No less the locks that waving met
The little maiden’s shoulder.
Her voice, at first, was scarcely heard--
A cricket’s voice, from nesting stirred--
But soon, like his, grow bolder.
“Ne’er have I seen a cricket caged,”
I said, “nor as a pet engaged,
Although a household blessing!”
“Good sir,” she lisped, “Ascension morn
Must every child in Florence born,
A cricket be possessing.
“And early, early do we look
In every park and grassy nook,
Where crickets breed and nourish;
And when they’re caught and prisoned here,
We’ll live and thrive another year,
If through the day they flourish!”
“My little maid, it cannot be
A cricket holds your life in fee
And all on him you’re chancing!”
“Old man,” she cried, “there’s not a doubt,
All Florentines have found it out!”
And down the road went dancing.
I shook my head. The world is rife
With toil and care; a bubble’s life,
And death will come to prick it;
But of all fragile things that be
Most frail is that, it seems to me,
Which hangs upon a cricket!
TALKING THROUGH THE HAT
OR
THE MANNERS OF KOREA
The not uncommon saying, “You are talking through your hat!”
Must have come from old Korea, where they’re quite adept in that.
All the head-gear’s telescopic in the ancient Hermit-land,
And may be shot up at pleasure when you meet a noble grand.
For a commoner it’s lowered; even then ’tis not so small,
For it’s three feet in diameter and seven inches tall.
Say you’re walking of a morning in an old Korean street,
And a grandly hatted gentleman you happen for to meet;
Should his covering be yellow, with a kind of toadstool brim,
You may know he is in mourning, and may straight condole with him.
His may be a recent sorrow, or persistence of an old;
But in tones of buff and amber his bereavement will be told.
Turn a corner and, advancing, you may see a smiling face,
Topped by hat bedecked with jewels or set off with beaded lace.
If the trimming’s long and ample and is tied beneath the chin,
You may ask a loan of money and the favor hope to win.
Such adornment means prosperity and great success in life;
Or the stranger may be happy and have chosen well his wife.
Should the morning be uncertain and the wind a wavering one,
With a mass of gathering shadows and capricious gleams of sun,
From the hats of certain persons skirts of paper may depend,
For to serve them as umbrellas, should a sudden storm descend.
The Korean Weather Bureau thus is organized, you see,
And may be by all consulted, safe from any form of fee.
If you’re bidden to a party in the Land of Morning Calm,
You may proudly bear the missive in your hat of braided palm.
Thus your status in society is settled once for all,
And you’re sure to be invited if Dame Grundy gives a ball.
Hats may also serve as bill-boards, and upon them you may post
Such a bit of news or gossip as may interest you most.
In Korea, then, the head-gear’s the essential thing in life;
But a man may not assume one till he’s sought him out a wife.
Hats accompany betrothal, as with marriage goes a ring,
And the safely plighted lover hymns of joy may fitly sing.
Scorn a woman in Korea, and the sex your scorn repays,
For with ribboned pigtail hanging, you go hatless all your days.
[Illustration: TALKING THROUGH THE HAT
“IT’S THREE FEET IN DIAMETER AND SEVEN INCHES TALL.”
“SUCH ADORNMENT MEANS PROSPERITY AND GREAT SUCCESS IN LIFE.”
“YOU MAY KNOW HE IS IN MOURNING AND STRAIGHT CONDOLE WITH HIM.”
“FOR TO SERVE THEM AS UMBRELLAS, SHOULD A SUDDEN STORM DESCEND.”
“FOR WITH RIBBONED PIGTAIL HANGING, YOU GO HATLESS ALL YOUR DAYS.”
“HATS MAY ALSO SERVE AS BILL-BOARDS.”]
THE DAY OF THE DOG
In a sheltered spot of a sunny street,
I saw on a wintry morn,
A meeting of dogs of every degree,
Both nobly and humbly born.
A paper thrown on the sidewalk down
Engaged them all to stay,
And they listened the while a mastiff read,--
“The dogs are having their day!”
