, THE DISCONTENTED LOBSTER.
Permit me, Reader, to make my bow,
And allow
Me to humbly commend to your tender mercies
The hero of these simple verses.
By domicile, of the British Nation;
By birth and family, a Crustacean.
One's hero should have a name that rare is;
And his was _Homarus_, but--_Vulgaris!_
A Lobster, who dwelt with several others,--
His sisters and brothers,--
In a secluded but happy home,
Under the salt sea's foam.
It lay
At the outermost point of a rocky bay.
A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove,
With a red-roofed fishing village above,
Of irregular cottages, perched up high
Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky.
Shells and pebbles, and wrack below,
And shrimpers shrimping all in a row;
Tawny sails and tarry boats,
Dark brown nets and old cork floats;
Nasty smells at the nicest spots,
And blue-jerseyed sailors and--lobster-pots.
"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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.