“The place of the dog,” so the paper said,
“Has been a precarious one,
Dependent on birth, upon personal charm,
And not upon duty done;
But now that a dog is judged by his work,
These things have vanished away.
The mongrel pup is as good as the rest,--
The dogs are having their day!”
“And what is this work?” asked a tiny Skye;
“Is it anything strange or new?
We always have served with all of our hearts,
We always have been true blue.”
“’Tis soldier work,” a Newfoundland cried,
“So all of the papers say;
Just hear what the mastiff is going to read,--
The dogs are having their day!”
“A shepherd dog,” the chronicle says,
“Two miles and a half ran he,
In minutes ten, through a storm of shell,
For help for his Company.
A nameless dog, of no descent,
Rushed into the thick of the fray,
And dragged a wounded soldier back,--
The dogs are having their day!”
“They went as searchers through No Man’s Land,
They guarded the loaded wains;
Courageous, loyal, they kept their watch
O’er the wounded in railway trains;
They served as sentinels, none could pass
Where they crouched and sleepless lay;
They carried messages far and fast,--
The dogs are having their day!”
I listened a while as the mastiff read,
For he paid little heed to me,
And his audience greeted with barks of joy,
Each proof of efficiency;
The dog-star is riding high, I thought,
And though it was long on the way,
The faithful at last are receiving their meed,--
The dogs are having their day!
MEADOW TALK
“Don’t pick all the flowers!” cried Daisy one day
To a rosy-cheeked boy who was passing her way;
“If you take every one, you will very soon see
That when next summer comes, not a bud will there be!”
“Quite true!” said the Clover,
“And over and over
I’ve sung that same song,
To whoe’er came along.”
Quoth the Buttercup, “I
Have not been at all shy
In impressing that rule
On each child of the school.”
“I’ve touched the same subject,”
Said Timothy Grass.
“‘Leave just a few flowers!’
I beg, as they pass.”
Sighed a shy little Fern,
From her home in the shade,
“About pulling up roots,
What a protest I’ve made!”
“The children are heedless!”
The Gentian declared,
“When my blossom-time comes,
Not a bud will be spared.”
“Take courage, sweet neighbor!”
The Violet said;
And raised in entreaty
Her delicate head;
“The children are thoughtless,
I own, in my turn;
But if we _all_ teach them,
They cannot but learn.”
“The lesson,” said the Alders,
“Is a simple one, indeed,
_Where no root is, blooms no flower,
Where no flower is, no seed._”
“’Tis very well said!” chirped the Robin,
From the elm tree fluttering down;
“If you’ll write on your leaves such a lesson,
I’ll distribute them over the town.”
“Oh, write it, dear Alders!” the Innocents cried,
Their pretty eyes tearfully blue,
“You are older than we are; you’re strong and you’re wise--
There’s none but would listen to you!”
But, ah! the Alders could not write;
And though the Robin knew
The art as well as any bird--
Or so he said--he flew
Straight up the hill and far away,
Remarking as he went,
He had a business errand
And was not on pleasure bent.
Did the children learn the lesson,
Though ’twas never written down?
We shall know when, gay and blithesome,
Lady Summer comes to town.
KNOCKING ON WOOD
_Tap on the trees and the leaves will tell
Whether the fairies wish thee well._
A primitive father once lived in a wood,
With a primitive daughter of primitive mood,
And a primitive wife who attended the pair
And served them the choicest of primitive fare.
The primitive daughter was fearful and shy
And afraid of her life if a hare rustled by;
The primitive wife had no valor at all
And shivered and shook if a nut chanced to fall.
The father was often away at the chase,
Or running with danger an obstacle race,
And dreaded a loss in his primitive home,
If e’er in his absence a peril should come.
He dreaded, she dreaded, they dreaded all three,
The sprites of the air and the sprites of the sea,
The little gray gnomes that live down in the ground
And the gossamer elves that in flowers abound.
It was only the fairies that lived in the trees,
Whose spells could protect them from evils like these;
And so, as they wended their primitive ways,
And threaded the wood in its devious maze,
They’d knock on a tree and would timidly say
To the Spirit who might be within there that day:
“Fairy fair, Fairy fair, wish thou me well;
’Gainst evil witcheries weave me a spell!”
Then keen would they listen with primitive ear,
Their hearing made finer and sharper by fear;
And soon would the leaves make a whisper’d reply:
“Fear ye not, mortals, no harm shall come nigh!”
Thus primitive mother and primitive child
Protected themselves in the primitive wild,
And e’en to this day is the practice made good
When, to ward off disaster, we knock upon wood.
THE ROBIN AND THE ANGLEWORM
A plump and saucy Robin
Was gayly hopping round,
And heard a ringèd Angleworm
A-squirming underground.
“Oh, do my ears deceive me,
Or can it really be,
A tender, juicy luncheon
Is waiting there for me?”
Thus spake the hungry Robin,
And cocked a listening ear,
An ear to hear the grass grow,
The falling dust to hear.
He tapped among the grasses
With yellow beak so gay,
“Good-morrow, neighbor Angleworm!
How’s all with you to-day?”
“I’m well, kind neighbor Robin;
The earth is sweetly damp;
You’re stepping just above me,
I feel your noisy tramp.”
“Climb up, then, slippery brother!
The rain is falling fast;
Come up and take a bite with me
Until the storm be past.”
The earthworm hurried upward;
Said Robin, with a grin,
“Well, now, you’ve troubled to come out,
I’ll thank you to come IN!”
THE JOLLY DUGONG
It was the jolly Dugong,
As he sat on the springing lea,
And his eyes were blue as the raven’s wing,
And his hair was black as the sea.
He piped and he trilled on his baritone tail,
Till the fishes began to stare;
And came, with a skip o’er the shimmering sand,
To beg for their favorite air.
Then he scratched his head with his clammy claw,
And he smoothed his face with his fin,
While he murmured, “Come hither, my aqueous friends,
And a ditty I’ll soon begin.”
So the fishes approached with a festive flop,
In numbers even and odd;
And the halibut leaned on the pickerel’s arm,
While the trout escorted the cod.
As the scaly bevy gathered around,
The Dugong unbuckled his belt,
And he tuned his tail with a tuning fork,
Carved out of the rib of a smelt.
“Ah,” he sighed, “it is really a joy to receive
A mark of approval so rare,
For I very well know that a fish’s applause,
Is to flourish his skin in the air.”
Then he warbled in notes that were merry and gay,
And in tones that were clear as a flute,
And he caroled a lay of the rolling deep,
While the fishes with joy were mute.
The song was the one that they loved the best,
And ’twas quite a remarkable sight,
When they waved their skins in the evening air,
And rattled their bones with delight.
“O, Rosy, my posy!” the sun-fish said,
To a herring that swam by his side,
“On similar music, we’ll constantly feed,
If you’ll be but my beauteous bride.”
“O, halibut, walibut!” whispered the cod,
“What a glorious song of the sea!
Throw your scaly skin on the sandy shore,
And dance on the wave with me.”
The hours slipped by, and the music went on,
While the mists of the evening arose--
But everything earthly must come to a stop,
And e’en such a concert must close.
The Dugong stopped singing--the hour was late,
All hurried for skins to the shore;
’Twas confusion and bustle--each snatched what he could,
Half put them on hind-side before.
Old Flatty, the flounder, went off in a coat
That was certainly made for the eel,
While Pinky, the salmon’s, was wretched in fit,
And extremely unpleasant in feel.
So, highly uncomfortable, each swam away,
With a coat much too small, or too great;
And just such an accident may befall you,
If you stay at a party too late.
THE DANDIFIED MANATEE
Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee,--
What does he do when the winds blow free?
He seeks some spot where the water’s low,
And curls his hair while the breezes blow;
And never a thought has he in his head,
Except that he knows when to go to his bed--
The Manatee, the Manatee.
Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee,--
What does he do when the tide runs free?
With a coral shoe-brush under his thumb,
He glazes his fins with aluminum.
What matter to him the ocean’s flow.
He’s not in a mercantile line you know--
The Manatee, the Manatee.
Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee,
What does he do when the birds fly free?
As they rise and dip and lazily flop,
He watches intently, in hopes they may drop
A band of feathers to circle his throat,
Or some down for the edge of his redingote--
The Manatee, the Manatee.
Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee,
What does he do when the ships sail free?
Oh, far away where the wave’s at rest,
He searches for pearls to jewel his breast.
There’s nothing new in the rig of a ship,
And for sailor fashions he cares not a flip.
The Manatee, the Manatee.
Oh, the Manatee, the Manatee,
A very Beau Brummell of dandies he!
His fins are polished, his hair is curled,
His dainty umbrella is properly furled!
There’s never a porpoise he meets on the sea
But plaintively murmurs, “I would I could be
The bride of that exquisite Manatee!”
YOUNG SUNDAY HAT
Young Sunday hat,
On a shelf she sat,
All gay with ribbons and flowers.
’Twas Saturday night,
And the morning light
Would shine in a few short hours.
“Alas!” she said,
“Far better dead
Than mewed up here forever.
No joy I know
Imprisoned so,
And people see me never!
“Why couldn’t I stay
In the shop so gay,
Where all was so bright and shining;
Where all might admire,
With eager desire,
My ribbons and flowers twining?”
As thus she sighed,
The door swung wide,
A wee maid entered singing.
With hat and fan,
Away she ran,
While Sunday bells were ringing.
The ride was long,
The wind was strong,
They passed above a river,
Whose waters deep,
Whose banks so steep,
Set Sunday hat a-shiver.
How shall I tell
What straight befell?
The frolic breezes caught her;
In spite of fears,
Of cries and tears,
They tossed her in the water.
She filled and sank
Close to the bank,
The mud her sorrows crowning.
“Drive on!” she cried,
“I can’t be dried,
Far better leave me drowning.”
Now low she lies,
Where bull-frogs wise
Around her crown are sitting.
While cool and slim
About her brim
The silver fish are flitting.
THE LOLLIPOP BUSH
In a garden, afar in a tropical clime,
Where the air is astir with the lily-bell’s chime,
And honey-sweet breezes from Araby blow,
There stands the green bush where the lollipops grow.
Oh, sugary lollipops,
Nectarous lollipops,
Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.
There, torrents of soda that sparkle and gleam,
Dash foaming o’er boulders of rosy ice-cream;
But neither pink ices, nor soda’s cold flow
Compare with that bush where the lollipops grow.
Oh, sugary lollipops,
Nectarous lollipops,
Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.
On lakes of clear syrup, the waffle-boats ply,
Past islands of cookies and mountains of pie,
But the wise, while the voyagers sail to and fro,
Remain by the bush where the lollipops grow.
Oh, sugary lollipops,
Nectarous lollipops,
Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.
The walls of this garden are builded of buns,
All powdered with sugar and stuck full of plums,
But sweeter than these, with its fruit hanging low,
Is that wonderful bush where the lollipops grow,
Oh, sugary lollipops,
Nectarous lollipops,
Best of all sweeties that ever did grow.
DIFFERENCE IN TASTES
There are plenty of things that love the rain
And relish a thorough wetting,
They laugh and sing in a driving storm,
For their hearts’ delight they’re getting.
“More wet! more wet!” croaks the frog in the pond;
“More water! more water!” the flowers;
“You never can fall too long for me!”
Cries the thirsty dust to the showers;
The puddle dimples at every drop;
The yellow-billed ducks go swimming;
The leaves of the trees are clapping their hands;
With laughter the brook is brimming;
The grasses welcome the pit-a-pat,
For beauty and strength they’re gaining;
But Water-cart mopes by himself at home,
For he can’t go out when it’s raining!
THE WORD OF A GENTLEMAN
(_An Anecdote of Sir William Francis Patrick Napier: 1785-1860_)
Twilight was falling in the English village,
The green deserted and the loiterers sped,
When down the quiet road there rang a footstep,
Martial, heroic, as in battle bred.
Musing on glories past, the gallant soldier
Savored the freshness of the evening air,
When to his ears there came a childish grieving,
A burst of sobs, a tempest of despair.
Close to the stream that rippled by the goose-green,
Down in the grass there lay a flaxen head,--
And just beside the curls a broken pitcher
Proclaimed the reason of the tear-drops shed.
The general bowed his splendid height, and, softly,
“What is it, child?” he asked the little maid.
Two wet blue eyes looked up at him, in answer:
“My pitcher! Will you mend it, sir?” she said.
The soldier smiled. “I fear ’tis past the mending;
But grieve no more, ’twas not of porcelain rare.
Take heart. Here’s sixpence bright to buy another.”
He searched his pockets. Not a coin was there!
With parted lips the child stood, all expectant,
The general, laughing, owned his shabby plight.
“But have no fear, my sweet,” he cried. “I’ll meet thee,
At this same place and hour, to-morrow night.”
The little maid looked in his face and trusted;
Smiling her thanks she slipped away alone.
The soldier’s homeward march was sweetly lighted
By the pure, simple faith that she had shown.
His lodging reached, an invitation waited,
Flattering, courtly, for the morrow’s night;
The very selfsame hour at which he’d trysted
The village child beside the streamlet bright.
“You’ll go, Sir William?” asked the anxious servant.
“Nobles alone are bid, and soldiers of the Queen!”
“To-morrow night I’m pledged,” the general answered,
“To meet a child upon the village green.”
“To meet a little child?” the servant faltered,
And, half-believing, quick the answer heard:
“Monarch or child, to whomsoe’er he gives it,
A gentleman and soldier keeps his word!”
[Illustration: “MY PITCHER! WILL YOU MEND IT, SIR?”]
NO MAN’S LAND
In No Man’s Land, five hundred and three,--
Of course you’ll suppose that the date’s B.C.
They published a law through the country round,
A law which made great trouble, they found,
That in all the schools all over the land,
They must keep order. You understand
How hard it was for the children!
If a boy reached school a second late
He stood all day at the entrance gate.
If a girl wrote notes in the study-hour,
She was prisoned high in the old church tower.
There was wailing and weeping from morn till night.
They always did wrong, they couldn’t do right.
Oh, hard indeed for the children!
Playing tunes on the points of pens,
Grunting and growling like beasts in dens,
Whoever did this would regret it forever
For his head would be bagged in a manner most clever.
If they missed a word from a lesson set
Not a scrap of food did the poor things get.
Oh, this was hard for the children!
A girl was in a sorrowful state
If she pictured her neighbors on the slate,
A book full of problems in Long Division
They made her work out with perfect precision.
If a boy was riotous on the stairs
He spent his recess in a pit full of bears,
Oh, hard it was for the children.
Laughter and whispering; school-desks scarred
All had penalties just as hard.
Youthful opinions of teachers in verse,
The sentence for these was rather worse.
In short, as you’ll readily comprehend,
Their mischievous wills must break or bend.
Oh, wasn’t it hard for the children!
If you had but lived in No Man’s Land
Your manners would soon have been taken in hand.
But though you’re saved from the dolorous fate
Of being punished early and late,
It’s just as well to follow the plan
Of being always as good as you can.
Though that’s rather hard for children.
KAMATU SAN AND ’LIZABETH ANN
O Kamatu San,
Afar in Japan,
Oh, a brown little girl is she;
But ’Lizabeth Ann
In west Michigan,
Is as fair as a child can be.
O Kamatu goes
As gay as a rose,
In satin and silk all day;
Her slippers disclose
Poor ’Lizabeth’s toes
And cotton’s her modest array.
In Kamatu’s land
A festival grand,
Is held for the dolls in March,
And dances are planned
Where the cherry trees stand,
Or under the cedar and larch.
In ’Lizabeth’s state,
Though wealthy and great,
No dollie has any such joys.
Ah! ’tis a hard fate
To live at this date,
In a country so careless of toys!
Yet ’Lizabeth Ann
And Kamatu San,
In loving their dollies agree;
So dolls in Japan,
Or in west Michigan
Can be happy with either, you see.
THE LITTLE ’PRENTICE LAD
(_A German Legend_)
Long ago, in an old-world town,
’Mid old-world houses, dusk and brown,
With red-tiled roofs pulled over their eyes,
Half-hiding the shine of the blessed skies,
In a clockmaker’s shop in a crooked street,
Lived a ’prentice lad. There was naught so sweet
In the width of the world as the orphan child,
Flow’r of the Fatherland, Hermann styled.
Blue shone his eyes through his locks of lint;
White were his cheeks. There was more than a hint
From the gossips who met in the public square,
That Hermann would scarce be so saintly fair
If the clockmaker’s wife would be more free
With her porridge and milk. It was plain to see
He was not half-nourished. Such things were shame
To a rich old town and a shop of name!
Times there were in that shop of name
When each separate clock in its shining frame
To Hermann’s hearing, the whole of the day,
“So hungry!” “So hungry!” seemed ever to say.
And hours there were in the winter’s chill,
In the dead of the night, when the town was still,
When their bells with resonant clamor tolled,
“Cold! A-cold! Little Hermann is cold!”
Yet the innocent lad asked never for more
Of the rosy good-wife, with her ample store,
Contented to toil at the clockmaker’s will,
With errand and parcel, to shop and to mill,
If only but once through the crowded day
To the church they would let him to kneel and pray,
To gaze at the sculptured Mother there,
And the dear Babe Jesus, so marble-fair.
The clock-maker jeered at him. Hermann, the Saint,
He scornfully called him and strangely quaint
And as strangely fitting, the gossips said,
Was the name for the lad of the lint-white head,
“Saint, if I might be!” so Hermann thought,
’Mid the whisp’ring clocks as he gently wrought,
“Would I had treasure to serve my King,
But only its love has my heart to bring!”
Christmas Eve in the old-world town,
Snow-white and shining came softly down.
Master and mistress, all gayly bedight,
Leaving the ’prentice to fare as he might,
Sped to the Councillor’s annual feast,
Food being most to them, worship the least,
“Supperless, fireless,” yet thought the lad,
“Still have I ample to make me glad.
“Now I have no one to say me nay
Straight to the church will I run and pray.
Would I had aught I could take to Him there,
On this Holy Night, to my Christ-child fair!”
Like an angel vision, so white, so sweet,
He was hast’ning on through the snowy street,
When a kindly dame at her apple-stand
Pressed a golden pippin into his hand.
Happiest soul ’neath the round moon’s light,
The ’prentice lad, on that bitter night.
Here was his gift for the Blessed Child,
A fitting gift, and he softly smiled.
Kneeling down where the candles’ glow
Flushed rosy the marble, he whispered low,
“Loveliest Christ-child, take from me,
The only treasure I have for Thee!”
Wonder of wonders! The sculptured hand
Slowly unfolded at his command;
Caught was the fruit in a swift embrace,
While a smile shone out on the marble face.
Raptured, adoring, the boy knelt on,
While a whisper stole from the lips of stone,--
“Little Saint Hermann, to-night with me,
Shalt apples eat from the Heav’nly Tree!”
* * * * *
’Twas dusk of dawn on the Christmas Day,
When the hoary sacristan passed that way,
And glimpsing the statue, stopped, amazed,
Half-doubting the marvel on which he gazed.
The Christ-Child, radiant seemed to stand,
The apple glowed in His marble hand,
And close to His feet, in the morning gray,
Haloed, all-glorious, Hermann lay!
THE SUNFLOWER’S STORY
A sunflower grew by a gray stone wall,
And sighed, as she nodded her head so tall,
“I would I could be
Far over the sea;
I would that I lived in Russia.”